RABID ROCK- RABBIT

Ron was a tentative bastard. Occultly obsessive, cautiously compulsive and subtly superstitious. He used lift but when he had to use staircase, he would count the steps in each flight of stairs. If counted even he would put his right foot forward and if counted odd he would put his left foot first. He was entering the Panama house; the building nearly 70 years old was about twice the age of Ron. Ron was stout, neither tall nor short. Once carved but now he had a little curved abdomen. He had round face, boggy eyes and inky lips due to smoking. He was nonchalantly dressed in chappals, denim and olive-green polo. Ducking the low hanging electricals, Ron kept his left foot on the badly battered staircase of Panama house.

When he entered the petite apartment on the third floor, he couldn't help but notice the block number. It was 324. He quickly added it and the sum total was 9. Thank God it was not his unlucky number. The house was old fashioned and gloomy. The green paint had peeled off years ago giving each wall a geographical map like look. He entered the bedroom and straight away noticed the seashore which could be seen from the window. While staring at the sea line he asked “What brings us here?”

“An old chap died in bed. The nursing care taker called in for the doctor. The doctor confirmed the death and because rigor mortis was set in, he was not taken to the hospital.” Answered one of the assistants.

“Who called the police?” asked Ron unmoved from the window.

“The nurse called us.” Was the reply.

“So do we have anything?” asked Ron.

“Yes, a couple of things.” Answered one of his guys.

“But I guess it would just add on to the paper work.” Concluded the guy.

“Fair enough; wrap it off.” Ordered Ron.

He continued looking out of the window. At horizon the ocean blue softened into sky blue. The beach was full of handmade sand castles. One particular sand castle with a twig flag was in the waves reach. Ron called in his colleagues and pointed at his object of interest.

“If the water reaches that sand castle in next couple of waves, we open up the old chap. If not, we do the paper work and sweep it under the rug.” Said Ron.

The waves advanced the beach and stole some sand each time while retrieving. The first wave kissed the base of the castle and went back. Everyone was engrossed in the little gamble against the nature. Everyone hoped that the sea strength remained at bay. It was a Saturday and everyone had dinner plans. And then within a split second, the next wave dismantled the structure. The twig flag got drowned and the mud fortress just melted away.

“Let’s roll ladies, we are taking him for post- mortem. We have a busy day at hand.” Said Ron while clucking.

♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  

Annamarie was in her late twenties, chocolate complexion and a voluminous personality. Just recently she had colored a streak of her hair into rusty brown. She was a nurse and this was her first job and only job for past ten years. Presently she was sitting in a local police station and recording her statement.

“This dead body….What it is to be called….hmmm....Malcom, how was he?” an unexcited police clerk asked.

For a moment, Malcom’s image floated in her teary eyes. Withered Malcom was touching his ninety. Thin, tall and bent at his nape like a lamp post. Through the soda bottle glasses, one could see his eyes frog like. The crooked, drumstick fingers had long lost their coordination. The perpetual frown on his face made him look frustrated. Equally frustrating were his bowel habits. They ranged from droughts to floods to roaring thunders. All his hinges were squeaky and, some oiling could have worked. Once agile but now fragile was Malcom. Rich but depleted, emaciated and mostly bed-bound. This is how he was, when he breathed his last.

“Like any other oldie, he was stubborn.” Said Annamarie.

“Multiple times you had requested the nursing bureau for change of posting. Why?” said the policeman with passive aggression.

“Malcom was dependent on me but hated to admit it. He never respected me. He was abusive, paranoid and a selfish prick.” She paused to take a sip of water.

“The entire life he evaded taxes and made money. Ill-treated his family, cheated many. His wife died childless and unhappy. He had a nephew but even he was in distaste with his uncle.” Said Annamarie.

“You do only mornings?” asked the clerk.

“Yes, 6 mornings and Sunday off. On Sundays and at night he used to be all by himself. He used to manage it well.” Answered Annamarie.

“Who paid his bills and everything?” asked the policeman.

“I did. He used to give me the cheques and I would withdraw from the bank.” Answered Annamarie.

“Was he rich?” was the next question.

“Rich enough to live on to see his hundred without hampering his lifestyle.” Said the nurse.

“He had made any will?” asked the clerk.

“I don’t know but he had lawyers coming and going once in a while.” Answered Annamarie.

“Anything happened out of the box on Friday evening when you were done for the day?” asked another cynical clerk picking his nose.

“Nothing unusual. I left at 5.30 pm.” Was the answer.

“So, lets conclude. You were his only companion slash employee. You knew about his finances. You were basically his only thread with the outer world. You had motive, his money and you despised him as well.” Said one of the clerks who was jotting down the statement winking at his partner.

“You obviously had chance to kill him. When the grandpa dies no one really cares but then when a rich grandpa dies, graves are dug open.” Continued the partner.

“Excuse me!” Shouted Annamarie with eyes wide open.

When she realized, she was being considered as a culprit and not witness; all she could do was mumble, splutter, cry in disbelief and worry.

In came Ron and said “In court everyone is innocent until proven guilty. In police remand everyone is guilty unless and until proven otherwise. You are not allowed to leave the city. Report 9 am sharp daily to sign on the register.”

Ron took his cell phone from the pocket. Looked at it for some time. Clucked once and left.

For next few days she went to the police station sharp at 9 in the morning. Every day she was grilled with same questions. Every day she pleaded to stop. She had not killed Malcom, she kept on saying. No one listened. When the boss was around, he just clucked and left, but at least she was relieved early on those days. When he was not around, she was ragged and harassed for hours before she signed. On that day she expected nothing new when she went to register her presence. She was about to sign the register and leave when a constable came in with a message “Ron sir is calling you inside.”

When she entered everyone was sitting on the netted wooden chairs. Ron was pacing in the room in his chappals, denim and white shirt; clucking and checking his cell phone time and again.

“Common….confess and tell how you killed Malcom?” asked one of the boys.

But before she could answer Ron hurried into his question “Ask correct questions to get correct answers. What was Malcom’s diet?”

Confused Annamarie kept mum. In so many days for the first time someone was asking some different question to her.

“Don’t sush….speak up….quick.” Ron ordered her with unsettling restlessness in his eyes.

“Malcom had less teeth and was against dentures because they pricked him. He mostly had soups, soft rice and stews.” Answered Annamarie.

“Was he techno- savvy?” asked Ron.

“Not at all. He had simple phone with keypad. He was more of a leave me alone with my television and remote kind of person.”

He continued clucking but this time he smiled too. For a change his perpetual frown had disappeared  “Let’s recreate the scene boys.” He said.

“When I entered, the oldie was on his bed. There were restrain marks on his ankles and wrists. His mouth was full of vomit, as if he had drowned in his own secretions. He had stubble which had peeled off around the corner of the mouth. Like waxing.” He checked his cell phone and continued.

“Probably someone had taped his mouth. Then there was this pizza box. Which box was that?” asked Ron looking at one of his assistants.

“Magic pizza.” Answered his subordinate.

“Now, why would Malcom order pizza if he cannot eat. Also, when we checked the portal, it was ordered online. Malcom was not cool with gadgets, which means it was ordered by and ordered for someone else. We have to find this someone else.” Ron concluded finally catching the breath.

