The Rush Hour

The Rush Hour

          “Can’t you drive any faster?” she snapped at the driver. She was angsty since she heard the news of her father’s demise. She was not surprised, she had been expecting it for a while as her father is enduring terminal cancer. She just didn’t expect it so sudden. She looked at her watch again, time is flying by. Since she can’t do anything until she reached there, she reminisced in both her fond and bitter memories of her father. Like when she was a kid, how she rode her father like an elephant, how she slept on his tummy after playing with him. She remembered the video, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, of her first steps with him and how he pretended to be hurt when her first words were ‘mama’ but was very excited for her. She thought about how he told her bedtime stories and checked for monsters under the bed, how he stood by her when she did mistakes and taught her to be honest about them. That instance when he gave her a puppy for her birthday and how he consoled her when the dog was run over made her cry even when she grew up. His struggle to keep up with her increasing homework only told her how much he wanted to be there for her.

          He worried more than her when she left for the hostel and visited her every other weekend. She recollected how he trained her to protect herself from the monsters in the society, how he cried until she returned unharmed from an accident. She remembered bitterly that the gap between them increased after her marriage. He would visit them on the pretext of seeing his grandchildren, but she knew he came for her. He still looked out for her by depositing half his pension in her name even though she is more than self-sufficient. A tear rolled down her cheek as she relived that day when he was going in for chemo and asked her how she was holding up. She saw him cry again when doctors gave up on him, but she knew that he was crying because he had to leave her forever. He would talk to her every night as his day begins, even that couldn’t satisfy him. She finally broke down when she remembered what her mother said: her name was the last word he uttered ever.

           She wiped away her tears as the car came to a halt. She handed the driver a little extra and got out of the car. She raced toward the building and took an elevator to her destined floor. She thought to herself “I’m sorry, dad” as she entered the meeting room while her father was being cremated in her faraway homeland.

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The Bitter Coffee

The Bitter Coffee

“Maa, I want coffee,” he shouted for the third time from the balcony. He waited a minute and shouted again “maa, bring me some coffee.” The lack of response irritated him and his rage reached its peak within seconds. “Maa, can’t you hear me? Where is my frigging coffee?” he shouted at the top of his lungs and shattered the water glass, which was within his reach, against the wall.

After some time, he heard someone move in the hall. He turned towards the door expecting his mother to come in. Instead, his wife entered the room with a coffee cup in her hand. “Where is maa? Why are you bringing the coffee?” he asked her, even though he knew the answer. “I want maa to bring me the coffee,” he said, like a stubborn child making a demand and threatening to throw a tantrum. His wife placed the cup on his table, moved close to him and hugged him. He hugged her back, like a child who just lost something precious would hug his mother. His voice broke down and he said, sobbing, “I want maa to bring me the coffee.” His wife caressed his hair, wiped his tears and let him mourn his mother days after her death.

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In His Shoes…

“Imagine yourself in the following scenario:

Having reached the age to live on your own, you left your home in search of a new one. The foremost task is to find a food source. You found one. Next, you found a neat little cozy home nearby and started your own family by mating with a suitable partner. You were contented, but have apprehension concerning the vast unknown that stretched beyond your little world of your home and food source. Sometimes you see those giants wandering, not paying you any attention. After some time, you realize that you won’t bother them as long as you don’t trespass their territory.

Giant

But what is life if not unpredictable? One day, during the hunt, you slipped and fell right into the giant’s territory. You weren’t aware what injuries you sustained, but you were enduring a tremendous amount of pain and weren’t able to move. Your home was within sight, but you couldn’t reach it. Now as you lie there, on noticing you, a giant shouted a war cry and stepped back as if getting ready to pounce on you. Soon a commotion started and more giants gathered. One of them advanced towards you with a peculiar looking weapon. You uttered your final prayers.

But then what is life if not unpredictable? The giant pushed you on to a big….ramp, for the lack of better word. Then it took you away from your home and dumped you into an abysmal pit. You cannot move and you were trapped in this pitch dark place with no way to return to home, even if you were sure in which direction it was. Although you had fed, you could sense the pang of hunger which your kin will experience in not much time. You were very much worried for your family waiting for you, ignorant of what had transpired.

Now, tell me how you feel.”

He sighed. “What do you want me to do?” he said irritably. “I refrained from killing the bloody lizard on your say so. Now you don’t want me to throw it out of the house. Do you want to breed a big family of lizards in our house? Anyway, it’s not moving. So, give me a break.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything more,” she said in a letdown voice. “I’m only asking you to put yourself in his shoes,” she mumbled and left the room.

