Ravana's Third Rib - By GAJINDER OBEROI

Written By: GAJINDER OBEROI

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

GAJINDER OBEROI, writing under the name "Ravana's Third Rib," captivates readers with a compelling short story that delves into childhood adventures and cultural traditions. The submission, part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, invites readers into the vibrant world of kite flying, friendship, and dreams. Set against the backdrop of Basant Panchami, the narrative weaves through the streets and skies, capturing the spirit of youthful ambition and the rich tapestry of Indian culture.

About the Work

"Ravana's Third Rib" is a vivid exploration of childhood innocence and the dreams that drive us. Through evocative imagery and rich cultural references, GAJINDER OBEROI paints a picture of a young boy's world filled with kites, competition, and the enchanting tales that fuel his imagination. The story's mood shifts from playful to poignant, ultimately delivering a powerful message about identity and aspiration. The narrative is both a celebration of tradition and a poignant reflection on the passage of youth.

Ravana"s Third Rib

Original Submission by GAJINDER OBEROI

Ravana’s Third Rib

It was Basant Panchami – a day to welcome the spring season in northern India. The kite fliers occupied most of the rooftops in and around our town. Dressed in their colourful best, they cheered as their well-crafted kites outdid others. Each flier’s dextrous fingers skilfully controlled a kite with the help of a devoted helper holding the string roll, standing by his side.

Tastefully designed and decorated kites flew everywhere. Flying majestically, they became the objects of envy for the heights they scaled or their artful diving skills. Some, though not reaching great heights, made their mark with their bird or butterfly shapes or their long, fluttering paper ribbon tails. They shimmered, flapped and floated proudly in the clear sky helped by gentle spring wind.

Success in this craft of kite flying depended on relentless training, skilful designing and the use of reinforced strings. It required a great deal to ensure a win. The win in this game was success in hacking the contender’s kite.

“Woh Kataa---” –a winning war cry suddenly penetrated the surroundings. Somebody had successfully eliminated his contender’s kite after a long, torrid sky battle. As the victory call resonated in the lanes and byways of our small dusty town, dozens of boys, the looters in waiting, got into action. A limp, powerless kite swaying aimlessly in the sky was their prey. As the hunters keenly watched its fall, adrenaline surged through them, and they sprang into action.

I was one of them, eleven years old and dressed in my spring best.

The centre of action had now descended from the rooftops to our pumped-up group of contenders.

The moment the bugle declaring the ground battle blared, the unfortunate owner of the hacked kite was swiftly forgotten. His kite was no man’s property now.

Looting a loose kite was not a simple task but required practice, experience and fitness. The looters, aged between six to fifteen years, were ready to become ferocious competitors.

All eyes were now transfixed on to the trophy-the defeated kite. It was a bright blue one with big yellow circles on its wings. As it swayed helplessly, at the mercy of the wind, we observed its direction and calculated the location of its eventual fall onto the ground.

The obstacle race then commenced, with fences and drains to be jumped, and other runners to be pushed away mercilessly.

Sounds of dozens running feet, slogans of “Lootoh!- grab!” alarmed the street dogs who ran helter-skelter. The residents in the houses lining these lanes rushed out, either to enjoy the spectacle or worried about their gardens and property.

I was a good runner and an experienced hand in looting, as were a few others. Slowly the leaders of the race started to emerge and very soon it was just two of us at the front. The boy competing with me was of a similar age and build.

We raced with fierce determination. As the kite came within our reach, both of us jumped to claim it and simultaneously put our hands on it. Trying not to pull it too hard, lest we rip it, we became joint claimants of the coveted trophy.

As we held on to the kite and looked at each other, I realised his grip was firmer than mine. He simply ignored my presence and waited for me to let go. My eyes scanned him; we were of similar heights, but he had fairer skin, sharp features and thick dark black hair which were heavily oiled. He wore khaki shorts and a partially open off-white shirt with few missing buttons. There was a cloth bag slung over his right shoulder. He seemed to be from a poor family.