“And sir, we checked with Malcom’s routine pharmacy. His dose of insulin and sleeping pills had not changed in years. When we counter checked with his prescription and the actual medications clearly, he was overdosed.” Added Ron’s colleague.

“And all this does corroborate with the PM report which came in this morning.” Added the clerk who had taken Annamarie’s statement on day one.

“Annamarie, you can go. You still have to come and sign. The time of death is around 9 pm to midnight. The CCTV footage of your building is your alibi that you entered the premises at around 6 pm on Friday evening and exited next morning at around 8 am. Also, we have confirmed with delivery portal. The pizza delivery was made at 6.30 pm on that Friday.” Concluded Ron.

Annamarie was relieved and for the first time in so many days she could breathe light. Annamarie wanted to thank him, but before she could, Ron had gone out for a smoke. The waft of the burning air could be felt nonetheless.

♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠

Two weeks had passed since Ron had first kept his left foot in the Panama house. This time he miscalculated the steps and hence had to reshuffle a bit with a hop. He thought no one noticed but in fact everyone did. In the apartment Malcom’s nephew was waiting for Ron. He had just buried his uncle without any respect or remorse. He just wanted the things to be get done with.

“I hope we are close enough?” asked the relative.

“You have recorded my statement as well as the statement of my alibi. I guess we are done over here on this matter.”

“Yes, of course.” Said Ron.

The kin asked “Anything you want to share about the case?”

“Yes, of course.” Replied Ron promptly. Then he paused for a good long minute and continued.

“There was a pizza delivered two blocks away on that day in that time frame. That was the only pizza delivered in that locality so it could very well have some connection with our mystery.” Said Ron confidently.

“Then we interrogated the delivery boy. He remembers the person to whom he delivered the package.” Ron again paused to look at his cell phone.

“So, the pizza boy has identified the suspect. Who is he?” asked the nephew.

“It is she.” Replied Ron with a grin.

“It was a girl who killed my uncle? Who is she and why and how did she kill?”  lot many questions were bombarded at Ron.

“It is still a theory; but the delivery guy said that he gave it to a girl in pink jacket. Then we checked the surveillance cameras and it showed a girl with pink jacket loitering up and down the blocks for two hours before disappearing in the thin air. Now Panama house has no cameras so we cannot concretely say if she entered the building or what. But the time sure does coincide with Annamarie finishing the duty and leaving. Also, the RTO cameras saw her on the crossroad near Panama house just about after the midnight. We are heading to interrogate her.” Concluded Ron.

"How did you caught her?" asked the kin.

"Routine police work. We had the cell number registered n the food delivery app. We traced it back to the address." Bragged Ron.

Awkward pleasantries were followed by awkward silence. Then they left.

♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠

 “At times I feel like burying myself in the backyard and pretend to be a carrot.” Said a slim, little shrill voice from behind the husky vocal cords. It was Kairon; a cachectic persona with curly blonds, big buccal bones and in-drawn cheeks.

“Excuse me!” exclaimed the lady constable.

Kairon was unperturbed. She continued rubbing her fingernails on one another. Slowly she started swaying sideways and started a dreamy hum. The hum soon erupted into a mumble, then into a rhyme which continued as a chant.

“Rabid rock- rabbit is restless for respite,

Rabid rock- rabbit relentless for respite

Rabid rock- rabbit is reluctant recruit,

Rabid rock- rabbit is really rude,

Rabid….Rabid….Rabid rock- rabbit

Rabid….Rabid….Rabid rock- rabbit…!!”

Ron was observing all this from better side of the two-way mirror. When he saw the lady constable exiting out from the white interrogation room, he asked impatiently. “Did she give anything?”

“Yes. She has confessed of killing Malcom.” Answered the lady investigator.

“However, she is not telling how and why.”

“She will.” Said Ron.

“Yeah, but that is not going to be easy. She is mentally derailed Ron. She is tangential in answering. She needs a shrink.” concluded the lady interrogator.

Ron entered the white room with his mug of cappuccino. He sat in front of her across the steel table. “Hi!” said he.

Kairon continued her antics without paying any attention towards Ron. Ron sipped a big one from his mug and kept it on the table leaving a ring of brown moisture behind. This unsettled Kairon. This made her irritable and she shouted “You wipe it off.”

Ron slowly picked up the mug, wiped the ring with his palm and again kept the mug on the table. This time around too his coffee stained the table.

“Don’t you have coaster over here. Please, please I beg you. Clean it. I cannot stand dirt and muck. I am already feeling unclean now. Give me sanitizer. You….you clean it please or- or- or- or-else I will start feeling breathless. Call for help I am feeling dizzy. I will be swooned. I will collapse.” Pleaded Kairon while gasping.

“Okay. Okay. I will listen to you. But you will have to answer couple of my questions. You play nice and I would play nicer. You take me for a gunny bag ride and I will see to it that you go in the ugliest prison cell where the stench of the human detritus would be your constant companion along with the stains of sweat, blood and spittle. Do we have an agreement on this?” bargained Ron shrewdly.

“Why and how did you kill Malcom?” asked Ron giving stress on each and every utterance.

Kairon remained unmoved and the questions remained unanswered. Ron not liking this got tad irritated and held his coffee mug at an arm’s stretch. His wrist was just about to writhe to spill the coffee.

 Kairon shouted “Stop! I will tell you everything. It was Dr. Je who asked me to kill Malcom. It was Dr. Je…. Now please give me my bastard mind back, please!!”

Then she fainted leaving Ron clucking and unsatiated with many queries.

♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠

Frank Sinatra jazz was sprinkled in the air. The blue waves were kissing the sparkling seashore. The sand glittered under the crimson hue of the eve. Children were busy making sand castles with twig flags. The Frisbee were flying around and bikini bodies were splattering into the foamy high tide. The sun rays pierced through the large tinted expanse. The fragrance of the wet sand wafted and the breezy humid was admixed with giggle, laughter and merriment. The landscape was happy, tranquil and mesmerizing. It was not fair that Malcom had to die on such a beautiful day. He ought to be killed, there was no other way.

In disbelief I read and re read the stanza. I sweated coldly and profusely. Bile churned in my stomach and the dribble of the mouth turned metallic. My legs ached and cramped. My breathing was just a formality at that point in time; and so were the heart beats which were racing. I had no control over my emotional and physical realm. I felt like I was thrown in a pitch-dark pit with a blind fold.

The emptiness slowly filled with sense. I was seeing Dr. Je an eminent counselor who had said that my phobias and compulsiveness was due to neuronal misfiring. He was sure that he would make me livable in the society again. I won’t be looked down upon as a misfit and as an object of deject. I was asked to read and follow his book. I obeyed each and every word of it. It did help me too. But today the locution of the book was extreme. I tried confirming what was written with Dr. Je; but he simply cut me off in between and said “I know what I have written. You just follow.”

He stopped seeing me and cancelled even my regular follow up visits. I gradually got convinced that I had to kill a man called Malcom so as to get better. Then began the search from yellow pages. I shortlisted many and stalked the select few. When I saw Malcom of Panama house I was more so convinced. My jittery became determination. When I visited his house on a Sunday under the pretense of some survey, I could imagine myself enjoying the pizza from the window; exactly as written in the book.

