Short Story 14 : Memora.

Theme : Of Ricochets And Recoils

'Eureka!'

The world is in perpetual anticipation of the next new thing that’ll arrive and elevate it to a higher level of existence. That word above is a testament of our hunger to ideate, invent and/or innovate; a rooster call  of humanity to the universe signifying its awakening to a new age of understanding about the universe and its ways. The person(s) responsible for such an outcome become(s) the eye of the apple of the world, reaping praises and prizes alike, etched in the pages of history as an exemplary member of the species. The media has open arms for just such a story; venture capitalists have open wallets for these game-changers, and society tends to have both. Such is the power of the hunger that we have designed our civilizational systems around its satiation.

Every once in a while though, there comes along an idea that changes things for the better, but only at first. The side-effects are either neglected or considered too minimal to be significant, until it isn’t. It is when the hunger driving the revolutionary and evolutionary transformations consumes us from the inside, and does so insidiously. It is when the celebrated heroes of humanity, ideas and at times, the people behind them, are viewed through filters of sanity that the true picture emerges, sharpening out the blur that appeared to be its/their natural state. This realization sets into motion a chain of events which turn out to be the true outcome of that idea; a myriad of reactions exposing the depths of both the producer(s) and consumer(s) of ideas alike, continuing to reshape reality for, quite possibly, eternity.

This story is an attempt to capture the above scenario in a short story based on the pharmaceutical industry.

***

Memora

‘They died, Reema’. Suresh’s voice was devoid of feeling. She barely recognized the flat tone that spoke the three words. They sounded like a sledgehammer smashing against her gut.

She hung up the phone and sunk down on the couch. The moonless night gaped at her through the tinted glass of her window.

It had all gone wrong. The shit had hit the fan. How had it come to this?

There was nothing more she could do now. There was no going back now. It had all been for nothing. All those tedious years of being cooped up in her lab, all those sleepless nights of hunching over her apparatus, all those trials and errors…all of it had gone down the drain.

The pride she had felt when the bright green capsules were first unveiled to the shareholders, the applause she had received when they had unanimously voted her as the sole recipient of the Best scientist of the year award…the memory of that surreal evening brought an ironic smile on her face.

Three people. Three people had died because of her. She was no longer a scientist who invented miracles for the betterment of the world. She was a…killer. A murderer. The very word had an ominous, sinister ring to it, more sinister than the effects that her medicine caused in the patients.

Why, why had she not trusted her initial instincts and allowed the animal testing to be carried on for another year?

And now, there was no way the company was going to retrieve the samples from the market, before it was too late for more patients.

Memora. What a nice name it was. What an apt name. Invented by her, Dr. Reema Biswas, Ph.d in Pharmacology. The white rats that they had tried it on at first, had shown almost 70% more propensity to remember both random and specific stuff they’d been tested with. Even the lab assistants had been amazed. The second level of testing had gone well too. The guinea pigs had even remembered which lab assistant had served them more food, and that the bright-colored bowls always had more food in them.

The phone began to buzz. Reema continued to stare listlessly at the tentacle like shadows cast by the swaying trees outside her window.

The final level of lab testing had brought in accolades from the Chairman himself. The monkeys that were administered the drug she had invented, showed almost superhuman cognitive skills for primates in their scope of evolution. Why, one primate even remembered the numerical combination that unlocked the phones of three of the lab assistants, before proceeding to smile into the camera phones for selfies!

It was after the said videos had gone viral around the top brass of the company’s confidential servers, that they had hastened to patent the combination of compounds she had used to bring about the miracle drug. After all, Arena Pharmaceuticals wasn’t known as the fourth top drug provider of brain related ailments for nothing.

It was three months after the patent was secured, that Reema had become aware of the first repercussions of the drug manifest itself. She noticed that three of the guinea pigs had begun to behave in what was normally termed as ‘funny’. And then the rats had begun to act weird during the night, showing unusual proclivity to violence. One rodent gnawed through his cage so much, that he was found dead early one morning with his jaws covered in blood. And yet, when she voiced her suspicions to her senior, Dr. Suresh Baliga, he had suggested that she needed to take a break from work, albeit kindly.

