Whatsername

Her hair had highlights. I hate highlights. But then, that was the only thing that I could hate about her.

No, wait; for the first time in my life, I found that I couldn’t hate highlights, no matter how hard I tried.

So, her hair had highlights, but I couldn’t hate them for the first time in my life.

And her eyes were like two blue orbs bulging from her sockets; and if that sounds rude, I admit that I am exaggerating.

She was made up, but there wasn’t much that she needed to hide. Or maybe, there wasn’t much that she wanted to hide.

It was a subtle difference that I understood. She took the hint, and smiled back at me. That smile told me that she had wanted me to understand that subtle difference.

She was wearing all black, and the highlights of her hair (damned highlights that I couldn’t keep my eyes off!) shone amber under the streetlamp.

Twinkling winking blinking at me. Much like her eyes, the blue almond shaped (and not too bulging) eyes.

The eyes were looking at me. They were talking to me, in the way that only beautiful eyes can talk.

That look was seductive.

That look was suggestive.

So, I did what I had to… I stepped on the pedal and raced away.

I fled the scene, as fast as I could.

I know what you’re thinking, but don’t judge me too fast.

I mean, I was scared. And she…

Well, she was a ‘working girl’…

~

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 Ocean is a beautiful thing...

The ocean is a beautiful thing. Last night, we spoke for a long time. She’s beautiful, in a delicate yet strong way. She’s vast, and she doesn’t discriminate. She takes everyone in, just the same. Last night, I had a long talk with her. I spoke, while she listened. The ebb and flow of the water like the rhythmic breaths of a slumbering gentle giant deep within. She listened, with a rapt attention, and every breath of her, every sigh under the moonlight; it all gave me immeasurable amounts of peace in my heart. The water is the same, anywhere I go, right? The Ganga flowing from Haridwar meets the Yamuna that flows through Delhi; they flow together beyond Allahabad, into the Bay of Bengal, and the Bay of Bengal flows into the Indian Ocean, where the Arabian Sea meets her too. So, maybe, that sighing breathing gentle giant from last night recognized from that time that I spent beside the Ganga at Haridwar, the time I spent with that warm stream in Garampaani, the many times I’ve crossed the Yamuna over the span of two years. I know she knew me well; she recognized me.

She told me some stories, in a different language. The words were alien to me, but the story was not. I understood the story, and could see the part that I was playing in it too; amongst the many others out here, living, just like me. She wants me to stay, the thought made a smile play at her lips. I like her a lot, but even then, I somehow couldn’t stop thinking about the other familiar body of water for me; the one who flows through my home, the one who I saw so regularly for the last two years – The Yamuna. I like the ocean a lot, but I know that one day, I will return home. I will return to The Yamuna, someday.

Someday.

Had written this a long time ago, but the absence of the internet at that point of time had this slip out of my mind. Found it again while I was browsing through some old things I had written, and thought it would make a bit of sense if I wrote this out here as well.

The Homesick Driver

“It’s 7:30 already,” said the driver, looking around at the still blue sky; the brilliant lights around the city mirrored on the shiny asphalt. “You really can’t understand how fast time flies away in Mumbai. It’s still almost daytime here, and it’s just half an hour to 8:00 PM.”

As he was reciting this, the eyes grew somewhat wistful, and he looked into the mirror for a brief moment. He saw something very familiar in the face that was staring back at him. He smiled sadly, and the face in the mirror complied as well.

“Back in the village, at this point of  time, the whole village would be drowned in a beautiful velvety darkness; a jet black silk blanket that gently lulls the whole village to sleep. You can’t find that in a place like this. It’s hard to get a wink of peaceful sleep anyway in this place.”

The eyes shifted away from the mirror, drifting into the memory lane, and finally settling upon a happy past. “I was better off driving the tractor on the fields, than driving an auto-rickshaw in this insane city!” The eyes were back on the mirror, and the homesick face looked back at him.

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t that different!” he said with a laugh, and the mirror burst out laughing as well. Still laughing, I paid the fare and stepped out of the auto-rickshaw, and the mirror went blank as the face followed me out.

The Lady and The Rain

Mumbai is a place of great diversity. Diversity; the word sounds so beautiful when you hear it. Here, however, when you see it, the word gets a new raw meaning. It has been quite a while since I've picked up the pen to write a story, and so, I ventured out so I could get a few ideas that I could work upon. I walked around, and looked around, the way I usually do, and got a few ideas to write about as well. I was happy; I thought that maybe, tonight, after a long time, I'd be able to write something, something that's similar to the lines of what I've been writing out for a while now. Three fictional tales chased each other around my head, and with those safely locked up in my brain for the future, I headed back home. The stories, however never came. The raw diversity of the city hit me hard, and I couldn't help but ensure that the story I told was just as raw as what I saw.