On that Friday I left the office early. I was hovering around the Panama house rehearsing in my mind each and every move. I ordered a pizza but meticulously accepted the delivery couple of blocks away. Then at around 8.30 pm I entered the building. Entry in the house was easy as I was no more a stranger. I coaxed him for a coffee. I helped myself into the kitchen. I waited until the 4 sleeping pills stopped floating over the foamy latte. Then I stirred it well. The next 40 minutes or so we talked. We talked about life and philosophy. He was remarkably shallow for his wrinkles. This made it easy for me to make up my mind. Then finally his head was heavy.

“What happened? Are you OK?” I asked

“I am spinning.” He said.

“Oh! Your sugars must be up or down. Let me check.” I said.

His sugars were fine; what was not fine was my bitterness towards him. I told him his sugars were too high and needed a shot of insulin. He asked me to talk to Annamarie but I convinced him that I take care of my mother’s diabetes and he need not worry. I do not have a mother....

I don’t know how much but I sure gave a lot of insulin in his vein. As he became more delirious, I glued a long thick thread to the adhesive side of the strong tape and stuck it over his mouth. The thread irritated his throat and he gagged. He vomited. The vomit had no way out and he aspirated. His wind pipe got clogged and he couldn’t breathe. The old bones were strong, he struggled and he struggled too much. I had to tie him down. I admit I enjoyed every bit of this. Then he stopped grappling and stopped breathing. He breathed his last at around midnight. I enjoyed the last piece of pizza at the window. Then I started with the next chapter of the book.

The recorded tape of Kairon’s confession went blank.

♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠  ♠

A woman gazing at the carmine sky through a window. This was the cover page of the book which captioned ‘The Bastard Mind.’ The small tape recorder which had blurted out the truth was lying next to it.

“Cornered.... Pinned down?” Ron asked intimidatingly.

“Interesting indeed.” Said a coy blue suit with grey left partitioned hair and bucket handle mustachio. His eyes behind the rimless glasses looked soothing and calm. The smile however was eerie, ear to ear Grinchy type.  Each time when Dr. Je smiled, it poked Ron. As if the smile said 'Innocent me not but can you prove it?'

“Correct answers of the wrong questions are still pretty useless you know.” Said Dr. Je.

“I am using lot of my ATPs, not to grab your neck across the table.” Said Ron angrily.

“Dented souls don’t talk about morals Ron.” Said Dr. Je while cleaning his specs. At that time Ron saw the real cunning in his eyes. He had the eyes of a bully.

“Life is not black or white Ron. It is grey. Some have darker shade than others, that’s it.” Explained Dr. Je.

“You like puzzles, Dr. Je?” asked Ron.

“I love riddles.” Answered Dr. Je

“So, tell me, why the book written by you, when bought from book stores has no chapter about Malcom but the one found at the crime scene has. The puzzle is why four other patients of yours are under the trial for various crimes. And please tell me why all of them have the same book with one different chapter of crime.” asked Ron.

“Questions known, answers unknown.” Poked Dr. Je.

“I admit it is a top- notch cop work.” Complimented the doctor.

“You are going to prison but hey you can write a book about it!” chuckled Ron while looking at the watch.

“Do you know what is an anagram? You know same letters making different words with different meanings. WORDS….. SWORD. Both can cut you open into half but with words there is no bloodshed. Your mind is the deepest enigma and to fiddle around with this greatest riddle; isn’t it a pure ecstasy.” Grandiosely answered the medic.

“Let me tell you little secret. You have not come to arrest me. You have come in your capacity as a lamb to meet the shepherd. There is a craving in your mind which you need to satiate and that is why you are here.” Continued the muscular blue suit which was now towering over Ron.

“Half hour in my waiting area and you are like an open book to me Ron. You are a nervous wreck. You smoke each time you think of your mistakes and I bet you, they are plenty. Your gimmick with the steps. Checking of phone time and again. When you are indecisive you indulge in little gambles. You cluck a lot and based on its frequency one can make out if it is a happy clucking or tense. The muscles which you use the most are the forehead muscles, because you constantly frown. Any number you see you have this obsessive compulsion to add it up till the single digit and see if its odd or even. There is no difference between you and those scumbags my friend.” Heavy hypnotizing voice reverberated.

Ron felt weak in his knees. He felt naked. Dr. Je had ransacked his mind as if it was his own cupboard. The alpha male was reduced to timid, submissive beta male.

“At times life is so unfair, but then who told you it was supposed to be fair in the first place. Centripetal or centrifugal, the force will either suck you in the vacuum or throw you out. The emotions strongly torque the actions but dwelling in the past often acts like a big barricade. The incline only ramps up the speed for the greater leap but inertia to change acts like a speed bump halting the juggernaut. That is the story of all you stuck- ups. But I can help. The choice is your.” Concluded the doctor.

 

He doesn’t remember what happened next. Ron left the doctor’s clinic as a much-diminished man. He no more cared about stairs or clucking or smoking or adding. He was lost in his own mindless jargon.

Rabid rock- rabbit is restless for respite,

Rabid rock- rabbit relentless for respite

Rabid rock- rabbit is reluctant recruit,

Rabid rock- rabbit is really rude,

Rabid….Rabid….Rabid rock- rabbit

Rabid….Rabid….Rabid rock- rabbit…!!

This was the first page of the book given by Dr. Je. It was a special edition with author’s signatory on it. Now the herdsman had one more sheep to take care of.

 

 

That flat lemon!

 

I was an asshole. I was and to some extent am still a big- time jerk. Smoke, sex, sake and sizzlers were my staple. I was one of the eminent ring masters of the print media circus. Freelancing is a new found crush for me now but back then I was an editor. I was hot news in the boss’s eyes due to my ability to get things done in spite of the idiots around. My strength was my selective hearing and my super power was my quality to maintain poker face come what may. Things above my pay scale never bothered me and I never argued with the morons. My motto was simple, drink your coffee, do your job and say your prayers. Life back then was like page- 3; shallow but sexy. In a plush apartment in Juhu I was living hangover to hangover in bliss and euphoria. I was a rouge but a lovable rouge nonetheless. Things were all good but then she came along. There is always a she who screws up everything. She diluted my sarcasm to sensitivity. I was like tea without tannin, coffee without caffeine, cigarette without nicotine and bloody merry without blood.

She was an intern and my boss hung her around my neck probably to save his own ass. He was hen- pecked and last thing he would have wanted is an eye candy intern at his desk. She was good. Her shadow sure was sensuous, if you know what I mean. Straight hair, big eyes and nice long legs. If asked, was I smitten? …. well, I won’t lie. I was head over heels for her. She was that pretty. To hide that gasp of pleasure with a deadpan expression, sure was a tough thing. If flirting was an art I considered myself Picasso. For first two weeks our interactions were frugal and formal like an empty canvas. This Picasso was starving for colors and one fine day rainbow did shine with a golden pot at the end of it.