It was when one of the monkeys had died suddenly, of no apparent cause that Reema began to suspect that something was truly amiss. But the company had already announced the release of Memora, the new wonder drug for Amnesia, especially Anterograde amnesia, where patients were unable to transfer the short term memory store into long term store in their brains.  Memora was touted as the next big miracle to cure all the disorders related to storage, retention and recollection of memories, in not only amnesic patients but also those suffering from Dementia.

It was a mere four months after the drug was released, that the first repercussions of the medicine made themselves apparent. And Reema knew that although no one had made the connection to Memora as yet, it wouldn’t be too long before the physicians realized that the apparent violence and subsequent death of patients, were only happening with those administered with Memora .

If only she had insisted that the tests be conducted for more time! The company, bogged down by terrible losses and ruthless competition, had refused to wait until the final test results could be tabulated with the complete ramifications of the side effects, before releasing the drug into the market.

Last week, the CDSCO had issued a circular to Arena Pharmaceuticals to withdraw Memora from the market, for an unspecified amount of time. Reema knew that the same people who had applauded her invention, would now make her the sole scapegoat in the whole affair.

But what bothered Reema more than the prospect of unemployment, or a lifetime in jail, was something more crucial, eating into her very soul.

Reema stood up from the couch and walked slowly to her bedroom. She opened the drawer and pulled out the stash of strychnine that she had closeted away a month ago. She'd known that this day would come, though she had not anticipated it to arrive so soon.

She knew that the alkaloid would cause her body to get paralyzed for a few hours, and progress to respiratory failure, before dawn.

Could she live with the blood of innocent patients on her hands for the rest of her life? Could she live in the fear of anticipation of more people succumbing to the monstrosity she had created?

The persistent call of the doorbell rang in her ears, as she unscrewed the cork of the tiny bottle and emptied the contents into her mouth.

‘Reema, it wasn’t Memora…open the door Reema! It wasn’t your medicine that caused the deaths…the test results have come in...Reema damn you, open the door…!’ Dr. Suresh Baliga’s voice continued to echo off the empty corridor outside the door.

***

Images : Google

Creative Writing : Writing about Fire.

I had the honor and opportunity to host the session at the Write Club Bangalore Meetup this Saturday. The session went exceedingly well, even if I say so myself. My writer buddies, including the newbies, came up with some amazing stories, both humorous & heart-rending, that did justice to the material and prompts I'd provided for them.

Here is the material I prepared for the meetup, for all of you Write-Clubbers who couldn't make it to  the session, for those of you who need to break the Writer's block and for those who just love to write stories too. 

The history behind the choice of my topic is simple. I have been glued to Dean Koontz's novels for the past two months. I totally revel in the kind of prose Koontz adapts, he is indeed the king of similes and metaphors. I am currently reading 'Seize the night' which is the sequel to 'Fear Nothing'. I love both the books, not only for the heebie-jeebie fests at every turn of the page and the killer suspense, but also for the knowledge I glean from the protagonist.

Now, there is a scene in 'Fear Nothing' where Christopher Snow, the protagonist is trapped inside a house that is set on fire. I do not want to spoil the suspense for those of you who are yet to read the book, so it would suffice to say that the four pages of mind-blowing description of Chris's angst, got me hooked to the idea of using 'Fire' as the topic of my hosting session at the Write Club.

In addition to the excerpts from Koontz's 'Fear Nothing', that I have included within the material, I have borrowed heavily from the post of the Death Author, E.B.Black, titled 'How to write about fire accurately' to do justice to the topic in question.

However, all the prompts that I have put up at the end of the writing material are products of my own hyperactive imagination. I hope they fire up your creative juices and inspire you writers to bring out some blazing stories.

So, set your page on fire, writers. Happy writing!

***

Playing with Fire.

Writing about the elements can be a challenge, even for people who have had first-hand experience with the same. Fire is one of the areas misrepresented in fiction, most of the time.

