Monday 23 October 2017
Monday 16 October 2017
Short Story 11 : Escape?
Theme: In the end…
What drives
us? More often than not, the answer falls under the ambit of ‘a zest to
complete a quest’. The eternal mysteries of the unknown beyond, spurn
explorations, thus making life interesting and involving.
Thus, we are
perhaps at our imaginative best when there is no conclusion, especially since
the gross realities of life offer none. Authors who pen inconclusive stories
engage the readers at an individual level, pushing them to ponder new
dimensions to enhance creativity, based on their individual personalities.
This is a
story with an inconclusive end that allows readers to conclude whatever seems
obvious or comfortable to them.
***
Escape?
He is here!
In this city! I know it. I just know it, as surely as I’ve always known that there is
no escape for me. And he is following me, only a few paces behind this crowd
of people separating us.
I feel the
rise of panic in my gut. Panic, laced with utter despair, bordering on defeat. How
long would I have to run?
Three years,
seven months and eighteen days. That’s how long I’ve been on the move,
constantly dodging his relentless stalking. How had I gotten myself into this
mess?
One is rather
stupid when one is a twenty one. Stars in my eyes, dreams in my heart, how
carefree, how naïve I had been on that fateful day I’d landed in this city of
horrors.
Bengaluru…the
city of dreams, atleast for glossy-eyed, small town people of Arasikere. I’d
thought I’d fled from a horrible life when I packed my meager belongings and
set out from the slum where I had lived all my life, from that hell-hole called
home on that night in August. My step mother was only too happy to see the last
of me. She neither attempted to stop me nor enquired where I was going. If only
dad were still alive…Thank God, he had managed to give me a decent education
before he passed on.
It took me
exactly five days to run out of money in the posh metropolis. As it turned out,
my school friend Suguna, who had married a guy in Bangalore and moved to the
city a few months ago, had been grossly exaggerating the wonders of the city,
that made hundreds of hapless innocents flock to its shores in the hope of
making something out of their loser lives. Suguna worked as a maid in one of
the swanky apartments and told me unceremoniously that I had to find my way
around if I had to survive here. She did set me up in one of the PGs for a month,
although the advance swallowed most of my lifelong savings of hard-earned
pocket money.
My average
scores in the tenth grade landed me a job as a receptionist in one of the real
estate agencies, where Mohan was the sole agent. I should have heeded my
instincts the first time I met him in the reception of the tiny office. My mind
had screamed ‘Run’. But of course, I hadn’t. Where could I run to anyways?
Mohan had
made his shady intentions amply clear within the first week. He’d keep brushing
his arms against mine, passing too close in the narrow corridors, asking me out
and ogling at my breasts shamelessly, even as I fumed in utter revulsion. After
all, why would a young, fairly good looking girl want to have anything to do
with a short, paan-chewing man of fifty eight? His large lusty brown eyes had a
disgusting way of popping out of their sockets, while he kept smoothing his grey,
oily hair over his balding scalp. An adam apple the size of small fist, bobbed
up and down every time he spoke my name in that raspy voice ‘Anjum’. I never
hated my name more than when it was uttered by him.
My boss was
an aging lady who treated him with utmost respect not only because he sourced
out regular customers for the agency, but also owned a lion’s share of the
company’s stocks. Not to mention the fact that he was her distant nephew, her
only relative in the city. It was useless trying to complain to her about his
unwelcome advances. Besides, what options was I left with?
It had been on
a rainy Friday night a week later, that an inebriated Mohan had banged on the
door of my PG. I’d tried to call the owner in panic before I realized that the
family that lived below our row of tiny rooms had gone away for the weekend.
And the females who lived in the adjacent rooms pretended not to hear anything,
even as I screamed my lungs out in fear. I had known that this was a common
occurrence in this part of Shivajinagar, where you could get a room with
non-existent security for a mere 1100 bucks a month…but I’d been left with no choice
at that point of time.
It had taken
all my strength to fight off Mohan’s claws that fateful, pouring night. The
door had burst open on its hinges within the first five minutes of his jamming
on it, but I’d been ready. I’d already slung my rucksack with five pairs of my
clothes, a couple of books, certificates and the last of my money, over my back.
I grabbed the large black umbrella the lady downstairs had given me the previous
week and jammed the sharp end into his bulky belly with all my might. Long
story short, I managed to get away with only a few scratches on my face and
bruised elbows when he flung my thin frame against the peeling walls…
I spent the
night huddled in the store room of the building under construction next door. I
knew I had to leave the city if I had to escape from this demon. But I had no
intention of leaving empty handed.
The next
morning, I slipped into the office long before the cock had risen to his daily
song. I knew Mohan had handed over three stacks of two thousand rupee notes a
customer had paid him, to Ma’am, for the new deal on airport road. He told her
to keep it with her for safe-keeping over the weekend, before the buyers arrived
on Monday. Being the first one assigned to open the office before Ma’am came in
at her own convenience, I always carried the keys to the office in my bag.
