In the end

“Beep, beep!” the alarm of his luminescent wrist watch went. He slept on soundly. On the other side of the bed, she woke up with a start. Tiredness rolled off her, but she knew it was time to get up.

She removed the blinds. The sunlight should start streaming in within an hour; that should wake him up, she thought. For a moment, she looked at the face she had fell in love with. She loved him still, and yet there was hate as well – she loved him for being him and hated him for what he had made her, a wife.

Of late, being the wife was becoming stifling. She got weekends off from work, but the wife never got an hour off. Despite the love and seven-year-old familiarity, she found it difficult to adapt to his easy way of life after two years of being married. His lack of enthusiasm, or passion as she would often term it, had begun to gnaw into her.

But this was not the time to dwell on it. A lot of work remained.

An hour later, she heard Nirbhay stir. “About time too; the food is nearly ready,” she thought as she waited for his inevitable call.

Sure enough it came in two minutes. “Namita! I can’t find my towel,” Nirbhay called. Resigned, she went to the bedroom and handed him the towel. She had long given up hope that Nirbhay would ever stop needing her for every little thing. “Thanks love!” he flashed his dimpled smile that she had loved at first sight.

But instead of smiling, she grimaced and he felt a twinge of annoyance.

Once in the shower, he wondered about her growing disquiet. Everything had been rosy in the beginning. Her desires appealed to him; her ambition fuelled him to excel. His success brought out the spark in her eyes that he so loved. After the marriage, the transition period had been smooth; the familiarity had helped here. But she had soon started appearing unhappy with everything he did.

Nirbhay was a man of simple needs. Food and company was enough for him, but Namita desired more. Good times, travel, music and knowledge, she wanted everything. It wasn’t as if Nirbhay did not want to give all this to her and more, but doing the best every day was a stretch for him. He hadn’t anticipated that the closeness of a marriage would take a toll on him this way. He started resisting the daily stretch; he needed days off the “demanding” schedule.

As he bathed and Namita gave final touches to the food, the doorbell rang. The masked man signaled her to keep her mouth shut the moment she answered the door. As he stepped inside forcibly, she noticed the car tattoo on his wrist.

“Are you alone?” Gypsy barked at her, for she had recognized him as the dreaded gangster on the run.

She shook her head in a no.

“Lead me to your husband,” he said once she had indicated where Nirbhay was.

The moment Nirbhay stepped out, he knocked him out with the gun handle.

“Give me something to eat right now,” he ordered her.

As he ate, she thought of ways to escape. Perhaps she could steal his gun. Too risky, she thought and dismissed it. What if she smuggled in a kitchen knife? But what good would it do; it’s just good enough to chop onions and tomatoes. Soon enough, Gypsy had eaten to his heart’s content.

In the other room, Nirbhay groaned and tried to get up. His eyes focused to a gun pointed into his face and soon enough found Gypsy.

“Get up,” Gypsy ordered. He had Namita’s neck in a vice-like grip.

“Leave her! I will do as you say,” Nirbhay told him.

As he got up, Gypsy relinquished Namita and hit him instead.

He then twisted Nirbhay’s arm and shouted at Namita: “Get me a rope woman or he’ll die. Now!”

Terrified, Namita blundered away.

As she rummaged in the chest of drawers, Gypsy shouted again: “What’s taking so long? Get me a rope now!”

When Namita returned, Gypsy was making a struggling Nirbhay sit in a chair. She summoned all her courage to attack Gypsy with a butcher’s knife she had found in the drawers.

Gypsy howled like an animal at the suddenness of the attack and lashed out at her.

But she was ready. Moving deftly out of his line of attack, she attacked him once again with the knife. As Gypsy tried to regain control of the situation, a bullet whizzed past and found a target.

As both men collapsed, Namita rushed to find Nirbhay bleeding from the stomach. Sobbing, she tried to revive him. As blood flew like a river in the room, she heard a rasping sound.

“I always knew your passion would kill me,” a stuttering Nirbhay told her as he breathed his last in her arms.

