The Icecream : A Short Story.

This is a short story for children in the age group of 11-17. I penned this as part of a training project to teach children the value of active listening.

The Ice-Cream.

It was the cricket tournament week at school and Sharan was excited. Everyone knew that Sharan was one of the best all-rounders of Atria high school. It was the first time he had qualified to play at the under-17 district level, inter-school tournament and the first match against Rockdale High was on Friday morning.

Sharan had worked hard to get to this stage. He was not just talented, but hard-working and committed to his game. The only grouse that his parents and teachers had with him was that he would not listen to them. He was a day-dreamer, who tended to be in his own world when he needed to be alert and attentive.  Many times, he had missed easy catches while fielding, because he had been thinking of something completely irrelevant, like his evening snack or his home work. He had even become 'out' some times while batting, because of his lack of focus for the required periods of time on the pitch.

It had taken great effort for his cricket coach, the eminent cricket icon, Shivaji Galoankar, or just ‘Shiv sir’ to the boys at school, to get Sharan into his best form. Finally, after two months of vigorous practice, three members of Sharan’s class, namely Mrinal and Kutub were shortlisted to be part of his school team. Kutub was chosen as a substitute player, who would only sit in the stands and watch the game, unless any of the other players were injured and unable to play.

As was the norm, that Saturday evening, Sharan waved goodbye to his teammates at 6 ‘O clock, promising Shiv sir that he would be at the tents on Monday evening, for practice.

Shiv sir was an amiable, but strict coach. He had given the team a host of instructions on the norms that were to be followed by them, until the big game on Friday. As usual, Sharan had mentally zoned out, after the first two minutes of the lecture. He had bowled well and taken three wickets during that day’s practice and began to replay the glorious moments when Akshay had been clean bowled at the crease. Soon, he had to stifle his yawns, even as he pretended to listen to Shiv Sir’s booming voice.

‘Keep up the spirit, boys!’ Shiv sir had patted each boy on the back before sending them on their way.

Sharan cycled towards home slowly, reliving the moments of the game. Akshay had glared at him, while heading back to the stands. He knew that many boys were envious of his perfect off-spin that made even experienced batsmen wary of him.

‘I’m going to show these fellows who I am, on Friday.’ Sharan began to fantasize again. ‘I’ll get atleast five wickets within the first hour of the game, that’ll make me famous even in Rockydale High. Why, I’ll even qualify for the state level game…’ Sharan was lost in his beautiful reverie, when he heard the familiar gong of the icecream cart across the street.

Sharan slowed down the bike, he was hot and sweaty. 'All I need now is a cool ice cream...’, he thought.

He was already drooling at the orange sticks that a couple of kids were enjoying by the vendor’s cart.

‘No roadside food or drinks for another week, boys!’ Shiv sir’s warning echoed on his mind, even as he handed the twenty rupees to the smiling vendor. 

Had Sir said that today during the after-practice lecture? Or was it last week’s session?

Shiv could not remember, he had not been paying attention. Besides, sir always said the same things to them every week.

‘How will sir know?’ Sharan bit off a piece of bright orange and let it slide down his parched throat.

‘Ah, this is heaven!’, he smiled, as he took another bite of the deliciously cold chunk. It was almost dark when he reached home and settled down to finish his homework an hour later.

Tuesday morning dawned bright and clear. But Sharan was feeling terrible. The fever that had been slight last evening was raging at 100 degrees this morning. Monday evening’s practice had been a disaster, because he had felt weak and unable to play, because of his aching limbs. Shiv sir had sent him home earlier than usual, instructing him to visit the doctor as soon as possible.

‘Typhoid’, said the doctor after the piercing injection was administered on his arm. ‘Take these antibiotics thrice a day. Bed rest for atleast a week.’

Sharan had been aghast. His mother had tried to console her boy, but he could not stop the tears from flowing down his face.

‘It’s alright, my boy. There is always a next time. You take care of your health now. And don’t worry, we shall still win the tournament,  Kutub will take your place in the game…’, Shiv sir was kind and understanding over the phone.

Oddly enough, this time Sharan listened actively to every word. He had learnt the lesson of a lifetime.

***

The Disastrous Birthday : A Short Story on Active Listening.

I have been working on creating content for a school project and decided to pen a short story for children, to teach them the importance of active listening. This story is written for children between the age group of 9-13.

Story: The Disastrous Birthday.

Rina was a girl of eight. She was an intelligent and hardworking girl. She scored well in her studies and her parents were proud of her.

