Sauria

Sauria are the true lizards of the lizard family. Geckos, which are the most common form of these lizards, frequently hang out in my room. They hang upside down from the ceiling, always keeping a wary eye out for me. Were they here during the time that I had been away as well? I remember hanging like they do, precariously from tall trees made slippery by the constant rain. Scared, silent and still, we stayed there clutching our guns as if they were life jackets. Two days it took for the rest of the platoon to clear the route for us, before we could climb down from our ‘strategic positions.’ We could be people once more, instead of lizards. Maybe that’s why I feel closer to the geckos now that I’m back – I’ve somewhat seen the world from their vantage point.

Or, maybe they’re like the surrogate pets that I’ve never had the courage to keep. I hope they don’t let go and disappear after hearing about them being the surrogate pets. The truth is, to put it rather bluntly, I’m scared. I’m too scared to live; too scared to breathe; too scared to exist. War changes you; it distorts reality.

For instance, I still have trouble walking down the alleyway. Even in broad daylight, I am skittish. It has nothing to do with darkness. In fact, it is the light of day that scares me. I am too well lit, too exposed. There are far too many windows all around me to keep track of. Looking up, I am scared of clear blue skies and the dangers of the drones that may be lurking, invisible. I am scared of construction noises, the grenade like booms of the sledgehammers and the machine gun rat-a-tat of the drills. I fear the day for making me a sitting duck in the spotlight, and I fear the night for the unknown that presses in from all sides.

But most of all, I fear that which never leaves me – loneliness. It is the only thing that stays faithful when everything else has left. It is the one thing that never deserts, but snuggles up close to your heart, cold and menacing, hissing threateningly like a wiry felid. It followed me all the way back from the trenches, and chased away all that was dear to me.

Alcohol used to help, but now my body craves too much for it. Just as the tides, it has eroded away the remnants of my life that I came back to. My wife – my beautiful, loving, generous, forgiving wife – could not bear to look at me while I stared back at her through an ethanol haze. My feline companion hissed and growled from my chest, and I craved to destroy that which I cared for too much. It was the fear of losing her that made me want to hurt. When she inevitably did leave, the cat shook himself gently, yawned wide, and curled up against the crook of my neck, and slept. Once, he purred too – a cold, sinister purr that no living being should make.

My sleep has become fitful. While she was here, my cat used to sleep between us, and every night would take me back to the battlefield; the cold, the damp, the mud; the constant hum of mosquitoes around us and drones and jets above us. And as I slept, he would claw his way into my dreams and grow bigger and bigger, stretching out in front of me, his hiss becoming a roar, his purr a snarl. He could swallow me whole if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Like a cat, he toyed with his prey, played the deadly game, and just before I would be devoured, he would shake me violently. I still wake up in a cold sweat, shivering, reaching out to where my wife slept. But, of course, she isn’t there anymore.

Before the war, I used to write. I wrote about soldiers too, sometimes – the romantic tales of valour and dignity, of courage and brotherhood. All that died with my friends on the field. And amongst that carnage, out of the smoking craters of mortar shells and walls ridden with bullet holes, slinked out my feline friend. Before the war, these stories used to fill me with pride. Now, there’s no one to listen to my stories anymore. They don’t come as easily to me anymore either.

So, I read what I wanted to read to her to the sparrows. The ones that heard me flew away, but there were always more. And then there were the pigeons, the parrots, the mynahs. When she left, she took a lot of the stories with her. She took the sparrows and the pigeons and the parrots and the mynahs too. Both of us had been scared that I would hurt them all.

The felid remained.

There were big rats that looked like hand grenades that lived in the alleyway, but my scrawny feline friend never chased them. The owls swooped in and picked them off one by one, while on some nights the two of us would stand still and watch. We imagined the crunching of the rat’s bones between the jaws of the owl that swooped low, and the cat purred with joy.

But he is too scared to do the deed. A coward at heart, he is. That’s why he doesn’t touch the geckos living in my backyard, the ones that visit me sometimes at night. He doesn’t dare go after any of the rats that find their way indoors. He is content to snuggle in the protection of my chest, hissing menacingly from time to time, reminding me that he is always there, always present.

Would my wife come back had it not been for this stringy cat that sits heavy upon me? Some days, I find myself asking myself that question over and over, while other days I do not dare to. My days are empty, my nights hollow, save for the horrible company of my loneliness and the weight on my chest. Memories should never weigh so much, but more often than not, they do.

Today, I found a broken compass lying forgotten beneath my bed, its needle stuck permanently south. I don’t remember breaking the compass, and found myself wishing that it worked again. Maybe it was the cat. It could have been the rats. The owls might be guilty. But the geckos? They wouldn’t. They understand. They would not leave. They wouldn’t take what points me the right way away from me.

In light of this, I think it’s reassuring to have something stable in life – even if it’s the familiar sight of Sauria hanging upside down from the ceiling.

~

Image Credits: Yintan / Wikimedia

Of Silent Chairs and Mute Memories

Her name was Chameli. Once the jasmine flower she was named after, she had folded back into the bud that she had been a long time ago. Against the misty morning, in her delicate white dress, she looked radiant. She had been beautiful, and there were those who remembered that. Time had flown, though, and she had been trapped in her memories, and become that delicate flower bud once more. She had laid out the chairs in the field just the way she remembered it. Li’l Jo Singh, Mr Bakra, Mowgli Man, Alice Kumar Chautala, Maikalal Jaikishan, all members of the short-lived A-Team. She had long forgotten their real names, but their strange faces were still as vivid as the quirky names she remembered. That’s what they remembered her for, coming up with strange names. So lost was she in her memories, that she had forgotten her own name as well. She was Champa Chameli, presiding over this morning’s meeting on the dreary, bleak, misty morning.

I had hoped to catch her off her guard, so I moved through the empty chairs as silently as I could. Past experience had shown me that the trick worked – take her a bit by surprise, maybe startle her just a little bit, and she’ll suddenly become a lot more relaxed. Give her the illusion of being in control of me too, at just the right moment, and suddenly I would find myself a part of her little game, her periodic dance with the past that haunted her so much.

I crept closer and closer, and just when she was standing up after straightening an imaginary chair cushion, I leapt forward and whispered ‘Boo’ right into her ears. It didn’t have quite the effect that I had hoped. Instead of being startled, she turned around with a smile and said in her cute, little-girl manner, ‘I knew you were right behind me. You’re not good at trying to be a ninja, Makdee. You’re late for the meeting.’

‘I’m sorry, Chameli,’ I said with a smile. ‘I got caught up…’

‘In a web?’ asked Chameli, but I knew it was a rhetorical question. It was a joke at my expense, something that she found incredibly funny. I had no idea why she came up with the name Makdee, a spider, for me. I wasn’t a member of the imaginary A-Team, so Chameli didn’t really need to give me a name. I could have been me; but I knew she was scared of reality now. She preferred this dream world of nonsensical names and silly, childish games now. Somehow, I had become a part of that as well.

The chairs were laid out in the same way as they had been since I had known her. It had been so long ago that I don’t even recollect how and when I met her for the first time. Maybe it was at one of these meetings. Maybe we saw each other from a distance at a café. Maybe we met over lunch, and shared a meal a long time ago. I didn’t know anymore, and she was too lost in her delusions to care too much about those trivial things.

I had a job to do, though. I had to shake her up a little bit, give it another try. Maybe the infinity-plus-one-eth time would do the trick. I wanted to be tactful about it, I wanted to stall for a while, and I wanted to not tell her the things I knew she didn’t want to hear; but these were things that weren’t in my hands anymore. I existed only for Chameli now, and she had made me up for a reason.

‘Who’s the guest of honour today?’ I asked her as I took my seat next to her.

She giggled shyly, and said, ‘It’s Jaikishan; he finally told me that he loves me. Alice was wrong; didn’t I always tell you that?’

‘Why do you call him Alice? I mean, he’s a guy after all!’

‘You look at him! I’m sure he’s gay; he’s so effeminate after all. Besides, he likes it if I call him Alice,’ she said matter-of-factly, running a hand down her beautiful white dress.

