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

Snow White

The first rays of the sun fell on the new lanes of the old city. It was a new day, but the old man's life was still the same. The sunlight inched forwards, while the old man raised his sleepy eyes towards them and waited for that warm touch. The white cat purred softly beside him, while the old man looked down at the white cat, waiting for something magical to happen, just like every day. He sat up, and saw the shadows receding; he knew it wouldn't be long before the light would reach them, and the thought gave life to a mad euphoria in his eyes.

Then, the bright shiny light touched the white fur. The sunlight reached into the snow white strands, making the cat glow in the light early morning mist. Even the cat felt something, and mewed softly – but she dared not move, for she wasn't quite sure how to react to this beauty that was both inside and outside her. The old man's smile turned into a jovial laugh, as he stretched his wrinkled, bony fingers and stroked the cat's head softly.

"My dear Phanush, what would the day be without you," said the old man to the cat, while she purred lovingly in answer.

The old man stood up, and thus began his day. The footpath was waiting, as was his tattered rug where his days were spent. The loose change spared by the generous souls of the harsh city was his way to a semi filling breakfast. His stomach rumbling, he hastened to get started with his work day, and took his spot like every day. The tree overhead provided him with a little shade from the sun during the hot days, and a little cover from the water on rainy days.

It was a bright sunny day, and somehow the white cat didn't care too much to stay under the shade of the tree all day long. The day was calling out to him, and her stomach was rumbling too. She needed a bit of food, and so she left her old man behind and ventured across the street. She turned back once, and saw her old man wearing a sad face that seemed to work very effectively on the steady flow of feet, and the change flowed steadily into the little aluminium bowl in his hand. Reassured that the old man was fine for now, she moved further along.

Still early in the morning, the world around her had already begun in full swing. The shops along the street were thrown open, and the people bustling around everywhere would stop at one or the other shop for a quick bite. The myriad of smells that surrounded her made her stop a few times to investigate, but nothing seemed to appeal to the manic hunger of a restrained predator early in the morning. She looked back again, and saw her old man looking at her for a while with a happy gleam in his eyes, before going back to his aluminium bowl. 'A beggar has no business looking happy,' he used to say, and so she turned away from him knowing that it was bad for his business.

She turned back to the street and to the task at hand; finding breakfast. The street was full of the smells of food, but there was something there that she couldn't find. Her nose twitched slightly and led her on, in search of something so wonderful that she didn't even bother to look around at anything else. The smell of that special something had gotten hold of her so completely, so wholly, that nothing else seemed to exist at that point of time for her. She was carried forward by the scent that had caught her nose, and she glided forward effortlessly, dodging deftly between the many feet that pattered away on the busy footpath. She could feel her quarry getting nearer with every step, and the many generations of instinct that flowed through her veins told her to slow down. Her gait became slower, as she cautiously headed forward still. One quick glance behind, and she could see her old man looking at her with half a bewildered look on his face; but the overpowering scent of her prey drove all other thoughts out of his mind in a flash.

The butcher's shop was just a few steps ahead of her, and she had reached the butcher's block. Her senses tingling, she slowed down to a stop just in front of the block. Her muscles were ready to leap and catch the little, bloody sinew dangling near the edge of the beaten and cracked block. Her paws were hanging in mid air, ready to make the swipe if needed. Adrenaline and instincts pumped her heart, coursing through her blood. She stood there, frozen in time, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch that little piece of meat that had been calling out to her for so long. So still was she that nobody noticed her, and the butcher continued to cut up the meat on the block. She took a moment more, and then leaped towards her target.

Just as she was about to snap and free that little piece, the butcher's hand came out of nowhere and swatted at her face. She tried to dodge the hand, but in that midair change of direction, she fell a few feet short of the block. Landing on her feet as lightly as a feather, she could see the butcher raise his knife. Defeated, she streaked away, leaving that little piece of meat with the selfish butcher, while he hurled abuses that she never heard. Still hungry and humiliated, she looked around to see if her old man was still watching her.