I remember our first informal interaction. She was looking pale, grumpy and it was evident that she had just finished her 8^th bout of sob. I asked her with care and concern “All ok?” She just nodded. Now here is the thing with me, if someone is crying, my first reaction is to laugh; so as soon as I received her nod I paced off. Later when I was loitering around in the cafeteria she came and hugged me. She whispered a warm thanks. I knew this was my cue and asked her out for coffee. It is true, a lot can happen over a cup of latte. A cup of latte and a cookie monster. Girls love sweets when depressed (wink).

Soon our WhatsApp days started with good morning sunshine and ended with take care baccha, sleep tight. Our travelling times started to synchronize. We were visiting coffee houses and made small bills while sitting there for hours together. I am a good listener and it helped me a lot. Now here is the thing about good listening. You listen to every fourth word that she says and repeat it. You copy her gestures. As in if she touches her hair, you nonchalantly do the same; she smiles you laugh, she crosses her legs and you do the same so on and so forth. Like college teenagers we started to make out a little in the cinema halls. Eventually we were couple but with no strings attached.

Apparently getting in someone’s pants is easy but getting in someone’s mind is difficult. She was a permanent, rent-free resident in my head but the other way round was still a far fetched thing. Her plans were her plans but my plans were her plans too. Asking too many questions was like being a borderline male chauvinist pig. On the other hand, being least bothered made you a selfish prick. If she did something wrong, it was a mistake but if you did the same thing, it was a crime and that is the problem of the modern day metro-sexual males in the cities. Our compatibility started to wither. It was like we were reading the same book but were on the different pages. After all compatibility is the balance between girl’s capacity to throw tantrums and boy’s patience to tolerate them and now the ice was thinning out.

That Monday morning, I was feeling terrible. My mind was scattered. I decided to Netflix and chill so I called in sick. She called me at around 9 ‘O’ clock in morning and asked if I can come over at her place. She asked me to hurry up as she had some work at 11 am. I realized that I was in for some quick action. On my way I picked up couple of magnums. Testosterone was eager to meet the oestrogen. When she opened the door, she looked ravishing. I hugged her and kissed her but before I could manage some more of mischief, I noticed her packed bags. I abruptly stopped and asked “You are leaving? Why, what happened? All, OK?”

“Yeah, Yeah all OK. I am taking leave of one week. I would be visiting my parents.” She said.

“But why suddenly?” I inquired.

“No re. Its just that I am missing them a lot.” She replied.

“OK! But you need to apply for the leaves.” I said with futile authority.

She handed over the leave application which was lying on the table. “Here you go. Sign it boss and please be a sweetheart and submit it in the HR.”

“Also, this is my favorite plant. I want you to take it home and take its good care. I will collect it once I am back.” She dictated.

My mind was trying to refute with logic but I guess blood flow was redirected from brain to something else. We spent some time together, had coffee. Sharp at 11 she turned her butt on me and walked off with the bags leaving me with that plant. Just before the thud of the door I heard her saying “Close the door when you leave. Don’t forget to water my plant. Might not be able call or message; please don’t be mad.”

I felt like I was used like a door mat. I felt like that guy who never got a phone call after his first date. I felt like a guy who was hung up on his prom night. Like a guy who was left alone at the altar; at least I had a plant though. Well to be honest it was not even a plant or sapling. It was freaking five feet tall treeish plant with oval leaves and wood branches. I was completely clueless. “What the f^#* is this?” was my first reaction. I didn’t know how to carry it home forget about taking its care. It did cross my mind to just leave the thing there itself and visit it daily to water it but it was her request. I was a flea-bitten love moth and her wish was my command.  I couldn’t just leave the breathing leaves there. I hired a tempo to shift it to my place. Then I went to the office and submitted her application. Frustrated, irritated, confused I went out with my friends to booze and snooze. Lets say after lot many days I again relived the hangover next morning.

The next couple of days was a fake-athon. The entire Bollywood was faking their concern about certain new government policy and we were faking that we really cared about their opinions. The readership transiently increased and we partied again. It was Thursday afternoon when I realized that I was a single plant parent. It was stashed in a room which had a tread- mill, stationary cycle and few dumbles which were biting the dust. The dust turned gold when the sunlight peeped in through the split in between the curtains. This was the first time I was looking keenly at my botanical toddler. The soil was dry, the leaves were turning yellow at the tips. It looked less lively than our first meet. “It is a plant after all; what else it could need apart from some water?” I thought. I poured some water, took a selfie with my new friend and sent it to her. I captioned it as ‘Flant= Flat +plant”! I waited long for those double ticks to turn blue; alas I gave up.

It was Friday evening and the week end blues had set in. Strangely neither I had missed her so far nor she had messaged me. It was decided to go to a winery to uncoil and recoil. The place where sobriety meets insobriety. The place where living liquids carve the monkey out of you. We were ready to give in to the spiritual fluids and annul our inhibitions. We were ready to embrace the wisdom of whiskey and vices of vodka. Tantalizing tequila and crimson cognac. Rum, like poetry of Rumi. Gin and tonic like Jinn in the bottle, kissing our problems away. Unbearable company becoming bearable with beer. To whine a little with wine. Well, that reminded me of her. It was late night Saturday and there was verbally constipated response from her to my romantic essay on WhatsApp. I was emotionally numb at that time because my head was woozy. I just slept.

The Sunday brunch was an open-air buffet amidst the nature. My head was spinning more than the torque on the race cars. The atmosphere was at its typical cliché. Blue skies, white clouds, maple filter on sun and breezy wind. A class of Mandarin trees was being tutored by the gardener on the left and on the right the grapevines were being groomed for harvesting. In the middle I sat sipping my coffee waiting for its ingredients to kick in. Near the giggling stream one particular tree caught my eye. It had small oval leaves. Some had reddish tint, some were green and few were yellowish. The branches were angular. The twigs had pointy thorns. That tree sure did look familiar. As the caffeine blended with my blood, I realized that was the bigger version of my ‘flant.’

As I went nearer to the tree, the aroma brewing up from my coffee mug got replaced by the citrus fragrance. It did give me a mini- orgasm. A localite was trimming the leaves and branches. He was patting the tree bark and talking to it.

Looking at my quizzing looks he said “It is a flat lemon. Their cousin.” He pointed his finger towards the mandarin trees.

“It has its dwarf version too, engineered by the agriculturist. It is a fad pampered by rich in the cities.” He continued.

“Ohh! So that’s what it was in my apartment.” I silently thought.

I asked and he told me all that was important to know about my plant. He told me to keep it near the window where there is abundant sunlight. He advised pruning it periodically. He encouraged me to speak to it as a close friend. He suggested a fertilizer. He said that the key was to keep the soil moist; not too dry not too swamped. He advised me to replant it in the ground. Let the roots explore beyond the pot; it helps in development of the personality of the plant, he had said. We shared numbers. I sent him a friend request on Facebook which he gladly accepted. It was our time to check out. I checked out with a content mind and satisfied heart. However, the big smile on my face was because of the fact that she had messaged. She was back in town.