‘Chameli, there’s something you should know,’ I began again, knowing well that it would be a fruitless endeavour. I had done this enough times to know it, but it was my job. It was precisely why Chameli had conjured me in her mind – so I could try, time after time, to snap her out of her hallucinations and back into the real world. ‘Chameli, are you listening?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m listening to you, Makdee,’ said Chameli absently.

‘You’re dreaming again, Chameli. It’s time you woke up and went back to your world. The people in the meeting, they’ve all gone, they’ve left. Don’t you want to know what happened to all those people? Wouldn’t that be good, to know them in real life, instead of inside here, only inside your mind?’

‘Oh, Makdee,’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Why do you come up with the same story every time? Look, Jaikishan will be coming soon; it’s going to be our first date. And Alice told me it would never work out!’

‘Chameli, Alice isn’t real,’ I said, taking another shot at it. ‘Alice lives inside your mind. Jaikishan exists only in your head. They’re not real, not here at least.’

‘Shush, Makdee!’ said Chameli, standing up suddenly. ‘Jaikishan’s here! You stay here, Alice will keep you company. I’ll see you later, ok?’ Another sudden smile and she ran off a little way off the cluster of chairs. I was sitting alone again, surrounded by phantoms just like me. They couldn’t see me, and I couldn’t see them – it was an arrangement that seemed to work just fine. My job, my purpose, my destiny, that wasn’t coming along so well, though. I could see Chameli animatedly holding a conversation with the thin air in front of her, no doubt speaking to Jaikishan. Things were going exactly as I had always known them to be. In a bit, Chameli would be lost, and there wouldn’t be any purpose for me to stay for the day. Would I leave then, though? Would I be able to walk away?

Chameli was taking Jaikishan’s invisible hand now. I knew I shouldn’t be watching this, but I couldn’t help it. She was putting his imaginary arm around herself, and getting lost in his warm embrace. I wondered, as always, if I should stop her or not. I knew I wouldn’t in the end – I never did. That wasn’t a part of my reason for existence.

She melted in his arms, invisible as they were. She crumpled to the floor, and lay down still. It would be over soon, I told myself. This day would end soon, I told myself. Beyond the circle of chairs, I could see Chameli kissing a phantom lover, a ghost-boyfriend from the past. I could see the beads of sweat glowing on her skin, could see her writhing with pleasure in the soft grass underneath her. It would be over soon, I told myself yet again.

But it wasn’t Chameli who had complete control. I knew it would last yet another lifetime; I knew Chameli was lost just a little more, yet again. While I could do nothing but sit and wait, and watch her falling in love yet again with Jaikishan – the imaginary, invisible man Alice had been wrong about.

~

Inspired by Magpie Tales. I looked for the source of the image, and found that it's by Rosie Hardy.

The painter at the Kulkarni Household

When he was a child, Mohandas Kulkarni was expelled from art class.  When his son died unexpectedly, for reasons unknown, he picked up the brush again. It had been a strange choice for him, one that didn’t seem to make much sense to anyone apart from him. His son had played the guitar almost all through his life; there were people who had expected Mohandas to maybe pick up that instrument, as a fitting way to remember his son.

Instead, he got lost behind his canvas, buried beneath layers of paint and dust. The words stopped flowing out of him over time, and he stayed mute for days, eyes glazed over, and thinking about whatever it was that he was painting. It’s easy to let grief out by crying, but Mohandas saved up every last teardrop he had. His wife cried, while Mohandas stayed stoic and silent. When the fire swallowed their son, Reena had been inconsolable. A day later, Reena stood strong, and in spite of it all, her life went on.

A week later, the first easel appeared, followed by the palette. Reena lost her husband to the easel that day. Mohandas lost the words shortly thereafter. The paint settled on the canvas overtime, and the dust settled on Mohandas; and unseen to his eyes, Reena aged long before her time. Two years passed like this, in a flash.

In Mohandas’ little art room, there was a pile of discarded paintings. They were all the same, but he hadn’t been satisfied. He had spent most of his time locked away in this room, looking for something in what he created so carefully, only to strip them down and begin anew. He wasn’t sure what it was that he was looking for all this while, but he was sure he would know when he saw it.

For two years, Reena and Mohandas hadn’t spoken to each other, or seen each other much. Weary and tired, Reena had wanted things to end quietly instead of going on like this. She had considered running away – but how can you run away from someone who isn’t even sure about your presence? She had thought about leaving him, but there was something about Mohandas that stopped her every time. In the way that Mohandas could never identify what he was looking for in the paintings, Reena failed to identify the reason that made her stop in her footsteps and bound her to the man she had lost the day her son died.

On an unremarkable Sunday morning, while the neighbours slept till late, catching up on their lost hours of sleep over the weekend, Mohandas emerged with the canvas and headed straight to the room that he once shared with his beloved wife. She was still in bed, but her eyes were open – almost as if she had been expecting him. He settled it down in front of her, and took his wife’s hands in his own. That morning, on an unremarkable, lazy Sunday, Mohandas broke his silence.

His voice, raspy from lack of use over many years, seemed sudden and cracked, but Reena heard him well; “I love you.”

“It’s beautiful, Mohan,” she said.

“It’s not original. I copied the idea from another painter. I forgot her name a long time ago,” he said.

“It looks just like him, but. How did she do that? Did she know him?”

“No, she didn’t. That’s what I was looking for, all this while. I was searching for him, searching for his face in that painting, hidden beneath the many layers of colour. I’ve found him now.”

Reena looked at the tears that streamed down Mohandas’ face, delayed by over two years while he had been looking for his lost son in another woman’s painting.

She gently put his arms around him, while he rested his wet cheeks on her shoulder. And they lived happily ever after…

~

Inspired by In Tandem.

‘An Eulogy’ or ‘Laughing in the face of Death’

Geoffrey wasn’t a deep guy. Not by a long shot. Maybe it was this that made Brad chuckle when he wondered if it would be better to have buried him in a shallow grave. He stopped himself from chuckling though – he was, after all, at a funeral. ‘I’d probably been hanging out too much with you, Geoff,’ thought Brad to himself, while Geoff’s smiling face twinkled behind the glass of the picture frame. The candles reflected on the glass gave him a holy look, which was ironic when Brad thought about the situation in which the picture had been taken. It had been anything but holy; the thought of it made Brad chuckle again.

‘Stop it, Geoff! You’re killing me – which is weird, considering that you’re dead now! I won’t be able to read out your eulogy if I go on like this,’ thought Brad, as the priest finished with the prayers. It was time for Brad’s last words for his best friend.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming here. Geoff was my best friend, we grew up together, and we knew each other like brothers. There’s a part of me that still has to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone, but right now his memories are still alive and kicking.”

Brad took his eyes away from the piece of paper in front of him, and looked at the crowd sitting in front of him. There was a hint of a smile even now on his face as he said, “It’s probably because of that, because of the fact that I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that he’s gone, really, that I was chuckling sitting back there. Call me crazy, but it still seems that he’s around me somewhere, whispering his endless line of silly jokes in my ears even now!”

The crowd laughed softly, nervously, and Brad went on reading from the little piece of paper.

“Geoff was a clown. He had a slightly sick, and a very weird sense of humour. Unfortunately, I was one of the few who got that sense of humour, which meant that while others were getting revolted or getting offended or getting ready to bash Geoff’s head in, I would be rolling somewhere, clutching my stomach in pain. He got beaten up a lot because of that as well, because I was too busy laughing at his jokes than standing next to him to save his ass.

“I’ve borne the brunt of his sense of humour at a number of places as well. I know neither of us can visit the local sandwich place anymore,” said Brad, and was smothered by a fresh bout of giggles. “That day was funny on so many levels! I don’t want to get into the details of it, and I don’t think any of you would want me to, either. Let’s just say that it had something to do with a BMT Sub, shall we? It was on that day this particular picture was taken, in fact – moments before we were thrown out of the establishment, and asked never to return…”

An uncomfortable silence filled the space while Brad stifled his laughter once more. The people sitting shared disapproving glances with each other. Most of the people knew Geoff as a young man full of potential, on the brink of his bright future. His sudden and unexpected death had reminded them of the fragility of life, and the overpowering stillness and finality of death. And yet, here was a boy, Geoff’s best friend, talking about his memories in such petty terms.