She crossed the street and slowly walked back to the old man, who was still wearing a sorry face. He glanced quickly at her as she reached him, and sat down on his old ragged coat. From the look on his face, she could see that he hadn't seen her defeat; the ragged old coat was just as warm as before, and nothing seemed to have changed – but she kept wondering, if the one man who had always been so proud of her, the one man who had so unconditionally loved her through and through, thought lesser of her having seen that humiliating defeat back at the butcher's block.

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 Letter

Dear Jacqueline,

I don’t know if John ever mentioned my name to you during the years he had been in service. He’s told me all about you though, and it’s been a lot. We had been at the station for four years , and there hadn’t been a single day when he wouldn’t talk about you. John always used to ask me to tell you that. He used to keep joking that he never had the courage to say that himself to you.

We met on the very first day we had joined the company. I was working as the nurse in the army hospital. It was a broken nose that had brought him to the hospital, and a broken toe soon had him staying at the hospital for a couple of nights. That’s when we got to really know each other, swapping stories about each other’s lives.

I think it would be fair on my part to tell you a little about myself. I’m Chloe, from Devon, England. I know you and John are from New York, and that’s where you guys met before he joined the army. I know what you’re feeling at this moment, Jacqueline. John was my best friend here. I keep thinking how he was the one who used to be lying on the bed, and I’d be the one who’d have to keep his spirits up. I wish he was here right now, talking about you the way he always did. Somehow, I loved the stories he used to tell me about you.

I’m writing this letter to you, because John and I made a promise to each other. During the time that he stayed here, John and I made a pact – in case anything happened to either one of us, a letter, like this one here, would be written. I’m fulfilling that promise to John right now, as I’m sure he would have fulfilled his promise to me as well. Had it been him lying down here instead of me, I’m sure he would have been writing this letter to Kimmel, my fiancé.

John was a good man. He was a brave man; and he loved you very, very much. I don’t know if they’ve told you much about John’s stay here. Even if they did, I know it must have been mostly army mumbo jumbo.

John came here with a dream, to serve his country. To do the right thing, to make sure that he fights. He knew the reason for fighting. He knew why we must, always, keep fighting. He knew right from wrong. He knew good from bad, just from injustice. He had always known that even if he falls, the fight will not be over. He knew that when he falls, he must do so with pride and honor. Those were his principles, and he lived every word of them.

I met an officer of his battalion the other day, and he told me how he had died fighting. John was one of the first men to charge, in the face of blazing machine guns and shells. The officer told me how he created havoc in the minds of the opposing force, how one man alone, seemed enough to make an entire battalion retreat to where they came from.

I remember how he had taught me to be brave too. I used to be afraid of fighting, scared of the war, the bombs, the landmines, the shells. Scared of the bullets flying all around us, the smoke and the fire that surrounded us. I’ve never seen action the way John had, but the attack on the hospital had been scary enough for me. During those moments, it was John’s words that kept me alive, gave me strength. I was still scared, but John’s words was what had kept that fear in control.

John had been a good officer. He was gentle, and kind. He was brave, and noble. I wish he was still here, that someday, he would board a plane out of here and be on his way to New York City to meet you. Instead, it is the memories of a broken nurse that will greet you. I’m sorry for your loss, Jacqueline. I know how much you loved him. As for John, I still feel proud. For what he has done, for his country, for the world, for peace, for humanity. I salute him for his bravery.

I’m enclosing John’s favorite poem along with this letter. He had written and given it to me a few days before he left with his battalion. He told me that it would give me courage, for whatever may come. It helped me a lot, and I pass it on to you. For all the things that may come your way in the future.

I wish, someday, when I’ll be able to walk again, we shall meet. Looking forward eagerly to that day,

Love from,

Chloe Simons

Enclosed with the above letter was the following handwritten note:

My Boy Jack by Rudyard Kipling.

“Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Dear Chloe,
I leave from the base tomorrow, and I wanted to give you something before I left. I hope those words will build the faith in your heart, as much as they do in mine. Remember the pact, Chloe. I hope to see you soon.
All the luck in the world,
From John.

