Silently, he heard the footsteps approaching the curtains he hid behind. It was too dark to see anything, but he didn’t care much for that. He knew the routine. A ‘click’ sound followed, signaling the light going out. It was time for Natwar to go to sleep. He could hear the sharp wind crashing the open window panes and the intermittent sound of papers rustling in the corner. But he wasn’t deterred. In few minutes, the loud snores echoed in the room. It was time, he decided. Careful, as he always was, he tiptoed towards the disgusting garlic smell that Natwar wore. He felt the wood in his leg, and followed its seam to the headrest. There, slept Natwar unaware of what was to follow. He picked out the drugged handkerchief from his side pocket and pressed hard against Natwar’s mouth, calmly and convincingly. As the drug played its effect, the shivers died down, muting Natwar’s vain efforts.

“My last victim”, he smiled to himself. The images flashed in his mind.

He was a kid, a motherless 7 years old, coming back from the Monty Photo Studio with a set of 4 photographs. Today, they were to go for his school admission. In the distance, he saw shadows quarreling among each other. Suddenly, a painful shriek pierced the rotten sky. He knew the voice, it was his father’s. He saw the four men around the corpse with blood in their hands. Rajan, Paresh, Kumar and Natwar, he knew them all. As, his dear uncles! Paresh was his favorite. He had got him a bat and ball for his last birthday. He couldn’t cry; his dry eyes shouted in agony to their dismissive mocking. “Catch him!”, shouted Natwar, as they pounced upon him. He grieved in pain as Natwar poured hot coal in his eyes. It was only a matter of few minutes. In those cruel few minutes, he had lost his father, his guiding light in the big, bad world, and he had lost his eyes, his light to the dark world. But, he could not erase the image of those four faces, he had seen last. He would take his revenge, no matter what.

Today, it was all over. His pain had been satiated. He took out the last remaining photograph of his childhood from his wallet and placed it onto the dead heart of Natwar. And, stealthily as he had entered, he left, without leaving another trace.

He made no mistake, never had. He was the perfect assassin. The police had cracked their brains but could not point their guns to any one yet. In the gap of 7 years, they had found 3 dead bodies in similar context. All retired mine workers, all drugged in sleep and all linked by a photo of a child kept meticulously over the chest of the dead. They looked through every corner of the city, but could not find the child. Alas, there was no other piece to the puzzle that lay in front of them. The last murder was 3 years ago. By now, they had given up hope.

He returned home to his doting 10 year old daughter and loving wife. “Daddy, you are home!”, Kittu jumped right in his arms. As he caressed her innocent cheeks, she raised her brows and announced teasingly, “Daddy! Whose photograph was in your wallet? Anyway, I replaced it with mine before you left.”

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There she went again! All it ever took was a SALE board outside any shop to pull her in. This time it was the Shoe Palace, and the SALE board boasted of upto 40% off on all exquisite brands. She tried pulling me in too, but the reluctance showed quite prominently on my face, and alone she went with no hint of insistence. Not that I was averse to buying a new pair, it is just that I had grown up on modest earnings of my retired teacher Dad, and frugality ran in my blood.

Monica! People called her Mon, or Monu, or Moni, or Tinu. I could never figure out how the last one had caught on, but I never asked. We had known each other for quite a while, over 3 years that is. On the first day of college, she had sat next to me. Since then, we had been together, sharing the same desk for every class, except when she felt like taking a longer nap and missed her morning classes. It was more by God’s design than choice, though, as her roll no was next to mine. Anyhow, who cared for the reason as long as I had the prettiest girl of the college for company!

While she was in, all animated and chirpy with the salesman, I looked around. It was a Sunday evening and people often claimed that on Sundays, half the city of Chennai rambled around in Paradise mall, the only mall in the city. As I loitered around a pastry shop, I sensed a strong wave of sandalwood flow past my behind. I turned to find a dusky girl, probably in her young twenties, with looks so mesmerizing, I was stoned for a moment. The dull green of her top caressed the contours of her ample breasts so firmly, it left little to imagine. Her never ending legs desperately poked out of a body hugging black skirt that ended way too soon, for a whiff of fresh air. With every alternate step she took, the bare skin of her navel sneaked like a thin strip of pepper salt dividing the two shades of grape salad. The fake ‘Rebook’ sag she had tossed on to her shoulders, jumped around hurriedly from the front of her thigh to the rear and back. And, every time it played that game, it left me gasping for breath. The curls of her hair raced past her eyebrows a la Sadhna and she wore just the right tone of makeup that looked neither intimidating, nor incomplete. I could sense the restlessness taking wings inside my discontented soul. My arms grew desperate to cling to her tightly, and the sheer thought of planting my lips over hers propelled my heart for a sprint.