Brad didn’t care, though. He composed himself as best as he could, and went on reading from the little white, slightly crumpled sheet in his hand. “Geoff, you were a swell guy. You knew just how to cheer your friends when they were feeling low. You always knew just what to say in every situation. You always had a witty retort up your sleeve, and tried as we might, we never could figure out how you came up with those. You might have seemed to be a smart-ass, Geoff, but you cared about us. You cared about your friends. You cared enough to make us laugh, and you did that so well! I’ll miss you, my friend, for the rest of my life. I know this is farewell, but it doesn’t feel that way. Maybe that’s because we’ve never had a goodbye. We’ve always shared jokes instead, something that made us laugh through even the toughest days – when I left town, when you went to college, when our little group of friends was scattered all over the country. Those silly, shallow, and sometimes rude jokes were our way to say goodbye, Geoff. I’ve tried to do that here, but I wonder if it’ll work or not. Here goes…”

Brad’s voice choked up as he reached here, and he sniffled loudly. A fat, potent teardrop rolled heavily down his cheeks, followed quickly by another.

“A man walked into a bar…” he began, but the teardrops fell on to the nearly white, slightly crumpled piece of paper, washing away the rest of the joke with it.

~

Inspired by Magpie Tales

Ladies & Gentlemen, Mr. Brad Ramanujam...

This post was loosely inspired from a prompt at dVerse, which asked for poems on taboo subjects. I’m not a good poet, so this is what I ended up writing instead. This is entirely a work of fiction. It contains a lot of profanity (intended in a humorous way only) and talks about taboo subjects like drugs, sex and prostitution. Please do not read this if you are in any way offended by any of the topics that have been mentioned above.

The name Brad Ramanujam is an anagram of my own name, Arnab Majumdar. No offence intended for any Brad Ramanujams or Dan Fedoseevs out there.

~

(audience applauds)

My name is Brad Ramanujam. I know it’s a weird name…

(audience laughs),

but wait a while before you start laughing. It’s about to get better.

My name’s Brad Ramanujam, and I was a lonely child. I had friends, but at home I was alone. I envied my friends who had siblings. Then, I’d go back home to my bland room and try to sleep, wishing that I’d have a little sister or a little brother someday.

Thing is, my dad left when I was a little kid. So, having a little sister or a brother became a bit difficult. At least, that’s how it seemed at that time to my innocent little mind – no dad, no brothers or sisters. Simple childish logic.

(Brad laughs)

(audience laughs)

For a long time, I used to keep wondering why my dad left. My mother never gave me the answers. Of course, she wasn’t around much for me to ask the questions, but that’s ok. I was fine, really. Except a few unanswered questions. But hey, who doesn’t have unanswered questions as children, right?

Now, the name, Brad Ramanujam

(audience laughs)

Yeah I know, I find the damned name funny too. Now, this name, Brad Ramanujam. Brad was the name my mother chose. Ramanujam was my dad, and for some reason she chose that name as well. Why, Mom? You’d think a name like Ramanujam, combined with the name Brad, would give me some leverage in high-school?

So, I got bullied a lot. A lot! For the first few years, I never got home when my hair wasn’t soppy – that’s how much I got bullied. It kinda grows on you, over time, though.

I got bullied because of my name a lot, and every time my head would be dunked into a toilet – that’s how I used to get the soppy hair every day, if you guys are keeping up –

(audience laughs)

I used to curse that sonofabitch whose name I had to keep. Ramanujam! Try cursing with your head bobbing inside the toilet. It’s fucking hard!

(audience laughs)

Hell, the guy wasn’t even around, fuck him! I wanted to drop the name, but high-school names stick on with you for a long time. A really long time. I was Ramanujam till the end of my school days. Thankfully, I grew up a bit, and the bullies couldn’t pick me up that easily, so the head-down-the-toilet thing stopped.

My mom used to do a lot of drugs. Marijuana, cocaine, heroin, shit like that. You know the drugs I’m talking about, oh you know I’m sure – even the smarmy bastards in their business suits. You’re looking at me right now as though you’re sorry, but I know what you’re thinking – if I have any with me right now or not!

(audience laughs)

Or, maybe if I’m still in touch with my mom anymore.

(audience laughs)

Or if I have my mom’s dealer’s contact number!

(audience laughs)

If you have any such questions… meet me after the show and we’ll talk! Now…

(audience laughs)

Now, moving on. So, my name’s Brad Ramanujam. I used to get bullied in high school. My mom did a lot of drugs. And I was a bastard son. Oh shit… wait, I didn’t tell you that one till now, did I?

(audience laughs nervously)

Damn, I’m sorry… I’m all nervous, man, standing out here on the stage. Bright fucking lights in my face, my hands are shaking like crazy. Anyway, so I was a bastard son. Took me a few years to figure that one out. No wonder my dad didn’t stick around, eh? He just probably took one look at my mom and went, “Hey, my stuff isn’t inside me anymore. It’s your stuff now, you deal with it!”

(audience laughs)

So, yeah, he left. As if there was any chance of him sticking around. And then, mom couldn’t go around doing her job anymore – I mean, who’d want to fuck a pregnant whore now, right? Oh shit… I did it again!

(titters from the audience)

Damn, I’m so nervous. (pointing to the lights) could you turn down the lights a bit, man? Or a little bit away from me? It’s freaking the fuck out me right now! (the lights dim just a little bit) Yeah, that’ll do. Thanks.

So yeah, my mom’s a whore. Well, was, actually. I mean, she’s not a whore still. I mean, she could be, I just don’t know about it. I mean… I really shouldn’t be thinking along those lines!

My dad probably was a shitty customer that she had, but apparently she knew who he was and everything. Anyway, so there I was, swimming around in my mom’s belly waiting to be born…

(Brad smiles) (audience laughs softly)

Aah, I grew up in a shitty environment. You guys know that by now, right? Yeah…

(audience laughs a little louder)

And I was quite a shitty kid too, once I’d grown up a bit. I mean, I’d ride a bike all day long, and I kept long hair and everything, and I’d fuck a whore myself. That’s how I fell in love for the first time. I was 16, she was 18. I loved her tits, she loved my allowance. It was perfect!

(audience laughs)

Yeah. I’ve been in love a few times after that too – wait a minute, you thought I was still with the hooker, didn’t you?

(audience laughs)

You sick fucks… I’m not that messed up anymore, man! Talk about being judgmental… geez!

(audience laughs)

(speaking emphatically) I’ve fallen in love a few times after that little adventure of mine! At least wait till you know the whole story before you start judging me!

(audience laughs)

I’ve been in love with two more girls. The second girl I loved was Maria. I got her pregnant, and I ran away. I think I get that from my dad…

(audience laughs)

… the Ramanujam side of me!

(audience laughs)

My next girlfriend was called – oh geez, I keep forgetting her name.

(audience laughs)

Sarah! No, wait… Linda. No, Sarah. Who the fuck is Linda, then?

(audience laughs)

Sarah, yeah. Sarah was the next love of my life. She was a lesbian.

(audience is quiet)

I will repeat that.

(audience laughs)

I was in love with Sarah, who was a lesbian. The most fucked up part is that we both knew it. We dated for a month or so. Still confused?

(audience laughs)

Don’t worry, so am I. It’s been a few years, but I’m confused even now.

Here’s what happened. Sarah was a lesbian, but she liked fucking guys when she was high.

(audience laughs)

The funny bit is, we both knew about that fact!

(audience laughs)

And we dated!

(audience laughs)

For a fucking month!

(audience laughs)

And we fucked every night!

(audience laughs)

Well, you know… not every night, I mean… there were a few days in the middle, when things were a little messy, down there, you know.

(audience laughs)

And, I mean, I couldn’t get myself to do it for those few days… blood everywhere… gah!

(audience laughs)

But the other nights, man… we banged like bunnies! We fucked every chance we got! And I didn’t even think about it at that time.

(audience laughs)

Was she high during the whole time? The entire fucking month?

(audience laughs)

That’s some extra potent shit she must have been taking! I gotta get the name of that…

(audience laughs)

By the way, if anyone sitting here finds the effect anywhere familiar, talk to me after the show… I’d like to…

(audience laughs)

I’d like to meet you. And know you. Maybe become friends in future…?