There are a bunch of myths that need to be busted, before a writer can portray a fire or events relating to a fire with accuracy.

Myth 1: The only danger of being trapped in a house fire is of being burned to death: 

Although this might seem to be the case in books and on TV, a majority of people die of asphyxiation from lack of oxygen, than by burns. Smoke and toxic gases kill more people than flames do. Fire produces poisonous gases that cause disorientation and drowsiness. Asphyxiation is the leading cause of fire deaths, exceeding burns by a three-to-one ratio.

Note: If you want your protagonist to escape alive, ensure that he crawls low under any smoke, to the exit because heavy smoke and poisonous gases collect first along the ceiling.

Downward I plunged, toward the only hope of nourishing air. Each inhalation caused a spasm of coughing, increased my suffocation and fed my panic. I held my breath till I reached the foyer, dropped to my knees, stretched out on the floor & discovered that I could breathe. I squirmed across the room digging my elbows into the carpet, ricocheting off furniture until I cracked my head solidly against the raised brick hearth of the fireplace. (‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

It seemed absurd to me that I couldn’t find my way out of this place. This wasn’t a mansion for God’s sake, not a castle, merely a modest house…(‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

The smoke didn’t just choke or block my view with a wall of white. It seared my throat and closed my airways until I wondered if I could breathe long enough to get through it. My throat hurt for a good day afterward. 

Myth 2 : You can save someone from a fire by running into it : 

No, that would be a foolhardy thing to do. Not only are there dangers of asphyxiation, falling debris, suffocation from the heat even if one never encounters the flame, but there’s also the fact that one can see nothing. Fire starts bright, but quickly produces black smoke too thick to see through and irritates the eyes, resulting in complete darkness.

Note: Rescuing a pet from a fire is not easy. They may fight and bite rescuers in the panic (unlike on TV).

Coughing, choking, struggling to breathe, I reversed directions hoping to escape through the second floor window. Through smoke-stung eyes, flooded with tears, through the pall of smoke itself, I saw a throbbing light above. Yet, there was no advantage of glimpsing the reflected fire; I wasn’t able to tell if the flames were inches away from me, whether they were burning toward or away from me, so the light increased my anxiety without providing guidance. (‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

Myth 3: During a house fire, the whole house usually burns down: 

House fires usually occur only in one room and they are put out before they get too far. Fires don’t generally spread too fast unless there is an accelerant causing them to do so, in which case it takes less than 30 seconds for a small flame to turn into a major fire & only a few minutes for thick black smoke to fill a house, or for it to be engulfed in flames. Also, cement, certain metals and bricks can’t burn.

Note: Writing about a whole house burning down with nothing left but ash, is not realistic. 

  

Either I was suffering from worse effects of smoke inhalation than I realized, including a distorted perception of time, or the fire was spreading with unusual swiftness. The arsonists had probably used an accelerant, maybe gasoline. (‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

Myth 4: You have to touch a fire to be burned: 

This is untrue. The heat of a fire is enough to injure a person seriously. If the characters in your story are near to lava or something huge burning down, they may feel the heat and have ashes raining down on them. Heat is more threatening than flames. Room temperatures in a fire can be 100 degrees at floor level and rise to 600 degrees at eye level. Inhaling this super-hot air scorches the lungs and melts clothes to the skin.

Note: Your protagonist is smart, if during a house fire, she feels the doorknob and door, before she opens it.If either is hot, or if here is smoke coming around the door, she leaves the door closed and tries to find another way out. If she does open the door, she opens it slowly and is ready to close it at once, if there is smoke or fire present on the other side.

If the character in your story can't get out, she could close the door and cover the vents/cracks around the doors with cloth or tape to keep the smoke out, before she signals out of a window or calls the fire department for help.

Myth 5: Firemen always rush into a house at once to save the people inside: 

This is not always the case. They do help if someone is hanging out of a window, but the probability of searching for people trapped inside maybe low. Although this may sound heartless to someone who doesn’t understand the logistics of the same, one must remember that it does not make sense for firemen to enter an empty house to risk their lives. Besides,  there is usually bound to be utter confusion about how many people were inside the house when the fire started. Thereby, firemen normally douse the flames and then search for survivors or bodies afterwards.