As I was getting absorbed in the thought of the stunning exuberance her body radiated, I heard Monica calling me from behind, “I am done. Let’s go find some other shop, Nisha.”

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(I would publish 10 stories, 2 a piece. Your stories are invited, jus’ keep them short, within 500 words, and a mandate is a twist in the tail of the tale, however predictable and clichéd it might be.)

मेरे जाम से छलकता तेरे प्यार का ये नूर है
मुझे तुमसे बेरुखी नहीं थोड़ी बेखुदी ज़रूर है

तुम जो करीब आये मेरे दिल की गिरह से
पलकों में बस गए हो आंसू की तरह से
ठुकरा के जा रहे हो; तुम यूँ मुस्कुरा रहे हो; मैं तरसा हूँ विरह से

मुझे गम का कुछ गिला नहीं तेरी ख़ुशी का सुरूर है

मेरे जाम से छलकता तेरे प्यार का ये नूर है
मुझे तुमसे बेरुखी नहीं थोड़ी बेखुदी ज़रूर है

आँखों ने इश्क ओढ़ लिया, दिल उस परी का गुलाम है
ठोकर मिली कदम कदम, मेरी बेखयाली का इनाम है
बर्बादी की किताबो में; बर्बादों के खिताबो में; मेरा ही जिक्र आम है

मेरी हस्ती गुमनाम सही, मेरा किस्सा मशहूर है

मेरे जाम से छलकता तेरे प्यार का ये नूर है
मुझे तुमसे बेरुखी नहीं थोड़ी बेखुदी ज़रूर है

Dus Kahaniyaan is back, with 2 more stories as promised. Although, promises made regarding timely publication could not be dealt with. Date problems, u see..

In case you wish to read Dus Kahaniyaan Part 1, click here!

The Accident
— Mohit Jain

“Sit at the back, Kaushik! How many times have I told you to not to drink beyond your limits! I am fed up of carrying you home after every damn party we attend. When would you learn”, Sneha erupted a volcanic burst as they reached their car after Mr. Mehta’s party.

Kaushik Bhatnagar was an eminent businessman, dealing in cotton exports. He was widely known in the region of Kolkata. People called him “the cotton king”. Sneha and Kaushik had been married for over 15 years now, living a blissful life, with 2 kids, a boy of 12 and a girl of 7 years. The only differences they had ever had were all for one reason, Kaushik’s drinking or, one could say, the excess of it. This was one such instance.

“Let me drive! I am not drunk”, Kaushik retorted, snatching the bunch of his car keys from Sneha. Poor Sneha’s timid body could barely stand the push of “overflowing-from-the-seams” Kaushik’s burly frame, and gave up without much resistance. The steering wheel turned crazily under the weight of Kaushik’s arms. The car zoomed ahead like an overzealous bull devouring any litter that came its way. “Slow! Kaushik, for god’s sake, slow down! You will kill someone.” pleaded Sneha. Kaushik was too engaged to hear a word, and carried on with his callous drive.

The LED ticker displayed 2200, as he passed by the unusually quiet market place. As he raced past the Natraj Dance Academy, they heard a loud clatter approaching. “The Imperial Cinema’s evening show must have just ended”, she thought. “Kaushik, slow down a bit, there might be a crowd waiting at the next right!” prayed she. But Kaushik had no mood of being lectured, and pushed the accelerator with all his might. “Nooooooooo”, a shriek emanated from desperate Sneha’s lips, as she saw their car hit a cycle. “Bloody kids, can’t even ride a cycle!” cursed Kaushik, as he put all his weight on the race. The rear view mirror carried fading images of a child lying on the road, dripping in blood, and a mob circling around. The salt of Sneha’s tears had completely eaten away her makeup. Kaushik’s hands palpitated, but he kept driving, albeit a little slowly now.