(audience laughs)

So, yeah. I’ve had a pretty shitty life, growing up in a shitty environment and everything. But the thing that gets to me is that even now, everyone – everyone – judges me before they know me. You’re doing that as well, right now… probably.

(audience laughs)

Nod, you motherfuckers! Even if you don’t mean it, just say yes! Fucking humour me, will you?

(audience laughs, and then nods)

Thank you! So, you see. Everyone judges me…

(audience laughs)

… when they hear about my childhood, and my dad, and my mom, and the whore and the lesbian girlfriend. But I’m not entirely like that. And it hurts that people judge me like this. Like, the other day, my friend Dan Fedoseev…

(a few titters from the audience)

Hey, that’s not a funny name! His dad’s still around, you fuckers! Don’t laugh at my best friend!

(audience laughs)

My friend Dan Fff – nevermind, you’ll just laugh again! Dan…!

(audience laughs)

Dan came over to my place. We grew up in the same neighbourhood but he’d moved a while back. Now, he was my best friend, and he knew about my fucked up life. He knew everything! We were meeting after some five years or so – give or take a few… shit, I’m bad at math!

(audience laughs)

And Dan came over to my place with a bag full of doobies, all rolled out and everything.

And he offered me one, just assuming that I like smoking up! (Brad shuts up)

(expectant audience begins to laugh)

I know! That fucker just assumed that I was a pothead!

(audience laughs)

This motherfucker grew up with me, knew me inside out. And, he thought I was a fucking pothead! So…

(audience laughs)

So, I sat him down, and I helped him fire up the joint. And then, I told him, as nicely as I could… ‘Fuck you, Dan! Just ‘coz I had a nasty childhood and a shitty life, doesn’t mean I’m a pothead! I don’t do drugs, man. I just sell them!’

(audience laughs)

Thank you, all. You’ve been great tonight…

(curtains)

~

Mr. Ragpicker

His day had begun quite a while back, so that when his body started to feel the need for a little bit of rest, the early morning October mist still hung in the air. The aroma of the typical spiced tea – rich and creamy and strong, with the hint of ginger and cardamom infused in it – buzzed around the roadside tea stall. Judging by his composure, I figured that this was all part of his regular routine. Picking up crumpled bottled cola bottles thrown carelessly from the flashy cars, early in the morning, and when the time came, a nice steaming miniature cup of tea from the tea-stall. Life, even at its harshest of times, seemed to have acquired a sense of rhythm to it; especially for him.

It was at the tea stall that I met him, and when I looked into his face, found that there was something amiss. The eyes didn’t seem to fit those of a rag-picker. The eyes were intelligent, and looked like they were still looking for a way to fulfil some half-forgotten dream from a long time ago. Or, maybe I was looking too much into them – maybe he was just yearning for his morning cup of tea. Still, there was only one way to find out; by talking to him. I didn’t know how to start a conversation with him, but there was no other choice. So I started talking to him in the lamest way possible.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?” I said to him when he sat down with the tiny cup next to me.

Now, the weather might have been cool, and it might have been nice, but it was nowhere near worthy of a comment – especially between two strangers. The look on his face clearly suggested that he was torn between being amused and confused, and so he made a compromise and gave me a confused smile before putting the cup of tea back to his lips. I was embarrassed myself, so gave him a sheepish smile too before sipping on my tea.

“Yes, it is nice,” he said a moment later. “It always is around this time of the year. October mornings are wonderful in Delhi.”

“You’re from Delhi?” I asked.

“No, but I’ve lived here for a long time. I’m originally from UP, near Meerut. Not far from here, but it’s not Delhi is it?” he asked. I grinned, and he continued, “I grew up there, in Meerut. I came here in my youth, after I’d finished with my studies. I was an engineering student, not too bad with grades and all. Once that was done, I came to Delhi looking for a job.”

“Where did you work in Delhi?”

“I worked at a number of places – engineering companies, mostly. But none of those stints lasted long. I wasn’t really happy about life, not even content. Life was just – moving on.” He drained the last of his tea from the cup, and I expected that he would walk away right after that. But he stayed put, while I wondered a lot about him. At first glance, I might have dismissed this old, fragile man. Now, however, I found it hard to not be interested in him – and although a part of me hated it, I was downright curious to know more about him.

I didn’t want to sound rude, though, so I didn’t ask him anything outright. I just waited for him to feel comfortable and open up (I think I might be too much of an optimist sometimes), while he sat there with his black bag with the discarded trash of the day slung on his shoulders. Some of my curiosity must have been reflected on my face, however, because he asked in a little while, “Why should I tell you more?”

“Because you can trust me,” I said on impulse.

He looked slightly taken aback by my answer, but then asked me, a little more sternly this time, “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m a stranger,” I said.

He looked strangely at me, and suddenly the discomfort melted away from his face. He laughed – he had quite a heavy, booming laugh for a man of his stature – and for some reason (and even though I didn’t expect it at all), he bought what I said.

I bought another round of tea for the both of us, and sat down for his story.

“So, like I was telling you, I was working at various engineering companies in and around the city. I never really stuck to one job for long – it got monotonous for me. In fact, this was one of the main reasons why I joined up for the railways; so that I could travel. But what I really wanted to do, of course, was get into the air force or the navy. I know I didn’t qualify on medical grounds, but it’s a dream that I nurtured for a long time. Life does that to you sometimes. That’s why I always tell everyone I talk to (which isn’t much, mind you) to do whatever it is that they want to while they still can.

“But, I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes; the engineering companies. The work was tedious, repetitious and boring, and I quickly got bored from it. I moved from company to company in quick succession. Every move came with a hike, and a promotion, so before I knew it I was quite well off. I moved to a bigger house since I was able to afford one. I bought a car, and when I had acquired all these things, I found that I still wasn’t satisfied with life. My parents were trying hard to get me to settle down (a colloquial way of saying that it was time for me to get married), and that’s when I left the endless line of engineering companies and joined the railways. I got married, we were settled in Delhi, but the constant travelling kept me away from home when I really wanted to. I was content with life, but the monotony kept on; I still wasn’t happy. In addition, my wife constantly complained about our comparatively lower income than my friends and neighbours, most of who were still working at the places I had left – the big private firms. She pressurised me, finally, to give up the railway job and get back to my old job that paid much more. I tried to get away from that, but I couldn’t. I was back where I had started; to the same old hollow lifestyle, comparing sizes of houses and lengths of cars as if it all meant something. But now, at least my wife had stopped complaining so much, and even the new line of jobs kept me busy most of the time. I hardly stayed at home.”

“What about kids?” I asked.

“There was never time, to be honest. Like I said, I was hardly ever home, and I didn’t want to raise kids in that environment when I couldn’t be around to watch them grow up. Now, when I think about it, I feel it was selfish of me. Back then, though, not having children felt like the right thing to do.

“I started reading a lot more than I did previously, but there was something that was always nagging in the back of my head. In all aspects of life, I was content but never happy. I had a good family life – a good wife, great relations with all of my extended family. I had a decent job, one that paid all the bills for us. I tried a lot of ways to get back the happiness that I used to feel during my college days – books, music, films. I read more than ever during that time of my life, and watched more films than ever. I revived my interest in music once more; I used to play guitar in the college band, and although we knew we weren’t any good, we were passionate about music. I started frequenting small rock shows, and would be the only guy in formal attire – complete with tie – amidst the crowd of youngsters in their black t-shirts, head-banging with them while they looked a little alarmed with my exuberance. I stopped going soon after though – there are just so many strange stares that you can take. But books stayed on with me, and so did the music, confined in my own little room, my private little world.

“And in spite of it all, I still wasn’t happy the way others seemed to be. Life seemed so much simpler for them; my neighbours would get their happiness from buying a pair of ugly, branded shoes, while I felt nothing from the same experience. Even my wife seemed happy after buying things like that, something that I never understood. I envied her for it too – for having that simplistic bent of mind, to be happy with nothing more than a piece of leather shaped into a shoe.

