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

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

The World

The world is the most beautiful
At its ugliest of times
The child's sweet eyes, full of sorrow
As it searches hungrily for it's mother
The jelly covered teeth of the toddler
That smiles and turns away
The beautiful thunderstorm
That brings life giving water
And the sad eyes of the puppy, cold and scared
Caught out in the cold, harsh rain
The dandelions in bloom, they sway
To and fro, in that autumn afternoon breeze
Blanketing the landmines just below them
Waiting for years, for one wrong footstep
The beautiful world, at its ugliest of times
Makes us want to shy away
From that ill, homeless woman
Old and helpless
And you look for change to throw into her bucket
Covering your eyes in shame
And guilt
And pain
There's green grass in the field
Grass that's running wild now
All the children that ran around
Played games and wrestled in the grass
Green knee-ed and dirt patched
They've left the playgrounds a long time ago
Moved away with the world
The asphalt tramples the green grass underfoot
In it's black, shiny glory
Making the world a little more beautiful
At its ugliest of times
Young life fights to live
And lose it's innocence to the outside world
But not a chance is she given
And the coursing blood
It stops in her veins
And in that stillness
That lifeless nothingness
Sitting heavily in those burnt out eyes
Her innocence intact in them
Never to be let outside
In that beautiful, beautiful world
Which in that moment
Is at it's ugliest of times

Nightmares

This had been discussed in vague terms
Over the past few years
Through dauntless nights we wondered
Our eyes brimming with warm tears
Memories of those lost souls chase us still
And in our minds, sad, lonely and scared
We march on towards the void, our lifeless end

Countering Writers Block, or whatever the hell this is that I’m going through right now, I stumbled across this little exercise. Grab the 7th book from your bookshelf. Open it up to page 7. Pinpoint the 7th sentence on the page. Begin a poem that begins with that sentence and limit it in length to 7 lines.

The War of the Wolves

On a wild, untamed night
Before the sun cast it's rays
The wolves had their battle
The Blacks against the Greys
Their muzzles were now bloody
As the night lay deathly silent
Tired, hungry, weeping and whimpering
Knowing that the prize
The Blacks, now they claim

The sweet release of defeat
That kindness of nature
A battle to the death
They die, to kill their shame
While the Blacks hold their heads high
And howl to the dark, starlit sky
In their glory, in their glee
A little Grey cub, still alive, and fleeing
Unnoticed by the Blacks, went he

Haven't been around on this place for a while, don't think will be here for a while to come now as well. This one popped into my head, as vague and strange poetry often does pop into the head at all weird hours. To be honest, it woke me up, and I found that I didn't have much of a choice but to switch on my system and jot it down.

Haven't been doing much writing lately, nothing that matters at least. I hope that wasn't reflected too much in this one.

Fallen Heroes

They had no idea where they were. They had been in similar situations, being in the army does that to you. Being in Baghdad, they had come prepared for that. They had come prepared for bullets and bombs going off. They had even come prepared for dying – at least that's what they told everyone. When the bomb went off, however, it was a completely different story.

The sound of the explosion was still ringing in his head when Marcellus woke up. He looked around, unable to hear anything that was going on. He saw bodies and blood and guts splattered all around the street. The fronts of the shops that lined the road had crumbled to dust. As he watched, a roof of one of the shops fell through. Marcellus felt himself coughing, but he couldn't hear it. He waited for the odd ringing in his ears to subside, so he could accurately know just what was going on. By the look of it, the bomb had been very powerful. Also by the look of it, he was the only one from his company who was alive at the moment.

Slowly, the ringing of his ears died out. The adrenaline from the blood sank back; the sounds of the falling debris, and the excruciating pain returned to him in full measure. He screamed, although he had been taught not to do that. He threw away his heavy rifle; what use was that now? He was dying, alone, a bloody mess, on the streets of Baghdad. He sank back, trying to lie down and find a position that would be slightly more comfortable in these last few moments of his life.

That's when he heard a terrified coughing, and a feeble moan of pain. He recognized the voice; Dominicus was alive! Marcellus could make out from the sounds that he wasn't very far off from where he lay, but he wondered if he should call out just yet or not. Was it safe? He waited a moment, but the moans of pain from Dominicus continued. Marcellus could take it no more, so he shouted towards the source of the sound.

"Dominicus! Nick! It's Marco! Can you hear me?"

The silence of the night pressed at Marcellus from all sides. As he screamed, for a few moments even the moans of pain were stifled. Then, a voice spoke. A small, tired, drained voice answered Marcellus in the night. "Marco!" it was Dominicus, "I'm hurt! I'm bleeding, from everywhere, man! Shit, I'm scared!"

"Yeah, man," said Marcellus reassuringly, "hang in there buddy. I'm right here too. Someone's bound to come over soon. Just hang in there." He could do nothing for Dominicus, not in the current shape he was in. All he could do was make sure that Dominicus knew how to keep his calm. 'Believe! Believe! They're coming for you, they'll get you out, alive and in one piece! Believe that!' Marcellus kept saying that to himself.

Dominicus wasn't speaking; Marcellus knew he had to keep talking to him. He wanted both of them to be able to make it out of there, alive. Somewhere, somehow, the task started to seem tough.

"Hey, Nick," said Marcellus in a soft voice. "You with me, man?"

"Yeah, Marco. I'm here."

"Where'd you land, after the explosion? I ain't able to place you right, brother."

"I'm up here. Lying on top of some miniature rubble hill," said Dominicus in a choked voice. "Swell view, though," he said after a pause, with a forced touch of humor.

"Yeah, I'm sure of that! How's the weather up there?" joked Marcellus, but he wasn't sure if Dominicus heard him or not.

Marcellus laughed at Dominicus' little joke, but it hurt. He had to stop quickly, even though the laughter went on inside. He missed Dominicus' jokes right now. He tried to sit up, so that he could hear Dominicus a little better, but the shrapnel in his legs did not allow him to do that very easily. After struggling to sit up for about a minute, he gave up and flopped down on the comfortable pile of rocks again.

The silence of the night pressed on them again; tired, lonely, and scared, the two friends lay. Marcellus knew Dominicus wouldn't be able to start the conversation, and he didn't want his friend to be lying there, wounded, in the darkness and the silence. Mustering all the courage and the cheerfulness that he could in his voice, he called over to Dominicus in the darkness.