What struck me most were his dark penetrating eyes prominently outlined with black surma (kohl). He stared at me, giving me a threatening look. The message was clear: “Don’t mess with me.” Mesmerised, I let go my grip on the kite, and he claimed victory.

He took a step back, pulled out a small red comb out of his back pocket and started to reset his hair triumphantly. He combed his dishevelled tuft with solemn pride of a king straightening his crown.

We stood facing and weighing each other up. I had no intention to engage in a fight.

I looked at his feet. He was wearing ill-fitting rubber sandals; I wore a pair of sport shoes. I instantly realized that he had competed with a handicap and won.

I smiled at him and extended my hand of friendship, which he accepted reluctantly. His initial hesitation though was only momentary.

“I am Vasu. What is your name?” he said, suddenly opening up.

After a short and formal exchange, his unstoppable rhetoric started, about him and his skill of kite looting. He told me he has a big collection of looted kites and that one day he would open a kite shop.

Eager to take our friendship further, he wanted me to know more about him.

“Come, I will show you something,” he said, as he wrapped the kite’s string onto his left hand.

It didn’t take long for me to become inconsequential. From then on it was all about Vasu, by Vasu and for Vasu.

*

He dragged me to a big Peepal (Sacred Fig) tree which stood near the outskirts of our city. As we entered its massive canopy, he plucked a leaf from a low-lying branch. He reverently touched it on to his forehead, bowed low and ordered me to bow as well.

The Peepal tree’s huge trunk had vermilion threads tied around it. There was a brick layered platform built around its trunk, on which lay a few flowers- offerings by devotees.

Vasu then proceeded towards a rock that lay just behind the tree. It was about five to six feet high, and he climbed it from its rear. After some effort he made himself comfortable on its slippery surface. The trophy kite steadfastly remained with him, well secured to his left hand.

Under the dark shadow of that tree there were many snake-like aerial roots hanging down. They swayed mysteriously around me with the wind. There also had been tales of a ghost living on that tree. I began to panic, but tried to hide it.

Vasu sat on the rock majestically, watching me, sensing my discomfort and gloating over it.

He spoke as if he was addressing his subject- “My grand-mother once told me that I could talk to my Kul-Devta (family deity) from this spot.”

“That day came soon after. My Kul-Devta spoke to me here and told me about my impending Raj Yoga – my period of prosperity.”

He looked up, closed his eyes and bowed his head in devotion. Then he folded the leaf he carried, put it against his lips and started to play music with it.

He stopped for a moment and asked “Do you like my peepli music? This is how I bond with my Kul-Devta. These notes of music help me fill the void created between me and my Kul-Devta by the noises of you mortals.”

He started playing the peepli music again.

I realised the notes he produced were all based on bird sounds, some mimicking the the calls of a Koel. I was impressed. He must have learned these sounds by his day-to-day observations of the bird life around him.

“I invented this music,” said Vasu, pleased with the admiration evident on my face. He continued his talk, trying to overwhelm me with his personality and the amazing skills he believed he had. I must admit, I had by now become extremely curious.

Vasu talked incessantly and I listened, almost spellbound. He had found a good listener and I had found a good storyteller. He bombarded me with further stories about himself, making sure I had no opportunity to break out of his spell.

*

Vasu now led me to a path that ran parallel to a railway track. He continued to talk, mostly about his family’s glory, lost in the partition of 1947. His talks were interrupted occasionally when he stopped to pick up pieces of coal that had fallen from running trains and lay scattered on the tracks. He also collected dry pieces of wood from the bushes growing along the track. These collections were carefully stowed into the bag he carried.

His prized catch, the kite, its string securely grasped in his left hand, fluttered in the wind like a trapped bird trying to fly free.

“You know what I do with these?” he raised the bag containing coal and dry wood.

I raised my eyebrows, unsure.

“This is fuel for our cooking. I collect it for my mother.”