“I started drinking the way my wife had started shopping. The louder she got, the more I had to drink to dull her voice in my head. Her friends, our neighbours, they became even louder, and for a while it seemed as though it was a contest of who was the loudest of them all. The glitterier my world became, the more I had to drown myself in alcohol to survive it. There had to come a time, however, when no amount of alcohol would have been sufficient, and when that time came, my wife filed for divorce. She hired a lawyer (with my own money) and proved that I was an alcoholic in court. The lawyer sucked out a major chunk of the money we had, and whatever was left, my wife took that. The house, the fancy cars (note that that’s plural; and I hadn’t even wanted one car to begin with!), and the money that was left after the lengthy divorce trial – it all went to her. I was left a tiny sliver to sustain myself, and the court justified it by saying that I had a job. What the court didn’t realise was that after I was proven to be an alcoholic, the company wasn’t too keen to see me around either. I was put on a sabbatical (without pay, of course), and eventually I was fired. By this time, I had moved twice to progressively smaller homes, and had rid myself of all the things that had tainted me since I had ‘settled down’. I was finally a free man.

“I travelled a lot, mostly on foot, since I couldn’t afford luxurious means of travel anymore. What I found, however, was that I was happier doing that than travelling in air-tight cars where you can’t even smell the air of a new village you pass through. I stopped often, and met a whole lot of people. I did small odd jobs – repairing phones, radios, TVs etc. at that time, to sustain myself, and every time I had enough money to get around again, I’d move on. I started writing as well, and carried at least one book with me at all times. It’s a good thing that you can still barter books, or buy them second hand for cheap, if you know how to find the right places. I was finally happy with my life.

“I don’t linger on anywhere for long – especially in the big cities. I’m not stopping here, I’m just passing through here. Truth is, nobody wants me to fix their radios or their phones in big cities like this; they would rather take them to the bigger shops and pay good money to get minor fixes to those things. Not that I mind though – it just gives me an excuse to get out of the bigger cities sooner.”

“So, you’re not a full time rag-picker?” I asked him before I could stop myself.

“No, no,” he said, laughing. “I’m not a full time rag picker. I don’t stay here often; I’m just passing through the city. The only reason I stopped was because October is my favourite time in Delhi, but that’s not reason enough to keep me here.”

“You said you write a lot now. What do you write about?”

“People I meet, mostly; their stories.”

“I do that too, from time to time. Do you mind if, someday, I write something about you?”

“Why should I mind? I don’t even know where I would be when you’ve written that. Chances are that I won’t even get to read it! Go ahead, write whatever you want about me,” he said, the smile still not leaving his face.

“How do you manage to write so much if you don’t stay put at one place for long?” I asked. I was wondering where he kept his written work, but he misunderstood the question.

“Pens and notebooks aren’t hard to come by these days. They’re not so expensive either – so I can afford to buy them when I have to.”

I tried to clarify the question. “And where do you keep the notebooks once they’re full? If you write a lot, you must have a whole lot of notebooks filled by now.”

“I generally barter them for books to read. I give them away to the small, second hand book-sellers, and they generally lower the book prices for that. The only thing I ask them, however, is that once they’re done with the stories, they pass them on as well – barter them again in exchange of books. That way, maybe, my stories keep going round and round. Who knows, if you haunt dusty book stores often, you might find one of my notebooks there as well!”

“Why don’t you get your stories published? You would find a much bigger audience that way, and more people would be able to read your stories.”

“I don’t think I would be able to handle the fame or success, if any of that comes my way. Also, I would have to use a pen-name for that purpose, and I’m bad at coming up with names of characters.” He finished the last gulp of his tea, crumpled up the plastic cup and threw it in the trash bin.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I have trouble coming up with names for my characters as well.”

His story finished, he got up to leave and get back to his day of rag-picking. Break time was over, and like all of us, his face suggested that he wished it had lingered on for a little while longer as well. Just as he was leaving, I realised something and called him back.

“Wait, you didn’t tell me your name.”

He smiled his smile, the one that I had become so used to in that little span of time, and said, “If I told you that, we wouldn’t be strangers anymore.”

~

Raining on Ravenheart

Her skin was whiter than white, making her flesh shine through

Her eyes were blue when she was a child; now, she painted them black.

She had seen a lot in life that had hurt her, but that’s not the point of this story.

The point is that it changed her; it quieted here.

At least, to the outside world; while inside, the constant war of words went on.

And she fought and argued with herself; she won some, and she lost some.

But her every victory drew her away from the world; so she drew on herself with ink

And her every defeat helped her build the wall around herself; so she drew on herself with ink again.

Till the white skin shone black, in memory of those victories and the defeats.

And her face was hidden beneath the mask of sorrow

And her eyes, once as blue as the sky, were veiled behind the blackness those eyes had seen.

She left this world behind; she got lost in the private world she built.

She also spoke to the animals and birds; ravens had a special place in her heart.

For they, like her, shone black as well.

She runs away often; she’s run away today as well.

Not too far today, though; just to the lake behind the hills.

She seems to be waiting for something, but it can’t be the sun.

She says she hates the sun; but then, her eyes are shifty when she says it, so I can never know for sure if she’s telling the truth.

I hope she’s waiting for the rain, because the clouds overhead look promising.

But wait; is that a glint of regret in her eyes? Regret that the sun won’t be here?

And now, she hangs her head in sorrow; and shivers in the chilly air.

And from the gusts of wind that blow over her from the flapping wings of her raven.

Does she long for the sun, after all? Does she miss the warmth, and the life, that the sun promises every day?

And then, it rained upon her; and on her special raven.

And a little of the ink was washed away; but only a little…

~

Inspired from Magpie Tales.

… and she said, “I’m all yours.”

The school bell rang, and finally the moment she had been waiting for had arrived. She was free from school, and she couldn't wait to be back home. To be with the one she had been thinking of, for so long.

“Have a nice weekend!”

“You too!”

“I’ll drop by at your place around five, ok?”

“Sure thing. It’s gonna be so much fun, you guys spending the night over.”

“We’ll stay up all night long!”

The conversations amongst her classmates surrounded her, yet she seemed far away from it all. She was lost the her own thoughts, lost in the memories of the long hours she had spent in the company of her one true love.

She got on the bus, and sat at her favorite window seat. She wished with all her will that the bus would start moving soon. Her impatience paid off in the end; the bus jerked to life, and slowly trundled off in the direction of her house. She felt excited at the thought of someone waiting for her. Her thoughts wandered back into the memories of the countless kisses they had shared, the warm feeling she got every time, the subtle high she experienced from it all.

The bus stopped in front of her house, and she hopped off it. In seconds, she ran into her room and locked the door. In the semi – darkness, she whispered, “I’m ready, my love.”

Cautiously, she took out the stock of ground marijuana she kept in her closet. Her lovestruck eyes lit with delight, as she took the drugs and rolled up a joint. With trembling hands, she lit one end of the joint, and kissed the other end. The warmth of the kiss travelled all over her senses; she took a deep drag, and whispered in the silence, “I’m all yours.”

***

Been busy almost the whole week, which is why there was a delay in the story. Wish I had a bit more time to work on this, it didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted it to be. Still, I wanted to post something here, and so, here it is. Tried to take into account the many requests of a love story, but I don’t think this one quite qualifies to be a part of that category.

Image Courtesy fa73

Technorati Tags: Dark,Fiction,Grey Shades,Love

The Lake Lady

Gulshan was a typical ‘US Return’, as they called him in the little village of Shantinagar. He had come over for spending the summer, but most of it had been a bust. There wasn’t really anyone with whom he could spend time. His cousins were just so different from him, and they all were at the age where acceptance is hard to give out, yet they were all seeking for it.

He wasn’t really accepted in the inner circles of his cousins, so consequently he spent a lot of time browsing around the crumbling village that Shantinagar was. The older side of the town always had a wonderful new surprise waiting for him, and equipped with his father’s camera, he found that he did have a good time in that bit of the village; the one place in the whole village that seemed to be his own.

It was at this eastern end of the village, that he had stumbled upon the green murky pond. He remembered the wonderful ponds that were there at the perfectly manicured parks back home. A part of him, thus, had expected something along those lines as he drew closer to the murky pond. He was in for a shock, though. The steps leading down to the pond were broken and worn. The whole pond seemed green, unlike the pristine blue clear watered ponds that he was used to. However, it didn’t seem that the water was that dirty. One look at it, and he knew that this little body of water was a world of its own.

“It used to be much more beautiful than this before,” said a soft voice behind him, “the water was clearer, and you could see the fishes zooming around in the water.”

