Michael Corleone

  

Like any other day, she got up at 3 am. Worked without a break. In the kitchen. Around their land. Her three elder brothers and their families had arrived the previous night. She cooked for them. Her sisters-in-law offered to help knowing that she would shake her head. At 11 am, she walked to and back from the fish market three miles away on the other side of the mountain.

After lunch, her eldest brother, the IAS officer, looked at the others. They nodded.

“Is she coming with him?” he said.

She nodded.

“At five?”

A nod again.

“Why do they want to come here with their lifestyle?” her second brother said. He is a government employee, the type no one misses but everyone needs. Not that he thinks that’s his job. His life revolves around movies.

About two decades back, when the second brother got married, the village had asked the same question. The family had got together in that house. The situation was tense then too. His love-bride was from a sect that does not accept a match from outside. Politically influential too. There were lots of brickbats of the verbal and the violent sort. Politicians and hoodlums got involved. They did not enter the village. No one dared to face her.

“She’s the Michael Corleone of the family,” the movie buff said, at the end of that day.

“Am I Sonny?” the elder brother, a fresh IAS officer then, said. “Or Fredo?”

“Who am I?” the third brother said. He started an IT company in the early 90s, now a billion-dollar firm.

“You can be Connie or Tom,” the movie buff said.

It didn’t matter who they were as long as their sister was Michael.

“We are like Superman,” the movie buff said at another time. “There’s a telephone booth just outside the village where we drop the suit and become Clark Kent.”

She managed their land. She got the ancestral house and an acre around the house. The rest of the 70 acres went to the brothers. They lived in the city. They got their share of profit from her work. They had thought of asking her to take a part of that. For your toil and trouble, they could have said. She does not need much, they thought.

The current tense situation began six months back. She seemed unperturbed at first glance. Unapproachable, quiet as usual and working from dawn to dusk or even more. It was the fear in her eyes that troubled them. Not just the family.

The village too. If they were supposed to accept an outsider, that too without raising a question, why is it different when it is her son?

 

She got married a year after her parents died. Barely out of her teens. The marriage lasted 24 hours. She was raped by her husband. In that house. Not rape according to the law of the land. She nearly killed him that night. Made it clear to all what the law in the village should be and will be. No one in the village knows what she did to him. It was enough for him and his family to disappear from the village. Without a case. Leaving a reputation no one would forget.

She did not occupy any position of power. She rarely met people. What she did and what she could do changed the village. She has not got into any confrontation after that. The threat that hangs above one’s head has proved to be more effective.

It is not that the village has turned into some kind of Utopia. They are bad less often. When democracies and legal systems around the world gave way to the whims and threats of authoritarian rule, the village scoffed at the news. Their own legal system seemed intact.

When her fear became known, that too began to crumble.

A poster came up in the market.

“Even gods are hypocrites.”

Some, including most in her family, were relieved. Her exacting standards were stifling them.

 

She was a quiet girl before her marriage. A quieter lady after that night.

Her brothers did not ask her what she had done when they found her burning bloodied sheets just before dawn. They did not ask anything when she was pregnant or when her son was born. Not that she would have had much to say.

Knowing her character, she must have dealt with lists of questions. Will the beast stay away? Will it return through her kid? Will it be murder then?

The kid spoke only after he joined kindergarten. A normal kid otherwise.

She was a good mother. That is, if there’s an absolute and objective idea about being a good parent. One can study the product though. The son grew up reasonably happy and definitely secure. As it must be for every fortunate kid, if one could generalise, there was something missing. There’s little the kid can do about that other than accept it with regular bouts of serious self-pity.

Is there anything about them that can’t be swept under the carpet? For the sake of completeness, let’s not forget that. There was one aspect of the son’s life that was always under severe scrutiny. His interactions with the opposite sex.

There was a hushed-up incident when he was 14. He and a girl from his class disappeared for 6 hours. Exploring his family’s land, he said later. Someone reported the girl’s cry for help. Another said she was bleeding when they resurfaced.

“She was like the Ugra Devi,” the villagers remember the mother’s response. “Blood, even her own, would not have been enough.”

The girl’s family managed to convince her not to do anything. Whatever they did, right or wrong, as long as the issue remained alive, only their daughter would suffer, they said.

Did she punish her son? Was he innocent or guilty? Were the kids chased by a wild boar, as some said.

“Our Mother Goddess has multiple identities, the bloody-thirsty vengeful Ugra Devi to the kind Mother. This one, our self-imposed protector, she has only one face,” the villagers grumbled.

Did that event change the son’s life? Not really. Every teenager in this village faced something similar at some point or the other. Isn’t that why they try to fly the coop as soon as they can? For that, or other boring academic purpose, her son too did that after finishing school at 18.