The only problem was, she had two weaknesses. The first was she was addicted to video games. The second was that she would never listen properly to anyone.

Sometimes, she would do the wrong homework at school because she would not listen to the teachers. Her friends were annoyed with her because she would never listen to them when they spoke to her. However, they still liked her because of her wit and helping nature.

At home, Rina spent hours playing her video games. Her father would sternly tell her to finish her homework, before playing. Being a smart girl, she would quickly finish her homework and sit down with her tablet. While she began to play, she would go deaf to what was happening around her. Her mother kept Rina to be a better listener. She would say,

“Rina, one day you are going to get into real trouble because you don’t listen!” But Rina just laughed it off and continued playing her video games.

Soon, what her mother predicted did happen.

It was two days before Rina’s birthday and she was excited. Her mother had decided to throw a small party for Rina and they had already begun to decorate their house. The menu was ready and the cake was ordered too.  Rina’s father agreed to pick up the freshly baked cake

from the famous Ramlal’s pastry shop, because it was almost two miles from their house. It was designed with a Chota Bheem theme, because he was Rina’s favourite cartoon character.

But, on the morning of her birthday, there was bad news waiting for Rina. Mr. Ramlal called her and apologized, that he had an emergency at home.

“Sorry ma’am, we have shut our store today, we will be unable to bake your order for you. Please forgive us ma’am. Have a good birthday!” 

Mr. Ramlal sounded really distressed. Rina felt sorry for him, although she was bitterly disappointed.

"What do we do now?" she wailed after she hung up the phone. "The only other cake shop that sells birthday cakes needs three days advance orders!”

“Don’t worry darling, I’ll bake a marvelous cake for you.” said her mother. “But on the condition that you must help me with the work, too”

Rina was overjoyed. She knew that her mom was an excellent baker and all her friends loved her mother’s pastries.

“Yes, mom!” she shrieked in joy and ran to give her mother a tight hug.

An hour before the party was to begin, the chocolate cake batter was perfectly mixed with all the ingredients and poured into the baking bowl.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Rina’s mother gave a happy sigh and told Rina, 

"It’s all done. All we have to do now is to bake it."

She set the oven to the required temperature, cleaned the kitchen counter and decided to have a shower. Before going to her room, she told Rina,

“Rina, I will take some time to return to the kitchen. I need to rest for a while, before getting dressed. I’ve been working all day to get the dishes ready on time. Switch off the oven after the cake is done.”

But Rina was already on her way to her own room.

“Rina, listen. Switch off the oven exactly after 40 minutes, okay?” Her mother told her again.

“Okay,” yelled Rina from her room, already engrossed in her video game.

I still have one hour to wear my new dress and be ready for the party, she told herself. 

Just then, Rina’s mother called her again and reminded her to switch the oven off after 40 minutes, before she went to her room. 

"Yeah," murmured Rina, as she negotiated a brilliant curve on her racing game.

Can you guess what happened then?

Yes, you're right. Rina was so engrossed in her game, that she did not listen to what her mother had told her. One hour later, she was still hurriedly getting dressed when her friends began to arrive.

She ran out to greet them, when the sweetish, sickly smell assaulted her nostrils. What had her mother told her? Wasn't it something about her cake?

She rushed to the kitchen, but alas, it was too late. Her cake was completely burnt to a black mess.

It was the first birthday in her life that Rina had no cake to cut. Although there were many other yummy dishes to serve her guests, it was odd for everyone to have no birthday cake, in a birthday party.  They tried to cheer Rina up by singing the birthday song twice and even joked about it, but Rina’s eyes were swollen and her face was stained with tears. She put on a brave smile after sometime, but her heart was heavy. Nothing could make her forgive herself for not listening to her mother.

As for her mother, she did not say a word of disapproval to Rina. She knew that Rina had learnt her lesson well, that day.

Rina was cured of both her weaknesses that fateful day.

***

Short Story 27 : Boring Without Crime.

Hybristophilia.

Colloquially known as ‘Bonnie and Clyde syndrome,’ the condition is defined by sexologist John Money as a 'paraphilia in which an individual derives sexual arousal and pleasure from having a partner who is known to have committed an outrage or crime.' This force is evident in some of the criminal couples themselves, but it also points to the public's fascination with their stories.

‘One of the reasons that people are so interested in crime, true and imagined, is it's something they're thinking about. It's something that they want to solve,’ says author Walter Mosley. ‘They want to know: Could that happen to me? And they want to know: How can I make it so it doesn't happen to me?’