He turned around, and saw a beautiful teenage girl sitting a few steps behind him. She was wearing a simple white dress that seemed to glow amber in the setting sun. Her face glowed as the dying sunlight played its charm on it just before saying goodbye, and even the breeze seemed to smile at her beauty. She was covered from head to toe, and just her face was visible. She sat there, smiling slightly, while he just stood there gaping at her.

The smile eventually turned into a small laugh, and he knew she was waiting for him to stop staring and say something.

“Hi, I’m Gulshan. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you sitting there, I wanted to get a good look at the pond, and get a few shots before the sun went down.”

“I know who you are, I’ve heard about you. You’re Ranabir Babu’s nephew. My name’s Chhaya. I hope you’re enjoying the village life?” she said, with the same teasing smile from before.

“I don’t know how to say this, I’ve seen everyone is quite sensitive about the ‘precious’ little village of yours!”

“I promise, I’ll try my best not to judge you,” she answered. “So, what is it that you cannot say to everyone, that you’re so desperately want to say?”

“My vacation blows. I’m doing nothing here, I feel so completely out of place, and I miss my friends back home,” he thought aloud, and realized for the first time how much he missed everything back at home.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see them soon enough. Life’s very long, you’ll see,” she said, with that radiant smile again, the one that glowed amber with the sun, and he smiled along with her, in those final minutes of the day.

~~~~~

He was back to the pond the next day, and saw her sitting there again. Once more, he couldn’t help but keep admiring her beauty from the moment he had seen her, until she noticed of course. After that, he had a very hard time not to keep looking at her, lest she understand what was going on in his heart. He really didn’t want to scare her away…

“You know, there was a time when this pond was much more than that. It was a lake, a proper sized one too. See the other side of that ditch, where the fields are, with the buffaloes? That’s where the lake used to stretch to. I was a little girl when I first saw it. I’ve been hoping ever since, that someday, the pond would once more become a lake,” she said, with a faraway, wistful look on her face.

“Wow, you can hardly see till that side from here. Some sight it would have been too, in those days,” he wondered aloud, trying to imagine how wonderful the lake would have looked, in those last few beautiful rays of the sunlight, with Chhaya sitting on the bank, reflected in the clear water.

He couldn’t help but look at Chhaya once more, and this time, he didn’t really care that she had noticed. A tiny smile formed at the edge of her lips, and she asked him without looking at him, “What?”

“You’re Beautiful,” he smiled back.

~~~~~

They met almost every day after that, at that same spot. He would come to the lake, at that very specific twilight hour, and find her sitting there in the beautiful orange sunlight. He would rush every day to her, armed with the camera, and together they would sit there, and take many pictures. The gnarled branches, the birds, the pond, and the dilapidated huts they could see behind the fields, the lazy buffaloes.

He had brought a bouquet of flowers for her, but for a strange reason, he felt nervous giving them to her. He really wanted her to like him, and the flowers too. He had picked them out himself, spending two hours in the hot sun, choosing the best ones in the whole village that he could find.

When she gave it to her though, she couldn’t stop laughing. “Oh, I love the flowers! Sorry, but it’s just that – look around, Gulshan. I’m surrounded by the most beautiful flowers,” she said, with that familiar, beautiful smile back on her face.

“Wow, you’re right! How come I never noticed them before here?” he asked, although he knew the answer to that very well. In truth, he hadn’t noticed much around the place. It wasn’t really easy to focus on your surroundings when there’s as beautiful a girl as Chhaya in front of you.

“I got you a gift too, you know,” she said to him, with a hint of a blush on her face.

“You did? What is it? Where is it?”

“Well, it’s actually a silly little poem that I had written last night.”

“I want to hear it! Go on, recite it. I promise you I’ll like it,” he said, eager to hear the poem.

“Ok, but don’t laugh. Here goes.

“The hillside looking like an artist’s palette

The colors, the hue, the green, the blue

A freshly laundered day awaits

Two lovers walk, first steps in the dew

Hand in hand, heart to heart

They walk away from the eyes of the world

The look, the touch, the sweet promise

A gift of love, the flowers she yearned….

“I know it’s not much, and I know it’s a very silly, stupid poem. It’s ok if you don’t like it, really, Gulshan!’

“Are you kidding me? That’s one of the sweetest poems I’ve heard in a long time now,” he said, with all honestly. He really hadn’t expected her to have written a poem for him. “Although, there’s one little thing; how did you know that I was going to bring you flowers today?”

“I didn’t. I just hoped,” she said, locking her eyes into his, and smiling while the sun set behind them

~~~~~

It was his last evening in the village. He had never thought that there could be anything here that would make him want to stay on so much, as Chhaya. He knew that he wanted to stay here forever, to be able to meet her every day on the bank of the lake. He knew that he wanted to stay over forever, so that he could share the little joys of his life with her for the rest of his life. He knew that he wanted to stay on, so that someday, he could go up to her and say…

“I love you, Chhaya.”

“What?”

“I said I love you,” he said again, “and I really mean it. All I want to do is stay with you, right here next to the lake. We can have a house right here, and live on forever.”

“Go on,” urged Chhaya, with a look on her face that said that she had been waiting to hear these words for a long time now.

“We would live in this village, right here. I won’t leave. I’ll work at the fields, whatever it takes, to be with you. And someday, I’ll see the pond become a lake, sitting right here, with you. I love you, Chhaya.”

“Say it one more time, Gulshan,” she said, with that same hungry look from before.

“I love you.”

“Oh, it’s been so long since anyone has said those words to me. Gulshan, you’re so wonderful. Of course I love you too. I’ve been waiting so long, for someone to tell me those words again, so many years I’ve spent waiting for someone like you, on these tired, old and worn out steps.”

“Chhaya, are you alright? You seem a little weird. Should I not have said it? Was it too early?”

“No, no. You’re wonderful, Gulshan. You just reminded me so much of my fiancé.”

“Your fiancé? You were about to be married, to another man?”

“A long time ago, yes,” Chhaya said, with a tired look on her face. A look that didn’t suit her at all, and made her look mysteriously old.

“Were you ever planning on telling me this, Chhaya? What happened to him?” demanded Gulshan.

Chhaya turned around and faced him, and said, “He killed me. He threw me into that lake. I drowned that day.”

Gulshan couldn’t speak for a few moments. Then, his senses came back to him, and he laughed, “You’re winding me up right? This is a joke, right?” he said, wanting his brain to believe that he wasn’t scared by what he was hearing.

“No, Gulshan. I’m not joking. I was killed by the man I loved, the man who I was set to be married to. 213 years ago it happened. We had an argument, and he pushed me into the lake. I couldn’t swim, so I drowned.”

“213 years ago? How can that be? You’re standing here, right in front of me! Are you telling me that you’re a ghost, Chhaya?”

“I don’t know what I am, Gulshan. I really don’t know what I am; but I do know that now, we are in love, and we shall be happy together, won’t we?”

And she took her hand, and gently touched his cheeks – only now, her hands were not the same beautiful hands that Gulshan had seen for so many days. Now, they looked deathly white, and bloated, as though they had been underwater for days. When the hand touched his cheek, he could feel the cold, clammy wetness of the fingertips right to his bones.

Gulshan turned and ran back to the village, screaming like a madman.

~~~~~

Mahesh wanted a Love Story.

Sowmi wanted a Poem.

And I wanted to write a Ghost Story.

Another long one, I hope you guys had the patience to read it through. The second ghost story I’ve written ever; the first one was written back in 1993. I hope this was a better attempt at it.

Image Courtesy goodonpaper

Technorati Tags: Dark,Fiction,Grey Shades,Love,Murder,Poems,Ghost,Lake

The One That Flew Away

The first time Randhir had heard about Michael Painter, it was from Shaina’s mouth. The same mouth she had kissed him with, so many times. Shaina was dead now, before Randhir had the chance of meeting Michael Painter.

The first time they met, it was in the disused basement of Randhir’s little house. Michael was tied to a chair, unconscious, while Randhir waited for him to wake up. Randhir had quit smoking a year back, when he met Shaina, but some old habits just don’t die.

Quite like some memories. And some people.

Michael stirred a bit, and Randhir slapped him on the face. “Wake up, Michael. You’re late already. There’s much to talk about.”