The Right Words At The Right Time

It was a dark stormy night.

Well, actually, it wasn’t really so. Yet, metaphorically speaking, the dark storm was raging on inside me.

It’s strange how too much of information has the ability to cripple you mentally. It’s the closest I’d felt to a zombie. I didn’t like it.

I think it all happened with that broken stair at home. The same one that my mother had fallen down twice. It killed her the second time, instantly. That’s what the doctors told us later.

It had started out as quite a normal day. Let me make it a little better. Imagine the perfect family scene, if you will. Father, son and daughter sitting at the dining table enjoying a nice breakfast of toast and corn flakes.

Father (to son): You’re done with the paper there kid?

Son (to father): Here’s the business section for you, Pa. I’m reading the sports bit. Wait a bit, read that in the meantime.

The young daughter, in the meantime, is playing with her toast, and waiting for Mummy to come downstairs. She seems to need her mother’s help in having her breakfast.

Daughter (to father): Pa, what’s taking Mummy so long?

Father: She’ll be down real soon, honey. (to son) Why don’t you go check on her, see how much time she’d actually take.

Son (walking to the foot of the staircase and bellowing to his mother on the upper floor): Ma, breakfast’s getting cold! Come down, we’re waiting for you!

Mummy (shouting from the first floor): Coming, sweetheart.

The conversation ends there. For, as Mummy was coming down from the staircase, her foot caught in the crack on one of the stairs.

She fell.

***

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy unto himself the soul of our dearest sister, daughter, and mother, here departed; we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things himself.”

The priest finished. The earth was thrown back into the dark grave with the dark coffin that held the body of our Mummy.

I had wanted to dig the grave for her myself, but I wasn’t allowed to do that. I had to make do with writing everything that the priest had said at the funeral by hand. My little tribute.

***

I knew I had to go into my parent’s room the moment we got back. It got the chills running down my spine, like a many legged creature running back and forth on my backbone. I remember standing a full minute in front of the door to their room, steeling myself to go in. Second by second, the minute was up, and I had to go in.

The room looked different, somehow. It’s been a day since she’d entered here. It knew, somehow, that one of the persons who used to live in that room wouldn’t come back again. The room knew.

The closet, the place I was most afraid of looking through the most. You see, I was close to my mother the way a son is supposed to be, but still, most of her life had been a mystery to me. Until now. I knew that the moment I opened that closet, at least some of those mysteries would come out.

This time, I didn’t want to wait the way I did outside the door. There was no real point in delaying this, I’d learnt it from experience. I went to the closet, and opened the door. Her clothes, her bags, her scent – it was all there.

So was her diary.

As I held that little black book in my hand, I realized that in here was all that there was to know of my mother. In that little black book were parts of her life that I’d never known. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the diary.

It was blank, all except for two things. A few torn pages at the start of the diary, and a quote: “It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.”

I began the hunt for the missing pages.

***

Two hours later, after looking through almost the entire room for the missing pages, I finally found them, hidden in one of her old shoes. I unfolded the pages, and read the entries.

The first date on the diary was about 18 years ago.

“Dear Diary,

John’s in a bad mood right now, all because I told him to get the stair fixed. I don’t know how the stair got broken… just because I stay at home all the time doesn’t mean that I would know all about what goes on in the house all the time! I mean, it just isn’t fair, is it?

I know I shouldn’t cry. I know this is something very silly to be so upset about. Still, I sometimes wish that John would be a little more understanding. It’s as if he doesn’t realize that I know how hard he’s working.

I better go, I shouldn’t let John catch me like this. It’s been a while since I’ve acted like a silly schoolgirl, and I feel stupid about it already. I know John loves me, I know we’ll work this fight out. I love him too, after all.”

“Dear Diary,

It’s been a while now, and the stair still hasn’t been fixed. I don’t know what’s up with John lately, he keeps forgetting that I’ve told him to get that stair fixed so many times. I just don’t know what to do with him. I almost fell down today when I stumbled. Good thing Marco was there to catch me as I fell.