Note: If your character’s clothes catch fire in your story, he needs to stop at once, drop to the ground, cover his face with his hands and then roll over & over, or back and forth, until the fire is out. If he is rescuing someone else, he can smother the flames with a blanket or towel and use cool water to treat the burns immediately for 3 to 5 minutes.

Writing Prompts:

• An inquisitive child comes upon a box of matches and begins to play with it.
• A firefighter enters a blazing house to rescue a puppy, when she hears the cries of a baby from inside one of the rooms.
• A survivor recounts the horror of being set aflame by a drunken husband.
• A billionaire’s bungalow has burned to the ground, during Diwali celebrations. The insurance investigator smells a rat.
• The charred remains of an unknown victim are found in a remote area on the outskirts of the city. The detective in charge is flummoxed about the case.
• A psychopath has committed a murder and decides to use his favorite toy - fire, to destroy the evidence of his crime.
• A homemaker/stay-at-home husband is busy on the phone/laptop and forgets to turn off the gas stove properly…
• A group of inebriated teenagers are dancing around a bonfire in a deep forest, when things go horribly wrong…
• A zookeeper is woken up from his siesta at work, by screams of ‘Fire! Fire!’ to see wild animals running helter-skelter in a fog of smoke.
• You are the fire. You are the flame. You feel an invincible power coursing through your depths, the power to burn, blister, roar, destroy and devour everything around you. You are out to have a field day,turning all and sundry in your path into ash. Be the fire. 

***

References: 

1. http://deathauthor.blogspot.in/2012/08/how-to-write-about-fire-accurately.html

2. http://reesloveofwriting.blogspot.in/2012/07/fire-in-night-when-life-sucks-write-it.html

3. 'Fear Nothing', Koontz.D; Bantam Books (1998)

Images : Google

Short Story 13 : A full circle.

Theme : Melancholy.

Heart-breaking tales may be hard to write, without sounding melodramatic. Sad events cannot be used only for the sake of making the story tragic.

I personally find it easier write stories that are drawn from situations that have happened to people I know or heard about, in real life around me. It is not uncommon to find such situations that leave us with feelings of frustration or helplessness and give us a taste of grief. 

This story is an attempt of mine to showcase a scenario that is all too common in the current fabric of our society. I hope it touches a chord with the readers to unlock the intended melancholy.

       ***

      A full circle

 

‘Ma, I’m busy. I’ll call you back.’

Okay, she began to say, when she realized that he had already hung up.

Seema sighed. Navin never had time for her anymore. When had he ever had time for her anyways? She couldn’t recall the last time he’d spoken to her at leisure. It had been this way ever since he had moved to his own apartment at the other end of town.

What had he told her when he had bought the place? That it was a mere investment; he’d no intention to staying there at all. He practically cleaned out their life savings and the gratuity that Rishab had received during his golden handshake, a few years ago. But then, he’d been transferred to Jalahalli by his company, it was a promotion, no less. He couldn’t have refused such an offer. And then, it only made sense that he would move to the apartment which was only a stone’s throw away from his office.

Seema picked up her glasses and wiped them carefully in the pallu of her soft cotton sari. Her mind flew to his childhood years when Navin couldn’t go a day without his beloved mother.

Rishab coughed raucously from his perch on the sofa. His cough was getting worse. He’d refused the antibiotics that the young doctor had prescribed for him. Rishab held a deep mistrust for doctors, especially the young things that inhabited the nursing homes these days.

‘What do they know about our ailments?’ Rishab would grumble. He’d lost almost 11 kilos in the last three months, but refused to follow the advice of any the doctors they visited. He’d never got over the demise of their longtime friend and family physician, Dr. Batra, who’d passed away from a sudden heart attack a year ago.

Seema knew that Rishab would never admit the real reason for his endless ailments. She knew that his ego would never accept the fact that their only son had abandoned them to their own devices and moved on to greener pastures that didn’t include caring for aged parents, although their son had had no qualms about soliciting their assistance to achieve it.