"Hey, Nick!" Marcellus called. "Buddy, you remember that play we did as kids?"

Dominicus was groggy from the pain, and it took him some time to register that someone was talking to him. From a great distance it seemed he could hear someone calling his name. 'Nick! Hey Nick, wake up!'

Marcellus kept calling out Dominicus' name, even though for quite some time he got no answer from the darkness. After what seemed like ages, a faint voice answered, "Marco, that you? I'm sleepy." There was a slight pause, and Marcellus knew if Dominicus fell asleep, he would not wake up. In a desperate attempt to keep Dominicus focused, Marcellus started laughing. Hysterical laughter surrounded the rubble, and even though it hurt Marcellus to laugh, he didn't stop. It worked, and a little later he heard Dominicus' voice.

"What you laughing at?" said Dominicus, and Marcellus was glad to hear the tinge of strength in the voice.

"Random things, from our childhood days," said Marcellus. "You remember that god-awful play that we did?"

"What play?"

"Aah, I can't remember the name," said Marcellus, getting almost choked by yet another bout of laughter. "The first one that we did together, man. You got hit by a rotten tomato chucked at you by your big brother. What was that play, man?"

"Mother, May I," said Dominicus. "That was the name of the play. Mother, May I! Your stupid idea it was too!"

A small laugh had escaped from Dominicus as he remembered that horrible play the two of them had made; the story about an ambitious kid, trying to persuade his overly strict mother to buy him an electric guitar. The story hadn't been so bad either.

"If only, Marco, you could act," said Dominicus, fighting yet another snigger. "Maybe then, I wouldn't have smelled of raw eggs for two days!"

Marcellus was laughing again at the memories. "How was I supposed to know your brother would be carrying that arsenal of tomatoes and eggs, man! I mean, you hear about stuff like this only in movies!"

Dominicus was laughing at the memory now too. "Remember, Sue Allen? The girl who played Mother?" asked Dominicus. "She got smacked by a tomato, you remember that? Half her face was red 'coz of the tomato juice, while the other half blushed in fury!"

"Yeah," said Marcellus. "I remember that! God, we were such lame kids!"

Both boys were laughing at all the memories, rolling around in the rubble as they remembered their past. Marcellus was glad that now, finally, a little bit of life had been injected into Dominicus as well as in himself. He knew he had to continue talking now, though. He couldn't let go of Dominicus now, and he knew just how close Dominicus was to slipping away into oblivion.

"You were a comedian too, weren't you, Nick?" asked Marcellus. "You did funny stuff and said funny stuff too, ain't that right?"

Nick smiled fondly at the memory, and said, "Yeah, man. That was a long time ago though. A good ten years back, wasn't it? Wow! Never even gave that memory a second thought till right now! What happened to that comedian in me?"

"I dunno, brother," said Marcellus. "You were damn good too. I remember Sue Allen used to come to all of your gigs, to listen to your stuff."

"Yeah?" said Dominicus, feeling strangely glad about Sue Allen's silent presence at all his gigs.

"Yeah. She used to sit way at the back, didn't want you to see her for some reason. She liked you, but I think she took it as a hazard to come too close to you. What with the tomatoes flying about all around you," and both boys got lost in the peals of laughter again.

"Hey, Marco," called out Dominicus as he calmed down again. "You still paint and write the way you used to?"

"Naw, man. You think the army allows me to do anything like that these days? Someday, though, I'm gonna pick it up again. I still got my brushes with me."

"Man, you shouldn't have left all that. You were great!"

"Aah, cut the bullshit, man. I wasn't that cool, just loved doing what I was doing with that brush in my hand. Or that pen," said Marcellus wistfully.

"You know what this reminds me of?" asked Dominicus, a little while later.

"What, us lying here in the rubble like this? No idea, what?"

"You seen that film, Lions for Lambs? Remember those two soldiers lying in the dirt just like this?"

"Yeah," said Marcellus. "Although, I didn't really get that movie."

"Well," said Dominicus, "neither did I." The satisfied smile on his face was obscured by the dark, but Marcellus felt that smile nonetheless. The smile shone through the darkness like a spot of hope, and he thought maybe, just maybe, they could get out of this one alive.

Dominicus seemed to sense what Marcellus was thinking. He knew how futile thinking along those lines was. Somehow, Dominicus knew the reality of the situation much better than Marcellus did; he knew they were going to die, that nobody would be able to come to rescue them in time.

"Marco," said Dominicus, "I ain't scared no more. How hard can it be now?"

"What are you talking about," asked Marcellus. "How hard can what be?"

Somewhere, Marcellus knew just what Dominicus was talking about, but he didn't want to acknowledge that right at that moment; but Dominicus had the situation figured out much better than Marcellus.

"Dying, man," said Dominicus, seemingly an eon later. "I'm not scared of dying anymore."

"What you talking about, man! The sky's getting paler over there, see? It's gonna be light soon! Hang in there buddy, we're gonna make it."

"I can't see, man," said Dominicus. "The shrapnel hit my eyes. I'm bleeding from the face, I think. I'm blind. Some comedian I'd make now, eh?"

Marcellus couldn't say anything. He was hurt himself, much worse than what he thought. Still, at that moment, he could feel Nick's pain and not his own.

"What about that view you were talking about, then?" asked Marcellus. "You could see that, couldn't you?"

Dominicus smiled a sad smile that no one saw, and said, "No man, I was kidding when I said that. I guess that comedian is truly alive inside me."

"No, Nick! We've almost made it man. Trust me on that! We're almost there, just hang in there. Don't you let go now," screamed Marcellus at Dominicus.

"I'm tired," sighed Dominicus. "Dunno how long I can hold on man."

"Keep talking, Nick. Just keep talking!"

"No can do man, ain't got the energy for that anymore."

"Alright, then you just lie down and listen, ok? I'll talk, and you listen. Can you do that?"

A faint grunt of assent came from Dominicus, and Marcellus knew time had truly run out. Still, he had to try, to save this friend of his. Marcellus talked about their childhood, he talked about Sue Allen, he talked about their big houses, and Dominicus' dog. Rowdy, they used to call him. A big shaggy thing he was too, and Marcellus remembered just how much Dominicus loved Rowdy.