Michael wasn’t scared actually. He hardly ever was. He opened his eyes, and looked around. The crumbling shelves, the old guitars, and in the corner stood the untouched canvas.

“You know, my name says I should be a painter. I’m not though. I’m an engineer by profession. Can you lend me a cigarette?” Michael’s raspy voice broke the silence that had crept in.

Randhir slapped him again. Michael smiled.

“You’re a fucking murderer. You killed my girlfriend. Why?” spat Randhir.

Michael was still laughing. He gazed longingly at the cigarette that was hanging from Randhir’s hand. After a long time, he said, “You should have seen her with me. She wasn’t as happy with you as she was with me. So what if it lasted just one night. Most people don’t experience all that in a lifetime, what she experienced with me in that one night.”

Randhir didn’t want to believe that. He didn’t want to hear the words that Michael was saying, because he knew that it could be true. Shania had said those things herself.

~~~~~

The party had started late, and by the time they came out of the pub, the streets were quite empty. That’s the way Randhir liked the roads to be, for what better way to impress a girl than to take her for a quick spin in a fancy car?

Shaina Naazneen was no ordinary girl though. She had the glitter in her eyes, the one that comes when you dream about making it big. She wanted to be a movie star, and she had run away from her home to the city to realize that dream. She had escaped her village, the boundaries of her old life, and even her old name. Now, in the city where no one knew her, she was known as Shaina Naazneen.

She was a dancer at a popular bar in the heart of the city. That’s when she met Randhir Jaiswal, a straightforward Chartered Accountant, decently handsome, and a perfect blend of all those things that made Shaina’s heart skip a few beats when she saw him. Right then, she decided that she had to take Randhir to bed with her.

When Randhir saw her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He felt like he was in love, with the way she moved, the rhythmic taps of her feet. He wanted to hold her in his arms, and keep looking at her forever. But that doesn’t happen ever. The music stopped, and she disappeared behind the curtains.

Randhir had had quite a few drinks for that night; he was, after all, out to celebrate. That’s why, in his half-drunken state, he didn’t quite realize who it was walking towards him, till she was right in front of him.

“Hi, I’m Shaina,” she had said, with a beautiful smile.

“Randhir Jaiswal, Chartered Accountant,” was all that he could manage to mumble in the wake of that dazzling smile.

~~~~~

“I was born with the name of Michael Painter. I loved painting since I was a child, but I always wanted to make something much more tangible. That’s why I became an engineer,” said Michael into the silence.

“What makes you think that I’m even remotely interested in what you want or do not want?” asked Randhir.

“I just thought you’d want to know a little bit about your girlfriend’s murderer. I think I assumed too much.”

Randhir just stared at the face that had gone silent again. ‘I’m looking at a murderer, a cold blooded murderer, right now,’ he thought.

“Why’d you do it? Why did you kill her? Why the fuck, were you acting like the devil?” he fired at him, before he could stop himself.

He allowed himself a small smile, and then he spoke. “Why do I do it? Because it’s essential, to keep the men – and women – in line. Why did I kill her? Because, you know just as well as I do, that she deserved it. Why was I acting like the devil? Oh, I’m not. I’m just a regular guy who thinks that sins should not go unpunished. And what greater sin is there, other than infidelity?”

“You coerced her into being unfaithful. You seduced her, you got her into bed! Now you’re saying that you killed her for those very things? You have the audacity to term it as your own brand of justice – what sort of justice is this?”

“I never asked her to come to bed with me. I was just testing her. She failed the test, and so she paid the price.”

Randhir couldn’t believe the power with which Michael held his stare. He couldn’t believe that the man who had killed the woman he loved, could look him in the eye and talk about it so confidently. Yet, that was exactly what Michael was doing.

“I loved her,” whispered Randhir.

~~~~~

“Go to hell, Randhir. I can’t believe you can be this insensitive. All these days, I’ve just been nothing more than a small town girl for you?”

“That’s not what I meant. Would you please, stop misconstruing everything I’m saying?”

“Well then, what exactly did you mean when you said that I’d understand, since I come from a small town? You think I’m just as narrow minded as the fools that I’ve left behind in the village?”

“Shaina, that’s not at all what I meant. Why are you screaming, we just made love, for god’s sake!”

“Oh, so now I can’t even speak my mind when I want? Really, Randhir, go to hell!”

“Shaina! Please, relax, would you? We love each other, don’t we?”

“I don’t! What the hell made you think that? I thought you knew that, I thought you knew I’m just in it for this!”

“Shaina, what? You mean, you’re just in it for the sex?”

“Yes, Randhir. I told you, I’m not like the other narrow minded village girls. I’ve got this one life, and I intend to live it just the way I want to! I won’t let you, or anyone else, run it for me, you hear?”

Randhir couldn’t stand any of it anymore. He jumped out of bed, flung her clothes at her, and bellowed, “Get out! Get out of my house right now, you bloody whore! Get out, and don’t ever dare to set foot in here again!”

“Fine! I don’t even want to stay with you anymore. You’re no better than the shallow folks I left back home when I came here. Michael Painter is so much better than you.”

“Michael who?”

“Michael Painter. He’s the guy I’m sleeping with on the side. Satisfied?”

She stormed out of the door, and at the moment, he was happy that she had left his life.

~~~~~

“She came to me that day, telling me that she had dumped you. It was at that moment that I knew she had failed the test. I decided that the time for her punishment had come close. She had always wanted to fly. That night, I pushed her off the roof. Ironic, isn’t it – she had to die, living the very wish that she wanted since she was a little child.”

“It was just a fight. We could have solved this one. I know we could have, if only we had talked it over, things would have been alright.”

“No Randhir, things wouldn’t have fallen into place. She really didn’t love you anymore, she just wanted to sleep with you. That was the extent of it. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. Now you see, why I think she really deserved what she got? She lied to you, she played with you.”

A little bit of sense came back to Randhir, and he looked back at the man who murdered Shaina. “That still didn’t give you the right to kill her! You had no right to kill her! Who do you think you are?”

“I know I didn’t have the right to kill her. You remember the gun you found in my jacket? There are two bullets in there. Those bullets are meant for me. Now you understand, Randhir, why I called you to meet up? If anyone has the right to take a life here, it’s you Randhir – you alone.”

Randhir got up, and walked to the jacket that had fallen to the floor. He bent down and picked it up, and found that the left side was unnaturally heavy. He removed the black pistol from the pocket, and felt the cold gun in his hand.

Slowly, Randhir walked back to the place where Michael was sitting. He turned around to face the man he had brought to the room and tied to the chair. He loathed this man sitting there, and he loathed the girl because of whom this man was sitting here. The hatred seemed to shine on his face, for Michael recognized it and smiled at it.

“Look into my eyes Randhir. You will hate me, I know that, but when you look into my eyes, you will know that this is exactly how I wanted things to turn out between us. This is exactly why, there was no need for you to tie me to this chair.”

With the heavy gun in his hand, Randhir found that he couldn’t talk. All he wanted to do was to rid all the people who were involved in the incidents that had happened in the last few months. This man was the last link to that episode.

Randhir looked into Michael’s eyes, and knew that he wasn’t lying about anything that he had said. But behind the honesty, he saw something else in Michael’s eyes. Something that was brought out by the last words that Michael said. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

Randhir aimed the gun on Michael’s forehead, and Michael braced himself for the two shots that were coming his way. A shadow of that scared smile still remained on his face.

***

This post is my attempt at a series that Annie started – Grey Shades. This one was actually brought about because of two reasons. Firstly, Annie wanted me to write something related to Infidelity, and that’s something that I’ve never really been comfortable to approach. Secondly, someone commented that they wanted a murder story from me again. I tried to combine the two, and this was the result. I hope it was acceptable.

Apologies for the length of the post, as well as the strong language used. I really couldn’t make the story what it is without either.

Image Courtesy Auraelius

The Entertainer

The shower was one place where she just couldn’t resist singing. Her melodious voice danced over the notes, with the flowing water keeping the rhythm. Her voice obeyed her every command, and the song itself seemed to bring life into the world. It was a wonderful way to start a wonderful evening.