A twinge of guilt made its presence felt in Seema’s heart. Rishab had refused to part with his gratuity fund, especially since Navin had already lost all the money they had given him after selling their only house. It was Seema who’d insisted that they had to support their offspring in all his endeavors, however far-fetched or foolish they may be.

Thirty three years had passed since Seema had entered Rishab’s sprawling bungalow as a shy bride from a small town of Arasikere taluk in rural Karnataka. It took her almost two years to adjust to the hustle and bustle of Bangalore. She’d been awed and charmed by the handsome young man, who was a successful architect with inherent ancestral wealth.

How easy, oh, how easy it had been for the girl from a family of limited means, to settle into the affluence of the lifestyle wealth could offer. They would never have dreamt during those days that they would end up with no roof to call their own in only two and half decades from then.

Navin insisted that they sell their bungalow to fund his penchant to study medicine abroad.

‘I’ll earn it back within a year after I graduate, dad,’ he insisted to his father. ‘I’ll buy you a new bungalow, a much nicer one; this house is so old anyways…’

Rishab finally relented to his only son’s compulsion and for the first time in their married lives, Seema and Rishab had begun to live in a much smaller rented home.

Seema was jolted out of her reminiscence by the sharp barking of a dog on the street. This house was so small that they could hear the honking traffic on the busy ring road nearby. They had to keep the windows constantly shut to avoid the dust and pollution that made its way into their living room.

It hadn’t been easy. They’d gotten rid of most of the heavy furniture for stuff that was more compact. The housekeeping staff had to be relieved one by one and Seema understood how much she’d relied on the fleet of maids to keep her home functional.

The second blow was when Navin quit his studies during the final year of medicine.

“Sorry mom and dad. Very sorry. I can’t do this anymore.’ His curt email to them read. They barely got over the shock when he flew back to India and insisted that he would start his own garment business.

Seema gave up most of her jewelry and then some, to fund her son’s latest fad. Two years was all it took for Navin to end up with losses that took a further toll on their lifestyle.

Navin finally settled into a regular job as a counselor in a pharmaceutical company. It seemed like a fresh ray of hope for the weary couple that their son had finally found his calling and would set them back on the road to the affluence they had previously enjoyed.

What a wasteful exercise it had all been. And now, their son had nonchalantly moved on to his own three bedroom apartment, with no intention of including his parents in his new-found prosperity.

‘Get me some water,’ Rishab’s brusque voice broke into her reverie.

Seema got up slowly, taking care to place her small feet neatly into the hawai chappals, before she began to walk. The coldness of the bare floor seeped through the thin soles of the worn-out slippers and stung her feet. Her arthritis had gotten worse over the weekend and she stopped her daily morning walk in the park because she was unable to keep up with her walking partner, Alamelu. Alamelu suggested Seema to visit a bone specialist she knew, but Seema recalled with a sardonic smile, how she’d dilly dallied after she found out that the man charged only an arm and a leg for his consultations.

She had just poured the water from the jug into Rishab’s steel glass, when he was engulfed by a fresh coughing spree that made Seema wonder if his lungs would finally burst under the pressure.

‘Hot…hot water,’ Rishab managed to sputter, before he began to cough again. Seema poured the water into a pan and lit the stove under it. It was a full two minutes before she realized that the water had boiled and almost evaporated. 

She’d just been standing there lost in her thoughts staring at the pan, which was almost empty now. She became aware of her wet cheeks just then and realized that somewhere along the journey into the past she’d begun to weep softly.

She poured a fresh glass of water into the pan and wiped her tears away. It was then that her unseeing eyes focused on the ends of a brochure that she’d absent-mindedly tucked behind the tin of sugar last week.

She reached for the brochure and frowned in concentration, as she read it thoughtfully.

‘Beautiful surroundings nestled in the heart of nature…hospital a stone’s throw away…doctor on call…safe and secure…like-minded company…’ The keywords jumped out at her.

