Is She, Legend?

Creepers. The world had only creepers. As far as her eyes could see, there were creepers. Green, some olive, some withered, some drowned, decorated with silly delicate flowers. The view she had expected was nothing like the one that surrounded her as she took her first steps out, into the sunlight. The trees had probably been knocked over. Fifty two weeks and the world had changed beyond recognition. Was it real to begin with or had she slipped into a coma while she waited out her time, ten feet under?

The grass felt real. The breeze felt real. The fraying edge of her jeans tickled. The dew felt real. It all felt real. So did the gun. She hadn't planned this right. Being the last surviving person on a planet sucked.

Gunshot.

Tiny Bullets

Though the sunroof was partially blocked, a few stray raindrops managed to trickle in from time to time. I prayed that this evening held no more surprises for us, but God wouldn’t listen to the pleas of a man like me.

The man to my right had his back turned towards me. He peered through the rain splattered glass of our SUV, at the cars that followed. From time to time, he turned his attention to the petite young woman balancing herself on the armrest of the passenger seat and the slippery leather of the backseat. Her sari stayed neatly tucked in on her right side, as she sprayed our closest pursuer with the AK47. Traditional indeed.

I remembered her from the old days. She always took the bus to college. She always took the same bus. I had been promoted recently. Pick pocket to delivery boy. This young girl getting a college education was way out of my league, but it never hurt to dream big. To an ordinary passerby, she’d seem like a harmless college student, ears plugged with her favorite music, bobbing her head to what it fed her. What an easy target, weak and pretty. Pretty girls were usually a pickpocket’s favorite. They wore unreasonable shoes. They’d rather lose their money than snap a pair of their precious ‘Jimmy Choo’s. Not Sonali though. She wore cheap shoes. Running shoes of the poor. Not Nike. Not Reebok. She wore shoes that she could afford to break.

I heard JT’s car crash into the divider. Score! Four more to go. What a chase! The sound made Karthik uneasy. Never before had a routine meeting turned into death race. It was a rainy day, wasn't it? Just like today. The day Santo met Sonali at the bus stop. The roads flooded later that evening. Oh the deluge! I was overseeing my new pickpocket’s progress. Sonali wasn’t wearing one of her favorite flair skirts that day. She wore a pair of cargos, rolled just above her knees, a yellow t-shirt and carried her black jhola. Her ears plugged. Her head bobbing. The bus stop was nearly deserted. It was just her and Santo. I watched from the opposite side as he slid his clumsy hand inside her bag.

A victorious smile spread across his face a little too soon. As he withdrew his hand, she grabbed hold of his wrist and looked at him over her shoulder. He tried to break loose but her scrawny grip refused loosen. The bus crawled up the steep slope. He struck her in the back and she began to fall forward, as the bus was meters away.

Sonali sat beside Karthik. Were we finally out of ammunition? Karthik got off the phone with Sanjog. Back up was here. Sonali didn’t have to defend the fort all by her lonesome self now. Karthik put his arm around her as she rested on his shoulder, dozing off. I caught myself staring at them and looked away.

That day, at the bus stop, I swore I could have run across the manic monsoon traffic and split open Santo’s head for throwing her in the bus's path. In the nick of time, she regained her balance, spun around and her foot caught Santo at the corner of his jaw. A moment later, she climbed the bus and left. I moved Santo to delivery thereafter. Sonali had been permanently blacklisted on the pickpocket list.

We were safe now. JT and Manmohan would we wiped off the map by midnight. Sonali was in the clinic, getting stitches while Karthik and I decided between beer and champagne. Beer it was. “I thought Tiny was bulletproof” he said pausing between gulps, “I keep forgetting that she has a human side too.”