"You think Rowdy's gonna be in heaven, waiting for us, Nick?" asked Marcellus. "You think dogs are allowed there? Rowdy was a good guy, I'm sure he'd be there in heaven, if only they'd allow him. God, I loved that goofy dog of yours! You remember the insane things he used to do?"

Marcellus didn't get any response from Dominicus. He feared the worst, but he ploughed on bravely in spite of it.

"He used to run away, every chance he'd get. I never got it, where and why he used to run out. I mean, it's not even like he used to like staying outside all the time; sooner or later he was bound to come right back! Sly bastard he was..."

Marcellus' voice was starting to get choked. He realized there were tears mingled with the blood and sweat running down his face, but he tried not to let that show in his voice. He went on, "and that time when he chased evil-tempered Brown down the road? You remember how happy he was, just to see old Mr. Brown chasing his stick at the giant furball, before turning right round and running!"

Marcellus couldn't go on. He knew Dominicus was gone. He knew Nick wouldn't have kept him waiting for an answer for so long. He didn't care about the tears that were flowing steadily now, down his face. He didn't care about the pain.

"Rowdy's gonna meet us at the gates, man," said Marcellus. "I just know it, he knows us too well. Nick, take my word for it! He's waiting for us at those gates right now!"

He turned around to face the side where he had heard Dominicus' voice coming from, and although he couldn't see anything, it felt nice to be lying with his eyes on his best friend; the man who had saved his life twice before. He didn't know if the night was almost over; he knew that he was ready, for that final journey.

"Nick," he asked quietly into the darkness, "does it hurt?"

Marcellus got no answer. He quietly closed his eyes, and the world went dark around him.

The Last Night

Having had enough of India, Nishinath decided it was time for him to go back home. It had been just over ten months since he had come back to India, all the way from New York. Delhi had held a lot of promises for him, before he had arrived. He had been sure of having a good time here, but the last ten months had taken a lot out of him. Now, tired and alone, he wanted to go back home.

Nishinath was born in New York. Before Delhi, he hadn't seen anything of the world. New York had been his world, till the day he found out all about his parents town. Delhi – the name itself had seemed romantic. His parents told him all about the city, and how seeped in history it was. His father told him how every lane of Delhi had a story to go with. Some stories, of course, were older than the others, but every single one of those stories was older than any living man he had met. The place went back a long time, and that was one of the main attributes of this mysterious city that drew Nishinath towards it.

So, after working for two years, and having saved up enough, he decided it was time for him to spread his wings and fly to Delhi. He was somehow sure that for him, the city would be no stranger, and that the city would accept him exactly the way he was.

Ten months later, he was sitting outside his little rented apartment, waiting for the taxi to pick him up for the airport. The taxi was late; he was getting worried that he might miss his flight. One of his friends was dead. Another had disappeared. The love of his life didn't want to see him again; although, since she was blind, he didn't think it would be very hard to fulfill that requirement.

He couldn't bear to think of her right now, but every few minutes, he caught himself hoping longingly that she would give him a call. Everything about her had been perfect. In these last few moments, before he left her town, he allowed himself to think about her.

Netravati – the name itself had enticed her. He tasted that name one more time on his lips: Netravati. She was beautiful, and he was sure she had no idea just how beautiful. He had tried describing it to her, the way she looked, but she hadn't let him. She hadn't wanted to know, and so Nishinath had shut up and kissed her instead.

It was because of Mrityunjay that he had met Netravati in the first place. Mrityunjay, his friend; the first person he had truly known in this crazy city. Mrityunjay; the man who had put a roof above his head when he had no place to go, and had no one he knew. Now Mrityunjay was dead, and it was his fault.

"Don't think that!" he told himself. "It's bad enough that Margi thinks that. It's 'coz of that, she left. He's dead, and she's gone, and there ain't nothin' I can do to make it alright. Netravati won't see me, she won't come near me no more. Goddamn, I ain't got no light either! Fuck!"

The unlit cigarette was taking the brunt of all his feelings. The crumpled paper reminded him of a dented metal pipe that had been used to crack someone's head open. Of course, things like this happened back in New York, but Nishinath somehow found it easier to deal with things like that than the unfair insanity that surrounded him here. The tobacco from the cigarette was dropping out, and he still didn't have a light. There was no one out in the world at the time; everyone preferred to be indoors after dark in this city, so asking someone else for a light was also out of the question.

He wished Mrityunjay was here. He was sure to have a light, even if he didn't smoke himself. The need for a smoke was killing him here, although he didn't smoke that much back in New York. Before coming here, he'd thought Delhi would be more of a home than New York ever had been. Now, however, he was glad he was leaving this place. He was so glad to be going back home.

A light suddenly appeared in front of his face. A hand, holding a cigarette lighter; he finally lit the cigarette, without even looking at the man, and muttered "Thanks."

The man sat down next to Nishinath, and said "You're welcome." A deep, rumbling voice, that Nishinath thought he could recognize, but couldn't exactly pinpoint. It seemed to be a voice that he had heard a long, long time ago, but had half forgotten. This didn't exactly make sense, since he had never been out of New York, and this man didn't seem the type who had gotten out of Delhi either.

Nishinath turned around, and looked at the man sitting next to him. He was wearing a black overcoat, which Nishinath knew must have been for the cold. Still, it looked slightly out of place on the man; the night wasn't that cold. He was wearing a black hat that covered his head, and his face was covered with a thick black beard. Underneath the black overcoat, Nishinath could make out that the man was wearing a black suit. He took a look at the man's hands, and could see that he was wearing black leather gloves. Black shoes, black socks; Nishinath couldn't understand why this man was covered from head to toe in black, when he found a pair of glittering black eyes staring back at him.

"Say, buddy," Nishinath began as the man continued looking at him with those unblinking eyes, "do I know you from someplace? 'Coz man, your voice sounds real familiar. We met before?"

"No, we haven't met before," said the man. "At least, not like this."

"Wazzat mean?" asked Nishinath, "and what's your name, anyway?"

The strange man looked around with a smile, and said, "I am the night. I've known you for quite some time now; you've always held a strange fascination for me, haven't you?"

The man looked away, and said after a while, "You've always preferred the night, haven't you, Nishinath? You've always trusted me; somehow all your worries and your secrets have come out of you so much easier at this time.