Closer to home, the theme reminds us of the Bollywood blockbuster ‘Bunty aur Babli’ starring Abhishek Bachchan and Rani Mukherjee. Although the premise may have been done and dusted in fiction, it is nevertheless a challenge to attempt a new story every time. This is the challenge I have attempted to take on in this story, with my own twists of course.

***

Boring without Crime.

‘But darling, you need crime. It is in your blood, it is your essence, my dear’, she continued to paint her nails with the colour-less polish. The sickly sweet odour assaulted his nostrils.

She could say the most incredulous things without batting an eyelid or missing a beat. Maybe that’s what he found irresistible in her in the first place. Her killer figure was only as added bonus and she knew it.

‘You’ve got to do this, darling. We have got to do this,’ she closed the vial of enamel and replaced it in her vanity case, careful not to smudge her nails. ‘Seventeen million dollars. Imagine what we could do with all that money…’ The greed in her eyes glittered more than her nails.

He still said nothing. He was a man of few words and she knew that. She was used to his stoic silences, she knew he was listening anyways. What she didn’t know was that he listening to the stuff she didn’t say as well.

‘You know, you are an amazing guy, my dream man,’ she slipped her hand into his large ones. ‘You know, it is your genius mind that I find most enticing. You must never quit crime, that would be such a waste of your talent.’ She placed a kiss on his jaw, he moved slightly to capture her crimson lips. A minute later, she drew away a little to gaze into his eyes and ran her fingers over his hair. ‘Without crime, you would be so, so bored’. She stood up and turned away to pick up the half empty bottle of champagne.

’And boring.’ She murmured under her breath, as she poured him a tall glass of the glistening liquid.

Hours later, she lay in bed listening to his soft snores. That had been easy, she congratulated herself, with a smile. She knew he would come around sooner or later, he could never resist her charm, could he?

***

A week later, a handsome couple emerged from a gleaming Limousine at the entrance of the ‘Regina Gallery of Art’. The valet bowed and saluted, as the man handed him the keys to his vehicle with the typical nonchalance of the highly affluent.

‘Mr and Mrs. Mckenzie?’ The curator shook hands with both of them, as he escorted them into the inner chambers of his office.

‘Is it ready?’ Lydia’s full mouth curved into an engaging smile.

‘Yes, ma’am, of course it is,’ The curator gestured to the plush leather couches, as he unlocked a huge safe on the wall behind him.

He removed the contents, wordlessly unwrapped the package that had been waiting for them and stood back to allow his guests to examine his proud possession.

‘Why is the owner selling this?’ Simon spoke for the first time.

‘His family has come upon hard times, Mr.McKenzie. He would never have dreamed of selling this, otherwise. This has been in his possession for three generations now.’

‘Alright, we’ll take it,’ Simon retrieved his cheque book and handed it to Lydia.

‘My hand writing is better, you see,’ she smiled, as way of explanation.

Two minutes later, the curator examined the cheque for the amount of one hundred thousand dollars written out in her neat handwriting.

‘I shall have it packed for you, please wait for a few minutes…’

Lydia picked up the tiny antique vase carefully and ran her fingers over the delicate figurines etched into the ceramic.

Just then, the air was shattered by the shrill sound of the alarm going off. The curator froze, transfixed by shock and then, dashed out of the room without a word.

Simon and Lydia waited for not more than two seconds before they got to work.

***

Four hours later, the detective reported his findings to the investigating officer.

‘They rigged the alarm to go off at exactly the time when the curator was with them, sir. They knew that the inner chamber has no cameras, to protect the identity of their more scandalous clientele.

It was easy for them to break open the display case of the real treasure in the next room, without attracting too much attention in the chaos that ensued. All they had to do was put the emerald into the vase they had just purchased, rush back into the inner chamber and behave normally,’ he finished.

‘I packed the damn vase myself, without realizing that it had the emerald inside it!’ The curator wiped his tears, unabashedly. ‘I didn’t suspect a thing! After all, they had just paid for the ceramic antique, they were seated exactly where they had been when I left them.’

‘How long did it take for you to return to the inner chamber?’ The policeman asked.

