The Shore and the Waves

The sea waves hit the shore like never before. They reminded of shattering glass, of broken hearts and of the storms of life. The miracles were often too less in this part of the country, but they did happen, time and again. Last year, this place was among the top tourists spots around the world, and that made everyone proud. There was a festival held to celebrate the place’s 89th spot in the list. This happens a lot here, we do find ways to make ourselves happy. This time, it was the 89th place in a list produced by the US, enough to tell you that called for a celebration.

But how? This place was one of the most noisy, disturbed, dark places ever, Matthew thought, as he took a sip of coconut water he longed to throw away, but couldn’t bring himself up to it. The clouds didn’t seem white anymore, the sky wasn’t blue. The sun came and tanned the skins but never felt pleasant. The winds blew by his ear and went past mocking him of his loneliness. The beaches were always empty, though you could see a crowd swarming at or around it. The boats, the dolphins, the adventure sports as some might say, all just outer appearances to save what was left of Goa. Nothing made sense anymore. Tourists came and went, and they seemed as if they enjoyed a lot, but who could tell about a heart that had sat at one corner of almost every Goan beach and yearned for someone he could never get back, perhaps? The world seemed so joyous from outside, people were so happy, he too smiled at them, only his inner world had been destroyed.

He never lost hope, though there were times when he realized he was just being stubborn. He was never anyone’s favourite, especially after his parents kicked him out of his house when he decided he won’t go in the family business, and then one day his girlfriend dumped him. These were old stories though. Now he was 40, and as he saw it, he was more wrecked, wretched, and hurt. But he felt this was the last time he would ever be hurt. People don’t get hurt after reaching a certain age. They get used to it one day. He would sit under a tree, drinking his wine and looking at people and trying to guess if they were actually happy, or just came here to wipe off their pain they had back in their cities. His accessories included a loose shirt, shorts, a bottle of wine, and a notebook and a pen. He never loved writing, never even liked it, but he did write letters. Because, he never lost hope.

Dear Alan,

Time is such a bully. I never thought I would one day sit like this and write something to you. I thought you would come to see me. It’s been five years since you left the city you said would never leave. It’s been five years since we promised we would open our business here, and you would write a book on your life here. How’s the US? I know you’re busy there. Your job, journalism and all that. But I always sensed life in you, that you would leave your job and stay here, where your heart actually was. 

I am alone now. I hardly had any friends who never stabbed me in the back. You were my only friend, and two years on the wild beaches of Goa where we would spend our time bird-watching and talking about life and fulfillment of our souls had made me sort of a writer. I had decided I would write the letter only when I would feel the urge to. Now that I am writing, expect more from me. The storm of emotions isn’t one to calm easily, for it would actually be emotionless then if it did. 

I had thought of asking a lot of things. I forgot all of them. But I don’t mind. I think this letter was meant to be like this. This has its own essence, and hopefully it isn’t cliched. How’s your work going on by the way? Just now the thought struck that you actually might be working on our book there, in your beautiful apartment at peace, the only thing you missed when you were here. 

Do reply soon. I’ll be waiting.

Matthew.

Sand covered his feet and hid them. The sun was ready to set and he looked at some children running towards the sea, yelling. It was that time of the day again, when he had to go back to his home, to his wife whose very first question would pierce right through his heart. ‘Did he write back?’, she would ask. He wouldn’t say anything. An empty look at his wife would tell her everything, and she would regret asking the question. But in vain. She would repeat it the next day, for she loved him, and her husband’s happiness was the only thing that mattered to her, ever.

Matthew always wondered why she married him, when she could have married a handsomer guy, with riches to give her what she deserved. She ended up being with a loner, and a part of himself always felt guilty. He wasn’t rich, he was unemployed, his days would spend on the beaches and after Alan left, his world torn apart. He wasn’t someone girls would swoon over. He was lean, short, and usually kept beard. But Nicole, his wife, told him everyday she loved him because he loved her more. And she was always okay with his life, and wanted to heal him. She worked as a teacher in a school for poor kids, and was also interested in handicraft, which garnered lots of tourist attractions. She believed in Jesus, and thanked everyday for every day, and the beautiful place they got to live in.

Her husband went to the washroom and she kept his notebook on her bed, then turned to look at the waves that crashed in to the shore and screamed in joy. The sun peeped from the horizon and many came by the shore to capture the last glimpse of the burning star on their cameras. Light wind blew and Goan songs were being played somewhere. A smile came on her lips and she hummed the song, while watching the birds flying above the sea, and the joyous murmurs from the people at the beach made her feel alive, like always.

It was midnight, fortunately the time when Matthew felt better, for the coolness of the atmosphere reminded him of his mother’s hands that stroke his hair once. Nicole was happier to see her husband better. He would smile, talk to her, kiss her, sometimes make love to her, and eventually would sit in one corner and would watch the darkness at the sea. He would get a bottle of whiskey and would try to guzzle it down in one go. This was a moment when he really liked that he was married, without any feeling of guilt, as Nicole would always be there to hold him before he drank more than he should. She wouldn’t say anything. She would simply take the bottle gently from his hands, and he wouldn’t protest, realizing the next drop would cause havoc within him. She knew him more than he knew himself, but the weight of the pain his heart carried was something only he understood.

Just as it happens everywhere, there were people who mocked him of his condition, and said he missed a guy like a lover, even when he was married. A few infuriated him by reaching him and telling him he should take a divorce because he was a gay. He would start telling her that she did arouse him every night, and he loved her, but would stop before he could even start telling, knowing there was no need, and eventually they would start commenting on his wife. He once pondered over this, and talked to Nicole and asked her to tell him if she thought the same too about his sexual orientation. Though he was glad she didn’t think of him like that, he often wondered why he was so fixated at Alan. When the thought would start to bother him like a fly in a closed room, he would conclude that he would never know. Only God knew this and it didn’t really matter as well.

The waves made for the background score of his life – unsettled, angry, crying in vain. As the minutes went by, silence consolidated itself in the atmosphere. That was the moment when Nicole saw something twinkling in her spouse’s left eye. A moment later, she successfully identified it as a tear drop, and her hand went to cover her mouth as she sobbed in pain. Matthew heard her and wiped his tears. He wondered if she understood what this friendship meant to him. He gestured her to bring his notebook. The only way he expressed his love was silence. Once a talkative guy and an intelligent one too had made silence a medium to convey his emotions. Strangely, her wife found that more romantic.

She handed him his notebook, and he gently took it without looking at him. Waves were still his favourite thing to watch. He stared and stared, and then looked down at the notebook to open it and started writing.

Dear Alan,

I am sitting by the same tree at my home where you used to sit and talk about your goals and ambitions. As I see the waves taking out their grudge at the shore, a thought crosses my mind. We all are the same. All the people, things, animals, the nature, rejoice and sing in joy and mourn and wail when sad. We all have emotions, and it’s God’s way to show us that we are not alone. I talk to them. I hear them. Perhaps the waves too are waiting for the sands of the shore to immerse with them. 

I see you have changed. Now the winds hail the loneliness of my soul, the tides dance when they see they are not the only ones gloomy, and I see people talking to their colleagues, friends, and I have started to envy them. Seems my safety days are over, really. I see myself getting into brawls for no reason. I have started talking to Jesus, thinking He might help me. Do you remember you brought a DVD of Winter Light? We watched that Bergman movie and what the priest felt in the movie, I’m feeling that now – God’s silence. 

Nothing could help me now, my friend. I was lonely, I am lonely, and even though my wife tries her best to pull me out of that situation, I end up hurting her, which I regret everyday. I can’t go on like this. I’ve been writing to you since a long time. But I don’t think you have enough time to even hold a single envelope with my name on it. I still understand that you are busy and progressing. That’s what friends do, sacrifice their feelings, want to see their friend grow. I feel sick these days, a lot. Nicole says I am thinking too much, and that has taken a toll on me. I think it’s just the weather. You might remember how you had to spend a week on bed due to fever when you were here. I think this one will last a week too. 

The only thing I wish now is peace, and not a single thing more, not a single thing less.

Matthew. 