All except…

“Would you cut out your singing and hurry up? You’re making both of us late!” screamed Anuradha from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done. Give me two more minutes,” said Samaira, while her reflection looked at her accusingly.

‘I should be an Entertainer. I’m supposed to charm people with my voice. Why doesn’t anyone get that?’

The evening was slowly turning into the night, and she was ready to take on the world. With the song still singing itself in her head and her heart, she walked to the Prakash Photo Studio. She needed some glamour shots for work, and Prakash (as it was fondly called in that locality) was the one place to get them from.

She spent an hour at Prakash. When the shots were done, she looked at them. The gentle hint of Kohl in her eyes, the black waves of her hair, the heart shaped face, they all told her that she was, indeed, beautiful.

‘I should be an Entertainer. I’m supposed to charm people with my beauty, with the ladylike grace that I possess. I wish someone else would see that for a change.’

On the street, she heard the sound of ghungrus coming from the local Dance School. She remembered how she used to go there as a child. The long hours she spent, dancing to the wonderful music. She remembered how wonderful and free she felt at that time, to move like she wanted to.

‘I should be an Entertainer. I’m supposed to charm people with my graceful movements, and the gentle taps of the ghungrus on my feet. I wish I could have that stage, once, where people would appreciate that in me.’

She reached her “Office”, her place of work, and met Greg. She didn’t know Greg’s real name, and he didn’t know hers. In the “Office”, she was Sam.

“Sam, your client’s waiting for you upstairs. He’s a Russian man, with big bucks, lots of it. Make sure you entertain him well tonight.”

She looked into the mirror, and the reflection spoke to her.

‘I am an Entertainer. I charm people with my body, and the things I do with it. In here, I’m Sam, and I fuck for a small fee.’

The Storyman

It was the first time that Sachin and Samarth were out in the real world. They called it a vacation, although what they really wanted was an adventure.

They hadn’t found any. After two days of hiking, and travelling to remote places of India, still they found nothing.

So when they saw the makeshift highway pub, neither of them could wait to be inside, and get comfortable with a cold beer.

“We don’t really need adventures, do we Sachin?”

“Nope. We need beer.”

“Cold beer!” said Samarth, and they were inside the dingy pub, catering to its highway people, and emanating the highway smells.

“And anyway, this was an adventure of sorts for us too, wasn’t it? I mean, think about it. We did something new, and in a way, that’s an adventure as well. Who said anything about an adventure being thrilling and chilling?” said Sachin, with a fake-cheery voice that he knew was cheering him up more than Samarth.

“Two beers”, ordered Samarth, as they sat down on the bar stools and waited for the beer to come to them. They didn’t know what else was coming along with those two innocent beers though.

The barman handed them two chilled bottles of beer, and bent down to speak to them.

“I heard you guys. You’re looking for adventure? At this young age? You guys must be mad!” said he, with the most serious eyes that any man could possess.

“Why’s that?” the boys asked.

“Look behind you boy, you see that man there? You know which man I’m talking about. The one with that great big scar running down his face? Legend has it…”

“I’m sorry, did you say, ‘legend’ has it?” interrupted Sachin.

“Yes, boy! Listen closely, and don’t interrupt me when I’m talking!” said the barman, and then continued in the same manner, “Legend has it that he has seen adventure. Not just once, but many times over in his life. They call him the Storyman, and I can’t tell you the stories that I’ve heard from him.”

“Why not?” asked Sachin, acting his usual curious self that he always was.

“Because it chills me, down to the very bones! Now, if you want an adventure, he’s the man you should talk to,” said the barman, and left to attend to business.

“You think we should go talk to him, Sam?”

Samarth couldn’t make up his mind. He thought it over for a moment. Thoughts such as ‘this might be dangerous’ and ‘never trust strangers’ kept chasing each other inside his head. Finally, he came to the decision.

“We’re out here, looking for adventure. We can’t really turn back, now that we’ve almost found it. We’ll just go and talk to him, that’s all.”

And so they went. The man’s face was half hidden in the shadows of the dim light of the bar, and as they neared, they could see his face in better relief. The candle on the wall cast deep shadows on his face, and they could clearly see the two eyes gleaming at them, and the scar that the barman had told them about. It looked eerie, and now that they stood near this man, they knew that the barman wasn’t lying when he had told them that ‘legend has it.’

The man didn’t speak, but gestured for them to sit in the two empty seats that seemed to have been waiting specially for them. They sat, down, and the man in front of them spoke.

“Good evening boys. As you’ve been told, I am the Storyman.” said the Storyman.

The boys couldn’t speak. They could almost reach out and touch the adventure that seemed to tease them at just an arm’s distance away, but at the same time, they didn’t want to reach out to the adventure. For the first time, the two brothers were scared.

The Storyman continued, “I can see that you boys want a taste of adventure. I’ll tell you a story. It’s a very special story too, for it is about my first adventure. There were two of us, just as there are two of you right now. It was a long time ago, and the two of us were carefree, and just like you, wanted to be out in the real world, having one adventure after another. We were young and restless, and so we left the safety of our village and ventured away.

“I don’t know yet how we managed it, but we found our way into the docks of Bombay. There was a ship leaving port at the time. We thought to ourselves, what greater adventure can there be, apart from an adventure out on the sea? So, the two of us made our way stealthily into the ship, and soon we were off to unknown lands beyond the shores of our village.

“But we weren’t lucky. Soon after we set sail, the ship was caught in a violent sea storm. Oh the sea storm! Boys, you should see it once, the majestic power it holds, the ease and grace with which it tosses an iron vessel around on the sea – the power of it was undeniable. The storm showed no mercy. The ten foot waves caught the curious fools that we were, and almost launched us away into the ocean. My friend held on to my hand, and he told me that he wouldn’t let go, come what may. He said he would pull me back into the safety of the ship, and all I had to do was to hold on to his hand. He was a brave one, with a mighty heart.

“A second wave crashed down on me, and I was pulled away from the ship, and into the sea. I don’t know about my friend, but I lost consciousness in mid air, and I don’t remember hitting the ocean.

“When I came to, I found myself on a barren island, with no trees or birds or animals of any kind. There was only salt water behind me, a sheet of sand under me, and harsh black rocks ahead of me. As i raised my head, I could see that there was nothing but the harsh black rocks all around me. I was hurt, and I was hungry. I felt as though I hadn’t had anything to eat for two days and two nights, and I knew if I didn’t get something to eat soon, I would surely die.

“That’s when I saw a figure nearby. It was my friend, lying on the beach, under the evening sun. He was hurt, and he was bleeding profusely from his arms. There was nothing I could do to save him; the sea would claim him.

“But, I was hungry. I knew that it was either the sea that would claim him – or it would be me.”

“Are you saying that you killed your own friend?” asked Sachin.

An odd smile spread on the Storyman’s face. “Yes, I killed him. Like I said, I needed food that day.”

He seemed to want to go on, but Samarth and Sachin didn’t let him. With cries of “monster” and “murderer”, they launched themselves at him. Hearing the commotion, the barman rushed over and pulled them away from the Storyman.

“Oi! What on earth do you boys think you’re doing?”

“This man is a monster! He killed his own friend! How do we know that he won’t harm us?” asked Sachin, looking at the barman.

Sam was looking at the gleeful face of the Storyman, and he knew he had missed something. At that moment, the barman spoke up.

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about his story. The one where he kills his friend. Well, I am that friend! Sure, we met the terrible storm that night, but we never fell into the sea. We reached the shores of Madagascar, spent a great few weeks there, and came back to Bombay on the same ship.”

“What? But then, why would the Storyman tell us that story?” asked a bewildered Sachin.

“Because, that’s his job. That is why we call him the Storyman! Now, boys, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going back behind the counter. Anymore fistfights you want, you take them outside the pub, you hear?” and still muttering darkly about the boys scaring good customers away, the barman walked back to the bar.

The Storyman was still smirking. Sachin somehow couldn’t digest the fact that he was actually so gullible, while Samarth kept looking at the Storyman.

“Let me ask you something. If that story was made up, then how come the bad guy won? How come the good friend, who had saved the bad guy’s life on a previous occasion, be killed by the very man he had saved?”

The eyes were still twinkling, as the Storyman said, “Because, boys, I’m a Storyman, not a Saint!”

***

Image Courtesy mikebaird