I wonder when I’ll be able to tell John how important it is to get that stair fixed. He doesn’t seem to understand, especially now that Marco’s around. Sure, they’re best buddies and all, but does that really mean you’ll forget your wife, your house, everything?”

“Dear Diary,

The stair still hasn’t been fixed, and John and I fought again over it. I know it seems silly to fight over something as insignificant as a stair, but… really, sometimes John can get me all riled up. It’s just so -

Had to go away for a bit there. Marco came up to say goodnight, see if I’m fine. John’s out on the porch with his whisky and his cigar, while his wife waits patiently for him to come back.

I don’t know if John sent Marco up or not, but all he did was tell me what an awesome guy John is. Yeah, as if I couldn’t see that myself. But Marco was all about how cool John used to be as a kid, and how much fun those two used to have. He kept on and on about giving John another chance, that he was actually sorry about what happened. He even said he’ll talk to John, see if that’ll get him to fix up the stair.

I don’t even know why I’m listening to Marco so much. I mean, I don’t really know that guy all that well…”

“Dear Diary,

It’s been a week since Marco’s been around, and I don’t think I’ve been this happy. Not since I married John, at least. I know it doesn’t sound right, but I like Marco. As a friend of course, which is just fine. He’s like one of the best friends I’ve had my whole life, and I can feel that he really understands me too.

Things have been a lot smoother with John as well, all thanks to Marco. I told you, he’s an amazing guy!”

“Dear Diary,

I think I’m falling in love with Marco. Call me crazy, but I think he knows about it. Call me crazier, but I think he’s falling in love with me too.

Someone’s here. I gotta go.”

“Dear Diary,

I’m a horrible woman. I wish I could just erase the last two hours of my life. I’m a bad person, really bad. I’m married, to John! Marco’s best friend!

How could I let this happen? With Marco? I’m a horrible woman – “

“Dear Diary,

Marco left today, because of me. I’m pregnant, with his child. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say. I know John would be happy, he won’t suspect anything.

It’ll just be me, who is going to have to live with that terrible secret, all my life.”

I was numb till the time I reached here. There was one last entry, but this one was folded into half. Just like that, half of my mind wanted to open that last sheet of paper, while the other half just wanted to let it be. With shaking hands, I opened the piece of paper.

 

“It’s been nine months since Marco left us and disappeared. Even John doesn’t know where he is. It’s been so long since we’ve heard from him.

He probably doesn’t know why I want to meet him so badly right now. My son was born today, and his eyes are just like Marco’s. The rest of him, thankfully, is all me. I don’t think John noticed it.

I wanted to name him Marco, or something similar. Like Marcus. Only, I couldn’t.

We named him Matthew. Maybe, someday, he will be able to forgive me for what I have done.

The stair still hasn’t been fixed. I’ve stopped telling John to get it fixed. Still, it’s not fair on my part to put the blame of my sins to the broken staircase.”

The small piece of paper slipped from my hands, and fluttered to the floor. I made no attempt to catch it. There was no real point to it anymore.

***

I had to get out of the stifling house. The same house that had seen it all happen. Who was I? Where did I come from, really? The man I called my father all these years, who was he? Where was my real father? I felt lost and confused. I had no idea who I was, much less where I was going.

I walked right into a smelly, drunk man.

“Watch where you’re going, you blind bastard!” he slurred, as he stumbled on the road.

I don’t think he had any idea how close to the truth he was. My truth, my real identity.

Spread the wings, and fly…

The cool water flowed over his warm body; the boy couldn’t help but gulp down a little of the water too, and it was only once he’d done that, that he realized the water was probably not all that clean.

“Oh well, fuck it,” he thought. It was a new word he’d learnt.

The cool water didn’t seem so cold anymore, and he found that he quite enjoyed the experience. His mother had been right; the more he stayed under the gushing water, the more he seemed to enjoy it.