………………………………………………

The outside of his apartment displayed a beautiful view of the morning where he could see the cars lined up on the road and the footpaths crowded by walkers and joggers. The factories honked their sirens and satisfaction prevailed in the atmosphere. Everything was calm and happening, and a drive to go out and live the day always danced inside. There was nothing much to worry about, but though life seemed flowing like a pleasant river on its way, how can life be life without hardships?

He stood 6 ft tall, and had perfect, thick, black hair and a stocky build, but with complications inside. His stomach always caused problems, and he never admitted it but he always kept the glass of whiskey in his hand back when the stomach-ache would appear. That was the first thing he would do. He wanted to go to a doctor but he took that on his ego. His colleagues would often praise him for his looks and girls would look at him, and if they knew he had some problems which could be related to liver, that would be a disastrous turn off.

He looked himself in the mirror and smiled. He wouldn’t age anytime soon, he thought. 39 isn’t old. He walked back to his bed and lay down, contemplating about the day to come. Newspapers lay beside him on the bedside. He looked at them and that reminded him to go outside and have a look of the beautiful New York City. He put on a t shirt and dragged himself to stand up. Morning air was something he would never compromise on. He went ahead to unlock the door and inhaled deeply as he stepped out. The sharp rays of the sun fell right at his face, bringing him another smile. The atmosphere carried a minty fragrance. The delightful aroma of nature filled his nose.

His eyes fell on his mail box, which had two or three envelopes peeping out. He walked towards the box, took those envelope out, and regretted doing so the very next moment. His pupils dilated, a sigh escaped his lips, and he looked up at the sky in disbelief. Something watery came up at the corners of his eyes, and he couldn’t believe it were his tears, the tears that had been inside for years. The letter had the alphabets that formed up a name he had been seeing for a long time, almost everyday – Matthew Cordo.

He had always known the fact that Matthew was constantly trying to talk to him, but the life in New York was so lively, complete and ecstatic that he wanted to live in the present. He had decided not to reply to any of Matthew’s messages because that would weaken him, and somehow bring forth his hidden desire to go back to Goa and live all those moments again. He thought that ignoring the letters would send Matthew a message, but the letters kept coming still, and made him wonder why even after that he wasn’t annoyed with Matthew. He wanted to tear the letter away, but somehow that couldn’t happen, and he found himself taking the envelope inside, tearing it instead, and reading the letter.

……………………………………………………………………

He didn’t sleep that afternoon. The living room was a large one, with a big portrait of him hanging on the wall on one side, that would tell people of his status and achievements. He held a certificate in that picture, and at the bottom, in big font, was printed ‘ALAN ROBINSON Senior Correspondent, For News’. Darkness prevailed in the room. All of a sudden, rain had arrived. The raindrops that crept up the glass of the windows were the only thing that seemed pleasant to him. The rest was all gloomy. Life of New York was the same. It kept running, just like time. His had become a broken clock. He looked around the room and noticed the futility of the big house he had. His limbs were jammed, and he preferred sitting where he was – by the portrait on a chair, facing the rain. He kept brooding over the situation he was in. He replayed all the moments he had lived in Goa, and regretted that he didn’t let a single picture to be taken. Somehow, back then, he did have in mind the prospect of coming to the US and never leaving. He loved his life here, but had hidden the love for the life there, where he had gone after his breakup for a vacation. He couldn’t admit that at first, but faces of Matthew and Nicole kept showing up in his mind. He actually never forgot them. He had tried his best to avoid letters, phone calls from unknown numbers, social media to an extent, all because he feared he might bump into Matthew or Nicole or somebody else who knew them, and that would compel him to go back to India.

The letter said, along with other things, that Matthew had been sick for a long time. Had it been somebody else, Alan would have easily presumed that the guy was faking. It wasn’t the same with Matthew, who never lied. He felt restless, and thirst played a part too. He had to force himself to get up from the chair and make his limbs work to make them take him to the kitchen. He staggered, and unwillingly reached the destination. He took a glass and poured himself some water, then took some water again. A long, relaxing sigh and a sip of water afterwards fulfilled him, and when he went out of the bathroom, he was a little bit different.

He didn’t go back to the living room. Instead, he changed his route and proceeded towards his room, which was darker. Immediately, the wardrobe was opened and an opened suitcase was kept on the bed. Then, the clothes were being taken out of the wardrobe, and a smile began to appear around his lips but just then, his eyes fell on a name scribbled on the right door of the wardrobe – SUSAN, it said, and he kept looking at it, until the corners of his eyes went watery all over again.

He met Susan Wilkes through one of his colleagues a year ago. They started going out, having a great time, and they had become great friends. She had always maintained though that they could never be together, despite him telling her a lot of times that he loved her. Once, they got drunk and the room where he was right now became the one where they had sex. Later, when they gained their senses back, Alan had hoped for something but Susan started feeling uncomfortable. She couldn’t face him anymore and all of a sudden, she disappeared one day. It was three months later that he learnt she was marrying someone whom her parents had seen for her. He, with all the grief he had, decided at that moment that he would never marry.

He came back from his train of thoughts and resumed packing. After he was done, a moment of realization froze him. All this while, he had been running from something, and someone he loved. He had prepared himself to be harsh to Matthew, and had hoped the pain would go away someday, and he would forget everything. But pain doesn’t just goes away. It’s like the rain, it keeps coming at you, and finds its place in a pothole in your heart. When the rain is gone, the pain stays in the hole, and comes out to haunt you, torment you, take your peace away, make you wonder things you didn’t wonder or the things you avoided before. Outside it rained heavily, and it would end sometime, but the inner rain, the inner conflict created more disasters than a lightning ever would, than any natural calamity ever would. It was a slow and painful death, coming from all sides to snatch away from you the tranquility of your life.

Alan stared at the clothes piled up in the suitcase. One of them was the shirts he had worn the most in Goa. He had taken it out after five years, and it looked as fresh as it looked back then, or perhaps his eyes had changed, his perspective too. He smiled, tears rolled down his cheeks, then closed the suitcase, then went to grab his phone to check for flights.

…………………………………………………

He had expected it, but sometimes even when you expect something to happen, you are surprised when you see it. It wasn’t the same Goa he had left five years ago. Pretty much was the same, of course, but he could notice the changes and improvements done to the area near the airport. The smell was still the same. Petrichor smelt all around. The rain had followed him here too. All the same greenery, the same markets, the boats, fishes, roads, and the rain. He had booked a cab and sat by the window. He kept changing the sides whenever a familiar place came up. Some of the churches were renovated. Some were the same. He could smell the beaches around. He could smell the sea, the tides, the waves, that had had him years ago, and these smell. the fragrances never left him at the first place. It all seemed real, it all seemed him.

He began sobbing, and his heart felt like a weight on his chest. The scenic beauty were overwhelming, and the nostalgia had taken over him. He could not help but feel the skin of the situation, the city, everything that had once held him and made it difficult for him to leave and forget. All had come back, and it was immersing him again. He was helpless, but perhaps he wanted to be helpless. He was weak, and sometimes, only sometimes, weak is good.

As the car went ahead and the distance to Baga Beach lessened, his heart started pounding more and more. It was like the headlights in the night. He thought he had forgotten the places, landmarks, signs, but as he kept looking at them, they, from the subconscious, started coming ahead, and he could tell at most of the places what would come ahead. A grin came across his lips, and he started laughing in joy. The driver looked at him through the mirror and tried to decipher the reason for the laughter, but gave up the very next moment.

The cab finally reached its destination after a not-so-long trip which amused Alan a lot more than he had expected and wanted to. He paid the driver and stepped out of the car. There  were a few small houses lined up in the vicinity. They were all similar. He looked at them and reminded himself that there used to be only one house like that, and it was Matthew’s. He remembered it was the one closest to the sea. Now, as he walked up the rocks to go towards the beach, he could see a couple of houses nearby. There wasn’t just one house nearest to the sea, but three. His mind got puzzled, but he didn’t waste a moment to walk ahead and look at the houses closely. He could hear his heart beat louder and louder as he proceeded closer to the houses. The waves roared, the weather was cloudy, and lightning happened almost every second in the sky. The winds brushed against his hair, and he had to force himself a little bit to keep up with his pace. He reached the first house with a single door, and called a name. No one answered. He hesitated for a moment, then entered.