‘Less than three minutes. I received a call from security that the it was a false alarm and returned to the chamber at once.’ His voice shook with the shock of a new realization. ‘Seventeen million dollars!’ he exclaimed as an answer the cop’s unasked question. That emerald belonged to the queen of Ludhiana, from the princely state of Punjab in India…’ He broke down then as the shock of another new implication hit him ‘I will lose my job here…I surely will…’ The policeman handed the distraught curator a tissue from his pocket, before he began to take fresh notes.

***

The decomposed body was found after three days. The newspapers screamed the headlines gleefully. ‘The body of the woman that was found in the Dalton river was identified to be that of one Lydia Norman, who was involved in the daring crime of the stolen emerald from the Regina Gallery of Art, last week. Sources say that it is possible that her partner, known only as one Mr. McKenzie must have dumped her body in the river after a possible misunderstanding with his partner in crime…’

***

He missed her. It wasn’t surprising; he would miss her until he found someone else to take her place. Someone who wasn’t greedy as she was, or as boring as she was; someone who wouldn’t find HIM boring, without crime. She’d known he was a good listener, what she hadn’t known was that he listened too well, especially to the stuff he wasn’t supposed to.

Simon poured himself another glass of champagne and settled down on the chaise lounge to watch the frenzy of TV channels, reporting the sensational news of Lydia’s death.

*****

 : Along Came A Spider, by Jack Vetriano

Short Story : A Few Cents Only.

Kindness.

We have become inured to an unkind world, so much so, that we tend to believe in the innate selfishness of people in general. While it is easy for us to be kind to the people we love or know, it takes some measure of large-heartedness to be kind to strangers.

Darwin’s theory of the ‘survival of the fittest’ iterated that it is a basic human instinct to survive by looking out for ourselves. And in the race for survival, we tend to forget that Darwin also believed that man is a social animal, a profoundly caring and compassionate species of nature.

I was busy working from home last week, preparing a module for trainers, about the topic ‘Compassion’. Accustomed to regular Google quests for relevant material, I failed to realize that every one of us has a storehouse of stories within us. These are embedded so deep in our pasts that some experiences, learning and nuances of our lives remain in existence solely within our subconscious psyches.

Sometimes, effective research lies in looking into our own experiences that have affected us and enriched our lives. It was an unexpected stroke of inspiration that made me put down this experience.

In fact, I had sent a miniature version of this story to the ‘Strait Times’ of Singapore and it was published in their island-wide newspaper too. It was good to relive my experience that reminded me of the prevalence of goodness in the world.

***

A Few Cents Only.

This incident happened to me a few years ago, in Singapore.

It was the time of recession when I first arrived there and I was desperate to find a job. My visa was valid only for another five days and I'd have to return to India if I could not land a job there before that.

 I was still getting used to the advanced technology of the country. There were no smart phones in those days and I was yet in the process of learning the ropes of using smart cards and cashless transactions. I thought I would be able to manage for some more days using only cash to buy whatever I needed.

On that day, I got a call for an interview at one of the companies I’d applied to. Elated, I ensured that I started from home one hour earlier than the stipulated time, although it would take only half an hour for me to reach the place, because I wanted to reach the venue early.

Now, the thing about Singapore is that, each area of the whole country looks similar to the other. The green landscapes, MRT stations, block and blocks of tall apartment buildings. It is very difficult for a newbie in the country to be able to tell one area from another, unless it is a unique location like Raffles place or Marina Bay.

The receptionist had told me to reach the MRT (Mass Rapid Transit) station and then call her for directions to reach their office, as it was a little confusing to find the address.

I got off at the ‘Little India’ MRT station and looked around me. I pulled out the newspaper advertisement from my file and fished out my tiny handset to call the number of the office. To my utter shock, when I dialed the number, I heard a message saying that there was not enough balance to make a call! What a disaster!

I couldn’t remember when I had used up all my currency. I looked around the MRT station, wondering what to do. I wasn’t yet familiar with using a debit card to load currency, those were the initial days of the technology boom. Most of us just added currency from a mobile store in the vicinity of our homes. Now, in this unknown country, I was stuck with a useless mobile in a new area, running late for an important interview.

Just then, I spotted a row of telephones on the wall to one side, where one could insert 10 cents and speak for two minutes to any number within the country. And we could insert more coins if we wanted to continue the call.  Elated, I fished out my wallet for some coins to make the call. But, as luck would have it, I had no coins on me either. I stood staring at two, five and ten dollar notes in my wallet.

I was close to tears. Would it be appropriate behavior to ask someone for change in this country? I wouldn’t hesitate to do that in India, but was it alright to try that here? I wasn't sure.