The lady on the sidewalk doesn't need a fabricated story. Her tale has to be as honest and brutal as the very truth that she's living. I hadn't looked into her eyes for more than a second, but in that brief moment her sadness and pain and shame touched me. I shivered, as I stopped, looking at her. It was a wet night, what with the incessant rain that had been showering the city since morning, and because of that I had no idea of knowing if her face was wet from the drops of rain, or droplets of her tears. She knew, however, and in that brief moment she looked into my eyes, she told me about it as well.

The warmth from the halogen bulb shining over her head was all the warmth she got that night. Half a moon shone above her, and the yellow light and white light mixed up together somewhere as they fell over her. In that light, the droplets falling from the skies shone like glittering diamonds, and just like jagged diamonds, the cold water from above seemed to pierce through her dark skin. The warm blanket lay soaked and cold, and she was left with nothing but a pillow squelching in the light layer of soft mud to lay her head on. The tree nearby provided a little dry spot, with the occasional fat raindrop making its way through the leaves and down to the earth. The dry spot was where she had tucked in her little son, the one small comfort for her under the cold halogen bulb. Now, there was no place for her, and the long wet night waited for her. Many feet hurried past her, some of them holding umbrellas over their heads to avoid the water from above, the very same water that would get them, one way or another. No one spared a thought or a glance for the lady in the rain, sitting there cold and wet, the shadow of her past still strong in her eyes. The water flowed on steadily past her, rising slowly but surely; the pattering feet jogged past her, and the rain fell softly overhead, and she sat there, silently waiting for the night to get over, so both her son and she could be blessed with another miracle, another day in this city of dreams, Mumbai.

Like everyone else on that road, I tried to focus on getting back home as well. I tried to shake off the thoughts of her, the memory of that look in her dark eyes, but unlike everyone else, I couldn’t do a good job of it. A good few steps later, I turned back, my eyes searching for the lady in the rain. I was some distance away from her, and I could just make out a human figure in a soaked saree sitting near a big tree. I wanted to stop, for another moment, but the jostles from the people pushed me on, and being caught up in the wave of walking men, I kept going. A little ahead, the road bent to the right, and I couldn’t see her anymore.

Blue Nights

Beneath the Blue haze

The Purple Lady waits

Her lips smack scarlet

Green bills stain her hands

In the dead of the night

When the whole world snores

And the roads of the city

belong to the guns, the knives, the whores

The last cigarette she puffs

Waiting for her man to come

But the dusty road stays dusty still

And the mute dog stays dumb

With one hand on her cigarette
The other scratching the dog's ears

"I know 'tis late now, sweetheart

But I also know he will be here"

And so they waited

The mistress and her dog

Waiting to hear the master's footsteps

But the quiet night got quieter still

And yet those steps stayed away

When the last embers of the cigarette burnt out

And the dog lay down on her lap

The long awaited footsteps were heard once more

The man, after the long night, was back

Under his arms, he held a package

A promise for the lady and her dog

A spare blanket, a pillow, and one clean sheet

A few nights more

She'd sleep well

"Thank you, mister, you're ever so kind"

Said the lady beneath the purple neon sign

The dog wagged his tail

He'd sleep well too tonight

"Goodnight, you two," said the man, and walked away

Listening to two songs back to back by Phil Collins brought about this little piece. Inspired by Another Day in Paradise and Mama (Genesis).

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.

For Hire at 2 AM

First time for Mudita and Sunandini at TGIF on a chilly Friday night, and they were in love with the place. The ambience, the entire feel of the place, plus the warmth of it – they just wanted to run back inside, hoping the party would still be on.

Mudita was visiting her cousin after a very long time; 12 years had passed since they had last met. Sunandini did not even remember the last time. She had been a little pigtailed girl, unsure of herself at that time. Now, both Mudita and Sunandini had grown up, and acquired that confidence that comes with adolescence. Both had "experienced", somewhat, the effects of the teenage years, and lived through them. They had matured over the years, and left those childhood days behind for good.

The night had been filled with loud music, lots of dancing, and a lot of vodka. Both girls were buzzing slightly, and very giggly. Much of it was due to their excitement at the fact that they had enjoyed so much at the party, but if you ask them, they'd be sure to tell you it was the vodka. Mudita was acting tipsy, and she had been doing that even during the party. Sunandini wasn't sure if she was drunk herself, nor was she very sure of Mudita's drunkenness.