A host of pleasant images played upon her thoughts. A ray of hope, reluctant but persistent, began to wheedle itself into the dark contours of her mind.

‘Seemaaa, how long will you take to get me a glass of water?’ Rishab’s voice roared from the living room.

‘Coming,’ she called. She poured the water meticulously into his cup and placed it on a tray. Holding the folded brochure under the tray, she balanced it with care and made her way slowly across the tiny kitchen.

Rishab sipped the water noisily and smacked his lips in appreciation. How easy it is to make him happy, Seema thought, as she gazed at her husband’s wrinkled face with affection.

She waited until he had emptied the water, retrieved the cup from his hands and placed it on the stained glass tea table with a little clunk. She then sat down on the sofa next to him, handed him his reading glasses and placed the brochure in his hands.

‘What’s this?’ He put on the glasses and peered at the cheap paper, trying to decipher the words on it.

Seema said nothing, but watched him intently.

A host of emotions played across Rishab’s face: Enquiry, confusion, comprehension, anger, and then slow resignation.

‘Is this what we have been reduced to now?’ He asked after a very long time. The pain in his eyes tore at her heartstrings.

‘It is the best thing for us to do now, Rishab. At least we can be independent and happy…besides we will be very comfortable and well taken care of…’ Her voice began to break before she could complete the sentence.

Three weeks later, an aged couple got out of an OLA cab and made their way haltingly on the dirt path, towards the slightly dilapidated building, with a faded board that read ‘Sai Baba Ashram for the aged’, on the outskirts of Hosur.

***** 

Picture credits : Google images

You, the woman of strength - A Poem.

Who are you, dear woman, wherein lies your power?

Are you a bastion of ability or a delicate flower?

You are a daughter and a daughter-in-law;

You juggle multiple roles with aplomb and inspire awe

Sometimes the mother, other times the wife;

You are entwined in perpetual responsibilities, perils & strife

Hidden deep within your soul, lies a latent little child;

Rarely does the woman in you, go completely wild

There may be spells, when you've nothing to say

But there are times, when you allow your demons out to play

Mere living sometimes, is such an endless grind,

Strong that you are, you learn not to mind.

No matter what happens, you never lose hope,

For you are aware that life is but a tangled rope.

You live each strand of life, across its entire length

From each arduous journey, you draw your immense strength.

You're underappreciated and rarely get the respect that is due,

but you barely falter and always remember to be you.

In this tug of war of existence, you hold on really tight,

you know you can't lose, if you pull with all your might

You're a source of inspiration, a powerful strength-mine

Try as they might, your foes can never dull your shine.

You do not fret, for when you decide to win

You draw fortitude from deep within

Stay strong lovely lady, the likes of you are few

Well done, oh woman of strength, kudos to you!

****

Picture credits : Google.

Short Story 12 : The Ghost of Airawata.

Theme : Horror

Most horror fiction is riddled with clichés. Although it may seem that there is nothing new in writing horror stories, it is by no means as pessimistic as it sounds, because the theme in itself is fundamentally timeless.

I generally despise watching horror movies, but the attitude does not extend to reading horror fiction. I have come to discover that I absolutely revel in the process of writing horror stories. This is my second attempt (after my Short Story 9: The Perfect Lover), at trying to send chills up the readers’ spines.

***

The Ghost of Airawata.

I wish I wasn’t alone. I wish Rudy was here. Better still, I wish Rudy was here with Tiger.

I love my own company. I generally love being alone, doing random stuff all by myself. But today is different. This is unknown territory, dangerous to boot. And I've no idea where I am going.

The sun disappeared behind the canopy of trees exactly twelve minutes ago. I know this because I checked my phone. My battery is down to 18%. My phone has already beeped the warning to connect it to the charger. I wish I could charge my phone. I do have my charger in my duffel bag but where does one charge a phone in the middle of a forest? Not that a fully charged phone would do any good here where there is absolutely no connectivity.