The Reflection

The Reflection

“I don’t know you,” I wanted to say to the person staring at me. “I used to know you, but I don’t know you.” His face is devoid of feelings and creeping me out. The room is filled with steam. Beads of sweat are gathering mass and rolling down his temples in rivulets, just like mine. He changed a lot over the past few years. He is wearing torn jeans in contrast to his usual trouser fit. He grew a stubble, which gave him a manly look as opposed to the juvenile one I remember. The skin on torso is a little saggy, indicating that he gained and lost considerable amount of weight recently. His red eyes and black rings circumscribing them show his lack of sleep. I started wondering what kept him awake at nights, then pushed the thought aside, for this is not the right time. I always wanted to know what changed him from the sweet little kid loved by all to . . . to whatever he is right now. But whenever I am close to getting an answer, a cold apprehension surrounds me, that the knowledge would seep into my very fabric and leave me marked forever.

          I wanted to say many things to him, most of which are more likely to hurt him. So many things, that I lost count of them. I even forgot some of them. The problem is, he knows all of them. But he chose to ignore them, which, somehow, he thought would solve them. Whenever he looks at me, he thinks he sees his reflection in me. But the secret is that he don’t know himself profoundly enough to recognize that his true self is buried deep inside and what he sees is what he wanted to see.

          Then his glassy eyes became watery. Woah… wait a minute. Did that much time pass by already? Time flies by. The Ritual has begun. Usually I would have more time. Tears already welled up in his eyes and were about to spill. His gaze intensified, trying to look through the teary curtain. His lips started to tremble. His hands and legs became shaky. He looked as if he is about to have a seizure. If I did not know better, I too would have thought so. However, I knew better. At this point, he is most unpredictable. I have to wait just a few more seconds, until his tears depart his eyes. After that, I am safe. Then I want to console him and say what he wants to hear. I want to say the most cockamamie things to make him feel better. Like “it was not your fault at all. Your parents were to be blamed. They sinned so horrendously in their previous life that they were punished to procreate you and undergo the ramifications.” Or “you were just a tool to deliver the Judgement.” Or “you are as innocent as a butcher’s knife.” Then he would crumble down, as if his battery died. As if suddenly the Earth’s gravitational force increased many folds and his legs couldn’t support his weight anymore. He’ll sit there, wailing like a bereft animal will for its mate, until the emotions pent-up during the day are quenched. Then the crying stops abruptly. He’ll stand up, wipe the tears and will leave. His gait will make that of an 8-year-old introvert child about to face a group of thousand people seem more confident.

          This has been happening for so long a time, I forgot when it began. Why it happens is another long story, I’ll save it for some other time. Without this ritual, the day feels incomplete, like a full meal without dessert. So, when tears appeared in his eyes, I prepared myself for what was about to happen. Despite its repetition, I am never ready. Then came the trembles. I started counting seconds. And I went beyond where I usually stop. Tension built up inside me with passing seconds. Unpredictability for this long is not a good sign. I prayed to God “please, not this way. I have never been out of this room. Please, a few more days.” As his hand curled into a fist and rose, I am convinced that this would be the day of my demise. I intensified my prayers. “Please God, a few more days. I will behave. I am very young. Please God, please.” He hit the wall beside me. I trembled once and sweat dripped off me. Then he took his hand back and stood there for a minute. At this point, I contemplated my whole life. I was separated from my family at a young age only to be bought by him. I was true to him even during the worst time. After all that, I cannot die like this. I should not.

          Then an amazing thing happened. He wiped the tears from his eyes. There is a stern expression on his face, a brave expression like the one of a soldier about to enter a fight and is about to deliver the certain defeat to the enemy. Yet it is as soft as that of a mother reprimanding her beloved child. His eyes are filled with the joy you will feel when you found something you thought was lost forever. Soon after, he walked out of the room with a confident gait. Something impossible happened today. Something I anticipated for so long that I gave up on it. This incident proved to me that miracles still happen.

          It seems God heard me after all and gave us both a second chance. Not every day can you see death in the face and, as you people say, live to tell the tale. But who would listen to a mirror telling stories except a few curious one like you? Therefore, I will keep this tale mostly to myself. Before you leave, let me tell you this – “don’t tell anyone a mirror told you this story, they’ll think you are crazy.”

