The Wait

It was around 3 on a sleepy afternoon - sitting on her chair with her parched cobwebbed feet splayed out on warm stone slabs, the old lady gazed on with quiet serenity as only old people can - she was thinking mundane thoughts such as that her feet like a pair of moldy cheese bars--purplish, squishy and swollen. The warmth crept up slowly through to her thick ankles gradually massaging the pipe-like, greenish-blue veins networking over the back of her legs. She sighed, the days were getting shorter now, the throb in her knee was mild, but within an hour, she knew, it would blow up, keeping her up through the night. What she wouldn't give to be able to sleep one night, one full night for a full eight hours of dreamless darkness. A large toad skipped out of the small pool of water, one she whimsically called a lily pond. Looking back at the porch, she called out to her husband "it's another toad today" she updated him. He nodded, she asked if he wanted some lemonade. he did, so she got up grunting with each movement. 

Saras, her husband, was leaning on the porch swing, hands in his pockets, it was a comforting, familiar sight. She appreciated this routine of theirs, with her non-existent memory, routines had become her crutch. For as long as she could remember, each day, after having their lunch together, she'd spend time at the pool, which even on the hottest of days had water, make lemonade for both of them, then go sit on the couch in front of the tv, massaging her knees. She really did not have any recollection of how her days were before - did she do anything differently? Had her knees always hurt? The house was her world and Saras and she were the only occupants of it - well almost - she knew of a hoity-toity nurse who came around once every often to check on her 'vitals'. Why her she had asked rebelliously, while getting prodded and probed by the sullen girl, of course she never answered her - she only spoke when she had to order her around on taking pills! Saras was three years older to her, or so Saras had told her, but the nurse never looked at him, nor cared to ask about his health. He was strong as a bull she knew, never even had a cough and still looked as he probably did when she had first met him but surely he'd need a checkup sometimes too. That silly girl was going to be visiting again later that evening, the note on her fridge door said so. She decided to bring up the topic of Saras's health again, she decided petulantly, at the rate he guzzled down her lemonade every afternoon, he surely needed his blood tested!

Saras raised the glass of lemonade to her, a sign he enjoyed it, she smiled shyly. He had been withdrawn of late, but seemed to have recovered today, slightly. She let him be, clearing up the kitchen counter when she felt him come and stand behind her, placing his large hands on her waist. She giggled nervously, even after all these years he had a way of surprising her, getting her heart racing. Embarrassed to be having such thoughts at seventy-four she swallowed and in a steady voice with her back to him told him about the nurse's visit. He didn't respond, but continued leaning against her, she could feel him smelling her hair. "Saras, I'm too old for this" she tried to admonish but it came out with a laugh. "Stop wriggling, Pumpkin", he whispered, "it's time now". "Time for what, Saras" she giggled nervously. "We will be taking a trip" he said with a finality as though that explained everything. "She turned around, looking at him incredulously -"trip... to where" she asked, unsure with what was wrong with staying in this paradise they'd built for themselves. "It'll be an adventure, I promise.."she looked up at his face, still youthful, still unlined, glowing with the vitality of youth - and suddenly felt deeply ashamed of how she must appear to him, with all the deep creases on her face, when and why had she stopped applying lipstick! He deserved so much better, as her eyes got weepy - he leant down, "I can't wait to hold you again dear" she stared at him - his eyes were steady, unsmiling. He was serious and that unnerved her. " what are you going on about, Soz" she'd call him that sometimes but could not remember why anymore. "you get to hold me every night" she teased him, reaching out to feel his forehead. As usual, it was as cool as spring, she sighed deeply, wanting to understand more but Saras had always been taciturn, a man of few words - something she admired in him "Wear your best clothes tomorrow" he winked at her "for the nurse" he gave a rare dry laugh as he walked around her to get a refill of the lemonade. " He was acting strangely, she wasn't afraid but was rather worried as he had been the most predictable part of her life, her rock. And this change was unsettling. She followed him to the couch. 

"What was my life like, Soz" he looked up to her and then patted the cushion besides him. She sat down and leaned against him "tell me about my life, how did we meet?.....I just cant remember anything". she asked feeling the tears beginning to form. "Hmm... so you don't want to know anything about the trip" he laughed. She shrugged, one thing she had known, despite her struggles with remembering was that he would tell her something only when he was ready, not a moment sooner, she could plead but he had the frustrating ability to withhold information until it was the 'appropriate' time to share - appropriateness being determined by him. She had learned to label him an 'Ox' and accept it over the years to keep the peace. Kissing the top of her forehead, he gave her a soft squeeze, "Who you were, what we were may not matter so much compared to where we'll go". Again, she could hear a tint of excitement in his voice. He continued to stroke her arm as she snuggled against him "But, I will tell you..." and with the practiced ease of having said this numerous times before he began but without any trace of impatience in his voice "we met very young, I saw you at a seminar in your University - don't remember, don't care - what it was on". His voice seemed tender and emotional, he was relishing revisiting the past again " I just remember that during the break I approached you with an excuse to copy your notes as I had been a moron and come to the session without a pen. Lame, I know, but I had to get to talk to you as I had been staring at the back of your head straight through the two hours." He looked down at her again, lifting her chin he planted a gentle kiss on her lips."I still remember each strand of your hair and the scarf you had around". She smiled, she could now remember exactly what he  was describing. She had been stiff in her seat throughout that seminar, keenly aware of his eyes boring into her back. She too did not remember what the speaker had said , except that when he had tapped her shoulder, she had known then that there would be no going back to a before - she had known her new life, the 'after' had already begun. She didn't, she couldn't share her thoughts with Soz for she had pretended to have not noticed or remembered the day for so long. 

She couldn't tell how many times had Soz repeated this story to her, did she remember the day each time? She looked at his hands, they were exactly as she remembered from that class - large, beautiful and soft but with strength, and then she saw hers, deeply ashamed at the mottled, loose hanging skin covering her huge knuckles. He seemed to have remained in his twenties forever and here she was a haggard. "Hey,..." Soz stopped recounting their story as he noticed her sobbing quietly, "we had a good life, short it was, but what we had no one else did, you brought me joy and peace each day love". they stayed huddled together in the quiet warmth of a setting day till the static buzz implied the nurse had arrived. "You go see to her, I'll be out" Soz said making his escape as he had done the last time and every time the nurse had come to visit. The unsmiling but effective Jasmine rubbed Soz the wrong way, he hated her cold, uncaring way about her, especially how callous she tended to be with her and so always slipped away to the yard to not let her see his annoyance. She slowly got up, her back and bones screeching with stiffness as she did, envying the speed and ease with which Soz had darted from the couch to the back yard. 

The bell kept buzzing impatiently till she had made it to the door, the frowning Jasmine almost pushed her way in brushing past her to the dining table. She smelled of sweat, petrol and a long day at work. "Would you like a glass of lemonade, dear, I just made some for Soz and myself" she asked . The nurse continued clattering about with her stuff, laying out the tools with which she would prod and probe her - she wasn't ailing, just old, she almost screamed out loud. Why would they not leave her alone, she despaired. Not all old women got the kind of intrusive medical attention she had to bear. Jasmine seemed to be in a mood that day and snapped at her to stop loitering and go sit on the couch so her BP could be checked. Something told her it was a good thing Soz had made his escape for he would have given Jasmine an earful for treating her so harshly, worse than she usually did. 

She personally did not mind but Soz would just seethe anytime he saw someone treating her with less than the respect he though she deserved.  She hated scenes and Soz was not one to shy away from those, she had learned that early on in their relationship, when he found something wrong he would stand up to it clearly and unequivocally.  She smiled up to Jasmine as she put her hand out for her to draw blood. Apologizing for the trembling of her arms as Jasmine almost hit her arms to keep it steady as she applied the cotton swab. Suddenly the yard door screeched open, Soz was standing there seething - Jasmine jumped almost a feet in the air when she saw him. this was the first time that she had met the elusive Soz. As he started to bound into the room with angry strides, Jasmine shrieked and ran out of the house, her equipment scattered everywhere. The poor girl had also left the purse and her ID card behind without a backwards glance. "Soz, shut the damn door, you're letting all the bugs in" she snapped at him sternly, partly for the bugs but more for him scaring the girl away. She didn't know how to reach her, maybe she'd return in a moment. As the situation sunk in, she could not help but start to laugh,  Jasmine had got what she deserved - the girl had been a pain, once she had even had the temerity to ask her to shut up as she had tried to share one of Soz's stories. Hopefully they'd send someone different next time she sighed. People had always ignored her, brushing away her complaints as they would a dead mosquito, maybe this time she'd have Soz go in to the hospital and ask for a different nurse, she chuckled - no one dared say No to him. Also, what the heck was wrong with her, she felt perfectly fine, maybe Soz could have them leave her alone too.

Soz shut the mesh screen and returned looking slightly crestfallen, "Sorry, pumpkin, she was being a boor today.." he kneeled down in front of her. But looking at her face flushed with laughing he smiled, looking endearingly attractive, it gave her heart a sharp squeeze and they just looked at each other for a while motionless. "So should we continue" he asked, indicating to where they had left off in the recollections. She denied, "What is wrong with me Soz? Why the nurse?" He looked down at her tenderly, "I could tell you but it won't matter after tonight, I just want us to sit here on the couch, with each other, and just be" He looked at her enquiringly, she nodded, somehow it no longer seemed to matter who she was, what their story had been just that they were together, and would be, forever. She felt exhausted. Soz helped her get up and walked her to the bed. He laid down besides her, with his shoes still on. She couldn't bother, they'd be leaving on the trip tomorrow. Snuggling next to him, she breathed in his scent as he stroked her thin hair. She didn't mind him seeing her balding scalp, somehow the fact the he didn't seem to notice had made her feel better about herself. "So, Bunny," Soz whispered just as she was just about to drift off to sleep "remember the trip I was telling you about - " she perked up but he soothed her down "I will need to head out slightly early, I may not be around when you wake up." No ways, she tried to sit up but he kissed her forehead gently forcing her down, "It's just temporary, I will send for you - all you have to do is rest, not panic, okay..." she nodded uncomprehendingly "we are going away someplace where there will be no nurses to worry about. It'll be us together, forever" this time Soz looked into her eyes. She could sense his intensity as he said those words. there was some fear, some uncertainty in his eyes but he seemed genuinely excited. It was her turn to pacify him now, she nodded. She didn't have to say so but he knew she trusted him implicitly so much so she genuinely did not have any curiosity to know where they were going or why. "What do I need to prepare, Soz" she asked, the fridge would need emptying and even though she only had three dresses, she would need to pack her clothes and toothbrush. Soz only had the one pair he had always worn. He shook his head,"No, just rest tonight and don't be upset when you don't see me tomorrow. We'll be together again very soon, I promise". 

The next morning, she was awoken by repeated buzzing of the bell, someone, Jasmine she thought, was very keen on getting in. She let the buzzing continue, she'd get up when she wanted, giggling at how she was adopting Soz's evil stubbornness. Hope he was okay, she sighed in her bed, he would hate to see her worry but she did worry about him a lot. She couldn't recall when they had last been separated but while her heart ached to see his smile as he greeted her every morning, she recollected all that he had said yesterday, she would wait patiently for him. He had said it could be a few days but hoped it would not. A loud crash broke her reverie, startling her with white anger as she saw not just Jasmine but two other men clad in white uniforms rush into the room. they seemed to be yelling at each other, ignoring her completely. She tried to sit up but they pushed her back down and then all of a sudden they were pricking her with needles trying to hook up some kind of a bag to her. It hurt, Soz had said it wouldn't but it did - they did not seem to realize she was human. They were pounding her chest and it hurt so bad but she couldn't even lift her hand to ward them off, before she knew she was dumped into  a stretcher and amidst a lot of yelling and shouting was being carried away from their home, were these Soz's men. Were they taking her to him, through eyes blurry with tears she watched her beloved house, the faded yellow flowery curtains till she was blinded by strong white light, her only regret was that she had not been able to take the photograph of Soz and her with her.