For that evening I had converted my living room into a romantic jazz bar. The candle light was just about enough to radiate her glow. Her sparkling eyes had racy badness in them. The ordered continental food was steaming hot yet very lukewarm in front of her. Stunning she was looking, in the champagne green halter; like the bellisma bottle of the port wine. We were talking and laughing holding each other’s hands. I told her about the vineyard and about the new friend and his advice. I talked and talked and talked a lot but somehow, I was not striking the chords. I was not hitting the home-run today. It all looked picture perfect but still something was amiss.

“All ok?” I asked her.

“No!” said she.

“Why? What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Us.” She said sounding to be very sure.

“You are nice and all but you are shallow. You mask it by being profound and deep but you are not. Off lately you look at me as a destination but I look at you as a mere pitstop. You are old, I am young. I want to expand and explore.” Unnerved she continued.

“Every relationship has a pinnacle and a debacle. I guess the pitstop is over. We went on from sweet nothings to sweet somethings. Lets just keep it that way. Lets stop before nothing sweet remains.” She paused to sip wine a little.

I had gone dumb and mute. I wish I had gone deaf too.

“This is a faux relationship like that lemon tree I had given you a week ago.” She concluded.

“That tree is artificial?” I yelled.

“Yes! It is rather funny that with your observation skills you would notice my bra strap but miss out on 5 feet tall artificial tree. That is why i say you are superficial.” she said calmly.

A jab from the south paw and the champion failed to defend it. The challenger’s gloved knuckle met the champion’s headgear at temple. The champion was knocked out cold. The referee was in the middle of the long count and the champion laid motionless. But the champion was champion after all. By the count of ten he was back on the feet. The bout ended in draw but it had dented the champion’s ego. I was the champion; she was the challenger. That day when everything was over, I tried plucking the leaf; the chlorophyll didn’t ooze out. There was no fragrance of citrus either. The dummy was out in the open field. She continued to work at the firm. I became a freelancer. I still have that artificial tree; I have that and 35 other real plants. Now people fondly call me 'The botanist!'

The war wick.

From the blunted summit of a hillock, the camouflaged enemy bunker was hawk- eyeing the village near Monte- Casino. The village had a bigger road, few big lanes and many small getaways. The allied troopers entered the village and fanned out. The allegiance forged by force had Indian contingent as well. From atop we must have looked like mice entering the maze in search of a cheese cube; or like the minuscule rodents trapped in the back alley. With pussy feet we advanced. With backs walled up we peeped through the corners of the remnant buildings. Our vigil ricocheted from roof tops to windows, from closed doors to empty pavements in search of enemy signs. Eroded benches, stained window panes, broken street lamps and abandoned lanes is all what we could see.

I was following Him, we all were. We climbed a mound of rubble and ruins. This gave us a better leverage and better view. Taking cover behind the big boulder we hunkered down. We were squatting on the wreckage pile of someone’s house, on the debris of someone’s dreams.

While carefully peeking through His binoculars He said “It is funny, how the definition of treasure changes during the war. For empty water bottles it is the undried well and chlorine tablets, for growling stomachs it is the half rotten fruits and vegetables or the tinned tunas…..and for our depleting arsenal, it is magazines for our Thompsons.” A wry smile followed.

We on the other hand just sat still, trying to calm our exploding hearts in the chest wall. After all we were in Italy assaulting against the winter line held by Axis. We all knew that the Germany and its friends were not exactly of compassionate kind. They outnumbered us strategically, numerically and technologically. We all knew that we were waiting for our turn to die; our eyes were wide open just to see from where it was coming. From the corner of my eye, I could see a bulleted polka dot wall, it was the only wall standing. Even the ceiling was blown off. It could have been a class room once, or may be something else who knows. There in the heap of rocks, concrete and bricks, I could see a black trunk, half buried filled with ammunition. I brought it to His notice.

Happy but not convinced with the find He pierced through the binoculars for 15 minutes.

“Why the enemy has the ammunition matching exactly to our weaponry?” He thought.

But before He could think aloud a young British officer darted towards the find. What seemed like any other residual junk left behind by bombings; was actually a booby trap. One wrong step and the British ammunition boot was tugging on the trip wire. The bombs exploded with deafening decibels. Those in the close range were in shambles. Others were drenched in blood and then it started raining.

It was not cloudy but it started drizzling. The sun was vomiting heat yet it started raining. The rain drops were acidic. The screeching shells started shattering all around. The ground below vibrated and the dust whirled up. As the causalities increased the screaming and yelling increased. All opened fired in the direction of the source of bombarding, the hill. The bunker was out of reach yet everyone kept on firing in frenzy. He was the only one who calmly cowered down and waited.

“Just stay put. Don’t shoot you morons! They are out of range. Save your ammo. We will require it when they send a squad to swipe and shoot us, once the shelling stops.” He kept on shouting.

The explosions were un- ceasing. He was saying something to me, but all I could do was to try and lip read. All I could see was dry, cut, dusty lips moving incomprehensibly. The blasts had torn my ear drum rendering me useless to hear. The smut and soot pierced the eyes; blind- folding us if not blinding. We were changing positions to dodge the in-comings. A heavy slab flew from the blast near by and hit my right knee. The pain was so excruciating that I collapsed. I blacked out. I thought It was my time up.

Then my eyes opened only intermittently to witness the misery around. The first time my eyes opened at that time I realized that He was carrying me on his shoulder, running helter- skelter in search of a shelter. The second time around I was propped up against the wall with a pistol in my hand. He was at a distance aiming and shooting at the enemy. Next time around the shelling had almost stopped. My knee was crushed and drenched red. His body was sprinkled with jagged pieces of shrapnel but still He was fixing the bayonet to his gun for close combat.

Looking at me He said with deep in-drawing voice “Remember, a bullet in the back is more painful literally and metaphorically than on the chest. You too have a gun and bullets with name.” He started aiming at the enemy in the prone rifle position. He never moved after that.

The callosity of the human nature is unskinned during war. We all were strangers to one another. It was strangers for whom we fought and it was strangers with whom we fought. We were blood brothers destined to either kill or get killed. One final time I saw up above towards the heaven. There were angels over our shoulders. The British Hawker Hurricane was roaring and tearing the air. In no time the bunker was fumed. I realized that, on that day, no bullet, no knife had my name.

 

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

The tape recorder went blank. The silence was punctuated by the squeaking of the ceiling fan which had one of its blades, bent a little. The little air that it moved, fluttered the pages of 1969 hung on the wall. In the olive-green room near the window sat a tall thin dark man who had side partitioned, oiled hair and a paralytic limp on the right. He was wearing grey trousers, untucked off- white shirt and golden framed glasses. Near the opposite wall sat an army uniform with a maroon beret worn with a rakish angel. Adjacent to him stood a solider, with hands ramrod straight by his sides. The room was filled with few more people sitting on netted, wooden chairs near the main door.

“I despise the greed and rapacity filled in this room. It is sad when people lie for glamour that too on the doings of war veterans posthumously. In spite of army pension and other perks, it is dispiriting to see the youth claiming more on the basis of a blatant lie.” Said the counselor tucking his white hair under the beret.

There was a ripple of disapproval from those seated on netted, wooden chairs which was shunned by the solider standing next to the counselor.