"Well, my friend," continued the man; a smile lighting up his eyes as he looked back into Nishinath's eyes, "I sensed that you were troubled. I sensed you were alone. So many times, in the past, while you were at home in New York City, you have come to me. You have trusted me, so many times. So, I thought maybe, this time too, I could meet and make things better for you. Plus, I saw that you needed a light there."

"Shit! Are you telling me that you, the man sitting right in front of me, is The Night?" asked Nishinath, bewildered. "Goddamn, man! I can't believe this. You real, or you wacko?"

"No, Nishinath. I'm not 'wacko'," said the man, that patient, happy smile still lighting up his dark features. "I'm real; and I'm your friend. I know a lot about you."

"Bullshit," said Nishinath. "C'mon man, if you know me so damn well, why don't you go right ahead and prove it, eh?"

"Alright," said the man. "If that's what it will take for you to trust me in this form, so be it. Nishinath Bhardwaj, born 2^nd October, 1985. Father, Nitin Bhardwaj, general contractor. Mother, Swati Bhardwaj, housewife, although she does teach some children after school hours. Younger sister, Disha Bhardwaj. Died when she was three years old; that's also the first time you came and talked to me, if you remember. You had a pet dog, by the name of Rocky. Why you kept that name, you have no idea; especially since you hated that name for him.

"First time you got drunk was when you were seven years old. Ashley's drunkard father thought it might be a good idea to let you taste your first whisky while you were at her place, and you got high. Ashley's father laughed a lot, while Ashley screamed a lot at him. You never went back to her place again, even though you and Ashley dated some years later. She was the first girl you kissed, and the first girl you thought you were in love with. You weren't sure if you were in love with her or not, though.

"You ended things with Ashley pretty soon, though. Still, it did break your heart, even if for one day. You cried, the one and only time, for a girl. She remained your friend after that too, for quite a few days; until she moved away. By that time, of course, you had moved on. You don't remember her much these days. Things had become very different for you, as you grew up.

"New York was becoming claustrophobic. There were far too many people, cramped in that city. You didn't have space to breathe, or think, or feel anything. You told your parents that you wanted to see Delhi, for you were fascinated by it; you told them that you wanted to know the place where they came from, the place that you truly belong to. The real reason you came here was that you wanted to escape from New York. You wanted to run away, as you didn't know what else could remove that intense loneliness you felt in that city. So, you ran away, as far as you could. You ran to Delhi, to your past."

The man turned his eyes back to Nishinath. He could see that Nishinath couldn't believe anything he had heard, and looked quite incapable of saying anything after hearing everything the man had said. He smiled kindly at Nishinath, and said, "I don't really know what's been going on with you ever since you came to Delhi. You haven't talked to me that way since, but tonight you seemed real upset. That's why I came here tonight, Nishinath; to talk"

Nishinath still couldn't say anything. The man waited for him to speak, then put his arms around Nishinath's shoulder and said in a very gentle voice, "Finish that cigarette. Take all the time in the world. You'll feel like talking the moment you finish that cigarette."

*

Nishinath could feel the drags of the cigarette he was taking in. It was a weird night for him, but he felt a lot calmer now. The man sitting next to him did seem to be an old friend, however absurd his story might sound like. As Nishinath steadily proceeded towards the last drag of the cigarette, he started feeling an irresistible urge to start talking to the man. He could not explain why, but he wanted to tell the man everything that had happened to him in the last ten months, and he knew it wouldn't matter if it was in order or not. He just had to talk, and the man sitting next to him would understand.

"I reached Delhi on a fine sunny day," began Nishinath, "at 'bout the beginnin' of spring. Fine day it was, a li'l windy though. I remember, the wind caught hold of my hat that day, and blew it away. I'd laughed that time, as I chased the hat through the streets. The people were laughin' too, and when I finally caught the damn thing, there was a lot of cheers that came my way as well. That's the first memory of this goddamn place I got – chasin' my fuckin' hat all over the streets!

"I came to the city by train. Caught the train from Bombay, took me more than a day to get here. From the outside, I remember thinking 'trains here sure do suck, man!' but when I got inside one of those cramped compartments, and had been ripped off nice by the son-of-a-bitch porter that got my luggage for me, I found it wasn't all that bad. There were all sorts of people sittin' there with me, and I got to talkin' and shit with them. Never expected it, but that train ride sure ended up bein' fun; in its own fucked up way though.

"I didn't know nobody when I reached here. All I had that time was the name of this guy I was supposed to meet up. Mrityunjay – that was his name. I mean, who the fuck has a name like that? Took me a whole damn day to learn how to say that name right. Anyway, I had his number, so I gave him a buzz. Told me to come down to his place, so I caught a cab and went over.

"He wasn't what I'd thought he'd be. He sounded cool over the phone and all, but he looked like a total geek up front! Weird ass glasses that were constantly slippin' down from his nose, teeth too fuckin' large for his mouth so they're hangin' half out, a big blob for a nose. Still, I didn't have no choice, so I said hello and moved in with him.

"He took me over to meet a friend of his that night. Now, I don't get why parents have to fuck up their kids' lives here so much by givin' them goofy names. Mrityunjay's friend was called Margi. I don't even know what the heck that means, sounds like some sorta herb or somethin'. Anyway, so we met Margi the other day, and she was kinda cool too. We got to talkin' and stuff, and that's when I realized that these guys weren't dorks. They were nice folks, although they looked a bit funny.

"I met Netravati the next day. She's a friend of Margi, and she's blind. Even so, she had to be the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen! Damn, she was so pretty, I couldn't stop lookin' at her. She had to be the best girl I'd seen all my life. I mean, they don't even make them like that in The States. I dunno what it was about her, but the more I spent time with her, the crazier I went for her.

"I asked Netravati out soon, and we were havin' a great time. Margi was, somehow, not really happy about the situation though. See, Margi and Netravati are real good friends, and Margi's always been somewhat protective so far Netravati went. I guess Margi never really trusted me enough, but I knew that this time, I was really fallin' in love with this girl.

"Netravati's damn focused on her life as well. I mean, she'd do anythin' to make sure that becomes somethin'. She started spendin' a ton of her time at the office, and that started to piss me off. I mean, I was missin' her! So, I told her, and that's when me and her had our first big fight. That was fine too, but what pissed me off was the fact that Margi interfered in the whole thing. She told me that I ain't good enough for Netravati, and that she deserves better than me. 'Course, I couldn't take Margi sayin' all that shit to me. Hell, I wouldn't have taken nobody sayin' that shit to me. So I told her to go fuck herself, and that I'm in love with Netravati.