Soon we reached a settlement called Seelampur.

Seelampur was not far from the railway track we were walking along. I had heard about this settlement from my father, who often recounted tales of the Partition to me.

He had told me how Seelampur had been built to accommodate refugees from Pakistan in 1947, almost fifteen years ago.

Located just outside our town of Tripuri, this settlement had proved to be a stepping stone for many refugees who initially lived there, started a business and then moved out to bigger houses.

My father also told me how it had made many residents of this settlement into dreamers, waiting their turn to become rich. It seemed strange to be here now with Vasu.

Vasu pointed towards a small house on the fringe of the settlement. It was made of bricks, with a single room and a courtyard bound by mud walls. There was a big Neem tree in the courtyard. In one corner, under the tree, there was an open kitchen with an earthen stove. Alongside that lay some dry sticks and pieces of coal, similar to what Vasu had collected from the track.

Vasu then told me about his grievous loss. “I lost my father, three years ago, when I was just eight-years-old. My father used to make surma, pack it in small plastic containers and sell it to the passengers in state buses. I took over this business soon after his death.”

“This is where I live now with my mother and grandmother.”

“You know my grandmother is an enlightened one and is our spiritual guide.” “My mother…she is currently not at home, works in few houses in the town,” he spoke with his eyes downcast.

Then he pointed to a spot under the tree with a parallel row of bricks and a space to light a fire between them.

“And this is where I make my surma,” he spoke with a regained pride.

“Wait I will show you something,” he said, and promptly went inside. He came back holding an object wrapped in a sheet of cloth. He opened the layers and revealed a multi-coloured stone. As I stared at it, Vasu said, “You know, this is a precious stone. My father gave it to me. This is the only wealth left from our past grandeur.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, fully impressed.

He put that stone in my hand. It was as big as an almond with predominantly shining blue and green hues. As I turned it in my palm, I saw different colours play inside it like a rainbow. I was fascinated.

“I am waiting for my Raj Yoga to begin and then I will have this stone fixed right in the middle of my crown.”

I had become very curious and asked, “How do you protect this thing from the thieves?”

Vasu dragged me inside his house into the only room they lived in. There were two beds laid out along the walls, with an open space between. The walls were decorated with different coloured kites, surely looted by Vasu in the past. His last catch was yet to join them.

On one of the beds sat an old lady, his grandmother, fully covered with a thin white sheet and humming religious hymns.

Vasu pointed towards a corner.

“You see these,” he said. “These are Ravana’s ribs. I collected these in the last two Dussehras. Do you know if you have even one of these, no thief will dare enter your house?”

There were two bamboo strips lying against the wall.

Both were about two inches wide and four to six feet long and were partially blackened. He told me this was due to incomplete burning.

Looking at my confused expressions, he explained further, “You know when they burn Ravana’s effigy on Dussehra day and before the whole thing turns into ash, you have to pull out one of his burning rib for yourself. That’s what I did.”

It was now clear to me what the source of those ribs was.

Then there was a sudden flutter and a white pigeon entered and sat on Vasu’s shoulder. Apparently excited to see Vasu, the pigeon made giggling sounds with joyful nodding of his head.

“This is my pet called Moti.” Vasu told me. There was apparently a special bonding between them and a proof of Vasu’s connections with the birds.

All this ruckus disrupted Vasu’s grandmother’s meditation. She stopped her hymns singing and spoke from under the white sheet. “Don’t forget to get Ravana’s third rib this Dussehra. That’s what you need to attain your Raj Yoga.”

“Yes, Dadi, I am anxiously waiting for that day,” said Vasu, reassuring her.

“Also remember once you have the third rib you will no longer have to be Indrajeet.”

I could make little sense of this mysterious conversation.

Vasu helped me.

“You know, I play Indrajeet, Ravana’s son, also called Meghnath, in the Ram Leela that takes place every year.”