The very first thing he saw was a table, on which a basket was kept. There were old pictures hung on the wall. The house was small. The kitchen was too. There were some clothes hung on the hooks on the wall. Cold wind blew and it reached inside effortlessly. Alan felt home. He looked around and saw some pictures on the wall. He went closer and had a look at them.

The first picture showed a man with a lady. They both sat by the shore. One picture showed the same man with a big fish in his arms. Another picture showed both of them in their wedding attires. One picture, hung a little aloof from the rest of them, showed the man sitting on a bed, smiling.

‘Matthew’, Alan sighed. Tears rolled down his cheek.

He immediately looked around the house. His heart was filled with joy, he started whistling, and singing, then he yelled names  of Matthew and Nicole. Then he realized his friend was sick, so he either must be at a clinic. He still walked further inside to the other rooms. The next room had a huge pile of clothes, and on one side was the bed. He looked at the bed and memories came back. He used to laugh and sing and the trio – Matthew, Nicole and him, used to play cards here. They would teach him Goan songs and would talk about music, movies and life. Theirs had become a small world, which they loved and didn’t regret at all. It was all peaceful, and joyous.

He went back to the previous room, and looked back at the pictures, when suddenly he heard footsteps approaching. He couldn’t tell if the footsteps were meant for the same house he was in or the other ones. But he kept on reliving his memories through the pictures. The next moment, a woman stepped in, dressed in black. He saw her, and immediately was taken aback. She was beautiful, and had long, black hair. Her eyes were puffy, and skin was dull, until a stream of tears flowed down from her left eye.

‘Nicole…how are you?’, Alan asked hesitantly.

‘How are you, Alan?’

Alan came closer to her, and he wanted to ask her about her condition, but perhaps he knew already, and he wished he was innocent enough to not know the reason of the sadness she wore at the moment. He was struggling with words and the only thing breaking the silence between them was the loud waves and the thunders in the sky. He wanted to hug her to comfort her, but that seemed awkward given that they were meeting after five years. And just then…

‘He always remembered you. He waited for you till his last breath.’

Alan began shaking his head in disbelief, then his eyes turned full of tears. He sat down on the floor, digging his head in his palms. Nicole grabbed him and hugged him. He started wailing and shouting, beating himself, slapping himself. Nicole held him tighter, but he broke free and kept on. Cursing himself, he started pulling his hair. Nicole grabbed him again, and began crying too.

‘I am not a good person. I’m a coward, the most selfish man, that’s what I am’, he said.

It wasn’t easy for him. Nicole told him he waited till the last breath. He recalled all those moments when he could have replied and gone back. He would’ve then seen him laugh, gone to fishing with him, they would have dived in the sea together. He would’ve played cards together, gone to the market together, learnt from him, would’ve inspired him, as he himself was inspired. But the thing with life is, when it chooses to displease you, it chooses the worst way possible. He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t at fault, but his instincts screamed and cursed him. He was a self-centred person who loved his comfort zone, and that cost him his inner comforts for life now.

Nicole had just come from the funeral, and she went to the bedroom, closed the room from inside, and slept. Alan remembered she used to say sleep is the best way to forget things, to kill the time. That day it meant to be a joke, and he had never imagined he would see her apply that quote of hers like this. He looked at the pictures again, and sighed deeply to acknowledge the bitter fact that he would have to live with this regret for the rest of his life. He went out of the house. It had started raining, everywhere. The waves crashed against the shore, the thunder wailed, the lightning sobbed. The gloom took over and made the clouds dark.There was emptiness, a hollowness, a life that couldn’t be a life anymore. The waves always meet the shore, somehow. They rage, they cry, they regret, but they always have the  fortune to meet the shores and get immersed in their sands. Matthew had always said nature is us, and we all are the same. We too can meet like shore and waves do. We too, can.

Alan kept thinking about Matthew’s words, and his brisk pace led him nearer and nearer to the sea. Agony and joy are all the parts of the life, and while we don’t get to choose the pain most of the times, some of the times, we are in charge, and one mistake leads to a deep regret, and that can scar us right down to our souls. That regret is a reflection of your wrong actions, which may last for the rest of the life, which may even lessen the life.

And sometimes, it may immediately end the life.

© Shahrukh Jamal

Mother

SHARE IF YOU LOVE YOUR MOM. Saksham looked at the picture posted by someone on Facebook and muttered gibberish and turned the laptop off directly. He couldn’t see why people had to post such things. He slid the laptop in the bag and kept it on one side of the table. Then he lay on the messy bed, but he couldn’t sleep.

It was 1 am in the night when he grabbed his smartphone and switched to Facebook again. The lights of the room were off and the only thing visible in the room was his brightened face. He scrolled through his news feed for a moment, then stopped.

SHARE IF YOU LOVE YOUR MOM.

The post was there again, in front of his eyes. The pink-coloured thick, bold Albertus font with white background, and beneath it 1.4K reactions of people. He kept looking at the post for minutes, then he pressed like and shared it instantly.

A surge of relief went in his veins. Unburdened now, he could sleep. If only he could share it just like his friends did – genuinely. He did love his mom, he thought. When she accused him of having an affair with his sister, just because she was close to him and not his elder brother, he had been able to suppress his anger and kept silent as she told him gently to leave her. He listened to her like an obedient child, the sophistication of an elite-born kid who would die but won’t eat food with his hands. He was gentle to her. Yes, he loved her. Another day, she called him a moron, just because he accidentally bumped into her while she was busy playing Candy Crush on her phone as she stood by the door. He didn’t believe when she said that, but admitted that she’s a mom after all. Moms are supposed to be loved, moms can never be wrong, moms are God on earth. Yes, so what if she called him a moron? She didn’t kill him, did she? Yes, he loved her. He had a point, moms do get agitated. No issues.

He didn’t sit at the dinner table tonight. His sister was ordered to give him the food in his room and don’t close the door after entering. She was expected back in thirty seconds from his room upstairs to the dinner table. While Saksham enjoyed his aloo paranthas in his bed quietly, he could overhear how according to his mother his sister Aparna had failed to return in time because she let him feel his hands as she delivered him food, and they even kissed and sucked each other’s lips before he let her go. That detailing though, Saksham thought her mother could have been a great writer. It wasn’t always a kiss between him and his sister, as her mother told. It was either sucking the lips, or biting them. Sometimes tongue-to-tongue followed by fondling. No wonder she was having sleepless nights, Saksham sighed in disgust.

‘Appu, why do you think you’re ugly You’re pretty!’ The mother did think Aparna was pretty.

‘No, ma! I am not. You’re saying this to make me feel better.’

‘Come on, beta! Don’t you think she’s pretty, Saksham?’

Saksham was opening the can of jam to begin his breakfast soon when he turned his head towards his mother and then his sister, then he nodded and began, ‘Are you mad? You’re pretty. What do you want your skin color to be, white? You’re prettier than your school friends.’

He said that and smiled, then a look went to his mother, who should be happy with his son that he motivated her sister. Well, she raised her eyebrows and left him almost peeing in his pants. Her lips trembled with rage. Aparna saw them and startled. The next moment, mother stood and banged her hands on the table, then yelled with what could have been her full energy.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t sleep with her!’

Aparna started crying and immediately stood up to leave. Her mother turned and kicked her butt. She fell on the ground and cried more as she heard her mother say ‘disgusting’ softly. Saksham saw all this with eyes and mouth wide open.

By the night, it was usually normal. Mother would watch TV, which she watched anyway all day in the loudest volume. She would be immersed in her daily soaps, and Saksham believed that’s where she got all the crap in her mind. That was her escape, and her kids’ too. They would assemble at one room and sit and dig their faces in their phones, yet communicating through silence. Many times, the modern technology would come to their rescue. They couldn’t talk much in front of the mother, so they would ping each other on messengers, telling about their day and how their crush looked at them and gave them something to fantasize.