"Mudita, calm down!" said Sunandini. "You'll wake someone up from that giggling!"

Sunandini was giggling herself, but she couldn't understand just how loud they were. At 2 AM in the night, even the slightest of sounds seem a lot louder than they are really.

"I'm not being loud, you are!" said Mudita, nudging Sunandini. "I'm just having fun; night time rocks! Woohoo!"

"Mudita, seriously! You have got to calm down!" Sunandini was getting a little worried about her little cousin. "The cops will be after us, Mudita!"

But Mudita didn't care. She was a grown-up now, and there was nothing anyone could stop her from doing. No one could stop her from drinking vodka anytime that she wants; and no one could stop her from kissing cute guys she just met in a party. So what if she was half drunk, or if she couldn't remember his name?

"Harshal! Hah, that's what his name was!" screamed Mudita triumphantly all of a sudden. "His name was Harshal! See, I remember!"

"Alright, Mudita," said Sunandini. The cab they had called for was finally here, and Sunandini was mighty glad for it too. "Here's the cab. Let's get inside now, it's too cold. You'll feel a lot better back at Maasi's place in that warm bed of yours. How does that sound to you, Mudita?"

"Great!" said Mudita. "Can you call Harshal over as well, pwease?"

The cab stopped right in front of them, and the driver got out. It had been a busy night for him; lots of people had somehow chosen this particular Friday night to get drunk. The fact that it was slightly warmer than it had been the past few days seemed a good idea for all the rich folks to party like mad into the wee hours of the night. Still, the business was good tonight, so the cab drivers didn't really mind.

On coming closer to the girls, though, the driver could see that one of the girls was in much better shape than the other. She looked as though she could walk into the cab without assistance, which was good. The night was still cold, and his hands didn't want to leave his pocket.

"Madam, you can manage to climb in?" he asked, just in case.

Sunandini looked the cab driver up and down with an accusatory look, and replied coldly, "Yes, I'm pretty sure I can manage it. Thanks a lot!"

'Boy, he must be at least thirty years elder to me, but he's still trying to hit on me! The audacity of these cab drivers these days, honestly!' Sunandini thought, as she helped a swaying Mudita into the cab.

The cab driver dutifully touched his hat at Sunandini, and said, "Good evening, madam. Myself Jagdish. Where to, madam?"

'Oh, so now you're pretending to be all nice and polished, are you?' thought Sunandini. 'Don't think I can't see right through you!'

"First to Vasant Kunj. We'll drop off my cousin, and then over to Greater Kailash 2," said Sunandini. "And hurry up, please. I don't want to be too late." The little backlit alarm clock in the taxi chimed once; it was 2:30 in the night.

"Yes, madam," said Jagdish, and with another touch to his hat, they were off.

"Sunanidi," said a garbled voice next to Sunandini. Mudita's speech was intensely garbled, and it took Sunandini a little while to realize that Mudita was saying her name. "Sunanidi," Mudita repeated. "Theesh cab drivers, not shafe. This time of night, you hear all shtories. No, not shafe at all!"

"Nonsense, Mudita!" said Sunandini. "Don't worry, we can manage just fine."

They had reached Mudita's house. The cab stopped right in front of her apartment, and Sunandini saw Mudita walk unsteadily up the stairs. "Wait here for a while," said Sunandini to Jagdish. "Wait till she's inside her house."

Mudita groped around with the keys for a while, but got the door open alright. The stairway was lit, and Sunandini could see Mudita's fur coat.

"Bye, Sunanidi," called Mudita from the stairway. "Be careful! Cabs, not shafe… oops!" Mudita had almost tipped over. Without another word, Mudita slammed the door, and the lights were out. Sunandini heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that Mudita was safe at home.

She turned her eyes back to Jagdish, and found him looking at her. Maybe she was imagining things, especially after what Mudita said, but she did not like the look in Jagdish's eyes. Was she just drunk and paranoid? She thought about all the stories she had heard about life in Delhi; of what happened to girls who were out alone at night. The vodka quickly evaporated from her system, and she was left clutching her seat thinking what might happen to the two girls.

'He might be a killer. Or a rapist! Or both! Oh, my god! Why didn't I ask one of the boys to come with me? How am I ever going to survive this cab ride?'

"Greater Kailash now, madam?" asked Jagdish, still looking at her from over his shoulder.

Sunandini found that her voice was choked. It took her considerable effort to unclog her throat and mutter, "Yes, please."