“Because of my royal lineage, that role is below my dignity. However, once I have the third Ravana’s rib and attain my Raj Yoga I will be straightaway promoted to play Lord Rama’s role!”

“Believe me, they will not have any other choice then.”

I returned home, my mind brimming with all I had seen and heard. I told my parents only a few bits, which was enough for them to get alarmed. Worried about his unknown background, they forbade me to meet Vasu.

It was not to be like that at all.

Very next day I saw Vasu standing just outside our rear boundary wall.

There were two green parrots made out of Aak plant fruit sitting on the wall and behind them was his smiling face.

I went close. Vasu had skilfully used different sized green fruits of Aak to make them look like parrots. Dry sticks were used to join them and to make their legs. Black surma had been used to draw out the beak, wings and the eyes.

“See, I made this parrot pair for you,” he said.

Seeing me impressed he wanted to overwhelm me once again. “Come, I will show you today how we make the surma,” he said.

Hypnotized, I followed him, holding Aak parrots in my hands.

*

Once home, Vasu started the process of making surma. He filled two earthen lamps with oil and put cotton wicks in it; these had been soaked in sandal wood paste. He then lighted the lamps and placed them under the base of a bowl -shaped aluminium frying pan. There was some water in the pan to keep it cool. Slowly the soot created by burning wicks started to deposit on the pan’s bottom.

Once enough soot had settled, he scraped some of it and put it in a small plastic container, which he then gave me as a gift. I was impressed again and Vasu knew that.

“This is a special surma,” he said. “Nobody else uses sandalwood in their surma preparation.”

“You know if I had a brass bowl rather than the aluminium one to collect the soot, the production would increase and the product would also be much finer.”

“Do you have a brass bowl in your house you can spare?”

I thought of a brass container we had in our chicken pen, used to carry chicken feed.

Next morning Vasu was again standing outside our rear wall. I went on to our roof where our hens were kept, picked up the brass bowl and showed it to him.

His eyes brightened, “That will be excellent!” he exclaimed with excitement.

I threw it down, where Vasu stood, and he ran off with it.

Next day, I was curious and wanted to check whether my contribution had improved his surma production. I walked to his house. Vasu was nowhere to be seen. I looked around and could not spot the brass bowl either.

That evening my father enquired about that bowl, and I kept quiet. I came to know later that brass was a precious metal and fetched a reasonable sum if sold.

Days went by and I met Vasu less frequently. My parents were keeping an eye on me to stop our meetings. Perhaps they suspected Vasu to be behind the disappearance of the brass bowl.

Nevertheless, now and then he would suddenly appear outside our wall, every time with an Aak green parrot.

*

It was monsoon season now and the Seelampur population got badly affected by rampant malaria.

One day, the maid, who worked for us and came from that settlement, told us that Vasu’s mother has passed away after few days of fever. She knew that Vasu was my friend.

I got worried about Vasu and ran to his house. There were few people standing outside their home. I sneaked in. Vasu’s mother’s body, wrapped in a white cloth, lay on the ground. His grandmother was sitting motionless on the cot, under a thin white sheet, as before.

Vasu was sitting near his mother’s head. He looked at me; his piercing eyes showed signs of anger. He stood up and approached me. “Why have they tied my mother up in that white sheet?” The tears in his eyes had washed the dark surma down onto his cheeks.

“Where is her crown? Why is my mother lying on the floor? You have to respect a queen.”

The people standing around looked at him. Nobody said anything; they just gave him looks of sympathy.

Confronted with a dead body wrapped in a white sheet made me feel sick. That was first time ever I had seen a dead person. I couldn’t take it any more and ran back to my house.

*

I didn’t see Vasu for a few weeks. Then one morning I saw a pair of Aak fruit parrots sitting on my wall again. I couldn’t see Vasu, though I knew he was there. I raised myself over the wall to look outside. He was sitting beside the wall looking at the ground. I jumped outside and hugged him.