Storm in a tea cup

There was once a little cup whose only mission in life was to remain filled with tea. But because of its size, the inhabitants of the house usually gave it a miss and opted for bigger mugs.

The little cup's dull and lonely existence continued until one day another little cup arrived. The old little cup looked forward to sharing its dull existence with the new cup. But to its horror, it saw that the inhabitants of the house were making a beeline for the new cup. Its shock gave way to disgust as it realized that the tiger pattern on the new cup made it more endearing.

Life had become more miserable for the plain little cup. It could no longer pretend that its small size was the problem; it was too plain to make drinking tea fun. Such was its depression that at one moment, it would want to shake the inhabitants of the house and shout “what were you thinking”; at other times, it wished to break the new little cup. In its living memory, never had the plain little cup experienced so many emotions at the same time. All it wanted was to be full of tea. And here it was brimming with emotions in a way that it felt it would explode.

As its frustration grew, the plain little cup thought of ways to escape. Show me a way to trick these people into giving me tea, it would often pray. When its prayers went unanswered, its depression grew. It sought to escape its cage of existence by making efforts to fall off the shelf. But when you are a cup, there’s little you can physically do.

One day, the tea-drinking family found a crack in the tiger-patterned cup. Used to consuming reduced amounts of tea, they turned to the plain little cup. As tea after tea was poured, it seemed the plain little cup was finally getting what it desired.

Then one day, tired of the increasing tea spots on that old little cup, the family threw it into the bin.

End of a song

They had to work together…so they had to learn to get along,
And create a life together when to each other they clearly did not belong.

Fake laughs and lies punctuated their every-day song,
Yet on their conjugal path they remained strong.
Their falsities were soon going to prolong,
For in her womb lived a new verse of their battle song.

A child needs both its parents, they thought,

And in their lives love it might escort.
Oddly optimistic, a child into this world they brought,
Unaware of the possibilities with which the move was fraught.
Thereby a loveless potion was concoct,
Whatever happiness arrived, it was extremely short.

The child grew up and all he knew was discord,
For he was brought up in a house where tongues were swords.
He was quick of wit, but laughter he would not afford,
Melancholy was his nature and loneliness his award.
He would not allow love to strike a chord,
And his was a song of opportunities left unexplored.

One night he woke up to voices raised,
Tired, he tried to sleep but then woke up crazed.
Knife in hand, his eyes blazed,
He cut their throats, totally unfazed.
He slit his wrists, and then with hands raised,
Said: “Here ends our song; Lord be praised!”

The devil inside

She felt as if she was drowning. He always hugged her too tight; the suffocation was akin to a drowning sensation. Despite the suffocation and the nothingness that being with him sparked, she felt complete; she needed nothing except him. He completed her in ways she had never imagined; it seemed as if her existence depended on him.

These days, everything was a blur. She could not separate days from nights, or nights from days. It seemed as if she was flying, or walking on water; as if she was doing the impossible. Perhaps, she was. Or perhaps it was all a hallucination. Was he a figment of her imagination? She could not believe that her mind was creative enough to throw up a perfect creature to complete her.

Am I on a drug-induced high or is it LSD we are taking, she would often ask him. No silly, he would say, you and I are high on life, it’s not drug induced; it’s our togetherness that makes it so perfect and we are destined for great things together.

There were times when she was almost scared of him; his plans for their future were certainly scary. There were times when she would see things in a different light, as if she was looking at everything from a third-party perspective. It seemed as if he was the devil and she his victim. But then everything would suddenly clear up. Such weak moments would pass, and she would again feel whole again.

Today seemed one such weak day. She heard her parents muttering about her not being right. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair needed brushing, and her eyes were bright. Too bright; they seemed unreal, as if something was wrong somewhere. And then she heard him. Forget physical appearances; it’s you who counts, he said to her.  Together we will rule this world, he told her.

Her doubts dispersed; and she embraced him, with full heart.