These were the moments when the kids, especially the boy, missed the father. His father worked in a bank, and was notorious in his mother’s eyes because he spent a lot of money on his children’s wishes, but not on hers. The kids would want to go to an amusement park? Alright, here’s the money. They want to hang out with friends? Alright, take the money. They want to join extra-curricular classes? Alright, take as much money as you want. Well, why? Mother always recalled all the moments when her husband snubbed her for the kids. She wants to buy the most expensive necklace in the city – no; she wants all the money to buy things her niece has got so that she is not the only one to show off – no money for you; she would keep all the money with her as the husband may use them on prostitutes – what? Disgusting!

Her husband surely didn’t love her, she decided. Though, surprisingly, he did have some values left, maybe that’s why he loved his children. But he didn’t love her. He was bored, and wanted another woman, then another. He could die in hell. Such thoughts would bring an inner peace to her mind. A smirk would appear on her lips, followed by its disappearance in the very next moment.

 

‘Wake up, wake up, you disgrace!’

Saksham woke up to kicks at his hip. His mother stood there with a broom in her hand and rage in her eyes. He looked at her straight in her eyes and managed to utter ‘No school for a month, ma. Exams have just ended’, a moan and he lay again.

‘Wake up, I say. Do something useful with your life. I know you’re going to fail. That’s how you hurt your mother. You were such a bright kid, but now, only internet, girls, you’ll be just like your father. I don’t remember the last time I went to your parent-teacher meeting. I feel ashamed to go with you. Wake up!’ She kicked again.

This time, Saksham yanked himself and hurtled towards the washroom, and then locked himself inside and started sobbing. Aparna saw him going like that as she lifted the fry pan to turn the omelet. Mother came to the kitchen and saw her looking towards the washroom, then slapped her on the head and gestured to do her work.

‘You don’t need to care about him much. I see you are always interested in where he is, where he is going and what he is doing. He’s your brother, okay? Treat him like a brother.’

‘Ma, I know he is my brother.’

‘Oh, right, that’s the cover you use for your ridiculous activities with him, right? You’re 17. You shouldn’t spend much time with him. You should tell him to stay away from you. Behave like you’re his grown-up sister.’

‘Ma, I’m telling you…’

‘You don’t need to tell me anything. I have seen how he hugs you, and how you hug him back. I had never imagined such shameful things would happen in my home. When I’ll die, then you can do whatever you want. Till then, give some peace to my mind. It’s my fault. I wanted a girl. Your dad said he was fine with a boy, but I didn’t listen. This is why you should sometimes listen to your husband, no matter how big jerks they are. Sometimes they are right too.’ A hiatus, ‘Don’t be with him much. I’ll have my eyes on you constantly.’

 

……………………………………………

 

The clock showed 11:30 in the night. The beds were ready. Saksham was in his room lying on his bed with his phone in hands. There was a knock and then the door opened. Aparna came in and sat beside him. He looked at her, knowing the feeling is mutual, then nodded to ask her what’s up.

‘Ma told me to stay away from you’, Aparna said in a low voice.

‘You must not listen to her.’

‘I know, but you know how it is.’

‘Damn, we’re siblings. How on earth can she think all this about us?’

Aparna sighed. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here’, she said.

‘She’s watching TV?’

‘Yeah!’

‘Alright, we both must fight against this. She can’t torture us like this.’

‘I know, but what can we do? She’s our mother after all.’

‘Yes, one who can think such rubbish about her children.’

‘Do you have anything in mind?’

‘That’s the sad part’, Saksham sighed, ‘not really.’

The door opened in a jolt. Saksham and Aparna turned their gaze towards it. To their horror, they saw their mother standing at the door. Her hair was messy. She had worn a night gown which had its colors faded. In her right hand was a knife, and her left fist was clinched tightly. She looked at her children with a rage that had made her eyes turn red and watery. She walked slowly towards the bed. Saksham and Aparna stared at her in fear. She raised the hand with the knife and suddenly she started crying.

‘I’m ashamed you both are my children. I’m ashamed I didn’t hear my husband the only time he made sense. You both kill me every day!’

She lunged towards them, and it was at the nick of time that they managed to dive and save themselves. She fell on bed and yelled and stood up again; they both had run out of the room by then. She followed them to the dining table. Saksham had crept by the wall behind the curtains, and Aparna had crouched beneath the table, only to be seen by her mother immediately.

‘You’, she yelled and Aparna screamed back in horror. She pushed her mother and managed to come out from beneath the table to run to the kitchen. Her mother lay on the floor and started weeping.

‘Why, God? Why? What had I done to deserve such children? What had I done to deserve such a husband? Why my children can’t be good to their mother and listen to them once? Why?’

‘Because you’re sick!’

Saksham revealed himself now and stood near the dining table. Her mother looked at him with teary eyes.

‘Just look around and see what you are doing to us. You’re always suspicious, I don’t know why. Your mind has filth, and that’s how you can think of such ridiculous accusations. Where do you learn all this from? Those silly daily soaps that you watch, right? You’re unbelievable, mother. You don’t know your children; you haven’t met any of my teachers since years. I can tell you don’t know what I study, what my favourite subject is, who my friends are. All you want to know about and hear me admit is that I go and sleep with girls, including my sister. Mother, we have always craved your love, since childhood. But all we have seen you doing is yelling at that and then us, and I hope you remember you abused me too. Why everything is so negative for you, mother? Why not for once you can trust and support your children? Why?’

The mother stared at Saksham, and then she looked at Aparna, who was standing by the kitchen door, sobbing. She stood up, the knife still in her hands, and took slow, measured steps towards Saksham.

‘How dare you talk to me like that? I have sacrificed my happiness for you, and you say I don’t support you? And yes, I don’t go to your school and I won’t, ever. You are a disgrace and you must feel that every day. You and your sister, you both are…’ she resumed weeping again.

‘You both can’t torture me. You think you will win. You will not. This is my home, and you can’t bring filth here. I loved both of you very dearly and could do anything that you’ve asked me to, but this is madness. It’s a sin. I can’t let this happen in my home. It’s my fault. It’s the biggest mistake of my life, thinking that a girl will understand and love me more. I was too naïve in motherhood. I became so weak then. If only I had known I was going to give birth to sinners like you. It’s my fault. I ruined everything.’

‘No, ma, you…’ Saksham was interrupted by a horrible sight that made him leave a gasp. Behind him, Aparna screamed and began wailing. The knife that their mother had was dug deep in her forehead, to make the biggest and a fatal wrinkle there. Blood spilled out from her forehead and soon the floor was red with the pool of her blood. She had stabbed herself with absolute vigour. Blood came out from her mouth too. By then, Saksham and Aparna had grabbed her and Saksham made her lie on her lap. It was only a few seconds later that he saw those eyes that had rage ones turn lifeless. The face turned expressionless, as if oblivion to all that occurred in her mind. The limbs were loose now, and blood was all over her face and on the neck, and the kids were soaked in that as well.

Neither of the child had the courage to take out the knife that was dug deep in the forehead. Aparna grabbed her mother and hugged her, Saksham had sat back. She yelled the cries of ‘why’ twice and began crying louder and louder. Saksham’s eyes were fixed at the body of the woman he tried to love so much but couldn’t, and the only thing he felt was fear. For a moment, the feeling of relief surged inside him, but he realized a major part of him wanted to undo this mishap. He stood up and went two steps back. Aparna was there in front of his eyes, crying and hugging her mother everytime she saw her messy face. The blood was spilled all around. He felt a sudden uneasiness within himself, which grew immediately to its highest point.

Saksham screamed in agony and started wailing.

 

The Insomniac

I discovered I was suffering from insomnia six restless nights ago while I was watching my favourite talk-show which was my pill to dozing off for six months. I’d usually write till 12, and then half-an-hour stroll where I’d think what to write further would pass to make me switch the idiot box on at 12:30 for The Daisy Dale Talk Show. Daisy Dale, an old widow, actually not so old, she still looks attractive, with black hair (perhaps dyed) and short dress would interview some celebrity every day. I loved the show for two reasons, the cute Daisy and the good thing it wasn’t like the usual talk-show that aired only on weekends.