In 10 minutes they were at the “Bhatnagar House”, a magnificent villa located amid the plush greens of “La Exotica”. Charan, their servent came running to open the door. “Charan, bacche so gaye?”, asked Sneha. “Memsahib, baccha log to bakery gaya tha, wo Imperial Cinema ke pas! Aane wala hoga!”, he hesitated to say. She looked towards Kaushik, and stood there dumbfounded. Behind him, the television screen blared loudly “Breaking News! Hit and run case! 2 kids die on spot! Identified as children of Kaushik Bhatnagar, the cotton king!” The ticker below carried a question, “Do you think business rivalry led to their sad demise? Sms us your opinion on 56161.”

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The Irony
— Mohit Jain

The cotton of the stained cloth rubbed fiercely against the front right window pane of the cherry red BMW X6. In three swift circular moves, Amit had managed to carve a clean portion to have a look outside. A starved kid knocked at the window, chanting an incoherent plea for food, other arm pointing to his hallowed stomach. He howled at him and shrugged him away. Observing the long array of cars around solemnly, he cursed under his breath. It had been over an hour, and he longed to reach his home, to see his wife and his 14 months old granddaughter, Sukanya.

It was then that his eyes caught him walking across the pavement. He walked slowly, with a patterned limp towards the newly erect M.S. Subaiya building. Of course, he knew him! The images flashed on his windscreen, clear as crystal.

They had been classmates, 30 years back. Amit and Mahesh! Mahesh had always insisted, “Study Amit! Fooling around would not get you anywhere.” And he would invariably respond, “Studies are for the average. I am made for bigger things.” During one such argument, things had got heated up, temperatures rose, and Amit ended up throwing the iron chair on Mahesh’s leg. “You go and study! See how luck plays out. I will be big one day”, he had said. The limp had persisted since then.

He honked to scare away the pigeon settling on the bonnet, while his gaze followed Mahesh’s endeavor. He saw him leaning forward, but the crowd obstructed any further view.

The 12th results were out and Mahesh had topped the district. Amit sulked at the far end of the assembly queue, as their Principal Sir greeted Mahesh, “You have made our school very proud of you, son. You will be very successful, one day”, and hugged him.

It had been 24 years since then. “Did he care about the results now”, he thought to himself, tuning in to FM City. It played some advertisement about some new apartments coming up. “Crap, these radio channels, there is no music these days”, he murmured. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mahesh approaching him. A sense of satisfaction engulfed him, paving way to a smile, a relieved smile.

“Driver, take me to Carter Road! There is just one more inauguration to attend, and then you can call it a day”, said Mahesh, absorbing himself in the comfort of his BMW’s back seat. “Yes Sir!”, said he, turning the key in.

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(I would publish 10 stories, 2 a piece. Your stories are invited, jus’ keep them short, within 500 words, and a mandate is a twist in the tail of the tale, however predictable and clichéd it might be.)

The banyan tree outside the temple had been her abode for a long time. Through her half open cataract eyes, she had seen many people come and go, some carrying hopes, some remorse and some gratitude. That afternoon, as she woke up to a chuckle, an innocent pair of eyes looked straight into hers. There was something about him that pulled her up from her half sleep. It was love at first sight. He would come everyday, and jump straight into her arms, embrace her, kiss her, play with her hair. They talked in unintelligible syllables that only they understood. It was almost divine, their love for each other- his first, her last.

I was just 3 back then, and I still miss her. Amma!

There is death all around me
smiling in my face
with a devilish grin it hovers around
all ready to embrace

I look as if I care for its antics
“Oh! shut up for god’s sake,
I got chores to be done with
and my job, here, is at stake.”

“And, gimme a li’l space, wil’ ya
I need to get goin’ fast and soon.
Killing me won’t do any good anyhow
I sure ain’t any famous tycoon”

“Go show yourself off at some posh locale
if you are so eager for a front page mention
‘Coz there is no worth exploding here
even if you kill us by a million.”

Astounded, it stares in my eye
as I show it the door
“Cya Mate, may be some other place”, said I,
too scared to be scared any more.