"When Netravati heard about all that, she told me that she ain't got no time for love. She said she's too damn busy in her own life, and that she didn't like the fact that I screamed at Margi the way I did. Man, she was fuckin' pissed that night. I tried to calm her down, but nothin' worked. She told me to get lost from her apartment, so I left that night. I went to the local pub, and I got drunk, bad. Then, I dunno why the fuck, I gave Netravati a call.

"She told me a lot of things, that she liked me and stuff, but she wasn't in love with me. She said shit like 'there's no future to this' and 'I'm too tied up in my job'. I slammed the phone down and swore I wouldn't talk to her again. Still, I needed a friend with me, so I gave Mrityunjay a call, told him to come down. I shouldn't have done that, 'coz that night as he was drivin' over to the pub to make sure I was fine, a drunk motherfucker slammed into his car. He was killed on the spot." A single tear leaked out from Nishinath's eyes. "On the fuckin' spot."

Nishinath fell silent. He couldn't tell the man sitting next to him how he felt when he saw Mrityunjay's twisted body within the steel cage that used to be his car. He couldn't go on about just how red the trickle of blood on his forehead had been that night. He couldn't tell the man how sorry he was that his friend was dead.

Margi had called him up the next day, to tell him that she was leaving. She told him that she couldn't take any of the things that had happened in the last few days, and that she was leaving town just to get away from Nishinath. Nishinath asked her about Netravati, but he got no answer. Netravati never called him again.

In a new, foreign city, a place he had hoped would become his home, Nishinath was a stranger again. He was worse off than his first day here, for now even his friend Mrityunjay wasn't there. He was alone in this strange city, away from home. His friends, all of them, were gone. One of his friends was dead. Another had disappeared. The love of his life didn't want to see him again; and Nishinath was tired.

It was quite a few moments that the two of them sat quietly there – Nishinath, and The Night. Like old friends, they sat, no words needed between them. The darkness seemed to press on around them, as they waited in silence for the taxi to come by.

A long time went by, and then finally in the distance, a pinprick of light pierced the darkness. The pinprick became two, and finally they could be recognized as the headlights of a taxi. It was time for Nishinath to leave this wretched city.

He turned to look at the man. He knew he wouldn't be able to say anything, but he also knew that no words were necessary. "Don't forget to talk to me now, Nishinath. You never know when you might need that," said the man. "I have to go now; I'm not really fond of the light. Quite understandable, isn't it?"

"Yeah, reckon so," said Nishinath. "See ya when I get back home, man."

The man turned around and walked away. For a while, Nishinath could see his back, but as the taxi grew closer and the light grew brighter, it became harder for him to focus on the man. He turned and signaled for the taxi to stop. His heart lighter than before, he started thinking longingly about home and his parents, and all his friends he knew were waiting for him there – at New York City.

A Metaphorical Story of a Dog

The courtroom was in session, and the defendant was awaiting justice. The crime had been deemed heinous, to say the least. The judgment of the jury, or of the judge, was left in no doubt. Dog, the defendant had bitten his master. Dog’s master was dead, and now the world wanted justice.

The jury pronounced Dog guilty on a count of first degree murder, and he was sentenced to be hanged till death.

Dog didn’t say anything as the sentence was passed. He had said enough in the courtroom, all of which seemed to have fallen on to deaf ears. Dog’s lawyer had tried to show evidence as to how the species in it, although domesticated, were dominated highly by instincts. Dog’s lawyer had brought Wolf and Coyote, cousins of Dog, to testify regarding the important role instincts played in the family. The world heard none of it.

Alone, in the chambers, Dog’s lawyer was trying to calm Dog down. He knew they had a chance, they could appeal to the high court, and they had to. Lawyer didn’t want Dog to give up, not when he knew there was a chance.

“Look, Dog. I know things haven’t turned out the way we wanted, but we can’t just give up now. We mustn’t,” said Lawyer.

“I know what you mean by that, Lawyer, but I don’t know if I have it in me for long, to just go on like this. My life was supposed to be filled with running around on beaches, or chasing cars, or catching the occasional Frisbee too. If I was lucky, I’d get to do all these things on the same day,” said Dog. He turned his deep, sad, brown eyes on Lawyer, and wistfully continued, “Do you know how happy that would make me?”

“I know that, Dog. Those are the very things that are imbibed in your instincts, just like all those things you did that got you here in the first place. Listen, why don’t you and I forget about this nasty business for a while, have a smoke and talk about something else, eh? What do you say to a smoke?” asked Lawyer.

“I don’t smoke, Lawyer,” said Dog, waving a dismissive paw at Lawyer, “but I wouldn’t mind talking about something else.”

*

A few days passed, but there was no progress of the case. Then, a few weeks passed. Dog was beginning to get a bit restless, and when Lawyer finally came to meet him again, the guards told Lawyer that Dog didn’t do much these days; he would just sit on his haunches and stare outside the window. Sometimes, at night, Dog used to howl as well.

“Hi, Dog. How’ve you been?” asked Lawyer gently. Dog looked inside from the window, and tried to smile with his eyes. He couldn’t really do it, but it was an attempt nonetheless.

“There’s been a lot of procedural stuff that’s been keeping me away from here. I’m sorry I couldn’t come over sooner. Still, we got the stay order on your sentence, and probably…”

“You know what I was thinking,” interrupted Dog, and Lawyer stopped talking, “that I would write. I would start writing, and everything I write will be for the people. I will tell them, in my own words, my side of the story. Do you think they would read it?”

Lawyer smiled, and said, “That’s a good idea. I think you should start writing about that, while I keep working on the procedural stuff. Don’t worry about a thing; we’ll together make sure that your words reach everyone else.”

And Lawyer and Dog sat and stared out of the window in silence, for the rest of the quarter of an hour that he was there with Dog. The awkward silence between them was gone, but neither of them noticed it.

In the evening, Dog received a packet from Lawyer. It had a writing pad and a pencil.

*

Excerpts from the writings of Dog:

I was very small when Master rescued me. I don’t remember much of those days, but Master had been a wonderful friend to me, right from the start.