“For 25^th anniversary of Indian Army’s contribution in World War 2; we were compiling the war stories of that era. The idea was to identify and honor their supreme sacrifice and bestow upon them the medals they well deserved.  We got many letters. We came across 3 specific letters and this tape. The descriptions bore remarkable similarities. They each claim that their story is true. Now there can’t be four heroes in the same story, right?” The counselor chuckled in sarcasm looking at the man in off- white shirt.

“Which means three, out of four are lying.” Piercing through the crowd he continued.

“This meeting is to clear the misunderstanding. They all gave your reference and hence, regretfully I had to invite you to this circus to testify.” Said the counselor looking at the golden glasses with a guilt face.

“This is not a meeting. This is a mock trial to make a scapegoat out of us, so as to hide the short comings of the defenses in identifying their own heroes well in time.” Said someone from the crowd. A rumble rose in the crowd and faded away.

The counselor asked to the man near the window “Are you the first person in the narrative?”

Yes, said the man with golden glasses.

“And who is the ‘He’ you are referring to in your story?” asked the counselor with a subtle sharpness in his voice; looking at the crowd

After a pin drop silence he continued, “Is he sepoy Laxman Singh or Sonam Sharma from infantry? Is he Harpal Kartara from Sikhs or sepoy Gobind Yechury?” His eyes pierced through the families of these veterans.

The families listened the silence. Today their strong belief was at the brink of an earthquake. They were seeing for the first time the man who could have written those letters or could have sent the tape. More so this was the man who could have seen their family heroes in flesh and blood when the heart was still pumping. Each had a quizzing thought, was there anything more to share. A hope lingered that others were lying.

“The soldiers are the war wicks. The wick of the cannon ball anyway burns. The cannon ball doesn’t know the direction of the friends or the foes.” Said the man adjusting his golden glasses.

“The Britannica lured the hungry Indians to volunteer, which they had starved in the first place. Remember how the British Raj looted our grains and assets to feed their war horses?” he momentarily looked at the counselor. The counselor looked away not able to withstand the directness of the stare.

“Humpty- Dumpty sat for a war; Humpty- Dumpty had a great war.”

“Jack & John went up the hill to fetch the pail of power. Both fell down and broke their brow but crown prevailed last laughter.”

 “Churchill used the colonial people as pawns; first in line to die last in line for cereals. Different war codes for different colored derma. Bunkers for whites, pigsty for others. Whites fought on full stomachs; others fought on left- overs. They had plenty of bullets to rive, blacks and brown had few with couple of bullets in the pocket for self; in case the capture was inevitable.” He continued passionately.

“Indians expected a heart- felt thanks from Chruchill which they never got. Many lost their lives on the foreign soil, fighting for the sworn flag; fighting for Britannia. Many lived with everything lost. We don’t even know if they were buried or burnt; or just left for the vultures.” He paused.

The humid eyes stared at him.

“You ask me who is the hero of this story. Well…. everyone is. You ask me who is lying. Well…. No one is lying.” Said he curtly looking at the counselor.

All were confused, relieved, bewildered, stuck by tornado. The kaleidoscopic emotions were difficult to contain in the eyes and the feelings started rolling down the cheeks. The Counselor's face became white like an A4 size paper, as nothing was unearthed yet.

“There is only one liar in this room and that would be me.” On this statement everyone exchanged befuddled looks.

“I am not a war veteran. I am not even a soldier. I am just a simple person who felt that the mourning families of the soldiers need little more than just the pensions and perks. They needed a story to live on. They needed a story to remember, a chronicle to cherish, a tale to be inspired. I just gave them that.” He got up and hobbled towards the door.  

“A coward can kill but only brave can face the death with dignity. Remember, willing to die needs guts. A soldier is a hero irrespective of his kills. Decaf death or Latte demise; the soldiers face it like sipping a hot coffee.” Saying this he exited.

The air which was riddled with tension eased out. The hall gradually became vacant with intact prides. 

On the other hand he still awaits the courtroom trial; the minutes of this meeting however are long lost.

Casper Flip.

It was limitless cuteness when his cherubic cheeks smiled. It was simply adorable when they puffed in disagreement and his lips pouted in frown. His round, butter face tilted left and hazel nut eyes narrowed when curious. Rather sharp for his age, this eight-year-old was a wise cookie. Dressed in orange jump suit, a white T- shirt, a blue cap and squeaky shoes which lit while walking; he was easily the most colorful exhibit around. As he walked his miniature back pack swayed sideways on his tiny tushy. A hand on his nape maneuvered him like a steering wheel dodging the crowd. The little tug on his shoulder was momentarily lost and Casper drifted a bit.

Like thousands of ants crawling towards the sugar cube; thousands of people were hurrying towards their destinations. After all it was Victoria Terminus the busiest rail station of down town Mumbai. Among them was this father- son duo. There was a little tug of war between them. The junior would pull his father towards all the possible attractions and the senior would pull him back saying ‘we need to catch the train.’

When Casper drifted there was a hole in Joel’s stomach.

The boy was lured to the sound of ‘trrriiing ting….trrriiing ting trrriiing trrriiinnngggg…..!

 The boy stood with his hands folded and a curious look. The ‘cold- drinkwalla’ was moving the metallic opener on the glass bottles in the crate, in an infatuating rhythm. Joel spotted Casper in no time. With a gentle knuckle on Casper’s head Joel lovingly said “Don’t you wander like this.” Casper was unperturbed in his observation. Joel gestured for a cola. A shabby hand fished a cold drink from the bucket filled with half melted ice. The boy’s aerated thirst was quenched.

 It was S-8. After a fair amount of pulling and pushing, the faint reservation list stuck out next to the door of the blue boogie was in Joel’s eye reach. He found his name on the torn list and moved towards the door. Keeping his luggage inside, he picked up Casper and entered the train. Inside of the train was smellier and more humid and so many more people. Four were seated on the bench of three. The continuous pestering of hawkers and end to end loitering of the ticket less so as to elude the TC. The place was clogged. They finally reached their reserved seats only to find two men already sitting there. One of them got up, other only pretended to move. Joel kept the luggage on the overhead carrier and sat taking Casper on his lap. There was a loud honk of the engine and the entire train jerked back. The engine was attached to the first compartment; the journey was about to begin.

The air in the coupe was indifferent. The commuters were aloof and detached. They simply saw through Joel and Casper. Joel was happy though; as the usual fiasco of someone pinching Casper’s cheeks and Casper crying in dislike was avoided. When the train jolted back a brown bag from the overhead carrier slipped down. Joel reflexively got up and caught it mid-air; his antics went unnoticed. He arranged the luggage and sat back on his seat fetching for Casper’s hand. They say that eyes are the best conductor of the human emotions. Here Joel’s eyes reflected fear, Casper was not to be seen around; now there was a crater in Joel’s stomach.