Anyways, the insomnia breached my sense of creativity and I started losing words. I am a writer by profession. I have written ten novels so far, complete fiction, some had drama, some had brutality, some had action, and all had sex. In return, I got lots of fame and respect. Outside my town, the town of Biston, hardly anyone knows I’m an accomplished writer, with my Facebook page celebrating a new 50000-fans record. The reason may be that this hardly goes with my looks, and my age, which is just twenty eight. My wife used to tell me it was the result of my hard work. I could never explain to her there wasn’t any hard work in finding words really. They just came to me like thoughts. The fame and all were the things I got with pure luck.

But for six days, I struggled for words.

Kathy (I disliked calling her real name ‘Katherine’) was my wife. She died just a month ago when a huge iron rod she had held to hit me with slipped from her not-so-well-gripped hands and fell on her right toe, which made her lose her balance and somehow she fell backwards to roll down the basement stairs where she died. I miss her. I miss how she’d proudly hold my novel and run her index finger over the etched letters at the bottom of the cover which read Edward Robinson. That was me, and I miss our sensuous nights too.

‘Ed’, she’d whisper and sometimes moan while we made out.

That whisper was one of the things that used to keep me away from sleep. It would haunt me. Though I didn’t record any paranormal activity since a month, or didn’t believe in such things, the sound of pages turning and the switch of the table lamp switching on and then switching off fifteen minutes later that came from the basement horrified me so much that instantly I would feel the sleep coming in my eyes. This would happen between 3 to 3.30 am. The next morning when I’d muster courage to peep inside the basement where once she’d succumbed to her head injuries, I’d find no book there, just rags and trash and the table lamp would be at its usual place and condition at the far right corner of the room, broken and covered with dust, with its switch and wires all destroyed.

I had started to believe that this was her, trying to meet me, to complete what she had left incomplete. The feeling was petrifying, and I sensed I had been captivated at my home. She was an avid reader, and an even crazier reader of my novels. I loved that. She’d always talk about my characters as if they were real and suggested me ways to help them out their misery.

I was now sure she had some mental disease, and she might be getting epileptic seizures too, else why would she yell at me and hit me severely just to take revenge of the punishment I had given her last night for calling me to bed while I was writing: tying her to the bed and whipping her all night.

My nights would spend in making wrinkles on the bedsheet. I’d roll from side to side, put pillow on my head to cover my ears that had gone tired and scared of the late night lullaby the basement would sing, sometimes I’d scream, but the haunting feeling wouldn’t leave me. Even after switching the fans off and closing all the windows and doors, my hair would be caressed at Death Time Zone (3-3:30) and I’d receive slaps. The next morning, I’d see a mark on my slapped cheek. It all was happening instantly, and gradually, my fear changed into curiousity. If it was her, and I was sure it was her, then surely I’d love to meet her again, and tell her I missed all our moments, all the ones we spent on bed with lust and also the ones where we gave each other wounds and bruises.

I decided to stay courageous one night, though just the thought of it brought piss in my pants but I took ideas from the movies and they tell that in such situations, the poltergeist, or whatever you call it, wants to communicate with you. If it was my wife, we could surely recall our past and have a good chat, and who knows she might surrender herself to me on the bed all over again.

This thought brought an honest giggle.

 

The night had fallen, and it wasn’t the usual night I had been experiencing. Though it had the same eerie sounds and creepy feelings, it now involved me as I moved down the stairs with the torch in my hand, embracing the menacing Death Time Zone. For the first time since it happened, I thanked the sound of the pages and table lamp for keeping me awake. As soon as the clock had banged 3 and echoed, I stepped out of my bed.

I reached down as the wooden planks that comprised the stairs creaked from my weight. The basement was built around 40 years ago when my grandpa bought this home for my father. Since then, it was used as our playroom when the kids came and after we all grew up, it became a trash bin. Now, it was a ghost house.

I slowly crept in, my eyes alert to any sort of movement. A pungent smell had filled the room. The lights were switched on. The legs of the table kept at the very centre were homes of spiders now. Dust particles irritated my skin and my throat was on verge of choking. On the far corner, trash such as old notebooks, broken chairs and other furniture, and a broken lamp were placed. I made slow movements towards the empty table.

‘Hey.’ I spoke, ‘I’m here.’ The tone was joyous, as if ridiculing the poltergeist, or whatever they call it.

No reply. The atmosphere was creepily silent, as if the nature itself had gone to sleep. No sign of breeze or any car passing by, or even the rattling of the leaves, nothing. Pin-drop silence. Even there hardly seemed any chance of a pin falling to make any sound. The sweat streamed down my nose and trickled, making the first sound after the creaking stairs, the sound of the sweat drops falling on the wooden floor.

Not even a cricket thought of chirping that night.

BOWW!! BOWWWWGGHHH!!

‘Aaaaahhh!!!’ I screamed at the sound. It was a bark, I realized it the next moment, only after I tripped and fell on the wooden floor, close to where I had dropped my sweat.

BOWW…WHOOOF….AAGGHHH!

The same dog that barked every night at this time. Bloody son of a bitch! Ah, that suits it!

Gathering my senses, and a bit of my shattered courage and heroism, I picked myself up from the floor slowly, my eyes still alert to any movement.

Or a change in the scenario!

At the centre of the so-called empty table, now lay a paperback. It had a black cover, and perhaps there wasn’t anything written on it. Beside it, was the table lamp, in astonishingly perfect condition.

My eyes widened at the sight of it. For a moment, the sight of an unfamiliar book brought joy in my eyes, later did I realize the scenario I was in, the reason I was in here. I kept staring at the black book while my mind calculated the reasons and the consequences of my next act. Well, it was meant to be an interaction, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was the beginning.

I walked nearer to the table. Cool breeze had started coming in and kissing my pain away, the pain and torture that the sweat had given me. It lighted the mood a bit. I could now hear another sound, the sound of my heart beating like a drum.

As soon as my body got in contact with that of the table, a strange feeling of someone or something hovering over me terrified me. The book, which was kept at the centre, now slid towards me and opened all of a sudden. I wondered why I still didn’t piss in my pants.

 

HELLO MR. SINISTER!

 

I kept looking at the very first page of the book that had addressed me supposedly as a sinister. Surely, this was her. She never missed any opportunity to humiliate me.

Two-three pages turned. I leaned in to read what was written now.

 

CHAPTER ONE: PAIN

 

As soon as I read it, the skin of my hands began to twist, as if someone was pinching me. A gasp escaped my mouth as I held my hand tightly, only to be petrified by the realization that I couldn’t stop the pinch. The space between my fingers was being filled with blood as I felt someone digging their nails, or perhaps knives, in the skin there. Tears flowed out of my eyes and the pain was so extreme, so unbearable that I couldn’t even cry. Now, it was my face, being pawed mercilessly again and again, developing scratches all over it. Once, it had been something girls could die for, now, it seemed just the look of this scarred, clawed face, could make them wish they’d died earlier. Something tore the skin of the face and it burned like hell. I could feel my flesh hanging from my skin, a piece of it fell on the floor, making a soft sound which reminded me of the meat shop I went to when only chicken or pork could satisfy my appetite.

I kept sobbing, but not a single sound was made. I was dragged towards the book by pulling my skin as if drawing by a hook, and my eyes fell on the new page.

 

CHAPTER TWO: CRIES

 

The neck was clawed now.

‘Aaaaaaarrrggggggghhhhh!!!’ Finally a cry.

The sharp, pointy nails, like a shark’s teeth, pierced into my skin for a moment, making way for a stream of blood to come out and make the floor red. I kept my hands on my neck to stop the bleeding, but pressing it only exerted more blood out on the floor. Just like they water the plants, I was blood-ing the floor.

My neck kept showering the blood. My t shirt had gone red, and my feet were drenched now. Suddenly, my face was scarred by a powerful blow right at my nose.

‘Ahhhhhhh! Fuck!’

Another cry, followed by my helpless wailings. I couldn’t bear it any longer. Perhaps coming down here in the lap of the paranormal could only be the idea of some fucktard. The best would be to escape the basement as soon as possible. The demon won’t go beyond this sick underground trash bin.