One of the first memories between me and Master had been that of running on the beach. Even then, I had not known why I loved running so much. I would chase rats, crabs, and even smaller insects, without knowing anything about why I did it.

Master told me there was a word for that feeling – Instinct. He told me that  I came from a long line of animals who have always responded to instinct the way I do. He also told me that it was instinct that made me howl some nights, for no reason.

Master used to keep telling me that I was his best friend. He used to always be with me, even during the tough times… when I would have trouble controlling my instincts. With him, I was always happy, in a very goofy kinda way.

Master was the one who always was there during dinner time. He was always the one who would make sure that I got just the right amount… not too little, nor too much. He knew that if he had left it to me, I’d have devoured the whole box of food in just one go.

It wasn’t really my fault, what happened with Master. I don’t know why I did it too. Call it instinct, or whatever you want to call it. I didn’t mean it to happen either, and every day I feel sorry for the things that I’ve done.

I had known that there was something wrong with Master for the last few days, we as a species can sense it. Something was wrong, might be something at work, or something with his girlfriend. I think it might have been more of the second reason, as I knew she wasn’t really fond of me. Don’t ask me why, though. I’d heard a lot of fights between the two of them about me, although I don’t think they knew I could hear them…

One night, I noticed that she hadn’t come over for dinner. Master seemed to be in a bad mood that night, and when I asked him what happened, he told me that he had had a bad day at work. I somehow sensed that he was lying to me, but I didn’t say anything. I knew he wouldn’t keep lying to me for long. We had dinner in silence, and for the first time, his heart didn’t seem to be in as he fed me.

After dinner is when the bottle of Rum came out. I don’t like it when Master drinks, plus the smell of alcohol makes my head all heavy. I walked out of the room, and decided I’d go out for some fresh air. I remembered that it was a full moon night, and I was feeling very happy as I walked outside into the fresh air.

The meeting with the moon that night was wonderful. All the worries about Master and his girlfriend, the troubles of his office… all of that was just gently wiped away from my head. In that cool moonlight, I could feel that goofy happiness returning, and so just to play along for a while, I got up, stretched, and chased my tail for a bit. I still don’t know why we do it, except that it’s great fun to do that.

Soon after though, I heard a mighty crash from inside the house. I stopped quickly, and I could feel that there was something wrong with Master. He was saying something, but I knew for a fact that there wasn’t anyone in the house. I sprinted around, as quickly as I could. Master needs me, a voice in my head kept saying to me.

I walked to the door, but something stopped me from going in directly. There was another emotion that was beginning to well up inside me – fear. It seemed absurd, for I knew it was just Master in there. My best friend, Master. I wanted to scream out to my brain that it’s ok, that there’s nothing in there to be afraid of, but the feeling was too strong to overcome.

Cautiously, I walked into the room where Master was. I could see that he was drunk, but what I had failed to see was the revolver in his hand. I felt scared, scared somehow of the same man to whom I had always turned to, to be reassured that everything in the world was good and pure. I walked slowly towards him, but stopped when I felt that strong emotion again. This time, I could hear Master sobbing as well.

It was a different sort of sobbing, something which sounded as though he was about to do something rash, something that would make him very sad. I put my head gently on his lap, while my head screamed just one thing – get out. I didn’t dare say a word, but now I think I should have said something to him that time.

It happened in a flash. He was pointing the revolver at my head, point blank distance. I don’t even know how it happened, all that I remembered is the precision snap that my jaws made. Before Master had a chance to twitch his finger on the trigger, I had ripped out his throat. He was dead, before I could even realize what I was doing.

I didn’t know what to do. I think it was a good 5 minutes before I finally got the courage back to make the call for the ambulance. All I could tell them was the address, and that someone was hurt real bad…

Dog couldn’t go on after this. He put down the pen and paper for the night, knowing that he would have to continue with his side of the tale tomorrow. He got into the bed, wiped his tears, and tried to sleep for the night.

*

Dog was waiting for Lawyer, early next morning. He wanted Lawyer to read the little bit that he had written last night, and see if that would be of any use. Breakfast was served, Dog finished the last morsels of the sorry prison food, and yet there was no sign of Lawyer.

He waited all day, but Lawyer never came. Another day went by, and yet there was no sign of Lawyer. He was supposed to come, Dog knew that. On the third day, he finally asked the guards why Lawyer wasn’t coming.

“Didn’t you know? Lawyer died day before yesterday. Hit and run case. The kid got away though.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me about that? How could the kid get away with killing a man? Lawyer was a friend of mine!” said Dog.

“Well, I dunno. The kid was the judge’s son, that gave him an edge I guess. Even with the DUI and all, the judge sure knew how to pull the strings and get his son free,” said the guard, obviously impressed by the judge’s reach.

“But what about my case? What about my story? What about me?” Dog asked in desperation.

“How on earth am I supposed to know? There wasn’t much doubt about it right from the start, Dog. You’re going to the gallows. You ripped your old man’s throat!”

Dog fell silent on hearing that. He lowered his tail, tucked it between his legs, and went quietly away, back to his window.

*

Dog’s date of execution was set a day later. It would happen in a week, the Judicial System didn’t want to waste much time. With the last week to live, Dog went unusually quiet. Of course, by this time, he was so much of a nobody that no one noticed his silence, or his withdrawal.

The day came, and the weather was the saddest that Dog had ever seen. Still, he wasn’t scared anymore. He walked to the gallows without aid, shackled from his muzzle to his tail. The stairs leading up to the noose wasn’t scary, the little wooden trapdoor wasn’t scary, the swinging noose above his head wasn’t scary.

The executioners moved to place the noose over Dog’s head. He heard a voice behind him, but he couldn’t recognize who it was.

“What about the hood? Isn’t that necessary?”

Another voice replied, “Come on, I want to get this over as quickly as possible. There are much more important things that I have to attend to.”

“What about his last words? Do we need to ask Dog for that?”

“Come on, hurry it up already! He’s a murdering dog, what last words would he have?”

And with that, all voices fell silent in the room. The only sounds was the steady ticking of the clock overhead,and the occasional rustle of the rope against Dog’s neck. Dog had lost all sensation, almost all along his body. He was numb, and strangely glad of that situation.

