Surrender - A Limerick.

Entwined in raw splendour,

a captured heart in ardour,

a silent cacophony

echoes the symphony

of sweet surrender.

***

Image: Google

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

Drift : A Poem.

From a rosy garden of innocence,

grasps thorny blooms in her fist;

Into a world of decadence

she meanders with no wist;

Demons of danger & menace

await her in their midst;

A drift into the distance,

leaves footsteps in the mist.

***

Art: Hengki Lee.

Burned - A Limerick.

Timeless memories splash

each folly, a searing whiplash;

Slashes across the mind,

echoes of past love, naive & blind,

a captured heart, burned to ash.

***

 : Kuschelirmel, DeviantArt.com

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.

Seethe - A Limerick.

Amidst a sea that seethes

& shatters sombre sheathes;

Dormant feelings erupt

an aura harsh & abrupt, 
rages when she wildly breathes

***

:Saatchi Art.

Allure - A Poem.

Evoking trappings of allure,

an innocent soul
is ruthlessly captured
devoid of armory;

Invoking feelings secure,
a scarlet heart
is effortlessly enraptured
by sensual sorcery;

Stroking tidings pure,
a fragile mind
is easily raptured
by poetic glossary.

***

Image : Google

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.

Melt - A Poem.

A scintillant slice of heaven

permeates my core;

My hues turn golden

in starry glows galore.

My insides melt in abandon,

your essence pervades every pore;

Our spirits in saccharin suffusion,

crave more and more.

An elixir, warm and molten,

seeks your sensuous shore;

Amidst fervent kisses stolen

our hearts begin to soar.

Destiny bows to passion

when sonorous souls implore;

Our beings rejoice in fusion

in the makings of a folklore...

***

Photo : Mark Bouldoukian

Tempests - A Poem.

Devoured by reminiscent folly,

justified by naive witlessness;

Tortured by internal squally,

intoxicated with madness;

Inured to melancholy,

in love with sanguine sadness;

Tempests of remorse volley,

swept into the circle of darkness.

***

 'Electric', by Jamel Akib