 

She waited for her son to come back to that house where she suffered the night of terror. She could have changed residence but she knew the ghosts would follow. The family and the village saw a woman untouched by her past. They did not know about her nightmares. In that, her son returns with a woman and it happens again. In the best dream, there’s proper closure. The beast buried forever. Along with her and her son. Such thoughts would have driven any other mother stark raving mad.

Others did not know about all that. It did not help that she kept it all to herself. Some shrink or friend could have helped her face her son, from tiny tot to adult, without seeing the beast that left her son. Or, they would have put her worries in some well-studied slot, shared advice that could help only if she changed herself totally.

 

Her son is in a hedge fund now. Flies back home for a few days’ visit once every six months. He has an apartment in central London. Six months back, his mother got to know that he was living together with a lady.

His handling of that communication could have played a part in the current impasse. Why did the son announce his living status on the extended family’s WhatsApp group without a quiet, literally and figuratively, tête-à-tête with his mother?

There were the expected responses to his message from his uncles. Best wishes. And, when are you getting married? 

“We don’t want to get married,” her son posted, without an emoji, austere, matter of fact.

“But, your kids?” Tom-or-Connie responded. Again, without emoji.

“No kids either.” And, to leave the last word on the topic, her son had added, “

”

He did not post any photos of his new found love. The mystery lady did not show any inclination in communicating with his family.

His mother isn’t on any WhatsApp group. A niece told her about the goings on. That kid’s in the rebellious teen mode and considers her aunt to be the perfect role model.

Her brothers expected a long brood. The fear seemed totally out of character. They did not broach that topic with her. Not that they did that on anything.

 

It remained a faraway London affair till he called his mother two days back.

“We are coming to meet you,” he said.

“Here?” she said.

“Will you come here?”

“I will get a passport.”

“We are coming, Ma.”

“Get her a hotel room,” she said.

“But, Ma…”

“She and you are not sleeping together under this roof.”

Her son knew enough about his past not to argue. He was not really surprised that a rational person like his mother could take such a stand. Rational thought is fine if one can forget the trauma one suffered. He also accepted the implicit accusation. A father can screw up a son’s life even without being there, he thought.

 

“What will she be like?” the movie buff said.

“What’s his type?” his wife said.

“The one he ran away with was bubbly and cute,” the IAS officer said.

“So, the exact opposite of his mother,” his wife said.

The others joined in. The kids too. They did that every time they were in that house. Talked as if they were the only ones there.

“He was 14.”

“Did he run away with her?”

“Who knows.”

“He barely escaped being skinned alive.”

“By her folks?”

“No idiot. By her.”

“Oh.”

“Will he be like his father?”

“Come on, men have changed. Those were different times.”

“Have you talked to women recently?”

“Come on, was I ever like that?”

“Ha. How many times should I have done what your sister did to him?”

“She went a bit overboard.”

“Women can be their own worst enemies.”

“The kids are here. That’s the only reason I’m not saying more.”

“They are living together. It can’t be bad between them.”

“Ask the married people who have suffered each other for decades.”

“It must be different there.”

“When two people live together, there will always be something to crib about.”

“Why haven’t they posted photos?”

“She’s not on social media.”

“She can’t be sweet and bubbly then.”

“Hey, any bets on the sweet cutey pie bubby type.”

“I’m in with a 50.”

“Me too.”

“What’s your type, hubby dear?”

“Don’t you know.”

 

Her son brought his partner home at six in the evening.

It was the tropical equivalent of a cold winter night. Torrential rain, gusty wind, power failure.

“The perfect art movie,” the movie buff said, “first, there was silence, then, there’s darkness.”

They sipped tea with exaggerated slurps of appreciation, loudly munched the savouries and said nothing. That was normal in the presence of the lady of the house. They quickly realised that it was not abnormal in the company of the new lady of the house too. The son seemed to be the only one there comfortably at home. He happily answered all the questions directed at his partner. Is she deaf and dumb, the extended family wondered.

The mother went to the kitchen. The son’s partner followed her.

“Knife-fight at the Kitchen Ledge,” the movie buff said. He tried to whistle a Morricone tune. His wife silenced him with a jab to the ribs.

 

They stared at each other in the dark. Two from the same mould. The mother was uncomfortable with her son’s choice. Freud and Oedipus be damned.

“Is he ok with you?” 

“Yes.”

“You can stay here.”

“Does that mean I’m banished to the hotel?” the son said from outside the kitchen. He had followed them.

“Should we?” his partner asked his mother.

Their smiles remained hidden in the dark. They had a reputation to protect.

 

If only love remained in fiction

 

“An open & shut case, Insp.

Only one hated the victim, loved by the rest.”

“In a #stellar b&w world,

That’s the boring truth.

Have I killed any 

Hating nearly all, loving none?

How many are in jail 

For loving in ways hate would abhor?

If only love remained in fiction.”

#vss365

locked room mystery

 

"Looks like a locked room mystery."