I gathered myself and forced to run. First attempt: I slip over my own spilled blood, though there wasn’t much chance of slipping on the wooden floor. Considering it the paranormal act to hold me down here, I gathered courage and myself again. Second attempt: Success. I managed my way up the stairs and the creaking wooden planks of the stairs were no less creepy than the devil. I was now in my bedroom, the floor of which was now reddened with blood too. Hiding under the bed would make it more scary, as it reminded me of the creepy scene of movies where a child-like ghost would peep beneath the bed with a devilish smile on his face. Should run bloody far from here. It’s Kathy, and she’d only want me inside the home, just like she wanted me when she was alive, when every part of her urged and yelled for sex.

By the exit door, a pile of my books was scattered by a staggering me as I made my way outside to the fields, in the late night  when even crickets and stars seemed to have parted company with the darkness. The road was deserted as always. Until this day, what seemed to me as a boon – living by the countryside where hardly anyone lives nearby and no one roams around to disturb when the writer writes in his reclusive atmosphere which he loved – now seemed nothing else than a curse. A fatal curse.

The darkness was severe, as if a black cloak was used to cover the world. Only the shiny patches made on road due to the recent rain and a few flickering street lamps some good steps away gave an idea of the situation. On the either sides of the road, the park was…

A sudden thud blew my thoughts away, bringing me down on the road, the rough surface of which made my cheeks hurt, and another piece of flesh, which perhaps had been hanging all along, fell there. The book lay beside that flesh, with a new page, and a new chapter.

 

CHAPTER THREE: SHOCK

 

I heard a sniff behind me. The dog had arrived. As far as I could remember, it was the very first time I was seeing it. It was a typical stray dog, roaming around this part of Biston just like several other use to. It sniffed around my legs, then halted at the book. Its tongue hung out of its mouth, the pink tongue, and its eyes were fixated with the tiny piece of my flesh kept there on the road, right beside him, just half a paw away. The next moment, with the growls and moans the dogs make, it began enjoying the flesh, and my throat dried. I gulped in my own saliva in terror. The flesh and the dog’s mouth never lost contact. Its fangs were connected by the saliva. After finishing the meat, its desperate eyes looked at the other set of flesh.

It looked at my face.

Without wasting any moment, I ran towards the darkness, seeking and hoping for redemption. Behind me, I heard growls and barks of the ever-hungry dog, the lusty creature that had seen plenty of flesh hanging from my face like in some butcher shop.

I ran and ran, and felt the flesh touching my skin. The air passed through them and created a burning sensation. But I had nothing else on my mind but to run and save my precious life that made so much name and fame and was loved by billions of ignorant fans for whom I was some romantic like the male protagonist in those silly movies adapted from Nicholas Sparks’ novels.

The bark now, I realized, had stopped. I ran a few more steps to assure safety, then turned around when I reached a tree. The dog was nowhere. No bark, no lusty eyes desperately staring at my flesh, no growls, no more running. Such a relief!

The mist started to form around me, and by the looks of it, I judged I was in some forest. Hadn’t heard of one ever before, but perhaps I was meant to discover it. Maybe the no forest theory had been yet another myth of Biston. The town already had several myths, the one being the roses are extinct here.

I walked steadily in the dark forest, keeping my each and every step with absolute precaution. The mist made things more creepy, and the dried leaves beneath my shoes killed the silence. This wasn’t as creepy and soundless as the road by my home.

‘HELP!’ I hoped of a reply.

Help! Help! Hel…! He…!’ My voice echoed.

‘HELLLLP!!’

Hellllp! Hellp! Hell..!’ I heard my voice again in reply.

I stretched my hand to avoid bumping into trees. I could hardly breathe. The fact that I wasn’t actually blind had given me some breath, and that moment I wondered how blinds live their lives. So suffocating!

Just then, my right foot hit something hard and I tripped.

All of a sudden, the area where I fell illuminated and I could see trees and dead leaves all around me. To my right was the object of my fall. I looked at it, and kept looking at it, without any expression. There was a sudden rush of terror and perplexity in me, as if all the stars and the moon and all the things by nature had come to a halt, as if the very next moment would be doomsday, as if this was my end.

The object of my fall was no one else, it was me.

Shocked, I yelled, and yelled to my fullest. Never in my life I had imagined I had such an amazing strength to yell. More of it was to release all the pain I had suffered, only to replace it with this new pain.

My body was all tasted and eaten up by worms, the face was all ruined. The eyeballs were nowhere and the sockets of my eyes were stuffed with dead leaves. This me had worn a black jacket over a black t shirt and dark blue jeans on the lower part. The ruffled hair were all dusty and full of crowshit, and just like me, the body had its flesh coming out at several places, only they were eaten up quite interestingly. At some parts, bones were visible and worms were still crawling up there and feeding. My skin was all munched up.

‘Glad you recognized yourself.’

I startled and turned around to see Kathy sitting beside me on the ground. Her face was bloodshot red and her hair was messy and scary. Her eyes too were red and the scars on her face shone in the moonlight as she smiled a sinister smile.

‘Please forgive me! I’m sorry for hurting you back then.’

‘You thought you’d get away with this. You killed me, and thought it’s all over, didn’t you?’ Her voice was husky and terrifying, like a child crying in the middle of the night.

‘It was a mistake.’

‘No. Living in the illusion that you were alive was the mistake. You were always fed up with me, but killing me only made you more corrupt, more insane, more at the wrong. I knew that day you would kill me, so poisoning your food was the only way to succeed. I didn’t want you to ruin someone else’s life after me.’

‘What made you think I’ll remarry? Huh!’

‘You can do anything for sex, I know that. And I was glad to watch you die. You were restless, you felt hot, and I was sitting right on this branch of this very true, watching you suffocate, and smiling at your helplessness.’

‘You bloody…’

‘Somehow you didn’t realise you’ee actually dead. But now that you’ve realised, now that I’ve given you the pain that’d stay forever, I don’t care about Hell or Heaven, I have peace now.’

I kept looking at her with a thousand slangs and abuses in my mind. She looked at me, passed that sinister smile again, and disappeared somewhere in the mist.

I kept looking at the direction she disappeared, then I gathered myself. Only this time it didn’t take vigour at all as I realized how light I was. I floated myself in the air, and went straight inside my bedroom through the wall. Well, being ghost is a boon too, I guess.

I looked at my laptop. The unfinished novel I was complete and publish would always remain a dream. Such a satisfying chance it was to humiliate her. Even though I can complete it, I won’t be able to publish it.

 

The new family has arrived in the house just today. There’s a father and his wife, and their two kids- a guy, ten, and a girl, eight. They seem happy here. The guy plays around and reads my books and handwritten manuscripts. It’s so irritating. No sense of giving privacy! With their arrival, I had to make the stinky basement my solitary home.

It’s 3 am on the clock now. Everyone’s deep in the sleep, but I am not. Insomnia is still haunting me.