As they rattled through loud, wild roads she realized that these people were not even looking at her, they were avoiding to see her in the eye, as Jasmine sitting next to her seemed to be staring out the window of the van, she could have spoken some caring words to her just this one time, what she wouldn't have given to hear someone mention Soz's name. Helpless, she allowed the tears to block her view after that and as day turned gradually to night she no longer felt the bumps or the needles anymore, neither could she hear any of the harsh sounds that had pierced her ear drums earlier, Soz, show up she pleaded quietly before drifting off into the darkness. 

----------

Jasmine trembled as she entered the room. she clutched on to the cross in one hand while holding the keys in the other. the room was dark and heavy, not smelling of death as the other rooms in the hospital did, it smelled of a home and something floral.  Theressa had been an inmate there for over forty years, the longest duration for a resident to be in a comatose state, although she had withstood multiple attempts by the hospital to shut down her support systems.  Each time, she had been bailed out by a support group her husband had setup, she did not know it but Theresa had become a local celebrity - her grit and resilience as she wavered between illness and good health through her years of coma had been documented in the local press. She had had four full-time caretakers, Jasmine who had looked after her solely for twelve years being the last. Shortly after the accident had left Theressa comatose, the husband, Saras, had created a fund to keep her on the support system. Legend went that till the day he died twenty years ago, Saras had been a daily visitor, he would stop by every afternoon during the visiting hours of 3 to 5 pm, spending an hour by her bedside, reading or cleaning her up or even putting on her makeup. Once Saras had died, it had seemed like Theressa's body had started to fail rapidly before the healing had returned to everyone's surprise, there had been steady improvements in her vitals and eventually, while she could still not move, one day she had opened her eyes. That had been the day Jasmine had started to become her care taker. 

Something no one had noticed was that Theressa's face would show emotions and movement during the visiting hours. Jasmine had seen Theressa blush and smile and that had scared the living lights out of Jasmine. She had stopped going into the room between those hours. The week before her passing, Theressa's body had started to deteriorate once again, her smiles and grunts had started to get fainter and even when she opened her eyes they had seemed to be glassy, unseeing. What had forced Jasmine to go in to Theressa's room during the visiting hours that fatal day had been a flurry of alarms alerting the monitoring staff. Theressa seemed to be showing signs of rapidly decreasing blood pressure. While a scared Jasmine was trying to get the equipment setup, the photograph of Theressa and Saras caught her eye. They were at some party, making a goofy face at the camera. She had picked it up to look at it closely but dropped it accidentally, bending down to ick it up Jasmine felt  a sudden cold draft come in from the open door. Startled, she turned to look up - only to see Saras standing there, grimacing at her as he advanced towards her - he looked exactly the same as he did in the photo. Jasmine had always prided herself on her practicality and common sense. But the feelings that went through her as she saw the man approach had almost given her a heart attack. That had been the last time she had entered the room alone. She would have immediately resigned from her job but Theressa crashed the very next day - all attempts to resuscitate her had failed. She had died a peaceful, natural death in her bed of forty years. 

Per her husband's instructions Theressa's room was to be converted into a resting area for any caretakers of comatose patients. The builders would be coming in tomorrow to tear the room apart and install, of all things, a mini lily pond in the middle of the hospital. Maybe that's what this place needed, she sighed as she locked the door behind her, the photo of Theressa and Saras laughing gleefully at her as she exited.

Kindness

 Unknown to Roslan he was born to a couple who should not have been - first generation cousins whose parents, his grandparents, had been also separated by just one additional degree. He would have said his slight stutter were a result of copious and very surprising inbreeding, in this day and age, had be been able to. Roslan's mother and father had been quite young and when it had become apparent that matters had gone too far, they'd been married to save the family's honour. What the new parents had not taken into account had been a slightly odd looking, hyperactive child that would not stay put. All the baby videos that they'd planned on posting would never happen because their baby was not cute enough, the opposite, in fact. With a rather large, elongated head and bulbous eyes he did not cry out 'lift me up'. Resentment grew in moments and hours at the loss of social stature, partly by the ugly child god had given them as punishment and partly realizing parenthood wasn't really as what it was made out to be. 

With everything going against them, Roslan, sadly, was the only one they had any control over and so bore the brunt of all their frustrations. While his father escaped to go into their wood carving workshop, spending as long as he possibly could there, his mother would cringe at the very prospect of having to pick him up or feed him. He would not be touching her breasts, that was a given, she shuddered at the thought of having him latch on and had him weaned off after three weeks, right after all the muted social festivities around the birth of a boy child had concluded. Her own parents had never extended a warm smile or hug to Roslan, let alone coddle him or fuss about as grandparents were prone to doing. 

He was surely a devil child, his mother mused, washing the unnaturally thick hair that stank worse than the door rug, giving it a hard tug and immediately regretting it as the boy started to wail in the most unpleasant of tones - rather than the beguiling, sympathy inducing cries of other children, Roslan's was a cry that would make one want to slap him, and that's what she'd do. Though it had been five long years since, he still looked two - a feral two year old, with a large head covered by thick glossy hair, eyes that were always flitting about to catch a whiff from where the next punch or slap would land, and forever wrapped in a cocoon of putrid scent that was more a defence mechanism, fending off not just his mother but also the other bullies - the children in his neighborhood. 

When he turned ten, his mother had had enough, one morning he slept in till late on the floor besides the bathroom, without the standard beating by a broom to wake him up, he woke up silently, stretching out on his mat lazily, his muscles didn't ache because he's had a full night's rest. But then a wave of fear gripped him, the house seemed quiet and he worried if there'd be hell to pay for not having been up - maybe there were guests in the house but for sure his mother would not have forgotten that he had not left the house early enough - that had been the pattern, his father would clothe him in a fresh pair of clothes, mostly his old clothes that hung about him making him look worse than the vagabonds that loitered around, and send him off with a whack to his head. Roslan was not to get back to the house before the lights had gone on - his mother had demanded that and to maintain peace in his life, his father had acquiesced.  His father would make a monthly payment to a local eatery on the corner and they would throw him a bun or a plate of fritters twice a day, he was on his own after that. 

His lack of coordination did not help, maybe it was all the whacks to his head he had got but he somehow walked in a strange fashion, his hands pulled close to the chest, as a boxer would to defend themselves, at all times while he shuffled around slightly sideways, like a crab, which again was probably to defend himself for he got abuses hurled at him, sometimes a shove or even a punch if he bumped into someone. No one wanted a stinky vagabond running into their fresh clothes at the start of the day, especially getting emboldened to physical abuse due to his tiny stature. Walking sideways gave him a better chance at avoiding touching people as he wandered about the locality,  stopping often to stare at any one or any thing new -  anything except for his father's shop where he was forbidden to visit. Since he didn't have anyplace to be, he'd spend hours rooted to a spot when he found something interesting, absorbing like a sponge all that they did or said.

That morning he ran out of the room into an empty house. His mother was no where to be seen, The house stood dark, in the shadows of the brilliant sunshine outside.  An air of heavy staleness wafted in from the kitchen. He did not know what she was doing with the rope but she seemed busy, swaying slightly. And then she jerked, he saw her eyes red as usual and bulging out staring straight at him, she had seen him and would soon be lunging  straight at him any minute for her hands had gone to the rope clawing at it, trying to take it off, screaming he ran out, stumbling into the streets. He wandered about a bit, his mind running wildly with the various ways he was going to be beaten up later that day. She had been gurgling some sounds too maybe she had told him what she would be doing to him, but he had not understood a word of it - to him it had sounded like water trying to escape a dried up faucet. His tiny shoddy feet stumbled on and eventually he found himself in a new street, he had seen it from afar but had never gone there for he had been told to stay on his street where he could be found if he were to ever get lost. Roslan did not know this but his parents had a secret desire that it is what would happen one day, that they would hear of his untimely passing and had complete futures planned around that event, to the exclusion of one another, of course. 

All the new sounds and sights flooded Roslan's budding senses, everyone seemed to be running about there and all the screaming and shoves and punches that he had learned to manage on his own street came bounding at him at twice the speed. He started to run, holding his head and kept running till he fell. Laying in the dust he finally opened his eyes and looked up -  the sky looked down at him serenely. He stayed still observing, this was something new he had discovered. When he woke up later, hunger clawing at his innards he found a mangy dog panting right next to him. A rush of musty breeze hit his face sharply slapping minute jagged edged debris into his nostrils and eyes. Rubbing his face he raised himself to breathe better and saw the road just a few feet away from him, cars and buses zipping past him, dumping even more dirt and putrid smoke each time they crossed him, unseeingly. Had it not been for the dog, the filthy Roslan, indistinguishable from a rag, had a very good chance of getting squished under one of those enormous wheels. Tottering up he let his hunger guide him towards a shack, the dog followed. 

The shack was a haphazard one, he could not tell what it was for - it must be a shop but of what he thought - there was only garbage piled up in the front, it had broken chairs, old beds rusted metal everywhere. Roslan didn't know to avoid those death traps, but somehow managed to navigate beyond the war zone to find a clean patch of tiled floor. The shack only had a roof over the debris, the tiled patch was open to the sun, which by now was beating down severely. He found what had drawn him to the shack - an open fire with a pot on it - something was cooking and to his starving self, it seemed like manna. Tottering as close as he could to the pot , he crouched down in front of it hoping a plate would appear from the boiling pot for him. The dog followed suit, salivating just as his new master was. 

Observing the pair from the shadows the hunched man who looked like he was in his eighties decided the pair were not a threat. He hobbled towards them making warning sounds as Roslan, unable to bear the clawing in his stomach reached out to the hot pot. Startled both Roslan and the dog gave out loud yelps but calmed down upon seeing him. To the rest of the world, he was an outcast, a ragpicker, chased by wild dogs and people alike for his ugliness caused hatred and fear even in the saintliest of hearts. Like Roslan, he had a misshapen skull. A paralytic attack had left the right side of his face drooping and even when he had bathed himself in the pond behind the shop he would still look filthy. Life had knocked him around so he looked sixty but was barely a day over thirty. To Roslan, he seemed to be the kindest person he had ever met.

The man told Roslan he would serve him, atleast thats what Roslan understood for all the man uttered were grunts and big gestures. If Roslan had learnt how to, he would have smiled, he continued to stare at his movements as the man ladled steaming hot broth onto a plate for him and to Roslan's surprise he pulled out a spoon and scooped a little blowing on it. Satisfied he pretended to eat by taking the spoon towards his mouth before handing it over to Roslan, teaching him how to eat. How he had known that Roslan had never been able to feed himself was a mystery to Roslan but he followed the instructions clumsily with each spoon. The man and the dog sat there on their haunches, observing him eat, his unbridled joy with the bland meal tugged at the man's heart. He not only understood what Roslan's life had been until then but also shivered thinking of the years to come. As the tiny duo polished off the pot the man laid down in a corner, dozing off instantly. His was a hard life, the physical labour of loading all the iron and metal junk into the truck earlier in the day had exhausted him fully. He knew he had been cheated by the man for the work he had done but was grateful to have got some money, few more years and then he would be able to go back to his father's village. He dreamt pleasantly on an empty stomach of a future that in most likelihood would not materialize, but it was the most content he had ever been and he slept and slept. 