The coarse soap felt hard and rough against his skin. He’d been used to the milder soaps and the soft touch of them. Here, however, he didn’t have much of a choice. He knew he had to make do with whatever little that he had. As far of his personal hygiene was concerned, the bar of rough soap was all that he had.

The water from the shower overhead stopped abruptly, just when he was enjoying it the most. He picked up the towel and dried himself. He hated having to put on his dirty clothes back on, but he didn’t have any other option.

The mirror on the wall was staring at him. He could see the hair on his head sticking up, as it always did after a shower. He realized then that he didn’t have a comb. Like so many things in his life. His old life had left him for good. He’d run away from home, and today he knew, he was far away enough. He’d spread his wings, and dared to take that flight. The mirror didn’t lie; it was proud of the boy who was staring back, with his hair sticking up.

The back pocket of his trousers were bulging slightly. He took out two papers. One of them had his picture of himself, and the note that described him. White T-shirt, the poster said. He looked down at his T-shirt, and saw that it wasn’t remotely white anymore. This somehow made him feel calm and content.

The other piece of paper didn’t have anything but a picture. A big bird just about to take flight. He’d torn it out of one of his library book. He hadn’t thought of taking it; it was on an impulse that he’d torn the picture out.

Someone knocked on the door of the bathroom, and he knew he had to get out. There was a long line of people waiting to use the bathroom. He carefully put the picture of the bird back into his pocket, flushed the poster down the drain, and walked out into his new life.

Technorati Tags: Fiction,Flight,Bird,Boy,Escape

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

A Brand New Family

A little over a year into her marriage, and Rupal had exceeded all her expectations towards herself – she had actually become a wonderful cook. The Pulao and the Shahi Paneer were giving out the most mouth watering aroma, and she should have been proud of herself.

Only, she wasn’t. It’s not easy to be proud of yourself, when you’re all alone at home, waiting for a husband who’s late. It was the third successive night that she’d been waiting for Himanshu to turn up, but he said he was held up at work for yet another day. She knew it was for the best, and yet she didn’t like it one bit. The fact that all her efforts at making the exquisite dinner were slowly turning cold was something she didn’t want to come to terms with so easily.

She heard the key turning in the lock. A moment later, Himanshu’s voice boomed in from the corridor, “Honey, I’m home!”

“You’re late again! Why do they have to make you work so hard?” she asked him the moment he came within her line of sight. Her arms were crossed over her tummy, always a bad sign.

“Sweetheart, I told you on the phone. You know the VP, if he wants a meeting, he wants it now! I’m sorry it took so much time,” said Himanshu.

Rupal wasn’t impressed by what she was hearing. Something inside her was not ready to accept the things that Himanshu was saying to her at that moment.

“Is it too much to ask for a husband to be back home at a decent hour, so that we can have a proper meal together at the end of the day? You know how hectic my days are, and you know how much I look forward to the dinners that we share.”

“I know honey, but this was something  I couldn’t avoid. I’m sure you understand…”

“Oh sure! You would always expect me to be the one who’s understanding, right? As if it’s never going to be your job to try to understand what I want, ever!”

Two fat droplets of tears formed at the edge of her eyelids, and she couldn’t stop them from rolling down her cheeks. Himanshu, noticing this, rushed forward and held her tightly in her arms.

“What is it sweetie? What do you want? You know all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll do anything to make sure that you have it.”

He could feel her heart beating against his, could feel her wonderful warmth in his arms. And then she looked up at him, and said, “I just want the three of us to be together, and happy, and to love each other, forever.”

“The three of us?” asked Himanshu, noticing her smile mingled with the two fat tears rolling down her cheeks for the first time.

***

Image Courtesy H Images

Krishnendu

I still remember the chilly dampness that had crept into the station that day. It was like the weather wanted to give that special scary effect to everything that had happened in the little village. My office was in a mess, as usual – only two things on my desk were where they were supposed to be; a cup of coffee that was growing steadily colder, and a name plate that identified who I was.