Time to read a book. Well, let me switch the table lamp on first!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wounds

He fiddled with the knife stained with the thick drops of blood and looked at it quite disturbingly as the red drops trickled down from the blade on the black tiles of the kitchen of his home, the one with dead walls and dim lights.
It was 1:30 am, the time when usually he’d dream about the peaceful room of his parents, untouched by the misery that comes with fights, arguments, pulling each other’s legs and dragging the ancestors into it. The sound of the water draining out from the thin blue pipe, fitted to the RO, to the bare surface of the sink was the only thing he could hear, apart from the tick-tock of the old clock that hung on the wall of his room, right above the poster of Michael Jordan. He could see him from the kitchen which was attached to his room, lifting himself up to put the ball into the basket, and for a moment dreamt about a life just like that famous basketball star, too busy to get muddled by the chaos his parents, both aged fifty-five, brought.
Sweat trickled down his temples, and itched under his t-shirt, as he began feeling queasy, uneasy, restless. How quiet it is at this point of time, he wondered. Right beside the kitchen, after crossing the path of a few steps, maybe eight, was the room from where howls and screams and sounds of the breaking of the lamps and thuds at the door when stuffs were thrown, had become a trademark. That was the room of their parents. He would hear them every night, especially when he would read some novel (right now he was reading Jeffrey Archer), and learn that they perhaps never loved each other. All those pictures he had seen of them, holding each other’s hands and playing with him, all those stories he had listened, right from when he was six-years old to today when he was twenty-two, seemed nothing more than a sham. A big sham.
They would humiliate each other, disrespect each other to the core. At first, he thought it was the father who was the oppressor, but later, he realized his mother was no less. Both had their own perspectives about each other, both told each other they cheated, and both had already given him proofs to claim their point, through which, he had come to a disheartening conclusion:
Both were guilty.
They wouldn’t accept it, but he knew. Who accepts his own fault after all? Especially when it can turn his or her life upside down, and ruin his image to the extent he would feel like dying everyday, only to be set free.
He looked at his belly, at his fat-less belly, and sighed in pain. As he pressed his hand where there was a deep cut and the flesh was visible, and the blood continuously streamed from that part of his body, he realized that this was it. Taking the support of the wall, he stood up, after two attempts, and his gaze once again went to his bleeding belly.
He had stabbed himself six times there.
Leaning against the wall, he made his way to the most disturbed room of the house. For once, he turned and looked at his trophies. Not only he was the captain of his basketball team in college, he had a flair for writing too. He had won several essay competitions, poetry competitions (though he believed he sucked at it) and the like. Still his parents criticized him for all his activities.
‘First there was you, now this useless son of yours’, both would say to each other.
He remembered three years ago, when he won the Super Basketball Tournament in his college, and was awarded a nice, well-carved trophy, along with an NBA t-shirt, he felt that was the proudest moment of his life. As soon as he reached home that day, with the only thought of sharing the joyous moment with his parents, they divided the task of eliminating his happiness, as his dad broke the trophy into pieces and his mom tore the r-shirt.
‘There’s so much fight in this home and you want to celebrate?’ the reason for their act.
He had now reached a white door with a sticker of Santa Claus sitting on his sledge and waving his hand. The sticker belonged to the last year and was now torn from borders and had turned a bit dull. He pushed the door to open it, making the mark of his blood-stained palm on the Santa, and as soon as it opened, he leaned again against the wall.
He looked deep into the darkness. Only a tiny light that the new lamp on the bedside produced helped him see his parents lying under a blanket, asleep, unaware of their child and perhaps planning next day’s topic to fight on. A pillow lied between them, acting as a divider. At least they still shared the same room.
He knocked at the opened door repeatedly, fiercely, causing some movement on the bed. The parents were awake now. The mother switched the light on, only to shriek in horror at the sight of her son. The father had his eyes opened wide.
‘Oh dear! What have you done to yourself?’ The mother screamed from the bed and removed the blanket and stepped out of the bed to reach him. The father was still dumbfounded.
‘Fed up…I’m fed up of you both.’
‘What?’ Mother’s eyes began to show anger.
‘I’ve got astonishing parents!’ He dropped the knife on the floor and placed the other hand on the belly too, making the blood pour out of the body to his now partially red t-shirt. His blue jeans had turned purple too. He gasped, he sighed, and looked at the faces of his parents.
‘No appreciation, no happiness, nothing!’ He said. ‘All you both dwell on is sadness, negativ…’
Before he could finish, he collapsed.
This time, the father stepped out of the bed and reached him, and placed his sweaty, grief-stricken face on his lap. The hair that had turned wet thanks to the sweat, made a grey mark on the old man’s white cloth on the portion that covered the lap. The mother came from the other side and sat beside him.
He looked at both of them, wondering what if his parents were same as his friends’. Since his childhood, he had never actually been able to develop that bond, especially with his mother. He feared both of them, always. There might have been a slight liking for them, but he knew he didn’t love them. They were fierce in his opinion. So, unlike his friends, some of which called their moms their best friend, he couldn’t even imagine sharing anything from his personal life from them. He envied his friends always.
‘Don’t close your eyes.’ His father slapped him to keep him awake.
But he knew that his father’s slaps would do nothing. He would close his eyes. He was about to close his eyes. Not to fall unconscious, but to die.
Just like someone says something absolutely random, absolutely off-topic to change his mood, he looked away from their faces and his eyes caught attention of the even bigger clock than the one in his room, hanging on the wall. He heard its tick-tock too. And the time was the last thing he saw in his life.
It said 1:40 am.
The father shifted his son’s face from the lap and placed it on the floor and slapped him twice, thrice, and even more, and harder than the previous one, but of no use. Their son, their only son, was gone.
He looked with his red eyes at his wife. She was too astonished to say anything, and kept staring at her still son, whose eyes still glared towards the mighty clock.
‘Our son is gone. Why?’ He broke into tears, and his eyes showed disbelief. His wife still stared at the still body of his son.
‘Because of you.’ She uttered, her eyes still on her motionless son.
‘Me?’
‘Yes! You, asshole! You never understood me and this went on for years and years. And why would you? You were busy sleeping with whores!’
‘Really? And what should I call you? A mindless retard, seeking sympathy from everyone, from her neighbour’s husband?’
‘Don’t you try to blame me! Don’t!’
‘That’s the truth you ugly lady!’
As they resumed with what they did best, their son’s eyes, lying motionless, looked towards the clock. From nowhere, an ant came and ran on his face, trying to find a hole perhaps to sneak in.
His blood was spilled on the floor, which was now half-red, and the lamp fell just beside his body and broke.
The light went dimmer in the room now.

The Known Stranger

The cold breeze followed by drizzle had become a common phenomenon in the city of Brooklyn for the past couple of days. The weather had changed and the summer camps, the sunbaths, the scorching heat remained in memories now. Many youngsters had read books and watched movies related to summers and that inspired and instilled them with hopes of finding their love somewhere that would seem like another Nicholas Sparks novel. There faces were hung low as for them summer meant the season of love and relationships. That’s how they looked at it and waited for it.

But for Martha, a thirty-year old widow who was nothing more than just another resident in the city, summer meant making countless trips to the market for groceries and accessories to make her home look better. The only thing that appealed to her was decorated, well-organized homes and so one could see her enthusiasm for such things in the paintings that hung proudly on the walls of her rooms, various types of lamps and antique items that were present in every other room, flower vases which would be taken care of daily and classic novels that never failed to attract the guests. Although she wasn’t much of a reader, she loved keeping books as sometimes they’d be her best companion in the hours of loneliness. Her lust for books was well-known back in school a few years back when she was an avid reader of Charles Dickens and Agatha Christie. She wanted to pursue Literature but her father expected something else from her. He had lung cancer and soon death only waited him at the doorstep. His last wish was to see his lovely daughter in the white bridal dress. She didn’t like her father for that, but she didn’t want him to curse her after he left. Thus came her sacrifice and she married Steve, son of her father’s best friend. He owned a toy factory and dreamt of playing with his own factory’s toys with his child. But a fateful morning brought the news of his death that occurred a week after their marriage. He had slipped on the stairs and that was the end. The loneliness that leads to Martha’s book eading arrived only after his death. She now lived alone with her antiques and found solace in the classic characters from the shelf.

That day, amidst the rattling of the rainwater outside her home, a thud sound startled her as she tried to get some nap. Someone was knocking at the door frantically. She looked at the direction of the sound and then got up from her sheetless bed and after a little hesitation, she opened the door. Someone’s arrival at her home was pretty unusual. After Steve’s death, hardly anyone turned up to show his care towards her.

‘Yes?’ Martha’s feeble voice spoke.

A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, turned and faced her. He wore a plain white shirt and black trousers and was drenched in the rain. He observed Martha’s glowy, toned body from top to bottom and gasped. Martha was in her night gown that exposed the portion below her knees. He looked at her untied, ruffled hair and then concentrated on her face.

‘I’m Allen.’ He said and extended his hand.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Well, I live two blocks away. I was passing by and suddenly the rain occurred, so…’

‘Hmm…’ Martha observed Allen’s trembling lips and shiver. ‘Come in.’