It had started to rain he thought when he woke with a start, but found that it was only the dog and Roslan chasing each other in the yard. Panicking he sat up, why was the child still there, he had assumed he would leave on his own after eating, it would not bode well for him if someone found a child, even if it was a child as deformed as this, in his shop. He yelled, stopping the madness, gesticulating he pointed to the road outside but Roslan continued to stare at him instead of looking at his outstretched arm. The sun was setting now and the street lights had come out, some of his customers would start to come now. Once again he yelled at the two, trying his hardest to look unwelcoming but they just crouched together sitting on the ground. the man picked up a stone and pretended to throw it at the dog, the dog barked at him and then slunk away after a while. Taking Roslan by the arm the man dragged him out to the road, pointing to it he indicated as best as he could for him to leave. Roslan looked at the traffic lights, he had never seen those before for he knew what would happen if he reached home after the lights had come on. Suddenly, events of the morning flashed through his mind, he started to wail thinking of his mother and the stick she would beat him with once he was home. What had she been doing playing with that rope. He had after all not listened to her when she had called out to him that day, there'd be hell to pay. Startled at the volume of his sobbing the man came back out, he'd have to drop him off somewhere else.

Roslan's protective stance of holding his closed fists in front of his face while walking sideways were back, the man tried to make him rush but it only caused him to stumble and fall. His wails grew louder and coarser with each step, sounding less than the cries of a child and more the annoying blasts from a damaged megaphone. The ragpicker smacked him on his head, all love for the child evaporating in front of the dread he had started to feel. Lifting the boy onto his hunched back he tried to distance the boy away from his shack as fast as he could, making for a peculiar sight. Cars slowed down as drivers rolled down windows to get a photo or just stare at the sight of a despicable old man lugging away a wailing boy. 

He had barely gotten to the cross section where Roslan had wandered in from when a small group of people blocked his way. He knew they were asking about the boy but he could not stop till he had dropped the pest on the other side of the road. He grunted at them trying to brush past but one of them pushed him back angrily. He and Roslan took a nasty fall, the man landing partly on top of the boy's leg. Roslan let out the shrillest of screams, stunning the onlookers who had circled them. Prostrated on the floor, the ragpicker tried to answer but all he could get out in his fearful, frenzied state were disjointed words slurred by his paralysis and that seemed to incite the man even more, he said something to the rest of the crowd and all nodded in unison, some rolling up their sleeves and making fists at the pitiful man slurrily making garbled sounds. Roslan, in the meanwhile had noticed a welder nearby using a welding gun with a bright helmet across his head. Curious he had wandered off to watch. He was so immersed in the bright light that he missed out on the spectacle taking place behind him.

By the time the crowd dispersed, they had beaten the ragpicker so badly that the cops had to call an ambulance to pick up his mangled body for the hospital, he would be returning neither to his shack nor to his village No one remembered the boy the ragpicker was supposed to have been kidnapping. 

Tough Love

 The hurt in his soul glistened through his eyes. He hid it, but she saw through the smiling facade.

Wasn't he but just a fluffy ball of cotton, not even a shroud of paper to protect against the onslaught, she imagined?

Weeping silently at her son's future,

Trembling with fear at the tribulations the world would put him through,

All the evil machinations that were bound to shred to a million pieces his fragile sense of self

So, she held him close, tight as only a mother would.

Preparing him each day to build his shell, particle by particle, hurt by hurt;

A shell that would be his when she was gone - she would hurt him as no one ever could!

That, she thought would be the only way; to protect she must hurt, to love she must kill.

Disenchanted

 She knew she would have to step out of the house someday, why did today have to be that day, she rued loudly, in her mind. It had only been a month since Menon had walked out of her life, it hadn't been enough time for her to get over the shame of abandonment. She did not miss him, nor did she want him back, but the suddenness with which he had exited her life had left her stunned; it had been done with surgical precision, cold and neat, with no loose ends to fret over. In their time together, there had been no drama, no heated exchanges and no moments of passion - they had existed together, barely lived. Her memory of their time together was the constant feeling she had, of being suffocated, by a soft, silken pillow, something that would eventually put her to sleep before smothering her by its officious civility. Eventually she had been no different than that packet of meat that had remained frozen in their refrigerator, in plain sight, yet forgotten, and their relationship had ultimately shared the same fate of being tossed into the garbage can in one sudden swoop.

Hidden behind the recess in her window she watched the world zip past outside, everyone forever in a hurry, running towards something, stressed, harassed, oblivious of their aliveness, ungrateful of the miraculous gift of life bestowed upon them. Hadn't she been one of them, focused on her 'hustle', destined like the hamster to always dance to someone else's tune, striving for that pot of gold at the end of some rainbow. It hadn't been anyone's fault, no one had set out to cheat her, she sighed. She had herself, drifted away from her consciousness, the choices she had made had kept pulling her ever deeper into the churning morass of 'productive' society. She had been fortunate though, hadn't she, her wakeup call had had been the blazing trumpet of Menon's disappearance from her life, had that not happened she would have ended up like the toad in a pan of slowly heating water.

But now, she perked up, trying to force herself out of her morbidity, the sun was setting, soon it would be dark, perfect for her to slip out; everyone would be cozying up in front of their mindless bingeing on televisions or laptops. She stood there, waiting patiently, silencing her mind, watching the street clear after the flurry of increased traffic from people bound homewards, mindless honking, and the dusty atmosphere of irateness dissipate gradually. Eventually, she could hear only the lazy rustling of palm leaves and the stars started to shyly play hide and seek. The next five minutes went by without her knowing, her body still remembered how to get ready and out for she soon found herself at the entrance of the lighted garden. Looking at it uncertainly, she reminded herself - "One step at a time", as she eased into her slow walk, looking down at her shoes, her trusted old sneakers. People passed her by as she continued on the walkway, eyes fixated on the ground to avoid making eye contact, her earphones plugged in but silent, only to signal she wouldn't respond to people calling out to her either. A regular to the park, she had not been visible for more than a month, yet no one had called out to her - not even the security guard whom she had given all of Menon's left-over clothes - of such impeccable quality and taste that it had caused the man to reel over in ebullient gratitude and now he had his face turned away from her. She had wanted to be left alone, but her becoming invisible this quickly hurt deeply.

She noticed a new path had been cleared with fresh tiles laid out and took up the trail, her regular path had only about five people but to her it was a crowd. How long she had run for that evening, she could not recall, puzzlingly she did not feel any soreness in her muscles. She had been a runner before the break, even so she could not claim this level of fitness. Not wanting to regret her over-enthusiasm the next day she did some stretches and seeing a stone bench sat down to cool off. This new trail had not seemed to help for she still felt neither tired nor rejuvenated. Maybe she needed to get back to her morning runs as before. "One step at a time", she reminded herself as she found herself panicking at the thought of getting out during the day.

 She could not have been alone for long before someone came up the path leisurely strolling as they spoke loudly into their phone. The man was likely one of the painters who had been painting their apartment complex walls, she deduced based on his overalls. Maybe it would be good practice for her to try and strike up a conversation with him. She had been garrulous decades ago, she squirmed at the thought of the gibberish she had spouted in the name of 'conversation', Menon had taught her the power of silence, of using few but powerful words. Her friend circle had disappeared soon after that, "good riddance" Menon had approved of the change. 

Why had someone as astute, as awe-inspiringly brilliant as Professor Menon stooped down to marry her, she had often asked herself in their marriage of four years. A few months back, during a dinner party, when she had sat obtusely through the complex discussion on world affairs and had hesitatingly stated an overly simplified viewpoint, she had noticed Menon freeze, going red in the face. On the drive back, he had maintained an aloofness that scared her more than if he had yelled at her. And that's when she had asked him the question about why had he asked her, then a student of his, to marry him. He had looked at her for a long time before shrugging, "Opposites attract". The humiliation had stung, she felt tears well up but had hastily swallowed those away, Menon detested overt displays of emotion, calling them childish. Each day she had changed - a bit here, a bit there, until there came a day when she looked into the mirror, she saw Menon and not her goofy face, she had finally truly become worthy of being his wife, someone he could take out to meet his colleagues without dying of embarrassment. A few weeks later, after dinner, he had calmly conveyed to her stunned face that she should expect the divorce papers soon. As usual he had been gravitas personified, cool, precise, and masterful, His eyes glittered through his specs as they seared right through hers, cold as ever, she had not even blinked, he would not have any of that emotional outburst, she knew. Had it been her hair? she could not help blabbering incoherently "I was going to get it cut this weekend", it had been a lie and he had just smirked at her, reverting to correcting the exam papers. 

Her running and her hair had been the only things Menon had been unable to get her to change. Just like her mother, she had been blessed with thick waist long hair. While everyone had admired her Jezebel locks, Menon had hated it. No educated girl should allow herself to have hair as long as this he had told her, "for heaven's sake, you look like a farmer's wife" he had grimaced through tight lips, yes, she had wavered, but had not been able to get the bob Menon had so badly wanted her to get, instead, she had started to put her hair into a tight bun ever since, anything to avoid Menon noticing it or commenting on it. 

Something tore through her as she realized that her hair was still in a bun, he was still in control, "No!" she yelled out furiously. The guttural howl that shook the leaves around her seemed to have come from somewhere behind her, stunned, she looked around to find the painter guy on his knees, whimpering. Had she been the one who made that thunderous noise? Embarrassed, she stood up to find her hair had come lose. She shook it letting it fall over her face, liking its texture, its smell. She had forgotten how her open hair felt, she was never putting her hair back in a bun, she promised herself. The man had turned white, whimpering with fear. Guiltily, she extended a reassuring hand out to him but he cried out, finally scampering to his feet and running away. She smiled, ashamedly at the surge of power she felt at scaring the man. She hated herself.

The next day, she woke up to a massive headache, how long had she been asleep! Looking on languorously at the setting sun, it seemed she had slept through the entire day, had her run been that tiring, she thought, noticing she still had her running clothes on. With  no recollection of getting back to the apartment, she concluded the run must have been very emotionally draining, maybe she'd wait to get back to running.  Gazing out from her sofa, she could see the familiar rush of people and cars, everyone was either with someone or trying to get home to be with someone. Her loneliness hit her hard between the ribs, there was no one thinking of her, wanting to be rush home to her, she swallowed painfully. She was still clutching her knees trying to reduce the hollowness within her chest, when a sound alerted her - the front door was opening. Her mouth went dry as she looked about her, no one had the keys to the place except Menon and her. And then she heard his voice. She wasn't ready to meet him, not like this, she scrambled to her feet, panicking. She ducked into the closet, closing it lightly just as the voice came closer, he was almost into her room!. She heard the voice fade in and out as he walked about the front room, it most definitely was Menon's but he sounded different, apologetic, humble, scared even. 