And this noise. Whoever thought being away from all the traffic of the city would be peaceful, didn’t get lost in a jungle after dark. Creatures of the night come alive when the city goes to sleep. There is so much noise here. The loudest is perhaps the shrill chirping of crickets and the hum of mosquitoes,  almost the size of bees, buzzing constantly above my head.

I am so thirsty. All these mosquitoes must mean that there is water nearby. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea which way to go, where to sleep…I’m not even sure I can set up a tent in someplace all by myself. Bear Grylls would know exactly what to do here. He would probably capture some juicy crickets and churn up a tasty meal out of them, maybe he would garnish the insects with these mosquitoes too…

I pull out the bottle from within my bag and chug in the last of my water. I know I shouldn’t empty the last ounce of water, but panic makes one desperate in ways that a normal brain under normal circumstances cannot fathom. I know there are three Good-day cookies left with me, but no more water…

Rudy wouldn’t have emptied the water. She would have saved it until morning. Rudy…why did she refuse to accompany me on this…this tour? Perhaps she had the premonition that things would go horribly wrong, especially with the jinx that I seem to perpetually carry around with me all the time.

I move my flashlight slowly around me. All I see is thick foliage, bushes, tree trunks, around me. There is an occasional rustling in some bush or the other, I hope they are only rats or maybe baby snakes looking for food. The rock I’m sitting on is damp, it has rained earlier in the evening. The ache in my calves and ankles is steadily increasing now. If only I knew which way the road was…I miss Tiger more than ever. Tiger, my tiny little mongrel would have known the exact way back to the winding road. But Tiger was safe at home, back in Kerala, with my sister Rudy.

I should have refused the unbelievable offer that the wily travel agent enticed me with. After all, why would they offer a five day tour of the Airawat hills and accommodation at such a gigantic discount unless something or the other was wrong with them?

I had no idea I’d end up alone in the forest when I cheerfully boarded the ramshackle bus five hours ago. The gangly guide promised that we would reach the jungle trail resort by evening. If only the bus hadn’t broken down…How stupid I was to have gotten down from the bus to join the rest of them who decided to walk the rest of the way...It was supposed to have been a cool nature walk of a mere two kilometers from where the bus conked.

I pull myself up from the rock and begin to walk again. The road is to the northwest. I know that much, from the map we had pored over before we naively decided to cut through the jungle shortcut that rascal Sohail in our group claimed to know very well…Does the group even realize that I was left behind near the banyan tree?  I hope they do, I fervently pray that they are looking for me…if not…I dare not think any further.

Why, oh why the hell had I stopped to click that stupid selfie? I should have had the common sense to stay within sight of the group and save the battery of my phone…I must attempt to find that damn road.

It isn’t the darkness that I fear. I find darkness comfortable and even soothing. It’s not even the animals I dread, especially the elephants that are supposed to inhabit this area. There is something more terrifying here that I do not want to encounter.

I know the side of the forest that the sun set, so I gauge the Northwestern direction and begin to push my way across the prickly undergrowth. I feel the sting of the many scratches on my face and some minor bruises on my legs and arms. These jeans of mine weren’t meant for these harsh conditions, but how would I have known that?

‘Squiiissh!’ I hear the loud noise even as I feel the slimy rush of something gooey under the soles of my loafers.  Yikes, I have stepped on some wet creature, maybe a large snail…hope it isn’t a snake! I begin to walk faster now, not even waiting to see what unfortunate creature got under my feet.

The travel guide’s words echo in my head. What seemed like a joke during the sunny afternoon seems sinister in this semidarkness of the jungle.

‘The ghost of Airawat forest’, he had said solemnly. That got our attention alright. ‘The ghost of Airawata’, he repeated for effect, ‘haunts the jungle, preying on lone travellers especially when it rains.’ I’d joined the others who had laughed it off, trying to hide my nervousness.

 ‘He was a mahout who was killed by his own elephant. It was during a routine elephant ride in the jungle safari that some travellers had poked the animal with a sharp stick for fun. The elephant had become so agitated that he had chased the whole group for a few meters. The tourists ran helter-skelter, but Shambu, the mahout had stood his ground. He had trained the animal since he was a baby and thought of it as his own child. But that fateful day, the animal refused to follow his orders. Pushing the man on to the ground, he had trampled over him until his body was a mass of crushed bones and bloody matter…’

No one had laughed then.