“Deepak’s gonna have a ball clearing this mess with the media tomorrow”, I said, desperate to change the topic. He was the last person on this planet I’d want to discuss Sonali with. ‘What kind of a nickname was ‘Tiny’ anyway? You don’t name a girl ‘Tiny’, you name the huge, ex-con, bald hulk ‘Tiny’. Doesn’t this moron watch any movies? The lucky b*****d’, I thought to myself. “That’s what we have cops for, isn’t it?” he smiled, but it quickly faded away as he turned his barstool to face me. After he was satisfied that there wasn’t anyone else within earshot, he spoke – “Arjun, I’m tired of being the middle man. I’d like to go into the main production circle. With JT gone, there’s only Titan standing between us and the reigns of Bull Mechanicals & Co. You do understand what I’m driving at here, don’t you?”

I raised an eyebrow. ‘How drunk are you, Karthik? How drunk?!’ I wanted to ask him and had it been any other day, I would have, but I decided against rubbing a man in “high spirits” the wrong way given the pumping adrenaline and ease with which bullets flew by our faces. “How do I know that you’re not Titan, sitting here and testing a drunk, microchips’ supplier’s loyalty?” Karthik burst out laughed nearly knocking himself off the barstool, “I’m just messing with your head”. He set his beer mug down and wobbled towards the door yelling something about ‘not keeping the women waiting too long’…

I wondered whether Sonali was one of the women he was referring to. ‘No!’ That was the last thing I needed playing on my mind before I went to bed. Sonali was only his bodyguard.

Meanwhile, our guardian angel lay down on the roof of the warehouse. It had begun to drizzle but the rain was the least of her worries. She had received disturbing information via satellite. It was, but a matter of time, before chaos ensued.

To be contd.

Curiosity Killed Science

“Oh what a miraculous joy this is,
How child, did you survive?
How did you escape that house of sin?
Where all were burned alive?”

The pious woman let me in,
And sat me down on a cot,
Here, religion cluttered every wall,
And carving, plate and pot.

I examined myself in the mirror across,
My white coat, burned and black,
My body coated in bruises and soot,
Reminders of the attack…

My hunger calmed by broth and bread,
My feet not frozen cold,
I turned to meet those questioning eyes,
And out my story rolled...

“Curiosity is the devil’s curse,
You won’t hear a scientist say,
And I’ve been guilty of this vice,
Every single day…”

“What better way, to feed it fat,
Than join ‘The House’ on the hills,
Where people dressed in immaculate white,
Enjoyed scientific thrills…”

“The visitors we were set to explore,
Separating them from their hide,
Oh! Disaster, we should’ve foreseen,
That lay in wait, inside…”

Her face, ashen in disbelief,
As I put my words together,
Goosebumps rose and never set,
It surely wasn’t the weather…

“The poisons it spewed, they filled our lungs,
And burned our eyes to tears,
It tricked our minds, with visions it played,
Bringing out our darkest fears…”


“Fearful yet stubborn, they refused to leave,
This demon they called their find,
But I knew better than to wait and watch,
So I left it all behind…”

“No sooner had I decided to leave,
The air itself was ablaze,
I flung myself through a window near,
The happenings that followed, a haze…”

I slept that night, in my mother’s arms,
The House, now razed to the ground,
The teams, they searched up high, down low,
But nothing unusual was found…

The Waiting

She’d driven her chariot all night.
The fog had begun to lift and with it his patience.
The faster she drove, the farther she seemed.
How time had droned by, every second making its presence felt!
Yet, tonight, the seconds seemed longer, (as if it were possible) as her night in pajamas, paced about from boot to hood to boot to hood.

In the distance, she caught the stars sneak upon the fog, but her smile beamed brighter than them all.
His palms were sweaty, if not from the pacing, then from the clouds conferencing loudly overhead.
She nearly flew out her seat, forgoing her wings as her feet kissed the clouds for what might be the last time.
He held on to the telescope as tight as a four year old could; peering through the mist and clouds, awaiting the signal from above.
As her wings began to lift away from her, a voice boomed through the heavens,
“Maybe not in this life either…”
And with it, the moment died.
Her feet retreated reluctantly, her wings returning, a tear drop escaped her eye and melted into the sea of clouds,
As her young love, stood below, soaking in the rain, another life born in vain…

The Exam

She stirred uncomfortably in her seat. The desk was too high. The bench was too close. The edge near her right leg was slightly chipped and the rust had eaten away at the legs of the bench, making it creak each time she moved.