"....it's five years now, this was my first flat...would love to get back here..." apparently his companion had not agreed for he continued his groveling, trying weekly to convince them. And then she heard the second voice, it was sharp, static, deep but distinctly female, "get rid of it, it stinks of middle class". That seemed to have ended the discussion. She had to see who it was that had Menon shut up. Quietly, she stepped out of the closet and peeked around the door, Menon was running his finger over the coffee table, fondly even, while the woman, with her back to her was standing huddled up in the center, afraid as though to get contaminated, of what, she thought. There was something familiar about her - she had the short wavy hair of one of the students that Menon had tutored, deciding to know more she stepped through into the drawing room. Menon looked up at her, expressionlessly, almost as if he was seeing past her, she almost gasped aloud, noticing how much he had aged in the past month. He had been her Professor in college, almost a decade older but had always had youthful vigour about him that had been a huge hit with his students, including her. His companion turned to look as he exited the room, and just like Menon, ignored her completely. She was used to being a wallflower when with Menon but being someone of no consequence even to this young thing, was humiliating. This female version of the youthful Menon was unaware of the treacherous phase of life she had entered into, feeble or not, Menon was dangerous. She stepped forward, into the girl's line of sight hissing "Why are you here?" The girl seemed to look away, hugging herself tighter, then suddenly she yelled out "Menon, we've got to leave....Now!"

Menon came racing out, "Anything's the matter honey". "Don't honey me you!" she snapped, "this house gives me the chills.... you can't expect me to move in where she died.." "Baby, it's been five years, this is prime property..." he cooed, completely ignoring her confused face. Who were they talking about, who had died there - Menon and she had bought this newly constructed apartment just a year back. The way Menon was looking at the young girl reminded her of how she had looked at him, what a fool he looked like, she giggled but then stopped fearing he would hear her, But he did, both of them clutched hands gawking at her, were they fearful of her! She burst out laughing, their fearful faces looked comic! One of the windows flung open blowing a strong breeze through her open hair, ignoring the thought that she'd be struggling to comb her hair the next day, she twirled it around, loving the feeling of how her hair swirled around her. She was glad Menon and his new young thing got to see it. As the girl shrieked, both of them tumbled towards the door, she bent over howling with laughter, The girl's purse and the keys they had used to get in lay strewn about on the floor as they fled, they had even left the door open. Outside, in the corridor, a painter, the same man she had seen in the walkway sat washing his paint brushes. He looked up, startled at the exiting couple, then he  peered into the house and seemed to see her - he seemed to be the only one who would actually acknowledge her presence. She moved towards him to reassure him but he too screamed and fled, upsetting his paint can all over the granite floor. 

So, it seemed her newfound superpower was to drive people away, that was indeed hilarious. She had never laughed so much and never for so long. Still howling with laughter, she made her way through the empty corridors. Reveling in the wind blowing through her hair, she headed towards the walkway, she was not going to hide inside the walls anymore, she had found her voice and she would never stop laughing.

I noticed...

The double lines running from the nose to the chin;

The chin that wobbled with the added padding,

The neck that looked like parched earth, waiting for the rain.

Knees that hurt with each step, fingers that swelled up every morning,

It did not escape scrutiny, those thinning strands of silver, same as the watery, fading eyes

The canopy of leaves, inviting, green with young life, mellow with the morning dew

A decadent jar of sweetness, the call of the cuckoo bird, persistent, divine

The enchanting yellow flowers strewn across the walkway, soft and deadly

The little blobs of red grass, the ones that had escaped the lazy gardener

As the heart grows bigger, softer with tenderness, beating with heightened awareness,

Shuffling feet turn leaden, unwilling to walk away.

Spellbound at the cacophony, the melody and gladness of the birds, this buffet of sensations, 

The current of life, passing through the darkening skies, the soft wind, even the immutable rocks.

It had been sunrise a long time ago, now, it was time for sunset to bloom, 

Vibrant beyond the peacock's bloom, it beckoned, come, pause a while.

The gladness of life, that celebration of awareness, so temporal, so infinite

The journey would continue, beyond time.

I sat there as the last rays of the sun flickered fervently for a while, fighting, resisting,

and then,

I noticed how they gently paled into the iridescent darkness, contented, at last.

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Her Birthday wish

 It was to be her birthday in a week and she would finally turn ten, an adult, she thought dreamily swinging idly on the playground's rusted equipment. Would her mother remember, a querulous voice from within asked. She had checked the calendar in the apartment supervisor's office - it was to be on a Monday this time, one of her mother's double-shift days. Even on her single-shift days like today, all she would do is cook and pack food for the week that she and her brother were to heat and eat in the evenings. She would soon be coming home, her greasy work uniform would still smell of heated oil and other things that always made her want to puke. But her mother would often start cooking even while she still had her uniform on. Her face fell as she recalled the ghastly sight of her mother waking up that morning with her make-up caked up and packed thickly into the deep crevices on her face. What she disliked the most were her large, unwieldy hands with swollen veins popping out and the red nail polish she always had on even on her broken nails. She had prayed everyday that her mother wouldn't come to the bus stop to see her off, she often did so even with her mascara smeared on her paper like skin and her hair tousled in the previous night's hairdo. Her brother was too young to understand and was just always idiotically delighted that his mom was there, not understanding the looks from the other mothers at the bus stop - wary, haughty and sometimes pity, her haggard family of three stood out like a caterpillar on a plate.

Later that evening, she took out the diary her grandmother had gifted her the previous birthday. Her brother had already written his name, or something similar in hieroglyphs, in various sizes, through all the pages. The diary had originally opened up to be a cake with a huge cherry on top. Her brother had also taken care of the cherry and chewed through it within a month. Seeing that he was now trying to help her mother with the cooking she pulled out her pencil and found an empty space that hadn't been scribbled over. She carefully typed out "My Birthday Wish", and later changed it to "My Birthday Wishes" as she did have more than just one. She hesitatingly listed the battery-operated robot and the roller-skates as an after-thought. Then her imagination ran free and her list kept growing till she had covered the whole page, front and back. Finished, she looked at it with deep satisfaction, just writing her wishes down made her feel like she already had those, she started planning how she would race around on her skates in the evenings with all her friends watching enviously. She decided to place her list strategically near her mother's work satchel, that way she would not miss seeing it. Satisfied with her plan, she ran out to see what her mother and brother were upto, for the house had gone silent - only to find them both crashed out on the couch, snoring wildly. As she had done on many other days, she poured herself some milk and went to bed.

The diary was still on the counter when she returned from school that day, and for the rest of the week she got no indication that her mother had made any efforts to buy her any of the gifts she had listed. Rather her mother seemed even more haggard and seemed to have double-shifts every day that week. She would barely see her and once when she did, her mother had swollen eyes and a puffy face that scared her so much that she burst into tears. Her grandmother came over one day that week to spend the night with them. With a special dinner of boiled eggs and jam on toast and some of the games she had brought they had an exciting time, so much so that she completely forgot about her birthday wish list. It was only when their grandmother boarded them into the school bus the next morning that she remembered and yelled out from the bus "Don't forget what it is on Monday, Gramma" The bus moved on slowly but not before  she saw her grandma turn around looking deeply sad. She was perplexed at the reaction, but sat back happily having successfully reminded her of the upcoming event. She was always one who had good gifts and for the rest of the bus ride she dreamt of what might she get for her birthday that year.

By Sunday night she was dismayed to see absolutely no change in her mother or her routine, she seemed to have got even busier  than before. She had just rushed out with some instructions for dinner and to go to bed by eight. Her brother was zooming around brainlessly with his red bus with no comprehension of the turbulence within her. She sobbed her heart out into the pillow, all the while her brother was running around in circles assuming she was playing a game. She would wait until tomorrow and then the two of them would run away she decided. Once her mother had left for work, she'd pack his red bus and her books and they would go and live on apples in the forest on the other side of the town. Satisfied with her plan she fell asleep. 

She woke up to an eerily silent house, her mother wasn't screaming out instructions, nor was her brother running around like a firecracker. Disappointed at the damp start to her big day she ran out of her room angrily, ready to break the first thing she'd lay her hands on. How could her mother forget the day, she screamed inside, tears welling up in her eyes. No wonder they did not have a father like the other kids did, who would want to live with a woman like her, she kept shouting silently as she approached the kitchen. Sitting on the rug, cross-legged was a beautiful lady, she stopped in her tracks, looking closely she saw it was her mother, her hair tied back and a huge smile on her face, Her brother was snuggled up tightly on her lap happily sucking at a lollipop. She set her brother aside and stretched out her arms "Happy Birthday Sweetie" she whispered. To her ears the words seemed like a roar and as she ran into those arms her tears started to fall, she knew she was ten now, and no longer supposed to cry but she could not seem to control it. Her brother had started to kick her wanting in on some of the action as well and soon before they knew they were all entangled in a confused pile of arms and legs shouting and laughing and crying all at the same time. "So who is going to help me bake the birthday cake?" her mother asked eventually and she knew then it was the only birthday she had ever wanted.

Gulu Bhai - Street food to die for

 Constable Binapani tapped anxiously on his lathi, his stomach rumbled in anticipation. It was almost six and time for him to get off his shift. The fog was thick that day and he peered unblinkingly into it, searching for the familiar sight of the red and yellow hand-cart, "Nandi Ghosha" as Gulu called it with the same pride as that of a young father. It was Tuesday and Gulu Bhai would have Dahi Bara with piping hot, spicy Aloo Dum for the day's special. There were already some of the other regulars milling about the place, he decided to brave the chill and step out of his check post to beat them to it, he didn't think he could wait for another five minutes, as hungry as he was! Seeing his familiar portly figure huff about in the early morning chill some of the other regulars smiled at him, it was always good to have the police on familiar terms, they reckoned. He was oblivious to the scrutiny and just paced up and down trying to ignore the rumbles from his stomach, the last meal he had was the cold stone-like rice and watery daal his wife had cooked, something even the street dogs around his house had judiciously learnt to avoid. The small meal Gulu provided had nourished his soul for several years now, the fresh, aromatic dishes he doled out was the only reason he had always asked for the night or early morning shift, for by 7, Gulu was sold out. Considering that he had been inching towards retirement and had over the years been a more or less harmless sort, the Head Constable had been more than willing to accede to his simple request. For Constable Binapani. the Nandi Ghosha had always been worth waiting for, the only bright spot in his dreary life, about to go grayer even more post retirement. He sometimes pitied the senior officers seeing them frivolously throw away their money for the paper-like food served on equally unpalatable paper plates in those shiny, bright restaurants that dotted the road leading to the biggest universities in the city. If only they knew what they were missing, but then overcome by a strange envy he would quickly change his mind, he did not want Gulu to get rich and go away setting up another of those shiny monstrosities that served horrible, pitiful food, no Gulu had to be protected from that fate. Sighing, he stopped pacing and perched himself on the stone bench, the one that was closest to where Gulu put up his stall.

Unfortunately for Constable Binapani and the others, Gulu Bhai broke the tradition of the past 7 years and did not turn up at all. His customers were confused, they waited patiently, ignoring the other stalls for as long as they could, rudderless, some eventually turned disloyal and sheepishly bought breakfast from a rival and went their way. Others stood about, at first, talking about everything except what was on their minds the most, Gulu Bhai's absence. Eventually someone casually remarked about the new Food Commissioner's vow to make the city a safe haven for all foodies - he had recently vowed on TV to end all instances of food poisoning, diarrhea and the type, caused by, they stressed, unlicensed food vendors. He had started a campaign - My City the Cleanest. All people gathered there turned towards Constable Binapani, as though he was the Food Commissioner, afterall, he was the only one there in a uniform. Reddening to his neck, he immediately and vociferously disowned the Food Commissioner, letting out a string of choicest abuses that cast aspersions on the Food Commissioner's very birth and parentage. 

