Story
Theme : Atmosphere
Atmosphere is a literary technique, which involves setting the
mood for the kind of feelings and emotions you want the readers to get from the
narrative. This is based on the descriptions and details such as background,
objects, settings, foreshadowing, etc.
*****
The Last Tirade.
Sorry, I spout random rants when I am nervous.
Rants that make no sense to the context of what I’m trying to say,
that is. Or facts that wouldn’t interest you in a hundred years. The thing is,
that I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore.
There must be at least ten dozen roses here, it reminds me of how
it used to be when I got nauseous. I hate roses, Meera knows that. Their sickly
sweet fragrance always made me throw up.
Why did she encourage all these people to bring so many rose garlands
for me?
These flies buzzing around my ears, sitting on my face and my feet
annoy me no end. They stick to my icy skin like reddish black blobs of wax with
wings in tow. I can’t feel them, of course. I can’t hear them either, but then,
one doesn’t stop being finicky about hygiene just because one has kicked the
bucket five hours ago.
Meera knows I hate these disgusting creatures...why is she doing
nothing about these horrid flies?
Like I said, I spout random facts when I am nervous. Facts that
seem like rants to others, of course.
I know I shouldn’t be. Nervous, that is. I'm not the one who
should be worried. After all , I'm not the one who's got so much to hide here...
It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I mean, it’s all over now…or
is it?
It’s funny, this weightlessness. This feel of floating in the air,
suspended in the midst of nothing. This feel, it’s like I’m in the swimming
pool, ten feet under the surface, letting the water swish around my ears, the
buoyant warmth caressing my skin like wet satin…it is incredible and
unbearable. The unbearable lightness of being…as that famous
author...whats-his-name now…yes, Milan Kundera, would say.
It’s beginning to infuriate me now, this weightlessness.
Especially since these weird people are behaving as if I’m really heavy. I
mean, wasn’t it just last week that I weighed myself and the scales registered
a mere 81 kilos? Alright, alright…it was 81.9…but then, would it really take 7 men to lift me up from my cot and fetch me from my bedroom, onto the mat on
the floor of my living room?
No one thought of why I wasn't at the hospital. No one asked Meera
why...
The wails. The continual wails are getting on my nerves. Wait! Is
that Ramanujam, weeping like a child, tears streaming down his cheeks? Oh, and
he clutches a bunch of drooping white lilies in his hand…the same ones that he
almost killed me over last week, when I’d tried to steal a few of them from his
garden...well, as they say, life is full of surprises.
I now know, death is even more of a revealer. Ramanujam has
been…or was…my sworn enemy since the time I moved into this house, three
decades ago. He should have died long before me, given that he smokes five packets
of Marlboros a day and is grossly overweight…
Life isn’t fair. But then, death isn’t always fair either.
Look at all these people! Who the hell are all these strangers, for
God’s sake? And why on earth have they come over to my house? I never knew of
their existence before today. When was the last time so many footfalls wrecked
the glowing red-oxide floor of my home? I don’t’ remember.
Meera shouldn’t allow them to walk in without wiping their feet.
The mud stains on the floor have already formed grotesque designs, these
darkened cakes of brown muck, dotted with red, yellow and white petals strewn
like tiny mosaics, from all those garlands people have been piling over my
supine body.
Meera knows I'm a stickler for cleanliness. Why is she letting
these people ruin my home?
I fume in disgusting fascination, as random ants, some unlucky
flies and more petals get crushed into the filth under the steady feet of all
my mourners.
Mourners, ha! All these fake expressions make me want to laugh out
loud. Not a single one of them wants me alive anymore, I could bet my life on
that. Yeah, it’s a bit too late for that, I know.
But hey, there’s Latha, that sweet teenager who lives down the
street. She was the daughter I never had, always had time for me and she enjoyed my
company…it was always ‘uncle, this and uncle, that..’ She would really mourn my
loss…but, wait…why is she smiling at someone, then? And is that a chocolate bar
she stealthily bites into, when no one’s watching? Latha, my girl, I’m
watching. I’m watching everything.
I can see a whole lot clearly now. I see the bluish-yellow
unwavering glow of oil lamps, I see bored faces of many long-forgotten
relatives beyond the haze of smoking agarbattis that form piles of ashes at my
feet.
Where is Meera? Why isn’t she here? She must be in the kitchen,
making tea for the guests…but hey, the wife is supposed to stay at her dear
departed husband’s feet, until his body was taken away for cremation, right?
That’s what you’d think.
Like I mentioned earlier, death isn't always fair.
I wouldn’t be dead, but for Meera. I mean, I was stupid, really. I
should have known that she is one smart cookie, my wife.
Three drops. A mere three drops of that poison I’d smuggled into
the house last week, would have sufficed to send her packing off from the face
of this earth. But no, fool that I was, I’d hidden it in just the place she
should have never found it. After all, why would she open my medicine cabinet
in the bathroom…? Or so I thought…moron that I was.
I wish I knew how she managed to pull it off. The benign smile she
offered me along with the morning coffee should have put my senses on full
alert. But no, it didn't. In case I didn't mention it before, I was a fool. The odd taste
of her special filter coffee should have warned me at least. But, no again. I
emptied the cup, down to the last fatal drop…
Ah, here she comes, my dear wifey of twenty two years. Surprise of
surprises! Her face is tear-stained; her eyes have sunken into their sockets above her skeletal face, as if she has really been crying. Was she really
mourning my loss, then?
Wow…and then it hits me. Yeah, she must have seen the will.
Aha…no surprises there, she gets nothing of course…I’d had some
sense to leave all of my 4 crores worth of assets, including this house and my
farmlands, to the love of my life…whom I’d never married when I should have...
And now, here I am, mirthlessly watching my murderer lament the
futility of her carefully calculated efforts.
They begin to shift me onto the green stretcher they have prepared
for me from long coconut leaves matted together. The wails seem louder now.
I’m gratified to hear Meera’s howl rise above the din of all the
beating drums, barking dogs, cawing crows and of course, the cries of all the
people who felt I was worthy of this grand farewell.
Long story short, this was my last tirade. My last journey has
just begun.
*****
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