He looked at me feverishly and didn’t say a word. Then he dragged me to the Peepal tree and as before climbed the rock.

“Just wait for this Dussehra. I am going to get the third rib.”

He spoke rather resolutely. It was more of a pledge.

“I have had enough of this world denying me my rightful place.”

*

Not long after, the preparations for Ram Leela started. The following day, a procession of followers behind a decorated van went through our streets. The van had been made up to look like a chariot. The participating cast, wearing full make up, was there in the van. Vasu was also there, in the full getup of Meghnath and sitting in the rear of that van, facing backwards. It was obvious that his request to be given Lord Ram’s role had been denied. I watched the van from my roof. Vasu sat motionless and looked at the ground as the van moved forward.

I made sure this time to go to all the Ram Leela shows with my father. One day, Vasu’s turn came to appear on the stage. With a small crown on his head, wearing a colourful loincloth and holding a sword he stood on the stage and declared, “My name is Meghnath. Some people call me Indrajeet. I never, never, never accept defeat. Ha Ha Ha!”

Then he rushed down the stage, threw away his crown and sword and disappeared. He had seemingly emphasised on ‘never, never’ as if sending a message.

The next time I saw him was on Dussehra day, the tenth day of Vijaydashmi, when Ravana’s effigy is burned, along with those of his brother Kumbhakarna and son Meghnath. This is to to celebrate the victory of good over evil.

I had gone there with my parents. As we watched, Meghnath effigy was first to get burnt after being hit by an arrow by the man who played the role of Lakhsmana, Lord Rama’s younger brother. As the fire consumed it, I thought of Vasu and wondered what he must be feeling watching Megnath’s effigy burn. I was sure he was there somewhere, for everyone go to celebrate Dussehra in our town.

Next was Kumbhkarana’s effigy’s demise. Then came the finale everybody had been waiting for: it was time for Ravana to die. Standing almost twenty feet tall, its effigy was shot at by a fire-arrow by Lord Rama. The arrow hit Ravana on his belly and he started to burn. The volunteers and police now started to push everybody back. They repeatedly announced that this year there were many more explosives and fireworks in that effigy.

Soon the flames, starting from the middle of his body, took over the whole structure of Ravana’s effigy, reaching up towards his huge face and ten heads. The heat was unbearable. There was panic and stampede among the spectators. Everybody ran back, away from the fire and fireworks. There were loud sounds of explosives and many colourful fireworks all around the burning effigy.

Suddenly a shadow emerged from among the crowds and rushed towards the burning effigy of Ravana. I knew it was Vasu. Nothing could thwart him that day. He rushed towards the base of that burning structure, even as many burning pieces of wood from the huge structure were raining down.

Thousands of people were screaming and pleading, asking him to come back, warning him about the danger he faced. He was determined. He had selected to jump straight into that delusional black hole his parent’s death had created. His grandmother, his spiritual guide, had shown him the way into it.

For him it was now or never. He started to pull out a burning bamboo piece, trying to rip it from the burning structure. That pull was enough to shake the weakened and mostly burned structure and make it collapse.

Ravana’s massive face and its ten big heads, engulfed in live flames, came crashing down and landed right on top of him.

I closed my eyes. Collective screams were raised everywhere, with loud pleadings, “Save him. Save him!”

A standby fire brigade went forward and succeeded in extinguishing the fire with great effort. They pulled the remains of the effigy away. Vasu’s half-burnt body lay still on the ground, his right hand tightly clutching Ravana’s third rib.

*****

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating creativity and literary talent from around the world. It welcomes diverse voices and offers a stage for writers to share their unique stories, poems, and essays. Participants engage in a vibrant exchange of ideas and artistry, contributing to a global dialogue through their creative expressions.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to GAJINDER OBEROI for sharing "Ravana's Third Rib" with us. This captivating short story enriches the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, offering readers a glimpse into a world of tradition and youthful dreams. We look forward to more inspiring contributions from this talented storyteller.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.