Outside, there were noises; strange people talking. Intrigued, she came out of the room. Four pairs of hands grabbed her and bound her to a chair. She lashed out at them, trying to break free. She surprised even herself with the ferocity with which she fought her attackers, even injuring one of them.

She saw her stricken parents; her mother was crying silently as her white-faced father looked on. She tried to plead with them to set her free, to tell them that she was fine, but no words came out. Instead, she heard herself laugh. She heard him laugh with her.

It was all very confusing, when she was hit by acidic water which scalded her flesh. Anger blinded her as she felt pain. She heard him hiss in fury too. It seemed he felt what she felt too, that he was with her in her suffering. Emboldened by his support, she tried to fight the bonds. But they were too strong; she could do nothing.

The last thing she remembered hearing was, “In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints, (and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry), we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil.”

The Starry Night

It was a clear sky, the stars eminently visible. The smoke rose, forming little ringlets as it merged into the already stuffed-to-death environs. Ghosh babu sat there, in his favourite place on the terrace, thinking. They say the pipe is the hallmark of thinkers, someone Ghosh babu understood and identified with. He had given a great thought to everything that had occurred in his life or was about to occur. Reason was supreme for him. He had always been a meticulous man, someone who was mortally afraid of impulsiveness.

But today, as Ghosh babu sat there with the pipe hanging from his lips, something was different. He couldn’t put a finger on the exact location. It was as if he had sensed it. The fact that such a thought could have ever pierced his brain only confirmed his belief—to which he had no solid proof or reason—that something was wrong. He hurried to his study. He had to make things return to normal, feel assured again. Such feelings neither had nor will ever have a place in his life.

He calculated everything he had done in the day. Paid his monthly grocery bills, check. Bought tobacco for his pipe, check. Given the cook’s monthly wages, check. Done his share of reading for the day (he was into magical realism these days, although the entire idea seemed preposterous to him for magic and reality can’t be spoken of in the same breath), check. Yes, everything marked for the day had been completed. Then why this uneasiness, Ghosh babu wondered, as if something was yet to be done or achieved or realised?

He went back to the terrace and began pacing at a furious speed. He didn’t even notice that he had exhausted the tobacco in the pipe. It was only after a while when the tobacco stopped kicking in that he realised it. He refilled the pipe and lighted it with the match he always kept in his right pocket. The first drought felt refreshing, so refreshing that Ghosh babu actually reached out to sniff the tobacco in the air. It was then that he noticed something that he had several years ago when he was a child. It was the sky, the star-spangled sky. Time became a fluid, maybe a gas too, but it didn’t bother Ghosh babu who had at last discovered what was wrong. He smiled in understanding.

She and Her Eyes

The winding stairs of the station had him out of breath. He had just bent down to rub his aching muscles when he saw a familiar silhouette. He looked up. There she was, her eyes closed, her body leaning on to the surprisingly clean station wall—a picture of serenity. She looked at peace with herself. He was glad to see her so unruffled at this hour of the day. Peace came at a price these days; and mental peace was a priceless pearl, which once attained promises never to let its lustre fade away.

He looked at himself and then at her. Seven years had made a visible difference to his visage. They had marked her too, but the markings were more beautiful than his; they had made her attractive in a way she never was at school. He debated whether he should go and break that serenity. Half of him wanted to talk to her—there was so much to catch up on; the other half just didn't have the heart to break her calm—she looked as if she had been painted.

Just then she opened her eyes. Her eyes—how they altered her. Their vacant expression made him nearly cry out. Her person—peaceful once—looked like a withering leaf; a germinated seed which didn't know where to grow and had, thus, become stunted. His mind wandered away, comparing her to the girl she had been seven years ago. He remembered talking to her in school.
“Your eyes have the radiance of life,” he had told her.
“It’s in my genes. My dad had similar eyes.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah. Why do you look so surprised?” Her eyes had been laughing, winking at him from within.
“I don’t know. But your eyes are so feminine.”
“How can eyes be feminine? Maybe you have failed to notice that I’m a girl.” She had smirked.
“You sure know how to talk crap.” He had winced.
“By the way, what’s with my eyes that fascinates you guys so much?” She had asked curiously.
“I don’t know man! They have this radiance, which most of us find attractive.” He had been so embarrassed then, almost wishing he had never broached this topic.
“So, you are attracted to me…” She giggled, her eyes playful.
“Hell! God no! I am not. It was just your eyes.”