It took me a
mere five minutes to unlock the office, then the door to the inner chamber and key
in the combination to her safe. The old lady, bless her soul, never bothered to
be careful while she used it. She was unaware that her receptionist had long
since noticed and memorized the set of alphabets and digits that were typed in…
I smuggled
the bundles into the last pouch of my rucksack, and left the office locked as
before. I then headed to the Majestic bus terminal to board the first bus to
Belgaum.
I wasn’t a
thief, not until that day of utter weakness, at least.
Sometimes, desperation
drives us to do things that we normally wouldn’t even dream of doing. In my case, it was a sense of revenge
coupled with hopeless despair…
Besides, I’d
been so confident of getting away…
Obviously,
fate had other plans for me. That day had only been the beginning of the
perpetual horror. What followed was a long series of moving from one place to
another all over the state, while my stalker turned my life into living hell.
I’d even considered surrendering to the police, before good sense kicked in. I knew
that this man had greased more palms in the police department during his crafty
real estate dealings than the number of hands I had shaken in my lifetime. I
knew that he hadn’t lodged a police complaint against me, for reasons more
devious than I want to consider. It would only be a giant leap from the frying
pan into the fire…I’d heard enough stories about him to know that I’d only land
up in his den instead of jail.
Mohan had
never let me go. He’d persued me relentlessly with the agility and cunning of a
wild cat hunting its prey. No sooner would I find a job and begin to settle in
one place would he make an appearance in the vicinity. If only I’d had the
means to shift into one of those swanky apartments that offered some semblance
of security for its women. If only I’d known someone in this town who would be
willing to protect me…But then, it takes very little time for a lone woman in a
big city to realize that the world is full of more predators than do-gooders.
It took more
than three years of this dubious hide-and-seek game, before I finally relocated
to Mangalore, having landed a job, over a telephonic interview from an ad
column in the newspapers. I’ve been overjoyed to have achieved a promotion to an
office assistant for a slightly higher salary, with accommodation only a few
blocks away from the premises. My office isn’t too fancy, but offers me a
breathtaking view of the ocean from my seat, through the window on the first
floor. The three lakhs I stole from Mohan is secure in an FD, in an SBI
account in Belgaum…
Merely three weeks later, which is today, I see the one person that makes frosty chills run
up my spine. My mind has been so engrossed with an imminent sales proceeding documentation this
evening, I fail to notice him following me from the exit of my office. It is
while crossing the water logged streets, fifteen minutes into my journey
towards home, that I glimpse those terrifying brown eyes glaring at me from
over the heads of the swarming crowd. I begin to run, without thinking, towards
the beach.
The light drizzle that had begun when I left the office is now a heavy torrent. The beach is deserted. I trip over the
sand, my legs sinking into its soft depths, but I cannot stop. He catches up to
me just as I reach the sloping rocky stretch beyond the broad sandy region.
He makes a
grab for my arm, while yelling my name along with a few expletives, above the
din of the downpour. I bend down to pick up a rock, with both my hands and
smash it against his head with all my strength. He lets out a shriek, clutching
his head, even as a red stream adorns the side of his face. The waves lash
against our feet, I know that the tide would be coming in fast now. He falls
then, on his face, over a stray patch of sand, his legs draped in an awkward
angle over the rocks.
I dash
blindly back towards the road, over the slippery shore, without looking back.
Wet sand granules have filled into my loafers sending prickles of pain shooting
up my feet. I reach the top of the slope, panting for breath. Is he following
me? I hazard a glance backwards. The supine body lies in the
same grotesque manner that he fell in.
Is he alive?
Or is he dead? I can’t stay to find out.
I don’t dare the risk of getting caught by him again.
I shift to an
obscure hotel at the other end of town and wait it out, pondering my next move
for three days.
I wait
impatiently for some news of an unclaimed body found on the beach, but none is
forthcoming.
Was he washed
into the sea when the tide rose during the night? Or had he regained
consciousness after I left and lived to hunt me another day?
I begin to
pack my belongings all over again, clueless about my next destination.
*****
Tiny Angel - Haiku 1
Haiku is a traditional
form of Japanese poetry. Haiku poems
consist of 3 lines. The first and last lines of a Haiku have 5 syllables and the middle line has 7 syllables.
The lines rarely rhyme.
I have always wanted to
attempt a haiku chain where each of the lines in each poem rhymes with the
other. This is one such attempt.
***
Tiny Angel
A tiny angel
spreads love and beauty within
cosmic universe.
A sweet evangel
of blessings bestowed herein
sung in cyclic verse.
*****
Monday 9 October 2017
Short Story 10 : Because, my name is Gauri.