‘It has been seven years since the incident, but many of us have sighted Shambu’s ghost. His face and body appear crushed, with only his ribs and thigh bones gaping out from within gooey tissues,’ the tour guide finished with a flourish.

I have watched a lot of horror movies, but even my vivid imagination could not conjure a crushed ghost with partially jutting out bones.

I had chuckled nervously then. But now, I’m able to see the apparition clearly in my mind’s eye.

‘What does the ghost do?’ a tall girl had asked the guide.

‘He kills whoever ventures into the forest after dark… No one who has entered the forest after sunset has ever been seen again…’ His voice had trembled slightly when he said that. ‘Revenge, he extracts revenge from all the travellers who dare to enter his territory…

Keep away from the forest after sunset…’ he had warned before the bus began to move.

My pace quickens, my breath is already coming in gasps with all the exertion and perhaps the fear that engulfs my mind. I push through the foliage the best way I can with the thick bamboo stick I’d found near the rock earlier.

Stay calm…stay calm...ghosts do not exist…; I repeat the mantra in my head. And the apparition appears only when it rains…and it isn’t raining now.

As if on cue, multiple streaks of lightning brightens the sky. I look up, awestruck at the vision of terrifying beauty.

Pearly lines scatter across the inky sky to form grotesque white roots, that shoot out of the smoky clouds and reach down to the silhouettes of pine trees below. 

My eyes follow the line of the streaks down to the earth and in the last flash, I see something that makes me go from joy to terror in the span of three seconds.

Joy, because in that flash of light I see the road snaking up ahead, only a few meters away. Terror because I see something else standing…or floating…something that wore black and white at the same time, in the middle of the very road that I have been looking for.

Darkness. Utter darkness envelops me, as a huge grind of thunder shatters the sky. Is my mind playing tricks? Is that the ghost I'd just sighted in the middle of the road? And why is it dark..? I realize that I have dropped the flashlight in my shock.

I go down on my knees and feel around the wet slush for the flashlight. My mind is racing while I try to draw on the last vestiges of my sanity. Is it my imagination or is there some sinister presence waiting for me to approach it?

I feel the cold metal brush against my fingers and grab at it blindly. I try to find the switch that puts it on and hear an audible click as my thumb finds it. Nothing happens.

I bang the torch against my palm trying to get the light back on, but to no avail. The cold breeze makes the goose-pimples on my skin feel like marbles but then, my shirt has stuck to my moist back. I hear an odd whistling noise and realize that it is emanating from my own nostrils. I’m breathing so hard, my panting breaths have begun to come out in high-pitched whistles. It seems to match the chills going up and down my spine. Two large drops of wetness falls on my wrist and head. It has begun to rain.

I’m still grappling with the flashlight when I feel, more than see the presence in front of me. I look up involuntarily, just as a fresh bolt of lightning reveals an apparition two feet away from me.

And this time, I see enough before the darkness descends on me again. I see the black of dried blood and rotten tissue. I see the white of a rib-cage and long femur bones jutting out from amidst the murky mass. I see a perfect grey square, where the head and face should have been. What is left of it, reminds me of flat screen television screen with a gory display of a flattened nose above gaping teeth and broad ears, all smeared together against a solid invisible wall of air.

I hear a frantic barking somewhere behind me…Tiger! Was Tiger here somehow, dashing across the jungle to save me from the deadly ghost? The rain beats down around me, a puddle has formed around my legs. My vision has blurred into a haze.
‘Romaaaa,’ That’s Rudy’s voice calling out to me. I would be safe at last!

They would never believe that I had actually seen the Ghost of Airawat hills. Maybe I should have clicked a selfie with it before it disappeared.

I shut my eyes when the feel of icy skeletal fingers wind around my throat, just as another clap of thunder shatters the sky.

*****

Picture credits : Google