Joel couldn’t utter a word. Some incomprehensible sound is all he could manage initially. This was followed by a weak mumble, then a whisper and finally a wail of sorrow. With shaken voice he called for Casper. He frantically glanced around. He could see all the colors except for orange. In the surrounding dissonance Casper’s squeaking shoes were not to be heard. He asked his fellow passengers but they reflected empty. As if all this while Joel was non- existent to them. Like the lifeless corpses they continued their being. Joel noted some discrepancies. Like the fellow sitting next to the window, was eating rice pudding morsel after morsel yet the amount in the tiffin remained unchanged. The one with the newspaper never changed the trajectory of his glance, nor did he change the page. One at a distant seat kept on waving outside and outside it was only the thin air. Many just stared….without blinking. Repetitive gestures and repetitive conversations were all over the place. As if the train was in some loop and Joel and his kid were imperceptible.

Joel got up and rushed towards the door. He penetrated, intruded, pushed and climbed. He pierced and perforated the blocked passage. He kept on moving ahead. He drilled through one mob after the other but the door was still afar. He elbowed and shouldered the crowd to squeeze forward. But the rabble kept on coming and the door remained ajar but distant. He realized that he was jostling the same set of living dead people every time. This realization sent chillers through his spine. His throat went dry and bitter. The heart plunged in the depths of qualm. However, worry for his boy kept him from passing out. He swiftly turned towards the window and stumbling he keeked outside. All he could see was vast, vacant platform. Even the ‘cold drinkwalla’ had disappeared.

Tripping and almost falling, stomping on feet of people around, he reached the window on the other side. He could see a red train layered with travel muck and dirt on the adjacent track. He went on his knees and screamed for help but his screams of agony never sounded. Tears rolled out of his eyes leaving the tear tracks on his muddy cheeks. His sight was obscured. He wiped his tears with his palms and focused again. There he could see Casper sitting at the window of other train. Casper was sipping from the water bottle hung around his neck. There was a small girl in a yellow frock next to him. Joel was relieved a bit. His upper lip flickered a smile. But then his eyes became heavy and the body became light. He fainted with one had stuck at the grill of the window. The train moved.

 

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The wobble in his head was splitting it into two. There was a frown on his forehead. The eyes had Brownian movements behind the shut eyelids. The smell of the LPG was burning his nostrils. The ‘tik-tik’ of the kitchen lighter was hitting on his ear drums like a loud thud. He wanted to move but he couldn’t; as if each and every muscle fiber of his was paralyzed. Little spittle drooled from his mouth. Some saliva slipped back into the wind pipe causing severe bout of cough. Joel sat up clenching his chest, retching and coughing.

The reality sunk in as the stench whirled up. Blitz- Krieg he got up and ran towards the kitchen. The knobs of the gas burner were horizontal and the gush of the liquid petroleum oozing out of the multiple nozzles made him cover his nose. He switched them off and opened the windows. He ran towards the sound of the ticking lighter. Casper was sitting in the hall crossed legged. Staring out of the window, he was clicking the lighter; as if he was sending some Morse code. Joel snatched it from Casper’s hand and threw it away. The disaster was just averted.

Joel went to the kitchen window and stared at the concrete jungle at the backdrop of clear sky. There was continuous haggling and squabbling in his crowded mind. His muddled thoughts were unable to decipher the reality from dream. On the window pane he could however see the tear tracks on his muddy cheeks. Then, when only the residual taint of that obnoxious gas lingered, Joel checked on Casper and went to take a bath.

Disrobing himself he stood naked in front of the mirror. He admired his thin muscular physique and the appendectomy scar from yester years. The hot tap water was gurgling and splashing in the bath tub. The vapors evaporated the clear mirror image and made it hazy. Joel entered the water which was little more than lukewarm, displacing it as per the Archimedes principle. The snug water dilated his peripheral blood pipes and soon his skin was flushed like a cherry. He slipped under the water and couple of bubbles rose from his nostrils. He soon slipped into the merry drowse.

The casted curses and deputed dreams are difficult to get rid of. The girl in yellow frock kept on coming back to him; each time the vision was clearer. The angular jawline, blue marble eyes and pointed nose. She had some resemblance but to whom? Joel was at the brink of recognition but his lungs were out of air. He had to resurface but could he; he couldn’t. The surface water had morphed into frosted ice slab and the water beneath had turned so cold so grave. His flushed red cherry skin turned blue berry blue now. Devoid of air his lungs were burning. He stroked his hands and legs in vigor. His howl was locked in his chest. He just wanted to break the ice and gasp for air. The water filled lungs of his were running out of time. The numbness was creeping over his desire but he kept on hitting the shelf ice; each jab weaker than the previous. His heart was plunging to die. Embracing the last breath, he wanted to be gone but his instincts didn’t allow him to succumb that easily. He kept on trying but the ice door seemed shatterproof.

When he was almost gone, all alone and forlorn he could see little Casper with a sledge hammer. Casper barely managed to lift it and bang it on the ice slab. No effect. Casper did it two, three times more and the ice piece finally gave away; more so because of the weight of the hammer than the force. The glacier melted to mere a verglas. Joel hurriedly sat up. His lungs sucking each and every ounce of air around. With each breath his ribs protruded and became more conspicuous. The sharp edges of leftover melting ice cut through his pruney skin leaving him scarred. Neither Casper nor the sledge hammer was around; what remained were the gashes which ached.

Something was wrong, strange and freakish. Joel mustered all his courage and got up in the tub. He could see the reddish water draining down the pop drain. Haphazardly he dried himself and got out of the bathroom still drenched and dripping.

 Frenzied he went to Casper’s room and hugging him asked “Are you OK …. ?”

Terrified Casper only nodded in negation and pointed under his bed and said “She did the mess papa. She did it.”

The room was in litter and clutter. The clothes were thrown all over the place. The books were toppled down. The water was splashed on the curtains and the mirror was broken. The neat room was in shambles now. The pillow had multiple stab marks and it bled cotton. Though skeptical Joel bent down to check below the bed. His pupils dilated when he saw the girl sobbing and crying incessantly. Whimpering she said “He did the mess papa. He did it.” A hollow, maniacal laugh followed.

Joel recoiled like the blowback of the rifle and banged his head on the side board. Dizzy, he got up. His gawk ricocheted in the entire room but never met Casper’s eyes. He picked a set of clothes from the lying mess.

 “Get ready Casper, quickly get ready We are going to your Aunt’s place.” Ordered Joel sternly.

The clothes were colourful; an orange jump suit, a white T- shirt and a blue cap….!

 

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Casper was sitting next to his father, seat belt right across his chest. His feet barely touched the floor but he emulated his father. When his father accelerated, Casper pressed his right foot and when the gear box shifted the gear; Casper pressed his left foot. When the speed of the car decreased, he thumbed his right foot in the middle. Each time the shoe squeaked and sparked. Joel was in perpetual right incline, spiraling down the merry-go-round corridor of the parking lot. With moist palms Joel controlled the steering. Circumference after circumference they hovered but the only exit tangential was 2B. Fear gripped Joel’s heart. Bend after bend, kink after kink only exit, he could see was 2B. The frustrated mind and tired body gave up latter; the overheated engine yanked and pushed first, forcing Joel to take the exit.