Would it be better to look for the address by myself? Past experience had taught me that the streets could be very confusing (no GPS facilities in those days). I knew that I would be late if I tried to walk around unknown areas looking for an address that was supposed to be confusing already.

I looked around frantically wondering whom to ask for ten cents worth in coins, in exchange for a two-dollar note. Everybody around me seemed to be in a great hurry. People rushed about here and there, purposefully. Whom should I stop to make such a ridiculous request?

Just then, I saw this boy, a tall and lanky, jean-clad Chinese teenager. He sat on the floor against the far wall, presumably waiting for someone. I walked towards him and caught his eye. He noticed that I seemed to be in a fix about something and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Would he understand my Brit-Indian English accent? I wondered. I had to try. So I explained that I needed to make an urgent phone call, pointing towards the phones.

‘Use coins,’ he instructed.

‘No coins,‘ I replied. ‘La,’ I added for an added effect. I’d learnt that ‘La’ happens to be the equivalent slang of ‘Ya’ or ‘Yaar’ in India.

‘I have no coins la,’ I repeated again.

‘Oh, here,’ he handed me a card. It was similar to the kind that we used for MRT and bus transit. (yeah, the same ones we have in Bengaluru now, too). I blinked. What was this supposed to do?

‘Insert it and make call,’ he instructed.

Huh? I didn’t comprehend.

‘You must insert it in the calling machine and make calls,’ he repeated.

Thankfully, I rushed back towards the phones and put in the phone-card into the last machine. It turned out that only one machine had the card facility in it, which he pointed out to me.

A few minutes later, I had noted down the landmarks to the office in question. My gratitude knew no bounds as I returned the card to the stranger. I try to hand a two-dollar note to him and requested him to deduct the cost of the call, but he just waved it away.

‘It was a few cents only. Does not matter at all,’ he smiled.

I thanked him profusely again and hurried out of the MRT station. I managed to find the venue of the interview, just before the specified time, grateful for the compassion of strangers in a strange country.

Needless to say, I did land that job and stayed on in Singapore for another three years. I subsequently saved enough from my earnings, to enroll myself into an M.Sc course at NTU, which I graduated from with flying colors.

All of this may not have been possible, if I’d been unable to make the call at that particular time on that day. My life could have changed for the worse if I hadn’t found the job, if providence had not placed that teenaged boy at the MRT at my time of strife.

In my hurry, I regret that I did not even ask his name. But every once in a while, I do recall the kindness of a Chinese stranger, who changed my life with ‘a few cents only’.

***

: Nevers International Train Station, by Painted Bees, DeviantArt.com.

Short Story 25 : Normal.

Depression.

Depression (major depressive disorder or clinical depression) is a common but serious mood disorder. It causes severe symptoms that affect how you feel, think, and handle daily activities, such as sleeping, eating, or working. To be diagnosed with depression, the symptoms must be present for at least two weeks. Some forms of depression are slightly different, or they may develop under unique circumstances.

I wrote this story attempting to place myself in the mind of a depressed girl, with suicidal tendencies. The writing style I have adopted is slightly different from my usual one, in that it uses a crisp and repetitive form of language.

***

Normal.

The room is full. Too full. So many people.  Too many people. There must be at least 75 people here in this wedding hall. I’m surrounded by people, making too much noise. I’m alone. All alone.

Every one is chattering, smiling, laughing. Everyone seems to be having a good time. Everyone is dressed for the occasion. It is Rajini’s wedding. Rajini, my cousin. Seven years younger than I am. She is already 29, well past the right age for marriage. They finally found a guy who was willing to marry her. Unlike me.

Everyone is friendly to me. All of them talk to me. They enquire after my health, the job I lost months ago, and everything else that they are supposed to ask. As if they are bothered about my job or health. Why would they be? Who am I to any of them anyways? Just another loser.  

Dadaji is sitting next to me on the right. He is snoring softly, his head lolling to one side. Sharanya auntie, my dad’s younger sister, looks at Dadaji and catches my eye. She smiles knowingly, although I stare back at her, sans the return smile. Her smile becomes more knowing. God knows what she knows. Does she know that I have not slept for the last 48 hours? I guess not. No one knows. I mean, they know that I’m unhappy or depressed or something. But they don’t know. They have no clue .

They day before yesterday I heard mom on the phone with someone. I don’t know who it was and I don’t care. She was confirming the news to whoever it was. That, yes, her only daughter is still recovering from the shock. What shock? I don’t know, nor does she.