Yay, I turn one !!

We had a story writing competition today at MA and we were to use as many words from a set of 80 provided. Here goes a reprint of our (Simon & I) version. the words given and used are highlighted.

————————————————————————————–

A Walk By Memory Lane

It had been 2 days, he was lying there, and he couldn’t feel his legs anymore crushed under the weight of a heavy iron gate. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was alive. A slight twinge confirmed he was. A shriek emanated from his swollen lips but stopped halfway coz’ what he saw next was beyond the most horrible nightmares of his. People were reduced to dirtbags, lying cluttered one over another, everywhere. There was no sign of life whatsoever. The whole city had turned into a big pile of debris. He tried to recall what had happened, and more importantly, who he was. But all he could remember was some people shouting “It’s a meteor. We are all gonna die”. Some said “Alien Attack! Run for your lives”. The voices echoed in his ears.

“Am I the only one left?” he was wondering as he limped his way through the carcass when he stumbled across a mud stained notebook. It was a diary. he flipped open the first page. He read it loud, as if to address an imaginary audience.

17/06/07

I arrived today via Kingfisher airlines, and made a check in at Ginger where I had a strawberry shake and watched the movie Dosti. At night, I went to a bar, with my colleague. It was his birthday, so we ordered a chocolate cake and celebrated it with Signature whisky, amid a rocking environment.

18/06/07

Next morning, I started with reading a review of Titanic and an offer on its booking. Later I watched it too.

19/06/07

Today was my first day at MA. After a fruitful weekend, my heart was pounding as I took a cab to office, and had my first touch of Bangalore’s traffic. After a security check, we marched into the office premises. I took a lift to reach cafeteria and there our training began. We were given presentations on Architecture, Engines, Routing, Dispatch, Automation by their respective team managers. We were also told about a team outing and Town Hall 2008 meeting, and advised to update it in calendar. They also introduced us to Thumbs Up and Josh clubs. Then we were separated into 2 batches, Java and C++. I was given a desktop while some others got a shiny laptop. I checked my first E-mail in my inbox. Then I was assigned my 1st Cr: CR N0. 78627 raised in Clear case regarding Globalization. The CR details had bug number, build details and setup environment. I checked out the latest code. It involved LTL shipment with less than 5 line items, and origin as Thailand, failing in import driver rates scenario. I started my server and logged into the console workspace. Later, I filled non billable hours in netsteps, and sent my status report as an attachment to the manager, after he sent me a template report. It was a lovely day.

Moh

As he reached the end of the page, a drop trickled down his moist eyes and washed off the dirt settling on the rest of the name. Mohit. “Yes. This is me. This is my writing. This is my diary. These are my words. I am Mohit”, he exclaimed to himself. “I am Mohit”, he shouted with utmost fervor. Instantly, he felt a wave of pain flowing ferociously through his veins. “I am Mohit”, he murmered in a dying tone as he toppled down. And then, there was stillness again, but for the sound of the pages of the diary, unfurling intermittently owing to the strong careless wind.

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And now that I am getting time to read it, its funny how oddly we have managed to tuck the words somehow into the gaps. But then, we had jus’ over 30 minutes. So I guess, that settles it.

I*: “No way buddy ! U r mistaken. I do all the stuff people could only dream of. I wake up when my heart permits, not my alarm clock. I go to work, and read blogs. I chat with my friends. And then after a heavy lunch, and an even heavier sleep in the office’s dorm, I read some more blogs and chat some more. Meanwhile, as a gesture of respect for the payslip I get at every month’s end, I spend few minutes on fixing some minor issues. Major issues can wait, u see, they deserve time. And that’s not it. I come home, play squash. I watch some TV and then I get absorbed in the mysteries of the “LOST” island. And, a few minutes spent in kitchen assisting Cook bhaiya only adds spice to the day. Now, u tell me, how is it boring? How could u not see the variety?”

I: (smiles)

I*: “What? Why don’t u speak now? Tell me, what part of my day is boring?”

I: “.. that U do it all exactly the same way, over n over, everyday. Everyday !”

PS: I & I* hold no resemblance to the author, however apparent it may seem. He is more than happy with whatever his routine is.