‘Don’t think I’m an intruder or something. I belong to a very good family. You know Mrs. Gilbert? The one who runs an orphanage? She’s my aunt.’

‘I didn’t ask you for your intro.’

‘Oh…sorry. I just don’t want you to form a bad image of mine in your mind.’

‘Have a seat’. Martha’s irrelevant response made Allen think that she was thinking of him as a bad guy, but then she had let her in, so he was relaxed.

He looked around the drawing room and observed the flower vases on the table, the range of paintings hung at an equivalent distance on the walls and the book shelf which attracted him. He walked towards the shelf and picked a torn Great Expectations by Charles Dickens and flipped through its dull pages. The binding was somehow intact but the cover had lost its charm. The next moment his vision was blocked by a cream-coloured towel.

‘Here, dry yourself, lest you get cold and sniff around here at my belongings.’

Allen didn’t like Martha’s rudeness. Nevertheless, he took the towel and then Martha left.

‘I’ll make you some coffee.’ Martha announced from the kitchen.

After a while, Martha entered the drawing room with a tray that carried two cups and a kettle. Her uninterested steps stopped all of a sudden. Her eyes were fixed at a sight she found soothing. Ahead of her, a few steps away, near the shelf, was Allen’s bare back. His perfectly shaped body and beautifully carved muscles stunned her. Water trickled down from the back of his neck to his back and her eyes followed it until it went under his trousers. She noticed the thin lining of his butt and grinned. Then she noticed a startled Allen and realized he might be aware of her presence. She immediately cleared her throat so that he listens and then moved her stubborn gaze away from his asset to appear decent.

‘Hey! Welcome back.’ His smile took away her senses. She smiled back. This was the first time she let him feel he was actually welcomed.

Another stint of hormonal mischief took over her. Right in front of her was a miracle, Allen’s wet chest and nipples had taken her breath away. She expressionlessly looked at his cleavage which still had water drops. She ran her gaze from his Hercules-like torso to his well sculpted abs which told how dedicated he was at the gym. His navel carried a water droplet and she kept staring at it. She had noticed him staring at her at the door and now all she could imagine was the intimacy between two bodies.

She was brought back from her fantasy by a gentle voice, ‘Ma’am, you okay?’

Certainly, she wasn’t. She realized she had been staring at him for a really long time while the tray still demanded to be put on the table. She didn’t respond to Allen’s question and immediately put the tray on the table which made the utensils clang. Allen looked at her and without any more word, he sat on the sofa. Martha then poured the coffee in his cup and he took it in his hands. Then she poured for herself and sat on the sofa with the cup in her hand.

‘You didn’t ask my name.’ Martha said after taking the first sip.

‘That’s because I already know. I know about you.’

‘What do you know about me?’

‘Your husband…I’m sorry, your husband died a few years back. And you love such antiques and read books.’

‘How do you know all this about me?’ Martha was half-scared, half-excited.

‘Your husband was of one of the richest guys in Brooklyn, how wouldn’t I know about his wife? Kidding! Actually, only a person who loves decoration can keep his home like this, so beautiful, so unique, so attractive.’ He turned to run his gaze over the walls and the shelf for the second time.

‘Thanks. What do you do?’

‘You’ll be glad to know that I work at your husband’s factory.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yeah. I joined just a week ago. But yeah choosing your house for the shelter still wasn’t intentional.’

‘What?’ Martha laughed heartily. ‘You really have a great sense of humour.’

‘Really? My friends deny that.’

‘Silly they are.’ She said and smiled.

Allen told Martha about the work at the factory and she told him about her favourite books. They continued to talk for half an hour more. Martha had got some good company after years of loneliness.

‘How did your husband die? I mean how did it all happen?’ All of a sudden, Allen’s question had lured the smile away from Martha’s face.

‘I’m sorry if you felt bad. I asked just like that.’ Allen had read her expression.

‘It’s okay. Absolutely…Well, he fell of the stairs.’

‘These?’ Allen pointed at the stairs that led to Martha’s room.

‘Yes. He was drunk that night.’

‘What? But I heard he didn’t drink or smoke.’

‘He did. Occasionally. That day he was.’

‘Hmm. And then he slipped.’

‘He tried to beat me.’ Martha then realized that she found Allen so friendly, and even more, that she could candidly tell him anything. After a long time she had met someone worth talking to. Hormones were to blame too.

‘Did he? What happened?’

Martha told Allen how Steve used to force her for sex every night and when she resisted, he’d beat her insanely. She told him that he would tie her to the bed and undress her and so what he called lovemaking was actually rape. She couldn’t tell about this to anyone as to her everything was her father who had left soon after her marriage. There was no one else whom she talked to. She also confessed that all the time she had dreamt of a husband with good physique and Steve was nowhere near that. He was lean and so nights weren’t satisfying for her. She admitted later that he was good, really good on the bed, but her mind had always seen a guy like Allen on the bed with her and so she couldn’t find anything interesting with her husband.

‘But didn’t you love her?’ Allen asked in surprise.

‘He did.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘For him, marriage was love, for me, it was a compromise. I wanted to study, but it was my dad who wanted me to marry this guy.’

‘This is unfair. He loved you with everything he had and you felt it too. Still just because he was lean you are ignoring all that?’

‘I told you I wanted a guy like you.’

‘So to you everything was body.’

‘I didn’t say that. And why are you so concerned about a dead guy. You’re talking about his love. He raped me every night.’

‘He wasn’t like that.’

‘You don’t know him, so please don’t talk about this.’ Martha wanted him to get out, but he was still partially naked in front of her.

‘I work in his company. There are people talking about him. They admire him. And he doesn’t seem like what you have told me.’

‘So now you will tell me about him?’

‘Okay sorry. I went too far. It’s just that all my life I had admired him but meeting you had wiped away all the illusions. You spent days and nights with him, not me. I’m sorry, but happy too for you got rid of him.’

Martha smiled. Allen had finally understood.

‘Well, I wish I could have pushed him myself. I was so fed up of him and his structure. He seemed a curse.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Are you comfortable?’ Martha asked and crossed her legs and looked at Allen mischievously.

‘Umm…I think I should leave. The rain has stopped.’

‘It hasn’t.’

‘It has.’ Allen pointed towards the window. The leaves of the trees were all wet and quietness prevailed in the atmosphere. After a long time, the engines of the vehicles could finally rumble and the chattering of the people could be heard. Time passes so quickly when you comfortable talk with someone.

‘I want to write my address and number for you. It was nice meeting you. I would like to come here sometime again and would love to see you at my home.’ Allen chuckled. His frank attittude towards Martha had made her spine tingle. She went inside to fetch a piece of paper and a pen while Allen put on his shirt. She came back with the paper and the next moment he began scribbling on it.

While he scribbled, Martha stared at the stairs and recalled that night when Steve had asked her for sex and like the previous million times, she had humiliated him after scolding and told him that he could never satisfy her as he was a disgrace and told him to sleep in the other room. Steve, like always, didn’t argue and went out of her room and as soon as he reached the stairs, she had stepped out of her bed and rushed wildly towards the stairs and screamed, ‘You deserve death!’ and pushed him vigourously. He had seen her face and he looked perplexed. The next moment, he was on the floor. There was blood all around his head and he had managed to get a last glimpse of the lady he loved and accepted as his wife, who didn’t feel any pity for him.

Allen smiled as he gave the pen back to Martha. Then he stepped out of her home and she followed him. He then turned back for the last time and with his enchanting smile that had been successful in taking her breath away, spoke, ‘I’ll see you around.’

Martha simply smiled in reply and waited for him to disappear from her sight.

The moment he disappeared, she turned back and immediately ran to get the paper Allen had left. She noticed Allen’s cup was absolutely clean as if brought right after being washed. She ignored that unusual sight and took the paper in her hands and thought of her next meeting with this guy that would surely be wild. She even thought of visiting the factory much often which she hadn’t been doing after she killed her husband.

Her eyes widened when she finally opened the chit and read it.

‘YOU DESERVE DEATH!’

Filled with trepidation, she looked at the door which was still open. She kept staring at it,

…only to watch it shut all of a sudden.