Detective Tarun Bhattacharjee

I like almost all the things that occupy my desk space. Almost all of them, with the exception of the case file that lay open in front of me that cold day. I had had a lot of experience in homicide, but never had I seen a case like this. The cold precision, and the unashamed open-and-shut nature of the case gave me the chills. It almost made the steady pour of hailstones outside feel warm. I wanted to linger on with the cup of coffee as long as I could. I wanted to delay the interrogation with Krishnendu for as long as possible.

I remembered the cold eyes of Krishnendu, as they had scanned my face from behind the matted hair. I wasn't too keen to meet those eyes in a hurry again.

Finally, the last drop of coffee was gone, and there were no more excuses for me to stay away from the interrogation room. I got up, stretched, and with a few slow steps, was standing in front of the metal door separating me from Krishnendu.

The door opened, and one more time, I saw those cold purposeful eyes of Krishnendu looking at me; almost as though he could see right through me. It was hard to believe that he was twenty six years old. There was something innocently curious and boyish about his face, almost as though everything that he had done, he did just to quench that curiosity.

"Good evening, Krishnendu," I said, as I entered the room. The eyes still followed me, from the door, to the table where he sat watching me.

"Good evening, Sir," he said with a hissing whisper, barely moving his lips. The chill from outside seemed to have found a place in that interrogation room, precisely at the moment he had opened his mouth. He noticed my reaction upon hearing his voice, and the edges of his lips twitched into a smile as he peered inquisitively into my face.

"Cold day this one. I wonder how long that hailstorm's going to last. I like hail, wish I could see it once," he added. "Do you think that's possible, Sir?" he asked me with a sneer.

I couldn't answer somehow. There was not much left for me to do in the interrogation room. He had confessed to everything that he had been accused of, and the preliminary interrogation had revealed that he wasn't lying. What left of me was to go into his mind, and figure out why he did whatever he did.

I took the seat that was waiting for me opposite to those cold cruel eyes; a misfit in that boyish face. The eyes stared at me, a sense of evil power resonating from them. I found that I couldn't look for too long into them.

"4^th August, 2008. Interrogation of Krishnendu Saha, accused for 11 counts of murder. Round 2. Time, 7:42 PM. Presiding officer, Detective Tarun Bhattacharjee."

I paused for a moment, and chanced a look at Krishnendu. His stare had become fixed, but he wasn't looking at me anymore. He seemed to be able to see outside the room, right through the stone walls. I didn't mind really.

"Well, Krishnendu. You've pleaded guilty the murder of Shailendra Saha, and 10 other boys from the village. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

I looked up, searching for a slightest bit of remorse on his face. There was none. I continued with the interrogation.

"It was 1992 when Shailendra was killed, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"That means you were ten at that time."

This time, there was a slight pause before he answered in the affirmative. Something moved in his voice though, something had changed. I wasn't in a position to let my emotions show however, so I asked what needed to be known. We knew the when and how. It's the why we were looking for. It's the why, for which I was sitting in this room.

"Why did you kill him, Krishnendu?" I asked, praying that my voice stayed calm.

Again, he didn't answer immediately. It was some time before he said, with a slightly warmer whisper, "He raped my little sister. She was six at that time; his only niece. When she squirmed, he choked her so she wouldn't make a sound. He didn't release her. By the end of it all, she was dead." Apart from that slightly warmer voice, there was no other display of emotion on his face. No tears stained his face, no lines of anger formed on his un-wrinkled, boyish face.

A few minutes of silence, I had to give him that. I knew this story, his lawyer had gotten it out of him too. However, I had to continue the questioning.

"That was in the year 1992. After that, you waited for 6 years before you committed another murder, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Why did you commit that murder? I don't think there was any need of revenge this time."

No one had bothered to ask him this question. As long as he had pleaded guilty, who cares why he murdered all those people? I, however, couldn't stop myself from asking that question though.

The cold voice was back. "It's addictive."

I felt a cold sweat on the back of my neck. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't asked that question. However, I still had one more thing to ask him, but it wasn't easy anymore. He was looking right at me, with those eyes.