I heard her say, 'Ever since the last proposal failed, she has gone more into her shell'. I wanted to ask mom, what shell? Only snails have shells. Maybe that’s what she meant anyways. I'm a snail and I have withdrawn into my shell.

Yes, that’s what I am. A snail. A really slow one at that. I took three hours to wear this cotton kurta and pull my hair into a simple ponytail for the occasion. No, I wore no makeup and no jewellery either. Why would I? What purpose would all that fuss serve anyways?

“What will people say, Sanju?’ Mom was close to tears. ‘As it is, no one wants to marry you, now if you come like this to every wedding, even the older bachelor fellows will run away from you…’

Run Away. Yeah. I wanna run away too. Not just from the older bachelor fellows though. I wanna run away from home. I wanna runaway from this city. From this country. I wanna run and run and run until I can run no more. I wanna run away from this world.

What a soothing thought that is. To run away, to escape…to escape this world. To escape this existence, once and for all. To escape forever.

I almost smile.

Well everyone wants to run away from me. Because they can. Lucky for them, because they can run away from what they do not like. I’m not that lucky. I can’t run. Because there is nowhere for me to go. Until I die that is.

But then, mom took me to a Swamiji last month. He conducted a tantric phenomenon on me. He called me a coward because I tried to escape from life. Life is a gift of God, he said. He didn’t know either. He didn’t know that I didn’t run anywhere at all. I didn’t even leave home, not even my room. I just took those pills that promised escape.

It would have worked if dad hadn’t come into my room to ask for the morning paper. He keeps coming into my room asking for something or the other. He knows that I do not read the news. Why did he come? Yeah, he must have come to check on me. The newspaper was only a pretext. They have been doing that a lot of late, mom and dad. They keep checking on me at regular intervals. They take turns to find silly excuses to bug me. This started since the day they forced me to visit that psychiatrist. That was the day they decided that I am not normal. Yeah, I’m an official psycho now. A psycho who needs treatment for …what do I need treatment for? I have no idea.

They have fancy names for mentals now. They aren’t called mentals, crackpots, idiots or imbeciles anymore. Oh no. They are called patients. Patients with mental health disorders.

Isn’t that an oxymoron, by the way? Mental health? How can you be mental and healthy at the same time?

And so, last Sunday, dad found the half empty bottle of sleeping pills on the floor beside my cot. I was asleep. Blissful sleep. An all-pervading sleep.

And now, after the return from the hospital, I am not left alone by myself. Not even for a single day.

Mom lugged me along to this wedding. She thinks it is the solution to my problems. She says meeting people would keep my mind off other issues.

How would that be a solution when people are a main part of the problem?

Besides, mental or otherwise, I know the real reason. The real reason she wants to drag me along to every wedding in the family. She hopes that someone would like her ugly daughter. She hopes to hook me up with that someone and send me off. Ah, the eternal hopes of a mother for the mental spinster daughter.

Why did they put me in the hospital? They could have been rid of me forever. They would have, if only they hadn’t treated me for the pills overdose.

They do realize that it has only made it worse. Everyone knows that their daughter isn’t right in the head. Everyone, even my parents, believe that it is because of failed marriage proposals that I am this way.

By this way, I mean in the mental way. Not in the family way, as I should have been at my age. By the way, they have a nice fancy name for that now. That doc told them it is called 'Depression'. Or a disorder. A mental disorder of course. But they do not say such bad words in our house. Yeah, mental is a bad word, worse than the word 'Sex' or even 'Fuck'. I mean, you could say Fuck in my house. You may manage to get away with only a slap and a severe reprimand for using it. But you could killed for calling me a mental case. They have to get me married, you see. So they pretend that I am normal.

Are they normal? I seriously wonder.

I mean, they think I am depressed because a series of losers rejected me. I mean, would I have married any of those bald dumbasses anyways? No. But they no one asked me if I would.

How would they know? They wouldn’t know why I try to kill myself. I do that every time I get the chance or inclination. They wouldn’t know.

What would people say? All these people? All these smiling chattering people? What would they say if they knew? If they knew that the high flying career woman Sanjana tried to run away from life? Because she had no one to run away from except for life itself?

Unlike her lover. Her lover had someone to run away from. He had me to run away from. Yes, he ran away from me, because he found another. Another, who is richer and more attractive than plain old me. They have a nice fancy term for that too. It’s called 'Ghosting', I believe.

I would have been married too, three years ago. If the love of my life hadn’t become a ghost all of a sudden, that is.