He almost smiled at the memory. But even today, he maintained, that he had never been attracted to her; she had never been beautiful, at least to him. But her eyes had always been a subject of fascination, among all the boys. They danced, they sparkled, they had a life of their own—a life which could never have been stunted, could never have been vacant. He wanted to run to her, to comfort her, lend her a shoulder she could cry upon. She was after all his friend—though a friend with whom he had never bothered to be in touch, but had never forgotten. But what had happened?

His brain went into an overdrive. He almost thought he was responsible for her situation. Maybe she loved him and his going away had done this to her. After all, girls can be very stupid. But then, an afterthought hit him. He was being foolish in thinking so much, perhaps, in fact hoping it to be true. That he could have such an effect on a girl. He shook his head tersely to dismiss the thought. That flight of fancy had been too vivid. He focussed on her. She was the one who needed to be thought about. Whatever made him about him and her, and that too together. “Incredible!” he muttered aloud.

He then looked at her, tried taking a step towards her, but then quickly brought it back. What if she didn’t remember him? “So what? She is your friend, isn’t she?” his heart rebuked him. “That she is,” his brain seemed to agree with his heart, a first, he noticed. He took the first step and their eyes met. Her eyes, still haunted, seemed to be recalling his face. He waited for a sign of acknowledgement. It came. A smile broke on to her face. The difference it made to her face wasn't much as the smile never reached her eyes. Nevertheless encouraged, he took another step towards her, determined to talk to her, to know what had happened. And then…the train came.

Barren

"This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.

Bhagwan Singh was a name synonymous with genius, eccentricity and complexity. His real estate business catered to just him. His buildings were an extension of him, his moods, his whims, his fancies. He had absolutely beautiful creations to his name. But then he had gotten built the most ghastly of them too—as if he needed to balance beauty with ogre. He strove for a balance which no one could ever understand, neither the people who worked for him, nor those who worked against him, or even those who were devoted to him. Nobody asked him questions. Even if they did, they got no answers. It was possible that he hadn't even heard what they had said.

Bhagwan was inert. Inert to everything, but himself. Some of his creations were the epitome of life itself, some of a problem solved, some of a weathered shore which is used to crisis, others of a desert—a polar one where not even cactus grew. And then he had gone out and built this sepulchral, a hideous monument devoted to barrenness—barrenness of the womb of a mother who yearns for fertility. "This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.

His architect looked at him in wonder. How could someone be like him? What stuff was he made of? He had looked up at the building he had been forced to design; his baby was barren with a life of loneliness lying ahead of it. Why did Bhagwan make such a building? And why, of all the architects he had, did he choose him for such a misery? He couldn't remain silent this time; he couldn't bear to hear the deafening tears of his baby.

"Why sir? Why such a building?" He stammered. Bhagwan was silent. The architect stood waiting for him, sometimes praying to him to provide answers. And then he left him, thinking, perhaps, this isn't the right time to ask. Maybe some other day. Maybe, he'll allow him to improve the building too, he thought, growing optimistic with every thought.

Bhagwan smiled to himself. He had heard what the architect had been asking. But then it was his policy to never answer. Everyone was beneath him. He was the lord. His smiled widened when he saw the building. The architect has done a good job, he thought, even though he cribs too much. But then, so do most of my subjects, he contemplated. He decided to give him a raise. Perhaps, that would shut him up.

The building matched his dark side. Its tears made him feel good. He knew the building wanted a new lease of life, it wanted to feel alive. It was living a dead life. But then, it was helpless. He had made the building; and it would remain in the form he wanted it to be—this was the form. He said aloud, "I cannot disturb my balance. What happened was destined." The building shuddered. And Bhagwan stood there and laughed.