She sat petrified on the seat. Every passing second scared her more and more; she thought soon, she would burst with fear or anxiety or whatever the hell it was that was beginning to possess her so. She tried looking outside at the road to relax; it didn't work. She tried opening the window a little bit, let the wind play on her face for a while; the air outside was so cold, she felt worse off than she was before she had tried opening up that window.

"Madam, winter night very cold here in Delhi. Keep window closed, you catch fever otherwise," said Jagdish to Sunandini. She turned to look at Jagdish, and saw that he was smiling and waiting for her to close the window.

'Look at him, leering at me like that! Bloody, good for nothing loafer! I can see it in his eyes; he can easily be a rapist. Sunandini, what have you gotten yourself into?'

She slowly closed the window, and the stuffy cab air attempted to nauseate her again. She forced herself to focus; knowing that passing out in this situation would not be the best thing to do.

"First time in Delhi, Madam?" asked Jagdish. "You have seen the city yet?"

"It's not my first time here," said Sunandini. "I was born and raised in this place. I know Delhi inside out."

For a fraction of a second, Jagdish's eyebrows shot up. "Really, Madam?" he asked. "You know Delhi inside out? Very good. Delhi, beautiful city. So much history, so many kings and queens stay here."

'Great, now he's going back in time. Where are the sane people in this city these days?'

"Today, I go to Chawri Bazaar. Old Delhi side, behind Jama Masjid," said Jagdish. Somehow, he knew this girl sitting in the back seat thought she knew the real city, but she didn't. She couldn't; she lived in another Delhi. The Newer Delhi, as Jagdish used to think of it. So, he continued.

"That side, very old. Old houses, old roads. Cows and buffaloes walking with the men. Crowded place, very old. Beautiful place, many colors. Tasty food too. You go there sometime, I think you like it. Red Fort, very near. You've gone to Red Fort? Very nice place. Beautiful fort; Mughal kings lived there. Delhi is old, very old. You should see. Jama Masjid, Old Fort, Chandni Chowk, Chawri Bazaar, Shahjanabad. You like history?"

'Aah, this old man's giving me the creeps. I wonder when he's going to shut up! Should I humor him, and answer his questions? No, I shouldn't do that. Maybe he would think I'm interested in his stupid stories. I'd just pretend to be not interested at all; maybe that would get him to shut up.'

Thinking so, Sunandini turned to look at Jagdish, and defiantly said, "No. I hate history."

Jagdish's face fell, and Sunandini was satisfied to see that. 'That shut up the old bugger!' she thought triumphantly. For all she was concerned, she had to keep herself safe. For that, the minimal interaction she had with the driver, the better it would be for her.

They zoomed across the empty Delhi roads in the night. The sight was slightly eerie for Sunandini; where she saw snarling traffic jams every day, now the roads were empty and barren. Not a soul could be seen at this hour on the streets, and a thin layer of fog lay on the city roads. The streetlights shone bright, the rays piercing through the fog. Sunandini could see the fog rolling down the streets, and she felt as though she was flying through the clouds. For a while, she forgot where she was, forgot that it was so late in the night, and that she was in a cab, alone.

"Funny time, the night," said Jagdish. "Funny people at this time, too. Strange people, most of them. Like the gentleman before you, Madam. Funny man. Not bad man, Madam. Just, strange."

Sunandini was still floating in the clouds, and the words of the driver came slowly floating by to her. She was curious, in spite of knowing the potential dangers of asking anything to the driver, but she couldn't resist. She was too curious, so she just went ahead and asked, "Strange, how?"

"This gentleman, who come right before you," continued Jagdish. "He coming from a party. Quite drunk, couldn't recognize anything. Couldn't walk straight. Said wanted to go home, could not remember right address. Said it's in his bedroom; tell me to take him there. His friend, stand outside the car. He tell me address, then his friend walked away. I started to drive, and the gentleman thought I was friend, kept telling me about wife. Then he start talking about his friend's wife. When reached address, told me to come inside. Wife waiting for us, she cook dinner. Took me fifteen minutes to tell him the fare. Then, gentleman started crying, sitting in front of open door. Wife screaming from behind, gentleman still crying. Wife had to pay fare, and I think gentleman had to hear lot of screaming too. Yes, people very strange this time of night."

"That's an interesting story," said Sunandini, a bout of laughter threatening to burst through. "You meet a lot of people like this?"

"Yes," said Jagdish. "Part of life as taxi driver, Madam. Must go out at night, when customer calls. Must be able to drive him to destination."