Theme
: Psychological story.
Psychological stories deal with
some disturbed aspect of the human mind, whether insanity or an altered
perception of reality or simply some inner struggle with an element of control
over the human mind. The aim of this story is to take readers inside the mind of the
protagonist and have them wonder what happens next.
***
Because, my name is
Gauri.
I’m going to die. I
know it. I just know it. I mean, I know that everyone dies, eventually, but
this is different. Because, I am going to die soon.
I shouldn’t
even be alive, in the first place. I should have died ages ago. Its sheer luck
or I should call it my rotten luck, that I’m still around.
‘Manu…’
Didi calls out to me from the living room. Didi, my sis, caretaker, mentor…whatever.
I’ve
no idea why Didi is so kind to me. I have never been the sort of sister that
one could love. But Didi feels a sense of duty or maybe guilt towards me, because she knows
I’m going to die soon.
‘Manu,’
she calls me again. The door swings open and her head peeks in.
‘Get
up, lazy bones,’ her voice is strained with the forced gaiety she tries to
infuse in it. ‘It’s time to rise and shine...’
Her head disappears. I smile. My name isn’t really Manu. It’s actually
Gauri.
I
stare at the ceiling. So, one more day of life. This so-called gift called
life. Life in a wheelchair. Ha, the very irony of it!
My
gaze shifts to the dots on the wall opposite to me. They mock me like they
always do. They aren’t juts dots, they are part of the face. The crooked eyes, broad nose and big mouth of the face formed on the wall two years ago when
the rains lashed the city.
The face was wet at first for a few days. Then Didi
got the leakage in the wall repaired, but the features remained, dry and clearer
than before. They had to remain. My mornings never begin without me viewing the
face. Each morning, I watch it taunt me with ‘One more day, just one more
day…’
I
know you think I’m not normal. That psycho psychiatrist had fancy names for what
he calls my ‘condition’: Paranoia, resultant of acute depression. Haha! Paranoid
and me?
What
people fail to realize is that it takes a hell lot of courage to accept the
truth for what it is, especially when it stares at you in your face. Accepting
your imminent death is not paranoia.
There
have been too many signs. They all begin at the root of my name. Yes, my name.
What’s in a name?
Gauri.
A beautiful name. A terrifying name. The name of a goddess who symbolizes both
kindness and terror. Good and evil…
For
me, my name signifies only one thing:Death.
Each time I remember my name, I see the myriad faces of death dancing in vibrant colors of the rainbow, in front of me. They turn from blue to red to pink to yellow and finally black. As black as death.
Because for me, the name stemmed from
death, you see. I was born merely a few hours after my grandmother breathed her
last one winter night, succumbing to the pneumonia that had ravaged her system
for a week. Mom promptly decided to name me after her beloved mom, Gauramma.
In
fact, my aunts never tire of telling everyone who listens, how my mom’s grief
at losing her mother was so great, that it almost induced the miscarriage of
her seven-month old fetus. That underdeveloped fetus was then delivered at the
hospital and preserved in an incubator for a week, before the doctors at the
Government facility deemed it necessary for mom to make room for the new
patients. I should have died then, but it was my first escape.
Just
so you know how I have arrived at the theory of my escapades, let me tell you
that I know the exact count of the number of Gauris that have died in just
the past two years.
Didi thinks I only play those silly kiddish games like
solitaire on her Samsung tablet. Or listen to the boring instrumental music
that she loaded on it for me to ‘soothe’ my mind. The crazy psychiatrist told
her it would keep my mind away from undesirable influences.
Little
do they know that I’m a pro at playing with keywords on search engines…Why, I
even managed to weasel out the wifi password from the old fool next door. The look of
hopeless pity she gives Didi and me every time she visits us puts me on the
edge, but I’m civil and well behaved with her because she is my only source of
gossip updates around the area.
My
meticulous Google research concluded that there have been exactly 9 Gauris who
have died in India alone, of various causes in just the past 24 months. I know
that their last names and spellings may have varied, but mom should have known
better than naming me after her departed mother. Is that called a co-incidence?
Only a moron would believe it to be so.
My
parents should have changed my name the day I contacted pneumonia, when I was 8.
That was in winter too, just like it happened with my grandmom. But they never
realized the connection, because I was cured by some twisted miracle doctor.
Mom didn’t see anything wrong that my dad passed away soon after that.
The
next time I begged mom to let me change my name was when I turned 10. My
classmate Gouri (spelt with an ‘o’, not an ‘a’), died of a head injury when she
fell off the 8-feet, metal trapezium-shaped structure at the Government park.
That’s
when I knew that my fate was sealed too. I even tried to prove to mom that I
would meet with a similar end. But then, even after I climbed the same
trapezium and threw myself headfirst off its topmost hinges, all I got were a
few bruises. But then, instead of me, it was mom who succumbed to a freak
accident a few months after that.