She looked up. The supervisor sat stone-faced at his desk. She had heard about him before. They said that he knew exactly what was going on in each and every student’s mind – each time they moved, each time they exchanged glances amongst themselves, each breath they let out – he knew it all.

Those who didn’t play by his rules had to face the cane, although she could see too many people catching random glimpses of their bench-mates’ answer sheets. She looked through the questions again. “Why does it have to be so complicated?” Namrata sighed to herself.

The girl to her left had been writing for what seemed like an eternity. She caught Namrata staring at her and frowned. Namrata quickly shifted her gaze back to her own answer sheet. There must have been more than a thousand students in that hall. Everyone was writing.

The bell rang to indicate that they only had half the time left. "Now what?!" she wondered. Not a soul in sight was willing to let her peek into their paper. Then a small bit of paper lying near her eraser caught her attention. “Where the hell did that come from?” she gasped. She looked up at the supervisor. He looked at her questioningly, “What are you going to do now?” and then he looked away, towards the lush green gardens beyond the long French windows.

She grabbed the chit and unfolded it. ANSWERS! It had answers. All she had to do was copy them onto the answer sheet. He wasn’t looking. As she picked up her pen, her heart sank. Was it really worth it? Just for a few more marks. She tossed the little paper away and closed the pen again. “Now what saint? A Guilt free conscience and an answer sheet that’s almost empty,” she hated herself for throwing the piece of paper away. When she turned in the direction she had flung it in, she noticed that another student had picked it up and was writing down the answers at the speed of a furious hurricane.

The supervisor was back. He was a few benches ahead, collecting a student’s paper. Apparently, submission times differed from student to student. “The lucky devil”, she mumbled to herself as the student left his seat for the door. The girl sitting behind him suddenly realized that he had left. She scribbled a few lines onto the paper and dashed off behind him.

Namrata shifted her gaze to the boy to her right and began to observe him. He pondered and wrote and pondered some more and wrote some more. He looked at her and smiled. She smiled back. He raised his eyebrows and pointed at her paper. She gave a disappointed shrug. He smiled again, tapped his watch and got back to writing.

“Oh well” she thought, “coming here wasn’t a complete waste”. The big wall clock ticked away. The answers were all swimming in her head, but she didn’t know which one was right. The confusion within her grew with every passing second. Others wrote until their hands hurt. Some left. Some cheated. Some chatted among themselves. She was the only person who did nothing. She felt lost. The anxiousness began to suffocate her. A tiny tear ran down her cheek. The boy to her right was looking at her again. She looked away, but he didn’t. She wiped the tear and gave him a half-hearted smile.

And there he was again – the grouchy ‘know-it-all’ supervisor – staring at her from the submission desk, as if he could stare right into her soul. This was it! She would lose her mind if she stayed a moment longer. On impulse, she rose and picked up her paper. The submission desk seemed miles away. She took a step forward and then another. She felt someone tug at her wrist. It was the same guy from the bench to her right. She tried to shake her hand free, but he just wouldn’t let go. She tried. He tightened his grip.

Finally, she gave up the little tug of war game and let him lead her back to her seat. He removed the pen's cover, placed the pen in her hand and tapped the answer sheet. Returning back to his seat, he hid behind the student ahead and helped her answer a few questions from time to time.

It was then that she realized that his paper had nothing in common with her’s. He had been taking some time off his own paper and helping her. She tried to return the favor.

Soon, most of the tough questions were solved and they sat chatting and giggling softly. She was glad that she didn’t leave.

Outside, the next batch of students eagerly awaited their turn to enter the examination hall. The Examination Hall of Life.

---

This is what struck me during a conversation I had with Mr. Divine Intervention. I made him wait 40minutes while I sat punching keys. I hope it was worth the wait.

Thanks for the inspiration @DivineInterv.

“Who will save her?”

She overheard her father complain in the next room. How could he confide in that creepy excuse of a woman? The joint of weed that she had struggled to roll earlier, sat motionless on the windowsill, yet she felt it move in her direction. Had her mind begun to play tricks on her, even before she took to the drug? Nandini felt the crisp paper under her fingers.