Hungrier than he had ever been before and reddened by the exertion of proving to the crowd that he had nothing to do with Gulu or the Food Commissioner he went back into the Police Station. His shift had gotten over and the morning staff were trickling in. He peeked into the holding cell, the boy still lay crumpled up and immobile as they had left him, one of his arms stretched out underneath him, obviously broken. He would have to be woken up and made to clean up on his urine and faeces that lay all over the floor, mixed with the blood, the stench nauseated him and he retched near the door. Well, the urchin would have to clean that too for it was his horrible odour that had caused him to throw up. Remembering the night's episode he now realised that he should not have exerted himself so much, he should have allowed the younger ones to beat up that boy.  He couldn't remember why the urchin was in the lock-up, he had simply been the entertainment of the night - the younger constables had been poking and prodding the boy all day for the urchin had the pride of education stamped on his dark, oily face - these ones, with a smattering of education quickly learnt to throw off their shackles, raising their voices, standing up straight - this boy had refused to squat on the floor and had to be taught a lesson. If not them, the world would have taught him the lesson, in a much harsher way, mused Binapani in a wave of sympathy for the unmoving pile of flesh and bones.

About three month later, almost the last week of his service, Binapani stepped out for a breath of air, winter had passed quickly that year, and with a non-existent spring, Summer had gleefully started early. The early morning reddish hue bathed the hedge in its dewy splendour, the birds had started to flit, their morning calls quickly rising in volume as they began to welcome the beautiful new day. Binapani began to feel a strange throbbing in his heart, fondness for his work, this place that had sustained him for forty years, that had stood by him through thick and thin. When that despicable urchin had died, everyone in the Police Station had supported him, they had vouched for him so strongly that the urchin's death had been deemed a suicide and the case had been sealed and closed. The Head Constable had even recommended him for an increase in salary, for maintaining peace and harmony in the locality, this would increase his pension, overcome with gratitude that his team had ensured his record would not get tarnished by that incident, he began to weep. The two other younger Constables who had been present  that day and had been transferred out as a precaution, came walking by and hugged him, consoling him, teasing him for being emotional, they had all bonded that day, a bond formed over murder being stronger than even that of blood. The three of them were getting a Farewell party that day. They had all been asked to come by at noon for the ceremony and lunch. 

Exiting the gate, Binapani looked fondly at the spot where Gulu would be seen, no one had known what had happened to him and like others, Binapani had woefully switched to having his breakfast from another vendor, but those who had eaten from Gulu, could never be satiated with anyone else. Sighing he scanned the horizon again as though hoping to see the familiar red and yellow cart trudging up the slope, he laughed at his imbecility, so bad had been his craving that he imagined he saw the cart. But the sight could not have been imagined, it was the Nandi Ghosha, the flag fluttering in the breeze was as true as the drool forming in his mouth. He turned around, stuttering, his heart beat increasing, half-breathing half choking, he called out to the two others, today, he would show them what true Dahi Bara and Aloo Dum tastes like. He could still teach them a thing or two he thought, his chest bursting with pride, joy and laughter, all at once. Gulu came up and perched his stand, setting it up would usually take him twenty minutes for he followed a ritual of sweeping the area around his stall, sprinkling it with holy water and doing an elaborate prayer ritual before starting business. Binapani decided he would not wait, and gesturing to his two proteges, called them over. Gulu had never been one to talk much, however today he was been quieter, it could have been for he was accompanied by his wife, who had done so only a few times in the seven years that he had known Gulu. Had he lost weight and grown older all of a sudden. thought Binapani, and addressed Gulu "Not to be seen, eh! Did you go to jail?" and the three policemen roared in laughter at the bad joke. Gulu's eyes seemed glazed but he showed his crooked teeth dutifully in a forced smile, Binapani thought he must be high on Ganja and snickered at the two proteges, excited at the upcoming farewell, the three could find nothing to bring down their bonhomie. 

"Two plates each for the three of us" ordered Binapani, waving away protests from the two others, "my treat.... other than welding my lathi to break bones, I know a thing or two about good food.... and you'd better learn how to recognise true Odia test" he said officiously causing another cacophony of laughter that even startled the birds into silence for a moment. Gulu stood immobile for a moment, his wife prodded him and he nodded after a while. Disconcerted a bit by this strangely turned out Gulu, Binapani hoped the food would not let him down, if so, Gulu would have it he thought menacingly stroking his lathi, emboldened by the fact that there were no other food carts there yet, Gulu had been really early. Realising Gulu was not up for conversation the three began to talk while Gulu heated up the stove and started chopping onions. "Don't go stingy on those... has to be your best or else..." Binapani shouted sternly at Gulu, causing him to chop with an increased speed, causing the two others to laugh again. Binapani was on a roll, the last week was turning out to be quite something after all. He would not fade away, people would remember him, not just as a fly on the wall but someone who had the courage of a lion. They started talking about the urchin and arguing about who had dealt the fatal blow when Binapani felt the presence of Gulu at his side. He stood there, his glazed eyes fixed on the horizon, a steaming hot plate in his hand. The aroma of freshly chopped onions, chillies and coriander caused Binapani's stomach to rumble loudly, ignoring the ganja addict he snatched the plate out of Gulu's hand, handing it out to one of the two constables. Gulu went back, shuffling his feet, "He has had a strong dose today..." Binapani winked at them, "but let's just enjoy this for now". The next time Gulu was back with two plates balanced in each hand, he seemed more energetic and alert. He even came back offering to top up with more chips and 'mixture', his secret sauce. They each wolfed down the two plates and ordered a third, Gulu's Dahi Bara was still the one to die for!

Sad to leave Gulu's side, Binapani and the others left , without paying of course, Binapani had to teach them how to get free food out of the vendors. Their stomach's were full and their mind happy. Heading out Binapani noticed Gulu packing up, "Leaving so early, Gulu?" he asked uneasily, something had seemed off but he could not put his finger on it. "No Sahib, I will be back tomorrow, I had not got a lot today" "Okay, you better be here Gulu" saying so Binapani whizzed off on his motorcycle. 

The Farewell ceremony at the Police Station would turn out to be a memorable one, for years to come, everyone would talk about it in hushed tones. The guests of honour, Constable Binapani, Sub-Constable Nakul and Sub-Constable Prahlad were to be felicitated but did not show up for the ceremony. The three had gone home to freshen up and come back to the Police station but neither could make it, while Constables Nakul and Prahlad who stayed in the Guest House were both found dead, frothing from the mouth, Constable Binapani had collapsed on the Highway, apparently he had a major heart-attack and was crushed under a speeding cement truck. The deaths of Nakul and Prahlad had led to a major crackdown on street vendors around the Police Station but nothing conclusive could be found, none of the street vendors there sold Dahi Bara and Aloo Dum, the food that was last consumed by them, as found in the autopsy. Eventually the food stalls were allowed to re-open, but judiciously avoided by the Police, who had learnt to have their meals provided for free from the bigger restaurants. The vendor who got all of Gulu Bhai's clients was always grateful that Gulu Bhai had left for his paternal village after the death of his only son. The boy had been picked up by the Night Patrol team for loitering on the street with a friend past midnight and had then committed suicide in this very police station. 

The Orange Cloud and the Cliff

The Orange cloud hovers over the Cliff.
Refusing to budge, even as the winds ram into it,
Each time the Orange cloud scatters and comes together,
as it gently floats just above the Cliff.

The Cliff begs for it to rain or move
For the sun can't get into it's groove.
Even when the people of the valley beseech and to the mighty cloud, stoop.
Unmoving, it hangs on there.

The priest sends up a sacrifice,
asking the Orange cloud why it wouldn't rain
Why put the timeless valley under such enormous strain,
Turning a blind eye to the children, why disregard these fields full of grain.
The Orange cloud hung on there.

Eating into the cliff, rock by rock, dirt by dirt,
For centuries, for eons, it hung around, no feelings it showed - of anger or hurt.
Filled with a painful secret that only it could know, for the cliff it had love abound.

Until the cliff was merely but a stooped and tiny hillock,
The village but a haunt of the spirits without its living folk
Over the endless stretch of parched land,
The orange cloud shadowing the cliff, hung on there.

The large boulder, once the tiny hillock had been once the majestic cliff,
Called out to the Orange cloud and whispered, "I understand. I've known it all this while."
As it wept for all the lost time, it revealed its heart,
gentle and pure, they hadn't really been apart;
the Cliff had sent up water to sustain the cloud, all this time, even in exile.
As the water dried up, so had the soul of the grand cliff, shrinking it into a tiny hillock and then a mere boulder.

With no more water to send, the boulder cracked its broken heart,
rued for no more sustenance it could provide.
With one last look at its beloved, it disappeared into a mass of dust.
For ages thereafter, travelers from afar would come to see a curious sight,
as a massive brown cloud would hang next to an orange one, close but just.

Until a day would come, when the rains would hum
and these clouds would be one.

The escape

The rain pierced her face like a thousand needles on a comb, turning her malnourished skin into a splotchy canvas of  clotted blood underneath. Her barely covered frail frame did not register the wind clawing at her chest nor did she hear the guttural breathing sounds she was making as she  gasped through her mouth as well as moaned with terror. As she escaped into the gray darkness of a mouldy, smoggy early morning, she could only feel the comfortable warmth of filth squelching between her toes, wrapping around her brittle ankles, reminding her of what might be hers with each step that she took forward. Then again, she had been born into murkier surroundings, the stench was familiar, it did not revolt her. The subsuming scent of excrement mixed with rotting carcasses, perhaps, was more accentuated with the rain, carrying newer unfamiliar notes, sending shivers of exhilaration down her bony back. For a moment she paused, taking stock, she was now living her mad nightmare - the one she hadn't been able to get out of on awakening for the past several months. But try to escape she would, forever, until she had reached that place that was furthest from here - anyplace other than this.

Squeezing her eyes against the onslaught of the razor-sharp sleets of water she stumbled on, dodging the debris. The open sewers were overflowing again, spreading their mulch all across the muddy street, prodding anyone awake to move to higher, drier grounds - away from the whirlpool forming right in the center of the decrepit town. Even on a hot summer day the town would hobble awake well into daylight, it was a place were nights were reveled, days shunned. This was what she was counting on.

She felt the gusts of knee-deep gray waters ebb and flow with each frustratingly slow step that she could take, she fought getting immobilized by her darkest fear of being seen out of her hovel, the rain was bound to start thinning soon and the town would then begin to stir as the day started to break through. She was certain, however, that her absence would not be noticed until much later - she had made sure of that, she thought of it as her first victory. It wasn't what she was leaving behind that she was afraid of, what scared her most was being found by someone from a different 'home'. By stepping out she had become common property, with no protection she would be owned by the next animal that sniffed her out, someone with more muscle, more brutality than the previous, bled dry until she was nothing but a hollow tin can to be kicked around till their legs were sore.

That's what had happened with Inusha her cell mate for a few days. The thought left her weak and giving out a yell of desperation she continued plodding upstream against the now increasing currents. She dared not look at the tattered hutments lining the streets. There were hardly any lights on yet she imagined a thousand eyes on her just waiting for it to get dry enough to pounce, letting out another frightened whimper she looked back, there was not a soul to be seen, not even the mangy dogs of the town could be seen or heard, maybe the winter rains were a blessing. The windows on the establishments she passed were shuttered, as best as could be managed, against the howling wind and from a few partially shut doors to the brew houses she could see just a faint streak of pail yellow light falling on the waters, making them look deeper and more dangerous than they really were - it was just waist-deep water now, she would make it after all, all she had to get to was the narrow road on the left that led into the forests of Nenular, she thought shivering uncontrollably by now, her teeth chattering loud enough for her to force her mouth to shut. She'd get out but beyond that she did not know...