'Seems like he's got an interesting life, this guy. I wonder what it's like, to be a taxi driver,' thought Sunandini. After hearing the story, she wanted to hear a little more about the life of a taxi driver. So, she thought of asking him a little more about his life.

"What other sorts of people do you meet? I mean, it must be a completely different side of life that you see at night, isn't it?"

"Yes, Madam. Very different people at night. Daytime, no problem. Night time, have to be careful. Some people, not very nice. They come at night."

Sunandini was starting to relax a bit now, even though she didn't see it coming. The night, although a bit too quiet to her liking, was very calm and peaceful. 'It's strange to see Delhi so calm. It's so hard to imagine that just a few hours from now; there would be a hundred cars with a hundred people screaming at each other at this very spot! The driver was right; Delhi really is a beautiful place. I wonder why it took me such a long time to notice that.'

"Delhi is a strange place, isn't it?" Sunandini asked the driver.

"Yes, Madam. Very strange place. So many people come and go in taxi. Some strange stories these people tell, too, Madam. Delhi a city of strangers, yes!" Jagdish said, with a small chuckle, apparently surprised at his own wit. "A city of strangers. All strangers walking around here. Day and night. But when they come into this taxi, Madam, those people not strangers anymore. They feel good inside taxi. I feel good inside taxi, too. Not my first taxi this one, Madam. Driving taxi in Delhi for thirty two years, I've seen Delhi well. No strangers for me, Madam. At least, not while they're inside the taxi."

They took a right turn, under a flyover. The lights were still twinkling, and Sunandini saw that she was almost home.

"What about when the people reach their destinations?" she asked.

"Then, they get lost amongst the strangers again; and my taxi becomes empty. I look for another stranger to make friends with, for a little while again. But, in the end, the city swallows all the strangers back again."

"You make friends with your passengers? How can you make friends so fast?"

Jagdish didn't say anything; he smiled, and took the turn towards Sunandini's house. Jagdish's words were still ringing in her ears, and she was wondering what Jagdish would be telling her future passengers about her. 'Good thing, he didn't get to know that I thought he was a murdering rapist! That would have been some story,' she thought to herself.

The taxi stopped, and she saw they had reached. Jagdish got out of the car and opened the door for Sunandini. She got out of the car, and found that she didn't feel remotely drunk anymore. All the alcohol in her system had evaporated after that cab ride, and she felt much better now that she was standing in front of her house.

"Here's the fare," she said to Jagdish, handing him the money. "I guess that makes us strangers again, no?"

Jagdish smiled, and said, "Yes, Madam. It was a pleasure to have been driving with you. Goodnight, madam."

"Goodnight…" said Sunandini, but she couldn't remember his name. She stopped herself before it became obvious.

Jagdish got into the car again, and the engine throbbed to life. From inside the car, Sunandini could hear a raucous voice singing loudly, "Chalo ik baar phir se, ajnabee ban jaaye hum dono…"

The cab drove away, and the song faded into the night. They were strangers again.

Humming the song quietly to herself, she walked into her house. She closed the door, gently, and the night went all quiet again.

***

This story has been greatly inspired by Jim Jarmusch's Night On Earth. I wanted to acknowledge that film, and the filmmaker, somewhere in the story itself. However, I couldn't do that, because I knew Sunandini or Mudita would never watch that film, and Jagdish would have a lot of language problems if he wanted to see it.

Also, I would be highly obliged if somebody could translate the lines of that song for me. Roughly translated, the line means "let's become strangers again," but somehow that does absolutely no justice to the original line; and my translation skills are horrible. Thanks in anticipation…

***

Update: For a wonderful translation of the last line, take a look at Ice Maiden's comment. It includes a translation of the entire song, from which the two lines were borrowed. Thanks, Ice Maiden.

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.

Wind…

The sky waited
As did he
The clouds rolled
White, over the blue
The dust lay still on the dusty road
As he waited
But that wind,
She ne'er came

Gentle footsteps
Into the hot afternoon
Dreaming of the sensual touch
The cool breeze against his sweaty arms
Oh, how he missed her
But that wind,
She ne'er came

The evening sky
Set on fire by the setting sun
The world, a visual sigh
A deep breath, of hope
He willed the leaves to move
He willed the dust to rise
To announce her coming
But that wind,
She ne'er came

The stillness crept up
Veiled within the dark night
Crickets and toads and little invisible frogs
They croaked
Wishful thinking hoped
That they were talking to him
"She's coming, wait on,"
But that wind,
She ne'er came