There were no intimations. Nobody asked Dog for any last words. The noose was fitted around his head, and Dog closed his eyes. The room went silent, even the clock seemed to stop ticking. At that moment, for a reason he couldn’t comprehend, Dog wanted two people to be there with him more than anyone else. Master, and Lawyer.

Nobody bothered to feel anything that Dog was feeling. Nobody stopped to think why at that moment, Dog closed his eyes, when he had been so brave throughout. In that silent room, a sudden rumble was heard. The trapdoor had opened, and Dog fell through.

*

The guard went in to sweep Dog’s cell. He knew Dog would not return, and the few things Dog had stocked while he was staying in that little room had to be removed. There was a new inmate coming in here; a deer charged with mauling a tiger with his horns.

The guard swept the room, and found the single page that Dog had scribbled. He took a glance at it, and saw that it belonged to Dog. He crumpled the sheet into a ball, and lobbed it at the dustbin. The ball landed about a foot too short, the guard cursed, and went on with sweeping the little room.

A Change of Heart

The death of Mrs. Shyama Chaudhuri had left her husband deeply troubled. Mr. Ranjan Chaudhuri, at 87 years of age, was left all alone in the world. Ranjan Chaudhuri’s best friend at the time of his wife’s death was a man 28 years younger than him. Biplob was 59, on the verge of retirement. “Ready to officially enter the world of the old folks,” he always joked. Ranjan could identify with the humor of that statement so well, that it brought a snicker to his eyes. Every time he heard the joke.

It was Biplob who had introduced Mr. and Mrs. Chaudhuri to the world of computers. Ranjan never knew that he could grasp computers so well, even at that age. Soon after he got his new computer, Ranjan spent hours together playing games with his grandson Tukai. Shyama, however, had been hooked on to social networking sites.

Shyama’s heart attack struck her in the middle of the night, while the elderly couple was sleeping peacefully. Ranjan had known something like this was about to happen, but hadn’t expected the incident to come about so suddenly, silently. The next morning was one of the toughest to deal with for Ranjan. He hardly remembered making the call to Biplob about what had happened during the night. Biplob and his wife had come over, and taken charge of the whole situation for Ranjan.

A few hours later, while leaving the cremation grounds, the reality of the events hit Ranjan. Biplob and Ranjan were walking back to the parking lot, when Ranjan’s footsteps slowed down a miniscule bit. Biplob noticed, but didn’t want to ask anything; couldn’t ask, actually. Ranjan however, spoke up.

“She took another quiz on Facebook last night. Something about what we were in our previous life. The result came out as lovers,” Ranjan smiled a sad smile, “and it confirmed what she always told me for the last 62 years. We’ll still be together in our next life.”

Biplob smiled too, but somehow, he felt that his smile was intruding on something private and pure and guarded between Ranjan and Shyama Chaudhuri. He bowed his head, and walked to the car. It was the first time that they drove together in silence.

*****

Ranjan and Shyama had gotten married when they were both in their 20’s, deeply in love. They were childhood friends, and it was an obvious choice to be made. They were the best of friends, and all through their school days, when Ranjan used to be away, they used to write 40 page letters to each other. Once school was over for Ranjan, and he came back home, it was only a matter of time before the two of them got married.

As Ranjan and Biplob were walking back home after the drive, Ranjan remembered the wonderful life that he had had, all because of the woman who passed away a night ago, lying right next to him. A best friend, a wife, the mother of his children, the strongest woman of his whole family, and she had been lost in just a matter of hours. Just a few hours ago, Ranjan remembered, they were sitting on the edge of the bed having a silly discussion about ice skating. How he missed her…

Biplob left him alone with his thoughts, and went outside to talk to the many relatives who had come over to mourn for Shyama, and Ranjan’s loss.

*****

Ranjan couldn’t get the memories of his wife out of his mind. The constant longing to see Shyama one more time drove him inward, away from the rest of the world. He hardly got out of his room, except for the long walks that he took every day in solitude. The walks became longer and longer as the days went by; whole weeks would soon pass by without him interacting with the rest of his family. Many a times, Ranjan’s son would find Tukai waiting patiently for his gaming partner to accompany him on another mission, but Ranjan wouldn’t be there for Tukai. He kept wondering what had happened to his grandfather, but he somehow got no real answers to all his questions.

Ranjan found a new hobby instead; in place of running to the virtual world, he now escaped into books. Religion, philosophy, history… Ranjan devoured all. He would read into the wee hours of the night, and wake up at the earliest possible hour to run to the library. During his walks, a small notebook would accompany him, and he could be spotted scribbling something in it during the early morning hours. Sitting on a lonely wooden bench in the middle of an overgrown, wild park, he would finally feel content with… something…

****

In reality, Ranjan never forgot how much he missed Shyama. He also didn’t forget the promise that she had made to him before she passed on – that she would be his again, in the next life. Ranjan’s inward drive had brought him to a startling decision; he would end his life, so that once more, he could be with his beloved. In reality, he was trying to search for the justifications of such an act; for he knew that it was a heinous crime to take any life, including your own. In reality, he was looking for a means to escape his life, that he could explain when justice posed the questions – in this life or the next.

So obsessed had he become with that quest, that everything else seemed irrelevant to him. He read scriptures, all of which condemned such an act. He read books on philosophy, which talked about the reasons why a person would commit suicide. Still, his answers, his justifications, they eluded him. He had given up hope of ever finding a solution, and the best that he could come up with was the simple line that his heart always said to him – “I love her, and I miss her.” Nothing else seemed to be important anymore. And so, he went down to the chemist shop and got the seven strips of sleeping pills.

*****

It was just by chance that Biplob was also present in the chemist shop when Ranjan purchased the pills. He didn’t need to see the notebook or the list of books that Ranjan had been reading, to get to know just what was happening. The slight tremble of Ranjan’s hands, as he picked up the small brown pack, was enough for his best friend to know what was happening. A few steps out of the shop, Biplob caught up with Ranjan.

“Hi, Ranjan,” whispered Biplob, right behind him. Ranjan jumped, as he hadn’t expected anyone to be around him.

“What are you doing here?” Ranjan asked, suddenly very defensive.

“You know why I’m here, Ranjan. You know what I’m going to ask from you. You know I’m here to take away that little brown paper pack from you. You know I’m going to throw away the paper packet. You know me well already, Ranjan, enough for me not to have to tell you why I’m here.”