She had reached the foot of the little hillock, the one she had always eyed as she was ravaged, it had been her beacon, her escape as her imagination took her on rides beyond the hill, seeing different places - sometimes it was endless fields of rice under dreamy blue skies with sheepy clouds, other times she'd imagine a town like this one only neater, the only inhabitants being the Dhritis - as the girls of her hovel and others were called, the unacceptables. In this shady town with rejects from all across the land, they were the lowest in the food chain. The fortunate among them died or were killed during infancy for any 'defects'. The girls in her hovel kept getting replaced, one day they'd be dragged out into one of the 'special' shacks to never return from there, many had been executed in the open, in front of whistling, cheering crowds for falling ill. That had been one the reasons why they'd never been provided any dresses like she had once seen some of the women wearing in the very street she was standing in now - to ensure any signs of disease were caught instantly during their weekly showers. That the girls were disease free had been one of the reasons the charges had been exorbitant, and that they were very young, really young. She herself had barely any memories of her mother who had disappeared one day into one of the special rooms after which she had been moved into the shack and she had been there forever. Had Inusha not told her about the place beyond the hillock she would not have had found the urge to look beyond, it had been months since she had found out that there were places that were not like this, and she knew she had to get there, to survive. Being the longest surviving amongst all the girls she knew luck was taunting her - her turn to get into the special room would be up any time.

The hillock loomed larger than it appeared from her window but it filled her with hope, the higher it was the further the distance between her and her chasers, she knew there would be a chase soon, she would just need to give herself as much a headstart as possible. Gritting her teeth she looked up at the water cascading down the slopes. It was all uphill from here and she'd have to take to the footpaths, for she knew there were steps starting from somewhere there that could make it easier to cover ground instead of  trudging uphill against the flooding water. She was safer in the middle of the road, from unseen predators lurking out even in this spiteful rain or worse, the overflowing sewers - one misstep and she'd be pulled under. She moved slightly to her left feeling the ground with each slide, moving only when finding a foothold. Scrambling over to the footpath she was glad to be out of the water, she looked down at her bleeding feet, she had pierced it over something, probably a broken glass and it had started to bleed heavily. Ignoring it she fumbled over to the side of a shanty, she could hear some low voices coming from within and the fact that she could hear it told her the rain was dropping, there would soon be drunkards stumbling out of the bars. Her heart almost skipped a beat when she found the steps on the side of the hillock, she had a foreboding, it had been easy this far, too easy.

Looking at the grimy steps, now as slick as oil, brought back painful memories, for she had heard that the stone slabs had been where Inusha's battered, lifeless body had been found, carelessly flung as though a dirty rag. She had overheard two guards discuss in their peculiar sing-song high pitched voice about how dogs had got to her face by the time the Bordwars, the undertakers, who were shunned, despised and feared by everyone,  had found her. The Bordwars, recognized by the blood-red sigil of a jackal, were known to gleefully rescue every stray corpse, her mutilated corpse could still fetch a good amount with those who had a taste for it. Maybe they had exaggerated, she hoped so fervently.

As she started to climb the treacherous curving stairway, she realized the stairs went around, a section of it went directly in view of her room, she was stunned, why had she never noticed the stairs or seen anyone on the stairs. Even with the rains she could be clearly visible to anyone in the room. There was no way she could not take the stairs, there was no way she would be able to clamber over the slopes, she had to take the steps. She decided to cross sitting down, minimizing her exposure, she also saw that while the progress was extremely slow sitting down, she was better able to cope with the rain which was now changing directions and beating right into her face. She reckoned she had been out for an hour now, the guards would probably start on their rounds anytime now, and it would not take them long, there were only the ten small rooms and the one large dormitory housing fifteen other younger girls who were being 'groomed'. But why would they look out of the window, she reasoned with herself frantically, they'd probably want to take it out on her newest roommate , whom they had flung into her room earlier yesterday. She had been scratched all over, with purple blobs on several parts of her exposed chest. Unconscious and groaning through the night, she had finally quietened down when she had gone over and hugged her and then continued to rock her. When she'd woken up with a jolt in the middle of the night, the groans had stopped and so had her breathing. Her newest roommate had not outlived her as she had hoped for.

With the rains battering their unholy settlement through the night it had seemed a propitious coincidence, prompting her to put her plans into effect immediately. She had waited for the guard to take his last round, disinterestedly looking into each room, he had had enough of the place, after three years, he had lost his ability to be shocked, and he had seen things in the lands he had traveled earlier, this place had been something else. In all of her sixteen years she had never been unguarded and did not know the way out. She had found it as simple as unlatching the door and walking out - the latch had been a new experience and had taken time. She had expected to hear a howl and a knife in her back anytime since she had walked out of her room but in that moment of terror at the front door she preferred capture than having to step out and see her dream materialize.

Crawling slowly she circled the final steps, going over the hillock just as the rains started to thin. She hadn't known what to expect, ever since she had heard of the land beyond the hillock her imagination had taken her vanishing into the Nenular forest or running wildly through endless grass fields. She crossed over just as the rain petered away washing off grime and dust from the air giving her a perfect view. The revolting shanties lined haphazardly around a town square looked just like the street she had crossed, only edgier and more sinister; these were bigger, with tattered curtains that were flailing slightly giving her a glimpse of a town waking up. She then looked at the blood red sigil of the jackal mounted on a wooden post in the square, it was the only thing that gleamed and burned bright.

The young devotee

The wizened old priest seated at the feet of the Devi peered over his spectacles bemusedly. The college student was struggling to carry her helmet, books and a heavy satchel in one hand while balancing the overladen Puja thali in the other. As he continued to chant his mantras with their elaborate hand gestures, the inevitable happened and the books, helmet and the bag fell with a loud thud, scattering on the steps of the temple and scaring away some pigeons feeding on grains nearby. Obviously rattled and sweating profusely in the hot April morning sunlight the girl left the items strewn across the steps and resolutely made her way towards the priest, the thali, still intact, held firmly in both hands. He had a mind to chastise her for messing up the steps but for some reason held his tongue, the girl had him intrigued for her face belied her befuddled actions, it reflected a quiet glow, a strength of character that he had not seen in many. As she neared, he could make out a faint smile on her face, she looked quietly joyful, if that was possible, ah, the joys of being an innocent youth, he thought.

He continued his prayers as she stood there gazing at the idol fondly. It took him a while to complete the morning rituals, but she seemed patient. Suppressing the curse on his lips for the rickety knees Devi Ma had given him, he reached out to her for the Thali, it was indeed heavy. It was a traditional bronze thali, something he had not seen in years, with a coconut, incense sticks, a few slightly crushed hibiscus flowers, some misshaped peda and some red glass bangles. The simplicity of the items made him smile, he looked at her sternly “Go and collect your books, someone may step on those” he spoke gruffly. Happily, she rushed back to the steps and gathered up everything dumping them on the side in an ugly heap. So much for being organized the priest thought, she might have left those on the steps, they looked better that way! Why he had expected her to demurely arrange things neatly, like any other well-brought up girl would do, he couldn’t say.

As she flitted back to him, she told him breathlessly that she hadn’t wanted to set the plate down as she had put the offerings for Ma on those, continuing in a sing song voice that she was going to write her exams and wanted to pray to Ma before it. Ah, he thought, one other selfish seeker again, he had no patience for people of this ilk, he felt his anger rising. If there really were a Ma she would’ve gone deaf by now, hearing to these greedy, petty requests. He would punish her by demanding a fee to do the Puja, why should she think that Ma’s blessings come for free! Making up the amount in his mind, he steeled his face and said, “Jhia, if you want the Puja to be done for good results it will cost you 500. Otherwise just take the Thali back and say your prayers”. “Please forgive me, Nona,” she said with tears in her eyes, her voice trembling, for the tone of his voice had been harsh, “I just want to give these for Ma, I made the Peda myself in the morning, Ma has called me for the first time and I didn’t want to come empty-handed to her.” “No, No,” he said angrily shaking his hand, seeing his customer slipping away, “I can’t offer anything to Ma, this is not the time, the morning Puja is over, she has had her Prasad”.

The way the girl’s face fell with dejection broke even his aged heart, he wasn’t a cruel man, he was just someone who was practical, trapped for far too long in the wrong profession, of his own accord, and way too bitter about it for there was none other to blame. He had lost his ‘Bhakti’ a long time ago, back when his 9-year-old son had drowned in the well behind this very temple, his wife had passed away of a broken heart, not long after. Since then this had been his trade for, he had known no other skills. As far back as he knew, he came from a long line of Pujaris, and had his son been alive, he’d have been expected to continue the tradition, imprisoned within this ancient pile of stones, while the world laughed, partied raced by, forgetting their pitiable souls, mocking their habits, yet using them to get their self-obsessed favours bestowed by that all-pervasive power.

“Please, Mousa, atleast give the bangles and flowers to Ma.” her beseeching tone brought him back to the present, “a few days back I had a dream that Ma wanted to see me. I have travelled nearly 15 Kms only to see her, I am sorry I am late as I had to make the peda fresh and missed the Aarti. If you just give her the flowers I will go, I need to travel back quickly as I have an exam starting at 12”.  He felt his heart softening and although he wanted to stay aloof, he heard himself saying, “Okay I’ll leave these near Ma, if she wants them, she will take it.” Her face brightened up instantaneously, and he got carried away by the positivity reflected in the smile and continued “Let me plead with her to help you with your exams”. “Thank you, Mousa” she said humbly, “I don’t need to pray to her for anything, I just wanted to see her. I do hope she will accept my Peda, I’m not sure if I added enough sugar to it”. Suppressing a smile, he started the Aarti, the priest of the nearby Ganesha temple looked up surprised at the sound of the bell, this was neither the time for Aartis nor was there a crowd of devotees, must be age catching up with the old man he thought to himself.

The girl watched the idol wide-eyed, the priest caught a glimpse of a tear rolling down her cheek as he went full throttle, unintentionally performing the full ceremony. For some reason, once he had placed the girl’s flowers on the idol of Ma, he could not take his eyes off them. They seemed to fit perfectly into the already crowded, over-sized garland she was decked in, they glowed brilliantly like red rubies.  Through the haze of the incense and the smoke of the lamp which he was moving intricately in front of Ma, while reciting the mantras in his broken voice, he thought he saw Ma smile contentedly. For a moment when a stray ray of sunlight made it across the smoky interior, he thought he could see her eyes twinkle with joy. The mantras he had started to mumble feebly now spilled out of his mouth in a baritone voice, powerful and captivating, making it across to the younger priest who was now watching, his mouth open in shock and admiration of the performance. He did not know even half the mantras the old priest was chanting! As the prayers reached a crescendo, the girl started to weep openly, rapturously unconsciously repeating ‘Hey Ma’, while the whole world seemed to have gone quiet to join in on the Aarti. The younger priest had now come to the temple and was kneeling in front of the idol as well. He had never looked at Ma so closely before, never realized she was so radiant so forgiving, he began weeping repentant of the wickedness of his mind, the fakeness of his faith.