She came to her senses, or whatever was left of them, when she began to stumble. Where was she? This wasn’t her friend’s room. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last glass of vodka before leaving. The road and the street lights around her slowly began to make sense. She was in an alley. She was on her way to the ‘parlor’. “Some parlor that is”, she laughed.

Nobody knew why Jonathan’s bungalow was called the parlor. Some thought it sounded ‘gay’, others considered it cool, while the rest didn’t give a damn, as long as they had a safe haven to get high. Too strong. The drug was too strong for a drunk Nandini, but Jonathan’s place was only two blocks away. She would make it.

She made it. She did not remember how, she did not remember when, but she made it to Jonathan’s place. The mood was set. Psychedelic trance blared through the speakers, as her ‘friends’ moved to unknown rhythms of their own, swaying, faltering, trying to enjoy themselves.

Her hand was empty. Someone asked her if she’d like to try the hookah, but she refused. Where was her joint? Hadn’t she just begun? But she hadn’t. It had been fourteen hours since she left her father yelling and complaining in the other room. He didn’t even realize she was gone. Fourteen hours of a pure, unadulterated high, which would wear off unless she did something about it. “What am I supposed to do?”, she wondered out loud.

A dainty hand grabbed hold of her wrist as she began to sway forward. “Time to go home,” she said to Nandini. “No, I’m not finished yet,” she protested, trying to pry her hand free, but the girl wouldn’t listen. She dragged Nandini to a yellow Indica, just outside the gate. Nandini fell asleep on the backseat, as the car engine screamed to life.

Nandini woke up in her room, sober. Her skirt reeked of smoke, her kurta reeked of tobacco. Her hair reeked of a combination of everything that must have been smoked at Jonathan’s place. Nandini’s fingers were making their way through the knots in her hair, when her father stormed in. Yet another day began on a bad note.

---

Seventy-two hours later, Nandini found herself at the gate of Jonathan’s bungalow, again. She had been sober for two days too long, but every problem had a cure. The cure to her being sober was trapped in the paper bag that she was swinging. She ran through the garden and up the stairs, when she saw the girl again. The girl looked at the swinging bag and then, at a swinging Nandini. She stepped forward, Nandini stepped back. She grabbed the bag from Nandini’s hand, and began to run towards the fence. Everytime Nandini got close to her, she seemed to pick up speed. Was she just teasing Nandini?

The girl held her hand out over the fence. “NO! Don’t you dare do it, I’ll kill you..” Nandini lunged forward, as the girl emptied the contents on a stinking pile of garbage. The dry, crushed leaves tumbled off banana peels and instant noodle cups. Nandini sat on the lawn crying. Once her sobs reduced to whimpers, the girl helped her up. This time, Nandini did not fight her. There was no point fighting a stubborn freak.
A week passed, sober. Nandini sat on a creaking wooden bench, watching the waves crash against the rocky shore. The girl sat at the far end of the bench, keeping a close eye on Nandini. Nandini huffed and buried her face in her bag. “How dare this girl babysit me like this?”, she grumbled to herself. She breathed out loud and began to watch the rocks again. This was boring. Moreover, reality was painful. The thought of being so distant from her ‘perfect-make-believe’ world, for the first time in two years, was frightening. How long could this unknown stranger keep her away from it?

Two months passed, and Nandini finally warmed up to the habit of staying sober. She began selling decorative candles again. She began visiting her grandmother at the home for the aged. She began wearing colors other than grey and black. She began singing and laughing and joking, just like three years ago. She owed it all to her new friend. One afternoon, Nandini decided to introduce her to her father, and all hell broke loose again.

Nandini’s eyes blinked open with the soft hum of a mosquito in her ear. A freshly lit joint of weed sat motionless on the windowsill, yet she felt it move in her direction. She took a long drag and relaxed, as she heard her father complain in the next room. Her friend rested her head on Nandini’s shoulder.

“How do we cope with this new problem that she has brought home? Who will save her from this new imaginary girlfriend that she has created?”, he complained to the psychiatrist.