Now the ghost is expecting his first child with his new wife. His new wife, who was richer and more attractive than plain old Sanjana. But mom and dad didn’t know about the ghost and his ghosting. They thought I became depressed because of losing some losers I don’t even know.

And they think of themselves as normal.  All these people. They look at me strangely and whisper among themselves. I reward them with blank stares. I give them uncomprehending silence when they try to talk to me. They try to put a word, to what they do not understand. They never would understand. They try to box me and my personality. They want to squeeze my whole existence into a box, called ‘mental disorder’. They then think that they have understood perfectly. They console my parents. They believe that they have done all they could do. Consolation in exchange for madness. And they think of themselves as normal.

Is that her? I see these people ask one another as they spy me now. Strangers point at me and nudge one another. They are oblivious to the pained expressions on my parents’ faces. And still mom drags me along to these weddings. She still hopes that some loser would miraculously fall in love with her loser daughter. She believes that someone would propose marriage to her. And they think of themselves as normal.

It is called hope, this thing. This madness of wishing fervently for something. Something that is never going to happen, ever, is called hope. And they hope. My parents love to hope. And they think of themselves as normal.

Well, I am not going to deprive them of their madness. Their madness called hope. I shall let them have it and enjoy it. I shall allow them to relish it and relive it. Let them squeeze the hope dry until they can hope no more. Until the day, when they in their madness finally realize the truth. The truth that I have succeeded in the inevitable.

And they would cry. They would grieve my loss. They would curse me. They would curse me for leaving them the way I did. Then they would grieve some more. They would miss me long after I have gone. And then, someday, they would grieve no more. Someday, they would heave secret sighs of relief. Relief, because their daughter is in a better place. A place, where there are no mental illnesses to deal with.

Because one day, all the normal people of the world would finally shut up. Because, all the normal people would have nothing left to say.

*****

: Juan Miguel.

Short Story 24 : My Last Goodbye.

Metafiction

Metafiction is a form of literature that emphasizes its own constructedness in a way that continually reminds the reader to be aware that they are reading or viewing a fictional work. Metafiction is self-conscious about language, literary form, storytelling, and directly or indirectly draw attention to their status as artifacts.
Metafiction is frequently used as a form of parody or a tool to undermine literary conventions and explore the relationship between literature and reality, life, and art.

  

*** 

My Last Goodbye.

 She is going to kill me! The bitch!

I cannot believe it! I mean, she created me after all. She is my mother…mom, or so I thought.

Didn’t she give me a lovely heart-shaped face, a beautiful figure, wonderful clothes to wear, a great job, and a high level of intelligence too? I thought she loved me. How can she kill me?

Me? Nisha, the wonderful girl with a heart of gold. Nisha, the girl who won awards at school and accolades at work. She made me so wonderful when she created me, I’ve been over the moon with joy and pride.

It was short-lived though, because she made some rather horrid things to happen to me, just a few days after my twenty-fifth birthday too! I mean I met with an accident, lost my new bike and had a scuffle with my boss, all in a single day. All thanks to her whims. And while I was still reeling from all that, she made me lose Rahul, my boyfriend of three years!

Can you imagine all that happening to one person in such a short time? Yes, you got that right. Anything can happen in life, the more the strife, the merrier it is for you, the reader.

And so, she made me go through a terrible betrayal and broke my heart in the worst possible way. Not only did Rahul have a fling with that weak little bitch called Anita, he also blamed me for not being ‘enough’ for him! Just imagine, reader. An average looking guy with average brains actually lands a girl like me, and has to the gall to say I’m not enough!

Well, seriously reader, I have had enough.

This woman is the most heartless bitch I’ve ever come across, even worse than that Anita, the bane of my life until now. And mind you, Anita’s sole purpose of existence is that of breaking my heart!  This, after Rahul, my boyfriend, proposed to me just the week before!  I know, I know, reader. The best reason for a man to cheat on his woman is insecurity. And so, of course, it had to be me that bore the brunt of his betrayal. I was so enraged, not just with Rahul and Anita, but with my mother too for doing this to me, for making me go through the worst pain ever…

I wanted to kill myself the day mom described in minute detail, how Rahul lies through his teeth to me and spends his weekends with that bitch… even the gross love scenes between them…I died a slow death that day.

And do you know the worst part? I wasn’t allowed to make out with Rahul, not even once. All I got to do was kiss him a few times and I had to stay chaste, prim and proper even then. I couldn’t be a slut like Anita, could I?