It took a while for the girl and the younger priest to realise the Aarti had stopped. The old priest lay prostrated on the ground before the idol. He seemed to be sobbing quietly. They did not know how much time had passed, the girl kneeling down looking at the idol lovingly, had forgotten her hurry to get back, the younger priest red-eyed and red-faced in front of Ma felt a new spark, a new love for this centuries old temple, his faith renewed and his vigor restored, he was an entirely different soul from just a few minutes ago.

Eventually, the older priest rose slowly, he seemed to have lost years in the few minutes. He looked every bit as old as his age, and more. His face though seemed to glow, his eyes reflected kindness and deep compassion, his smile at them was so benevolent that both the younger priest and the girl threw themselves at his feet for his blessings. They both knew they had witnessed something indescribable, something powerful and rare, something that seemed to say, from then on, everything would be okay.

Blessing them both with severely trembling hands, he pointed to the sweets on the plate, the hibiscus flowers placed on the idol had fallen on them, “Looks like Ma liked your Pedas” he smiled affectionately. As the girl graciously accepted the tulsi water, he looked at her closely once again, yes, Ma had indeed come to see him, to bless him for his years of service. He felt light as a feather, he had forgotten what it was to be like without the constant pains plaguing one’s body. As he hobbled down the stairs, he turned back to look lovingly at Ma one last time, he knew there would be no Aarti from him again. Smiling through his tears he enjoyed the hot sunlight falling on his face and breathed in the air scented heavily with incense, he felt Ma’s warm protective love engulf him. He was elated, he was finally going home!

The inheritance

The first thing to strike him about Pattitapabanapur was the way it drizzled, steady, constant, unending. The way water poured here, from the incredibly grey skies, was surreal, it appeared as though there was a giant showerhead right outside the window. The second, of course, was how he had ended up in this village, at the end of nowhere, and then some further, bewilderingly, with a mansion to his name! He wouldn't have dreamt, he thought, even in the fanciest of dreams, that the miserly, long-forgotten, much deviled 'uncle' of his mother would die, bequeathing to him acres of land and this crumbly teak wood mansion he was currently residing in. It probably hadn't been intended, he just happened to be the only living relative eligible for it and so the inheritance had been handed over to him by the smug, always smiling, shiny Mr. Pradhan, B.A, LLB. Sitting within this haveli, dry and relatively comfortable, he majestically surveyed the expansive rain-soaked view from the colonial windows of his living room and mused that he just might start calling himself the King of Nowhere.

Unable to find a reference of it on Google Maps, he had finally managed to reach the place two days ago, hitch-hiking on bullock carts, walking almost for a day before finally trudging up a steep hillock to catch the first glimpse of the house -  that he had been utterly surprised at what lay in front of him would have been an under statement of the year - compared to the barren, dusty lands he had just crossed, stretching to the horizon, for as far as he could see were wild, ripe, verdant green pastures, their greenery striking against the dark clouds rolling in from the north. The breeze had turned cool and smelt of unknown flowers, also like it had been raining recently, slightly musty, slightly fresh, it lifted his sagging spirits, his inheritance was something, after all  - he had known then, instinctively, that it was this house, that this valley would be his to keep till he died.

He continued to muse, had the house not existed, it would have been just as fine, the land was pure green gold. There was even a bulging river in the distance, glittering like a thick silver chain - maybe that's where his property ended! Hoping not, and then immediately chastising himself for his greed - for no one who has read the story of the greedy man who ran so much in a day to mark his land that he died at the end of the day, would ever admit, even to themselves, the joy of possessing land exceeding six feet.  The house, not really an eyesore, he gruffly admitted, was right in the center of the valley, a small pond a few yards away, fringed by some coconut trees and a nice big banyan tree, further down to the west. It was a lovely sight, and not just because he had for all his life lived in the coal-infused, dry, dusty town of Khurda! The thought then that had crossed his mind was as to why the fields hadn't been cultivated or if there were any other habitations further north, for there hadn't been any towards the south either, he knew this as he had traveled that way. He would ask Hari Babu, he had made a mental note of it and he had then gently enquired about it, trying not to sound greedy as a city-dweller would, under such circumstances of becoming a zamindaar over night . Hari Babu, a grave, wizened old man, dark and lean, by years of toil under an unforgiving Indian sun, looked 70 but was probably still in his forties.

All he had got out of the reticent man was that this had been a cursed land, his uncle had bought the semi-valley at a throw-away sum from the previous owner and built his house on it. He had spent a few years trying to grow crops and lost a lot of money as each year the valley was cursed by ravaging floods during the monsoons, it was downstream of the Tabini dam, the river stayed mostly dry through the year - until the monsoon caused the dam spillway gates to open, submerging the valley for a week. Hari Babu had then showed him the marks on the wall left by the receding waters. The marks close to the roof of the ground floor had left him shocked. But Hari Babu had quickly tried to assuage his fears, telling him tales of how his persistent relative had overcome this 'indignity' at the hands of nature by building a second floor - a more equipped comfortable room that could be kept stocked for upto a week - he had never had to go to a shelter home, come cyclone or flood - his 'gruncle' had been a tough nut, and had always managed to evade the government's evacuation efforts. Hari Babu assured him he'd be back the following week to clean up and have the house repaired - it had been unlived in for almost a year now and the wood was rotting at several places, asking him to be gentle with the doors and windows.

While he had agreed with Hari Babu, he couldn't swallow his disappointment at landing such a douche for inheritance, granted he had not had to pay anything for it, not even the estate taxes, he wasn't sure any longer if he wanted to have any further money pumped into this sink hole, beautiful as a post card or not. He'd stay out here for a few days, then meet Hari Babu and have the place locked until he was back in the midst of civilization. He needed to get away from this raw, pristine beauty of the place he would then be able to conclude his decision practically and probably even make a decent profit off this windfall.

For now, he would just about the persistent, ominous rains - it had started to drizzle soon after he had entered the house. Hari Babu had not seemed worried about it, so he had relaxed, suppressing  the stories of annual floods that Hari Babu had so casually flung at him, this wasn't the time for monsoons after all. The house had been built on a raised platform to take care of regular rain water and he had expected that the parched soil itself would absorb it all soon enough, probably it would have been good even through a day of heavy downpour, but this was now day two of non-stop drizzling and he could see water shimmering and shining, like a giant mirror, all across the valley, making him him feel as though he were floating within an enormous emerald green lake. The valley was surreal, bewitching and deadly, he thought for a moment, shivering in fear.

Hari Babu had stocked the house stocked with some provisions, basic, but that would do for a few days, he wasn't a big eater, he just liked to have his hot cuppa keep him company through the day. After Hari Babu had made sure he had a clean bed to sleep in and food for the night, he had retreated off to his house  on a rusty bicycle, holding up a faded umbrella, both of which were probably older than Hari Babu himself. Once alone, he had let out a gleeful whoop and had then set about exploring the house. Who knows, there might be a hidden tunnel or a treasure buried behind a picture, not that there were many hanging on the walls. The exploration had sadly got over rather quickly and he decided to make himself a cup of tea and sit in the big cane chair, to enjoy the rain.

Back home it had been the peak of summer, yet another heat record breaking year with the usual ineffective government advisories flying around to stay indoors between 10 to 4, life had never stopped, people had to work to eat. Poor government, they could mess up anything but really could do nothing about the weather. Something pulled him back from his writer's musings, he was mildly surprised at how quickly it had gotten dark outside, or maybe it was the effect of the dark clouds, clouds so grey they looked angry, he wondered if he had ever seen such clouds before, they hung so low, they almost touched the earth. Clouds scared him, dark or not, ever since he had felt one chasing him when he was seven, he would've preferred not to look at them then but with nothing much to see, he was forced to observe their every ebb and flow, and, after a while, realised it was less of ebb, the clouds just seemed to be fattening up. The rains would definitely go through the night if not longer.

Opening the windows slightly, he was hit in the face with the thick musty, moisture-laden air, the  same unfamiliar scent that he had caught at the edge of the valley,  refreshing but also carrying a hint of moldliness in it, a touch of decaying vegetation tinged his nostrils. Realising it was probably sunset, it was hard to tell through the clouds, he didn't want anything creeping about outside decide to get in for shelter, rather sheepishly he shut the windows back again, his claustrophobia would have him open it again shortly, he knew. Having been raised in the city he had had very little encounters with mother nature's other children - the ones where their paths had crossed, involved a rolled up newspaper or a can of repellent spray, both of which he had forgotten to carry on this trip he mused sadly.

He did enjoy the tea however, he had gotten the hang of the stove in the kitchen and this had been his savior from boredom for the past two days, sipping hot tea in pitch darkness with the frequent lightning flashes providing the only light had been an experience in itself.  With nothing to see, his mind wandered to more immediate practical concerns. Hari Babu had advised him to switch on the water motor to fill  the overhead tank if he planned on staying beyond three days, he had filled it up yesterday so he would be good for a few days the power was cut off even if it drizzled lightly. The unspoken implication being, he realised then, that Hari Babu knew he would be leaving in three days or less.

Goodbye iPad, he muttered, he didn't trust charging it in the house. Fortunately he had it on full charge and without any internet there, he'd be able to get a good 8 hours, at the least. He intended to be back home in three days and would use it sparingly until then. Looking at his phone he wasn't surprised to see the No signal message, he had lost it after the lovely bullock cart ride. He was grateful though for the lack of mosquitoes, he imagined this valley, or swamp, rather, would be a thriving haven for all sorts of insects, he'd definitely have to deal with the mosquito menace once the rain had stopped. Regretting he had let Hari Babu leave, he decided to turn in for an early night's sleep.

While the rain was a pleasant respite for body and soul, he had already started to 'almost' miss the scorching sun and arid air back home. Khurda had been a blazing, blistering hell pan - with the shimmering dusty, soulless roads, birds dropping dead from the skies - could anyone sane miss an Indian summer? Why were his thoughts now of how it had felt stepping out of the house after eleven, the blinding sunlight, the dizziness, throbbing headaches, cracked lips with a taste of blood and dust and sometimes petrol, the scratchy back, liberally sprinkled with those prickly heat bubbles...it felt like he missed that now, he surely must've lost his mind he thought, anyone would pay a bucket full of money for the kind of weather he was enjoying right then!

Only, it had now already been two full days and the drizzle had not stopped, not even for a few minutes-it had been steady, constant, maddening, neither increasing or decreasing in ferocity. That there was no breeze made it worse. The skies were as gray as had been on the day he had arrived and had he not had a watch, he'd not be able to tell the time of the day. Back home, he pondered bitterly, you would expect to see the sun, the moon and the stars. Days that started with bright cool mornings, endless cacophony of birds chirping, welcoming the streams of sunlight pouring in through the leaves, mornings that would then merge into blistering, sweltering days, forcing life to stop and take a breather, or just a delightful nap, followed by the heady, windless, fragrant, sultry evenings with stars playing peek-a-boo with the moon, ending it all with the sticky, oppressive stillness of the night - how these affected the circadian rhythms of one's body, keeping them attuned, keeping mind, body and psyche alive. He was essentially in a sensory deprivation chamber for a minute too many, and, he wanted to escape.

He woke up dizzy the following morning,  with a familiar yearning for his cuppa but decided to delay getting up from the hard cot. He could hear the drizzle outside, falling just as steadily as the evening before, the nightmare he had made him want to stay within the dry warmth of his bed sheet. He wanted to avoid peeking outside, the nightmare had made him nervous, he just might see that doomed raft float past. 