I
knew then, that fate was determined to torture me a lot more before letting me
get my blessed escape.
‘Gauri,
get up! Er...Manasa, Manu…’ Didi bursts into the room, anger seething in her
voice. See, even she knows the truth though she pretends otherwise.
The
face on the wall makes ugly expressions at her. Why does she bug me so much? After all, all I do in bed is
ponder the truth about myself. I have done this all night for the past couple
of years.
Didi
grabs my arms and yanks me up. She is rather strong for her age. At 32, she
is almost 12 years older than I am, but she lifts my body as if it weighs nothing.
‘Have
you been dreaming those awful dreams again?’ she asks, watching my face closely.
‘No,’
I reply.
I
want to tell her that they aren’t dreams. Dreams are different. These are my
thoughts, my convictions, my realities, my truths. One cannot escape one’s own
truths and realities…but Didi prefers to believe that mental psychiatrist, than
her own sister.
Didi
shifts my frail form into the wheelchair. I try to look into her eyes, she
avoids meeting mine. We’ve been through this scores of times before. I’ve
tried to tell her many times that the very reason she is stuck in a life of
being my nurse since my parents’ death, is because of my
conviction.
Like
I mentioned before, I should have died long ago. That accident had happened to
ensure my death. Again, some twisted irony made me survive.
I watched Maddy, my pet Pomeranian, get crushed under the wheels of a tow truck that afternoon, a year and a half ago. I’d
taken him for a walk on the highway and the huge vehicle had suddenly veered out of
control towards us. I waited for my head to get under its wheels too, in that
split second. But then, the tyre stopped exactly 13 inches away from my eager
face. I still don’t know how it managed to mash my legs to pulp though…
Didi
did relent under the pressure of doing her best for me and changed my name to
Manasa after that. But it was too late by then. I knew that Gauri would
accompany me to my grave.
I
begin to notice that Didi has been talking to me. Of course, I barely listen to her
words these days.
‘Be
positive, think good thoughts, it is all your imagination...’ she drones on, as
she moves around my room, making my bed and putting away my clothes.
Positive
imagination? That is such an oxymoron, given my current situation.
And then, I
hear it, blasting out of the TV in the living room. My head shoots up when the
name…my name, is uttered by the
newsreader. My wheelchair is facing the door, I see the TV screen clearly. A woman
is sprawled across the ground, crimson stains on her clothes.
‘…the
noted journalist, Gauri Lankesh was shot dead at around 8 PM last evening…’
screams the news anchor. Didi has heard it too. She stands still, intently
watching my face in utter shock. She seems powerless to do anything else but
stare at my glazed eyes and fast breathing.
I watch the footage of the gruesome murder on TV intently. I see myself very clearly on the ground, in that navy blue and red churidar, blood stains adorning my abdomen. And wonder of wonders, Gauri Lankesh has short cropped hair too, just like I do! If that isn’t a bolt of reality pointing to the future, what is?
It
seems as if the Gods finally got tired of the guessing game and decided
to give me a memorandum for my death. I am going to get shot in the back and
chest. It is so exhilarating to know how my end is to occur.
My laugh begins to reverberate across the room. My eyes are fixated on the body of the woman whom I didn’t know, whose existence I hadn’t even been aware of, until now.
I
cannot stop laughing now. It has been a while since I laughed this way. People
have always shied away from me when I did. I have heard fancy terms for my
laughter too….words like ‘hysterical’ and ‘maniacal’ have been used to describe
my mirth.
Didi
jerks out of her reverie and dashes to the living room to switch off the
offending TV. But the sign has already been delivered.
I
continue to howl in joy, my head shaking from side to side. My palms thump
gleefully on the armrests of my wheelchair.
I
hear Didi’s voice in the kitchen. Snippets of her conversation reach my ears as
I inch my wheelchair forward, to switch the TV back on.
‘Yes,
doctor…she saw the news on TV before I could switch it off…please…appointment
before 6 PM, please try doctor…’
Didi finally bursts into tears as my delightful
shrieks are drowned out by the frenzy of reporters on News 9 channel, churning
out all the gory details of the death of yet another Gauri.
*****
Pictures:Google
Tuesday 3 October 2017
Melancholy - A poem.
Penning picture poetry
has always been one of my favorite pastimes. Working with pictures as
prompts can get the creative juices flowing and offer a highly gratifying experience for writers.
***
Melancholy
Where are you now,
when I’m craving your help & solace?
A labor of love weighs on my brow,
in a melancholic halo above my tear-stained face;
I mourn the death of our shared vow,
of a lost destiny in an eternal embrace...
I shall move on, though I know not how,
and will emerge stronger, with superior grace.
*****
Picture : Google.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)