Joel vaguely sensed what would ensue next. He looked at his left. Casper was gone. He wailed and cried in sorrow. “Why me?….ahhhh!….what have I done?....Why Casper?” He shouted. With head hung down he sobbed inconsolably. His shouts of peril never escaped the closed window shield. Sadness throttled him. No ray of hope or silver lining but a beaming headlight bashed through his windshield. He shadowed his eyes with the palms to get a better glimpse. There was a red car right in front of his. Casper was sitting on the back-seat sipping from the water bottle hung around his neck. The girl in the yellow frock was sitting on the front passenger seat. Annie was behind the wheel scowling at him. The girl had uncanny resemblance to Annie; angular jawline, blue marble eyes and pointed nose. Their eyes met and a silent glance spoke thousands of words.

’Bright exterior, dark interior. I fell for your rugged roughness but little did I knew that it was nothing but shallow macho-ism. Others got flowers, I got bruises and aches. In pain I cried when you were in the arms of the lust. The happiest moment in my life was then, when I got Casper but you snatched it too. You snatched motherhood from me and reduced me to a mere breast-feeding nurse. Today was the day 6 years ago when I was half dead half alive wriggling in agony. I was 22 weeks pregnant, only this time you knew it was a girl and it was well ahead of legal age for termination. Under the pretense of aid, you brought a quack. He manipulated my womb and I started bleeding. Bed- sheets, blankets all soaked red but you didn’t budge. You despised women as for you they were only a container for your ejaculate. Pale and wilted I lied on the bed looking at you; still searching for some compassion in your eyes. There was none. Then, when you were sure that I would succumb, you lifted me and took me to hospital. I fought for my life for two days and alas I gave up. You would pay for your sins Mr. Joel. I curse you.’ These were the words unspoken but not unheard.

Life is the biggest patron of arrogance, but under the shadow of an adversity like death very few excel. Those diabolic and demonic perish.

Joel fumingly said “If I have killed you once then I might as well kill you twice, this time with my bare hands.”

Saying this he unbuckled the seat belt and opened the door. He tried to get out of the car but he couldn’t. Molten thick tar started rising from the floor fixing his feet firmly. Joel couldn’t move. The fumes of toxic tar started asphyxiating him and the hot vapors scalded his body. The wildness in his eyes was now humbled down and domesticated. With each inch of rising tar, the suffering and hurt increased exponentially. The face scalded and water bubbles appeared on his skin due to heat. The rising gob busted the bubbles and Joel was excoriated. Neck deep in the tar yet his hands fling-ed in the air, trying to grasp at whatever he could so as to pull himself up. Joel yelled until his voice was hoarse and then mute when the black lava burnt his tongue. The same tongue which only knew how to abuse was now charred. The black devil stopped escalating leaving the eyes open to witness the horror. Joel stared at Annie. He had fright in his eyes. His hands fluttered like a flag does on a windy night. Annie stared back remorselessly. The flapping of the hands eventually ceased.

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The scene was sealed with yellow police ribbons. The melting tar dribbled on the floor drop by drop admixed with the gore. Casper sat on the pavement at a distance, broken forever. Beside him sat his childless aunt. She knew she would fix him right.

 

Reverse..

Her melancholic eyes had so many questions. The questions were known but answers unknown. With brittle heart and fragile hopes, she remained seated in the doctor’s chamber. Crumpled in her hand was the list of all the queries she had to ask about her ailing father. The poem which she had read in the red book when she was studying literature a decade ago kept on coming back to her. The gel pen got paralyzed in her hand and the ink blot swelled and left a halo.

‘She was dressed in white

And she had tears in her eyes.

He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

But this happens when someone dies.’

She kept on consoling her. He is still there and he was.

“If a man has lived his life with dignity and if at all it is his time to go, then so be it with dignity.”

“Is there any chance to help him? This is so excruciating.” She asked with a lump in her throat.

“He is critically placed and his prognosis is extremely guarded. Something can happen as and when we are talking or this might just linger awhile before the untoward event occurs. He is in a limbo right now.” Said the face behind the mask.

“You have to save him come what may.” Demanded she.

“We do not have a magic wand. We can try and we will. It is his response that matters. His body has to kick in.” said the medico with a grin.

“When will he show any signs of improvement”?

“We have to talk about him in sessions. How is he right now. How he is after 4 hours so on and so forth. Unfortunately, we do not have the liberty to talk about what we would be doing tomorrow or day after.” be done tomorrow or day- after."

“Why is he requiring so much support? When will he get better?” asked the impatient.

“We have to give time. If you get your hand fractured. You have to keep it in plaster for at least 6 weeks. If you don’t give it rest it would pain. The house of cards crumble even if couple of cards slip away.” Said the healer.

“He is just 65, 65 is no age to be that serious. Also, if he has a problem in his heart then why the other organ systems are getting affected.” Reasoned she.

“Well he has been extremely sick since early morning today. Since then the routine of the entire family has gone for a toss. So, if this can happen to us when a family member gets sick, you can imagine if one organ system gets affected in the body then all others will get affected in some or the other way. We are at the mercy of time.” For the first time ever the doctor showed a hint of compassion; so far he had feigned the straight face well.

“But he was all fine yesterday!” explained she still in disbelief.

“Yes, his biological age is 65, that is as per the documentation, but his physiological age due to wear and tear of the various life processes might be more than that. Like if I have bought a car 2 years ago but if I have drove it for lakhs of kilometres; you can understand the effect on the motor.” Explained the man.

“What do you mean?”

“Our body tries to keep everything in equilibrium. When the things go beyond one sees flurry of symptoms. It is like suddenly half of your staff leaves and the remaining half is compensating. They will compensate but only up till a certain extent. Finally, they would give up and everything will tumble upon.” Explained he.

“How come suddenly the tables turn?” asked she lisping for the first time in the conversation.

“Unfortunately subversion takes less time than conservation. It is easy to destroy than to build. The wind changes the direction at its own whim. But we will try to turn the waves.”

“You will try everything possible right?” she pleaded with fingers interlaced into one another.

Yes, we will try everything possible. We are optimist while treating but pessimistic while prognosticating. It is a steep walk ahead and we need to understand the unfortunate situation on the table.” He explained with a barb of pain which he himself felt within.

“Painfully he will leave us now? Not much of a fight left I guess.” she suddenly felt like creeping towards the doom’s day. She asked exasperatedly.

“It is not like that. Whatever has to be done as per the protocols, we have meticulously followed.”

“But it is painful to see him like this. like a howl stacked in the chest.”

“He is beyond pain, that much I can assure you.”

“Is there anything more? He is so much in pain.” she helplessly inquired.

“If a man has lived his life with dignity and if at all it is his time to go, then so be it with dignity.”

Her melancholic eyes had so many questions. The questions were known but answers unknown. With brittle heart and fragile hopes, she was sitting in the doctor’s chamber making the list of all the queries she had to ask about her ailing father. The poem which she had read in the red book when she was studying literature a decade ago kept on coming back to her. The gel pen got paralyzed in her hand and the ink blot swelled and left a halo.

‘She was dressed in white

And she had tears in her eyes.

He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

But this happens when someone dies.’

She kept on consoling her. He is still there and he was.

LIFE AND DEATH ARE THE AMBIGRAMS OF OUR VERY EXISTENCE. 
DO READ THE ARTICLE IN THE REVERSE ORDER FOR AMBIGRAM EFFECT.