The Faded Flower

The Faded Flower

          I longed to run today. To run with my maximum speed, like a deer running for its dear life. To exhaust myself. After two minutes of brisk walk, I increased my pace and started jogging. The evening air is chill, typical of any wintry evening. As I jogged uphill, my breath became raspy and coarse. My lungs burned for oxygen. I took long, deep breaths to satiate them. Despite this, I started running. I felt like a raged bull dashing towards the muleta. Hundred meters ahead of me stood two towers, on either side of road, like a pair of giant bouncers at the entrance of a club, imbuing fear and ready to take out those who dare to defy their authority. As I passed by them, I felt as if I were traversing a portal into a new world painted in orange hue of the setting sun. A few meters further rose a statue of an old man, observing each and every one passing by him. As I crossed him, his ominous eyes followed me all the way until I took the next turn.

          Then I saw her, walking on a single file of bricks with outstretched hands and grace of a wildcat. I stopped right there gasping for breath, pretending I was out of breath. I dabbed the napkin at my forehead to absorb the sporadically formed sweat beads, all the while, peeping at her, for I am shy when I am around women. With the setting sun directly behind her head, she appeared like a wingless angel with a halo. She carefully pushed aside those locks of golden hair fussing about her face to prevent them from obscuring her vision, tilting a little to a side to maintain balance and in the process, revealing her exquisite countenance. Her serene, innocent face made me forget all those hurtful things my so-called friends said, which impelled me to run like a wild ox in order to quell my anger. Her eyes… Oh her eyes!!! I could get lost in them and wander forever without ever getting exhausted. The sound of her smile was like music to my ears. Seeing her there like that made the whole world, except her, frivolous to me. Suddenly she lost her balance and slipped. My heart skipped a beat.

          Relishing her beauty, I was oblivious to him walking beside her. He caught her and they remained in that posture for half a minute, like a dancing couple would at the end of their performance. She freed herself from his hold. Then she saw me, gazing at me for a full minute. Now her eyes were infused with dread, like those of a captured animal. For a moment, I doubted if what I had seen a little earlier had been my imagination at play, a byproduct of my excessive reading of romantic novels. “What are you looking at, you loser?” came his booming voice as he spat those acrid words at me. I stared at him, dumbstruck, like a deer spotted in headlights. She was looking at the grass on the ground, folding her hands in front of her, reluctant to meet my eyes. He approached me saying “what the hell are you looking at?” and pushed me, sending me stumbling backwards. I wanted to say “I am looking at an angel, not hell”, deliver an unexpected blow to his gut incapacitating him and then hold her hand forever. But my timidity stopped me from uttering even a single sound. I got up slowly, dusted my shorts and resumed my jog, all along aware of his icy glare.

          Even before I took a few steps, I heard a shrill cry which sent jitters along my spine. I turned around only to see no one there. The cry came again, instilling the agony of its composer in whatever living form it touched. I cannot make out the word at first. But the third time it came, the word is as clear as the sound of water droplets in a horror film with eerily silent ambience. “Help…” I looked around once again to pinpoint its source. Abruptly, all the scenery around me vanished, leaving me in a void which then filled with the same cry as before, only this time it is amplified thousand times. Then the void filled with her image giving me a feeling of flying in some strange 3D holographic picture. There lay her limp body in a posture that would make any onlooker look away in guilt, her ghastly face distorted in pain, streaked with tears and devoid of its previous innocence, but as serene. Her lifeless eyes stared at me as if blaming me for what had happened to her. Her dress was torn in places, along with her skin, exposing deeply cut wounds to buzzing flies, where blood oozed slowly due to the cease of its circulation. I felt my stomach churn and thought I would get sick when I observed the absence of any sound as if the world was on mute. Catching me off guard, a brilliant light illuminated the whole picture making every small detail so vivid that it made me want to gouge my eyes out just to stop looking at the horrible image. Then came again the ear-splitting cry which would have shattered each and every piece of glass within a radius of half a kilometer.

          I suddenly sat up in my bed, sweating profusely. I reached for the water pitcher, took a sip and lay back in the bed only to spend the rest of night rolling and tossing around. Ever since I saw her photo and the story of what happened in newspapers, this nightmare started haunting me, firing each and every neuron of my brain with remorse for not fighting back that hapless day. I will, forever, carry the guilt of her death on my conscience. But I have no regrets at all for what I did to that gruesome monster who committed this horrendous crime and tried to escape the wrath of justice on account of a minor technicality. No, I have none.

      One last thing. If I had learned anything in the past few years confined to this claustrophobic cell, it would be this – Never ever leave any beast, whether inside or outside, untamed, lest it shall devour you…