Ranjan didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected this, it wasn’t anywhere in the plans. Even as he heard everything Biplob was saying, one part of him wanted to clutch the little packet and run.

“You don’t get it. I miss her, so much…” Ranjan’s eyes watered up for the first time, as he said these words to someone besides himself.

“I know that. I know just how much you love her, and I know how much you miss her. Still, believe me; you don’t want to do this.”

“What do you mean? You think I’m a coward, that I’d stop myself at this stage?”

“No, Ranjan. All I mean is, you aren’t ready yet,” said Biplob, and the little brown paper bag was gently removed from Ranjan’s hands.

“Come, I’ll walk you home. It’ll be fun – two old folks, walking down the road!”

The smile wasn’t really there on Ranjan’s lips, but his eyes gleamed, as though they were smiling at an old joke that he’d heard a long time back.

*****

Two days later, Biplob came to see Ranjan at home. There was an odd gleam in the old and tired eyes, as though they had found some new energy. Biplob was happy to see his old friend this way.

“Tukai’s waiting for you. He got a new game, for you. That, I think, you’re ready for,” said Biplob.

“I might be. Still, there is a lot more that needs to be done; both for me, and for Tukai. A few things that are much more important than video games or social networking sites or virtual worlds.”

“Like what?” asked Biplob.

Ranjan laced his old boots together, picked up his wooden walking stick, and said, “Like building a few memories, for both of us.”

The Obsession

Right from an early age, Sameer had been obsessed with death. Not in a crazy or cruel way. Think of it as an intense curiosity. What happens when life is over? What precise moment does a living being cease to exist? And, most importantly, why do living things die?

His first encounter with death had been with the neighborhood cat. Hit and run, and he was the only one on the scene. He remembered how little the cat looked, lying there in the pool of it’s own blood. He remembered how he used to play with that cat, for such long hours. How all that had actually been so fragile. He hadn’t tried saving the cat, he hadn’t even considered it. Somehow, instinctively, he had known that there was no point. Instinctively, he had known that the cat was dead.

He remembered vividly the time when his grandfather went to the hospital for the first time. He had gone there to meet him. He knew that he could ask the old man anything he wanted; the old man wouldn’t laugh at his thoughts, or be worried.

“Dadai, what’s wrong with you?”

“It’s my heart, kiddo. It keeps throwing tantrums.”

“Has it always been this way? I don’t remember you coming to the hospital before this.”

“It’s been a recent thing. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. What’s the matter? What’s bothering you?”

“Dadai, what happens when you die?”

“Well, I don’t know myself. I mean, I don’t really know where you go after you die. Or if you even go somewhere. There are a lot of people who claim a lot of things about death, but I really don’t know who to believe, and who not to. I personally don’t think you should be worried too much about it at this age, kid. You’ll have a lot of time to think about it,” said Dadai, with a faraway look in his eyes. “A lot of time.”

“Are you going to die too, Dadai?” asked Sameer in a tiny, quivering voice.

Dadai smiled, held him close to him, and said, “Not in a while, kiddo.”

*****

Over the next year, his obsession with death grew. A million questions seemed to be burning up inside of him, and somehow he knew he couldn’t ask Dadai anymore. There was nobody he could turn to with the questions, and so he began looking for the answers himself. Dadai had told him about religion providing many views about death. So, he started reading those books. However, he never seemed to be content with any of the answers those books provided. He knew it had to be time to move on.

Now shunning the books, he forayed into searching for the answers himself. To know the answers to death, he somehow thought he first must find out the answers to life itself. So he found the litter of pups near the park, and took it upon himself to care for the little ones. The mother of the pups soon got used to him being around, and soon he found that she was actually looking forward to his visits. Life and love, it seemed, were not that far apart.

As his questions about life began to be answered, although not too much in depth, his answers to death were still just as murky. Just out of curiosity, he had contemplated suicide as well. The only thing that stopped him there was the fact that he wasn’t sure where he would be once he died, if his consciousness would die with him, and all those questions left unanswered. Still, the idea of suicide was enticing.

Pills. Razor blades. A rope with a noose. Even Dadai’s old service revolver. Sameer seemed to have forgotten all about life, and the beauties of that, in his search for the answers for death. Twice, he came dangerously close to killing himself. Once, the thought of his consciousness dying with him stopped him. Another time, his mother walked in on him, and he was forced to throw the razor blade away.

*****

While his obsession for death continued unchecked, Dadai’s health grew worse rapidly. Sameer noticed that Dadai had gone thinner and paler than before, but he was still his chirpy old self. “Don’t worry about me, kiddo. You stay focused on your studies,” Dadai told him once, a few days into his summer vacations.

“Studies? Dadai, it’s the summer holidays! I’m not going to study now. I’m going to Hyderabad for the summer. No studies there for me. Ha ha!”

“Well, then, in that case, enjoy your holidays. Don’t worry about me, enjoy your life as and when it comes.”

*****

Two weeks into the vacation, his father got a frantic call from home. Dadai wasn’t well. Two days later, they were back home. Dadai was in the hospital, and the house seemed strangely empty. Sameer used to stay at home, while his sister would take care of him. Sameer used to feel very lonely at home, without Dadai; but he didn’t really have anyone he could tell that to. The only person he could tell it to without having to think, was Dadai.

Four days later, Dadai died in the hospital. Left ventricle failure, Sameer learnt those words by heart. He wondered what his reaction to the news would be like; he waited for the tears to come. They didn’t come.

He couldn’t sleep all that night. It was the first time that he spent the night pacing the house, wondering what exactly it was that he was missing. He was sad, but he had no way to show it. He had lost a friend in Dadai, and the fact that he would never see Dadai walk in again through the door, wearing the brown golf cap, and his short walking stick in his hand settled down heavily somewhere on his chest. He didn’t find any of the answers he was looking for, but he finally understood that there’s no point in looking for all those answers. All that matters in the end, is the deep resonating interconnections that exist between life, love, and death.

The next morning, when he woke up, he went outside to the courtyard. Dadai’s chair was there, as usual, but Dadai wasn’t sitting there reading the newspaper like every day. Instead, the unopened newspaper was laid neatly on the cushion.

The tears flowed finally, late by one night.