Ignoring the bitter, foul taste recalling snippets of his dream left in his mouth, he started to type belligerently on his iPad at first, putting an outline of the ghoulish story that seemed to be taking shape on its own, and then increasing his strokes finding  his dream quickly evaporating from his consciousness as quickly as the water once the sun came out. The flood had finally arrived, and, as anticipated, the usual plethora of floating debris followed in its swirling waters. As a beauty pageant, they strutted across his window, stopping a bit for him to get a good glimpse of the goods. He saw a dead dog, its distended body looking like a plastic doll, only horrific due to its wide gaping mouth with flies buzzing above,  several dead birds tangled in weeds then floated past. The punctured tin roof of a house with a squirrel shivering in a corner on it, caught unawares, he wanted to console it that probably its family was safe back in the tree. As thought to prove him wrong, the trunk of an uprooted tree with its massive roots sticking in the air appeared next, it was being swirled around as a twig caught in an eddy. But this hadn't caught his attention for long, for what came by his window then was the strangest sight - he almost choked and woke up - on a wobbly raft balanced precariously in the gray frothing waters three mangy, skeletal creatures sat huddled together -  eventually, through the gray mist of the drizzle, he figured out a contorted old man, his body bent at many places, face between his knees. Sitting next to him were two children, cheeks sunken with starvation, their bellies distended, even at this distance he could make out the fear in their wide eyes as they clutched on to the raft. They seemed to be looking directly at him or maybe at the house, hoping to get out of the rain and find high ground again. How had they got into this raft, were they related? What if he had opened the windows and had asked them to swim in - would they have been able to do so? Thanking the universe that it was merely a dream he decided to save power on his iPad and fill out a story around these characters later in the day.

Hoping it would stop raining so he could go around seeing the valley, his valley, he thought, trying to get used to the fact, he went down the wooden stairs to the kitchen on the ground floor. The morning had been invigorating, it already made him feel gutsy, outdoorsy, an adventurer in search of his fortune. It took him a while to realize he had stepped into a puddle getting off the stairs. Surprised, he looked around, there was water from the front door spreading out towards the kitchen. As he cautiously opened the door, he instinctively knew what he'd find on the other side, the water had crossed the veranda overnight.

Even as he watched, frozen at the sight, a basket drifted away silently into the rain and made for the gate across the compound. For as far as he could see, there was water, the banyan tree looked like a shrub now. It had not rained so much overnight surely, he thought panicking. So this what it looked like - being caught in a flash flood, the practical side of him kicked in, ensuring he wasn't paralyzed by his fear at the sight of what looked like a raft, caught between the gates - was it the one he had seen in his dream - what had happened to the old man and the two children?

The cold wetness at his feet sent a surge of adrenaline through him. He remembered clearly each and every word Hari Babu had mentioned about his ancestor surviving the annual floods. These were just unseasonal rains, would be over in a  day or two. He had to get the food upstairs to his bedroom should the water reach them. Finding a wicker basket in the corner of the kitchen, he plied on the bunch of bananas and the pot of fresh, tender, ripe jackfruit that Hari Babu had left for him. These would probably go to waste, he had never been a fruit person and he remembered what he had been taught about eating cut-fruit during the rains.  He was glad for the packets of chips and the left-over dinner from the previous night. Carrying the basket now heavy with the food items, which he was surprised he had, he walked upstairs gingerly, barefoot, to the first floor, leaving his slippers behind. As he surveyed the muddy water from the landing of the first floor, he felt silly for panicking, the water had only reached under the door and besides leaving behind a retchy smell and stains, it would be fine tomorrow, he consoled himself disbelievingly.

Surveying his room for what else to rescue from the ground floor, he decided he had enough food for a day or two. He'd make one last trip downstairs to get the match boxes he had noticed earlier and maybe carry the water-pot back. He had a few unopened bottles of water which would do but something about the unfamiliar situation he had landed in had made him risk-averse. He felt his heart skip a beat when he noticed his slippers floating around in water that had now reached upto the second step of the stairs. It was then that he noticed a steady stream pouring in from the door to the roof, the water was flowing down the stairs in a thin stream, but it was constant. The water would anyhow never reach the top floor, it'd have to take a burst dam for that, he tried consoling himself, sobering when he realised the valley was downstream of Tabini. He didn't know it then but he had said a heartfelt, silent prayer to Kalia for the dam to stay strong and shut.

Deciding he would get the matchboxes before it became impossible to reach the kitchen, he started down the stairs, which suddenly seemed slippery, swollen and creaked heavily with each step. The bungalow, as he now looked at it with new eyes, had not been made to sustain, his great uncle probably knew he wouldn't be around for long and so, had got it built as 'something that needed to be done'. Looking at the peeling paint and exposed bricks on the walls he saw the flimsy construction, going down the stairs now seemed more unnerving.

It wasn't easy moving through the silent water, now almost at knee level. He tried to ignore seeing the steady stream of water flowing down from a corner of the window sill besides the main door; it would be a while before Hari Babu would be able to make it across to check in on him, hopefully he wasn't as badly stuck as he was! Glad he had shut the doors before his last trip upwards so he was hopeful that the water had no snakes, but he could feel slime and loose vegetation float around his ankles, the mud being squished beneath his feet, between his toes - no amount of washing would erase these sensations from his memory. Placing the matchboxes inside his t-shirt he looked around for anything else to salvage. The mud water-pot didn't look heavy but now he had more respect for Hari Babu as he had effortlessly carried the pot on his shoulder "This water is from our well, you don't have to boil it" he had said placing it on the kitchen top. Mimicking how he had seen Hari Babu lift the pot, he tried to follow the same heave and lift operation and managed to pull it up onto his shoulders on the third try.

Looking at the thigh-deep water with an empty can bobbing around in it and the unending, slippery steps of the wooden staircase, he knew getting upstairs to dryness carrying the heavy load would be arduous. But he had by then realised he'd stay cut-off for a few days, so every bit of clean water would be precious, he started back on his return trip to the relatively dryer first floor, deciding the first thing he'd do was to fix the leak from the roof.

He had always been level-headed or so he fancied himself as, admitted, he got the jitters as everyone else, he panicked just like his cousins but what had always set him apart was how he could cut through the haze, the emotions, to get to what needed to be done at the moment a crisis set in - his ability to cut trough the muddle to find a viable, practical solution had been his shining strength through his growing years, making his members of his family and friends gravitate towards him in times of confusion, caused often by an abundance of options. So, he was now surprised at his own inability to get over his shivering, he had been uneasy since the dream and it had now been a couple hours since but the sinking feeling hadn't gone away, he still hadn't been able to think as well as he would have liked to. 

Downstairs, with the door and the windows shut, it was dark and suffocating, with the rancid smell hanging heavily in the air, having no outlet. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights - in some corner of his mind, he knew he had to do something differently, but seemed unable to get off the automation of getting food and drinks for the next few days, he would regret this mental passivity he knew that much, but something within him seemed to have resigned to the situation fate had placed him in, he had become a pawn instead of the master player he had always fancied himself to be.

He was half-way across the hall from the kitchen when he felt something particularly slimy brush against his calf. The involuntary jump he gave made him lose his balance and he found himself stumbling forward landing in a kneeling position in the water, while the lid of the water-pot slid off and disappeared into the water, he had managed to save the water in the pot on his shoulder. Once he had got back to fairly steady breathing, he stood up slowly, balancing himself on both feet lightly. Now that he was soaking wet and covered in grime, he found his revulsion for the flood waters abating, he felt more familiar with it, he had a splash on his face and could feel it slowly trickling down his bony cheek, some water had even gotten into his mouth, so now I know what sewers taste like, he thought swallowing an urge to vomit. 

Focusing intensely on placing one foot in front of the other, he eventually made it to the foot of the stairs. It must've taken him some time for now the waters had crossed the third stair, a bottle cap was rhythmically tapping against the top of the fourth, it would have been a welcome sound in the stillness but he could now hear the water running in swiftly from the top of the stairs, making an annoyingly loud trickling sound, it seemed like the rains had increased in intensity.

Pulling himself back from the distracting thoughts to his immediate concerns, he assessed the journey upwards.  He had moved across the hall carefully but slowly, slipping slightly with every step, but managing to retain footing on the silt settling on the floor. His shoulder and right arm were now painfully throbbing with the weight and stress of balancing the heavy water pot. He dared not to move the pot, with the lid gone and his hands now covered in filth, he couldn't have moved it without possibly contaminating the water within, and, he knew now he'd need every last drop of water soon. Looking up at his destination, his heart sunk, the steps seemed lot higher now, and with the water steadily flowing in from the roof, each step was swollen and looked slippery, he didn't know how he would balance the waterpot and gain footing. He decided that all he needed to do was to get to the fifth stair and he'd then at least get out of the water, be able to set the pot down and rest.

He lifted his left feet off the ground to get a feel of the steps, although it was dark, he had gotten adjusted to seeing in it, the stairs looked amber and forbidding in the weak light reflecting from the room upstairs. He shook the silt off his foot by swirling it gently in the water, with the wooden stairs now smooth as marble and greasy with the water flowing in from the roof, he knew, trying to ascend with mud on his feet without being able to balance himself on the banister would have been dangerous, he did not want to land in the water head first again. Breathing in sharply, he stood on the first step and pulled up his right foot which came up with a squelching sound and placed it squarely in the center, carefully maintaining distance between his feet to balance himself. He was thrown off-guard momentarily by a sudden bout of sneezing, all this movement must've released some allergens in the water he thought as he desperately tried to control his sneezes, haplessly watching clean water from  the pot spill with each violent sneeze, splashing into the swirling dirty waters rising around his thighs.

Swearing, he hastily climbed onto the second step, he had to get out of these black waters.  As he instinctively tried to clamber up a stair, forgetting the careful assessment he had been giving to each movement until then, the waterpot shifted ever so slightly, moving the center of balance off to his back. As he felt his body arch backwards, he knew he needed to let go of the pot and catch a hold of the banister to steady himself. However in the split second that he had to make the decision he was stunned by the sudden silence all around. The constant sizzle of the rain that his brain had resisted at first but had then adapted to after three days had stopped. The acute stillness had been like a loud boom in itself, sending a shiver of absolute delight through him. He noticed the light stream from the room above growing stronger, the sun was back! He was still smiling at the change, though a bit dejectedly, as he crashed backwards into the water, the little sunshine seemed too little and had been a tad late. As though aware of what was about to happen next, he held onto the waterpot out of terror, no longer caring for its sanctity. Had the whiplash on his neck not killed him instantly, the sliver of rotten wood from the stairs, where his leg had broken through on the second step, now piercing his ankle bone would've done it later, and, much more painfully. 

The boy was discovered a few days later, when a worried Hari Babu was finally able to cycle his way through the slushy wetland of the valley. His body, with a leg sticking up and another twisted on the stairs was covered in the remnants of the receding waters, filthy and maggot-infested. To Hari Babu, a practical man, it made no sense as to why someone would be about in the dangerous flood waters, especially when they had everything in the secure top floor, food and a bathroom with water - these were amenities only the rich could afford. Why hadn't he stayed on the first floor, what had be been up to roaming about in the flooded ground floor? It was unfathomable to him that someone from the city could not survive a 3 day flood in a grand house such as this. 

The villagers of Pattitapabanapur would talk fearfully about the haunted house for years to come, it had appeared that someone had pushed the grandson, with great force from the top of the stairs, hadn't the bottom of the stairs also been where his grand-uncle's body had been found?