"Your father has been missing since 1993 Where is he, Krishnendu?"

~~~~~

The day was hot, sultry. All he wanted to do was just get a quick dip in the river, but he knew he had to sneak in there, so that he could avoid his father. He came to the river bank, clad only in his towel. Taking it off, he plunged into the cool water. How wonderful it felt, the river flowing slowly, talking to him. The river knew his secrets, almost all of them.

The buffalo was also in the river, but he didn't mind. He had given her a bath many a times, and she knew him quite well. He wasn't scared of her. In fact, he was one of the very few people in the world the buffalo adored. He could get her to come inside the house when no one else could, he could get her to stay in the shed on rainy days. He could get her to calm down on stormy nights. They were quite fond of each other actually.

He hadn't seen his father come from the other side though, but his father had seen his towel lying there on the ground. His father knew that he had sneaked out, and gone into the river, even after he had been explicitly told not to go there. Furious, his father pulled him out of the river.

He got a beating that day, right in front of his buffalo friend, and his river friend. They couldn't do anything about it, except watch him being beaten up. Finally, when his father was satisfied with the punishment he had handed out, he let Krishnendu go.

Krishnendu picked up the moist towel from the ground, and with a whisper said to the River and the Buffalo, "Don't worry about him. I'll be back tomorrow."

***

Image Courtesy egvvnd

The Friend Circle

"If only I had a gun," thought Ali. "Maybe, if I could blast a bullet in my head, it'd help to stop the pounding." He laughed at the absurdity of the thought almost immediately though, as real life took a grip on him again.

He had never thought that he could fight with Raman the way he did. He never thought that he was capable of saying the things that he did, to Raman; his best friend since childhood.

He wanted to say a lot of things to him; that he hadn't really meant any of the things he had said to Raman when they fought. That he still was his best friend, in spite of everything. Most importantly, he wanted Raman to know that he did not want him to "die and go to hell" as he had told him to.

Ali had tried calling Raman quite a few times, but he had had no luck. He was very hopeful thus, when finally the phone rang. He picked up the phone hastily, only to see that it wasn't Raman, but Kalpana who was calling him.

"Kay. I thought it was Raman," said Ali the moment he picked up the call. "More than thinking, I was actually hoping it was him."

"He still hasn't called?" asked Kay. It was evident that she was worried about the friendship between the two of them.

"Not yet. I tried calling him a bunch of times, but he's not picking up the phone. How am I supposed to make up with him, when he won't answer my calls?"

"Have you tried visiting his place?"

"Last time I went there, he wasn't home. The door was locked, and Mrs. Dixit didn't know where he was either," said Ali.

It was getting insane. He had never felt worse in his entire life. There were very few people who mattered to him where he was. One of them was missing, while the other one was on the phone with him, trying to convince him that things would turn out fine.

"Kay, you don't think he's taken everything that I said to him seriously, has he?"

"I don't think so Ali. It's Raman, our Raman. More than that, it's you guys we're talking about here. I'm sure you guys are gonna figure this out soon. The both of you just need some time to cool down, that's all," said Kay.

"I'm cool now. I am a little worried about Raman. He's not gonna do anything stupid, is he?"

"Nah, he's a mature rational guy. I wouldn't worry about him much. He'd turn up alright, probably with a couple of bottle of beers for the two of you. Who knows?"

"Yeah, with Raman, you never really know," said Ali, as the doorbell rang.

He looked through the peephole, and saw it was Raman, standing just outside the door. Relieved, he quickly told Kay about him.

"He's here Kay; I'll go talk it out with him."

"Yeah, you do that. Then you give me a call and let me know what happened, okay? Don't worry now kid, you guys are alright," said Kay. A click and she hung up.

Ali unlatched the door to find Raman standing with a gun in his hand. He raised it. The bullet made a small coin-sized hole dead center of Ali's forehead, and he crumpled to the floor.

***

Image Courtesy robinn.