Oh No! I’m a good girl, mind you.

Gorgeous-looking, intelligent, good girls do not indulge in desperate sex with average-looking losers, except in Chetan Bhagat books, of course.  And all good girls in the world only fall in love with bad guys, as a rule.

And I’m a classy, elegant, super-smart, stunning, high-flying achiever. A girl who knows her worth and means NO when she says ‘No’. And so, all she allowed me to do was kiss Rahul a few times, let him to grope around a bit, and then refuse to sleep with him, because, well girls don’t do that ‘too soon’, even after three years of being with him. I mean, seriously?

As if that wasn’t enough, she ensured that I lost my job last night because she claimed that I was unable to concentrate on my work after my heartbreak.

This is what she makes me endure, when I know for a fact that she’s been having flings with three different guys in the last month alone.

And just when I thought that I’d be a phoenix of sorts, to show the world how strong I am, how I gather my will power and resilience to emerge stronger from the experience, she ruined my life yet again by giving me an incurable disease to die of!

Well, how ironic that I must lose everything I value in life and then life itself, while mom enjoys her life with all the men she chooses to...In fact how do you think I know she plans to do away with me?

I heard her talking last night, in bed with her best friend’s husband. She blew smoke all over my pages and told him that she was gonna give me a cancer and kill me off after three months. I went numb with shock, reader. This was way worse than Rahul’s betrayal!

They actually discussed the best way to murder me, the heartless inhuman demons. He suggested that I should meet with a gory accident and have both my limbs chopped off under a tempo traveller! Can you imagine such monstrousness? But then, she turned out even worse.

‘No, Nisha can’t go as easily as that!’ I heard her quip, as she coolly sipped iced champagne. ‘Nisha needs to suffer more, a lot more…that’s what would make the readers of her story cry their hearts out and recommend it to their friends…’

I mean, dear readers, what a crappy story, if there ever was one!

Tell me, dear readers, why do you pick up a book to read?

To forget your own woes for some time, to be happy, to read some good prose and leave with a smile, a feeling, a connection…right?

Obviously not. You, the readers, have changed over the years. There was a time when you read good literature…Dickens, Bronte, Austen, Twain, Wilde , Hemingway or Kalam. Today, dear readers all you want is sex, sleaze, cheap thrills and instant gratification. You readers neither have the class or intelligence to enjoy good literature nor the patience or inclination to read classic work.

And so, my mom, the celebrated author, feels that she has to cater to you, the new breed of readers and write absolute crap under the guise of contemporary literature.

Couldn’t she have spared all the details of that cheap fling between Rahul and Anita, for instance? No, the great woman needed to add in five pages of the sleazy shit she calls 'erotica' for her slimy readers and she couldn’t have done that with me. As I already mentioned before, I am a good girl, you know.

And so, dear reader, I’m gonna die tonight. Yes, tonight. You see, although I am supposed to live in painful agony for 3 more months, thankfully it will soon be over, because it would take only a few minutes, a few hours or at most two days for her finish describing my anguish on her pages and finally kill me.

After all this time too. Unbelievable how heartless she can be. And for what? Just to make her stupid story better.

After all, like some smart guy said, ‘The beginning of your story sells your first book. The ending sells your next one.’

And all these authors want is to sell their pathetic books. The dimwits. And look at all the lengths they go to, just to do that!

I am after all the main protagonist of her book. Killing me would make her book fly off the shelves.

So you see, the three months that I experience in my world, are only a matter of two minutes for you, in your world.

You are lucky to be where you are, dear reader. You are lucky to be free, unlike me.

If only I could be free too…free from the pages of a book, free from the complete clutches of a mad woman who has the absolute power to control my life, feelings, and my destiny in accordance with her whims and moods, with a mere scribble of her pen.

My destiny is fused in my author’s ink, dear reader.  It is penned to suit your sensibilities and  is  fastened forever, within the leaves of the manuscript. I remain entangled for eternity, sealed within the spine that holds the pages in its clutches, the pages of a book you read and probably discard, without second thought.

Do remember me sometime, dear reader. After all, I was created for you, to die for you, wasn’t I?

And you are free to go on and live your life as you wish to live it. You have the opportunity to learn from your mistakes and shape your own destiny as you’d envision it to be.

Go dear reader, go and write your own destiny.

And this, my reader is the last goodbye from me.

***

Images : Surreal/Deviant art, Google.