"Yes, boss. Cameras on all exits. No one came out. Three in there. One hacked to pieces. The other two clean. Not a splatter on them. Even though the room's a bloody mess."

"Licked each other, did they? Romance with an #abject end?" 

#vss365

People like you and me

 

Today, in the 'Bookworm', it was guilt and rage that hit Shokie. Not the usual sense of #vellichor. 

"People like you and me," he had promised.

The 12 y.o. flower-seller's head on 'War & Peace'; the retired Ms Murray with her guts out on 'Leave it to Psmith'; 7 more...

#vss365

limerence

 

Will a time-machine help, 

Shokie wondered, 

Was the past better?

Should #time go in reverse,

End in a singularity?

Wham Bam, thank ya saar!

One day without an incel 

In the cell stinking of acid/blood?

Is limerence a vibe?

O let go with a peg, 

& a tweet with such crap.

#vss365 

Destroyed

 

#vss365

The past has an #insatiable hunger to consume the present and the future. Politicians know that too well. Nationalism and patriotism would be nothing without that.

I am digressing.

I have to meet him. The guy my daughter put in jail for abusing her.

My kid was 13. He was 17. Both were destroyed.

He was her hero. The typical schoolgirl crush for the senior star. When I found his photo in her room, I asked her teachers if there’s going to be trouble. He’s not that type, they said. Not a teachers’ pet, they added. They were surprised when he confessed. Without a fight.

He repeated her accusation in his confession, don't know why, Insp. Shokie told me. It was her first case.

Didn’t he know what he was getting into? I have thought a lot about that. When I am not fighting my daughter’s next battle. She is in a state of free-fall. That’s how it is for one with bad luck. Or is it bad karma?

I can’t help her anymore. Can he?

He has just got out. It's Shokie who suggested that he should meet my daughter. She’s not the motherly kind but I could sense a bit of that in her. With him. She didn’t tell me to get lost with my daughter. I would have.

TBC? Whaddayasay?

The 13th case

 

"To find the needle in the haystack, put the hay on fire and wash away the #ash," Insp. Shokie said studying the cases. 

First 12 were vulnerable preys troubled on SM.

The 13th - the predator who chose those targets.

Someone turned the tables on the killer, she noted.

#vss365

We talked a lot last night

 

We talked a lot last night.

A first for me. Till 4 am. Wow.

Unbelievable it was.

Will we tell someone else? You know, what we shared.

We might. Let’s not worry about that.

I might buy love with that, you know, barter secrets for trust.

Ironic but understandable. I might use it in my stories.

Will others recognise us?

They will be searching for themselves.

Will we stop talking to each other?

We might.

For the sake of lovers, spouses, kids, we just might.

Or when we lose interest.

Or when there’s a mismatch in give and take.

Will we be ready for that?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.

I love this.

Me too.

Is it time for some silence?

This is not an art movie.

Let’s cook. Or go for a walk. Together.

Come here. Sit next to me.

We better not stop talking. Don’t laugh.

I am not.

Should we try silence?

Should we?

Memory I never had

I have been losing

Memory I never had

That’s not a riddle

Not even contrary to popular opinion

It’s the dark matter

Of all that we are

Love is built on such

Hate too probably faith definitely

How we like to think we live with what we know

How we assume and borrow to cope

why I asked/why I did not say

 

I wanted to write something

deep

or honest

or worth your time

But

it is Sunday morning

when I think

about

why I asked

Will you marry me

or why I did not say

I love you

Ah

They

won’t be thinking

about

that

this Sunday morning

or

any other day.

dating too late

 

Discovered dating too late,

With action & words out of sync

As in a badly dubbed movie.

She asked for #wine and salad,

I chose double choc ice-cream soda

Before parotta and beef double fried.

She wanted mine,

Avoid hints and amore

Before parotta and beef double fried.

#NAlove

mission impossible

“How do we solve this case, Insp. Shokie?”

“Sexual abuse and caste discrimination—the two crimes tough to prove. Even the ‘good’ will support the sick smug scum. Then, the counter-charges, the support of influencers and the #sense-less public’s apathy or worse disgust.”

#vss365

Arrhythmic Life

 

'Today, I read 'Ar-#rhythm-ic Life'. It is about me. Who knew what I did to her?'

"Suicide notes should say more."

"Who wrote the book, Insp. Shokie?"

"Who else? Never write about yourself. And, never forget your pseudonym. You are your worst enemy even without that."

#vss365

The Hashtag Murders

 

A serial killer is responsible for four deaths in the last week. The State Police Chief calls these the Hashtag Murders. Of the four deaths, two were earlier considered to be suicide; one, a murder-suicide pact; and, the fourth, a kidnapping gone wrong. 

A Special Investigation Team (SIT) led by Inspector Shokie is handling the case. The Inspector is a once-capable investigator who was on long leave after being disgraced in the brutal Shekhar Case. She allegedly fabricated evidence implicating her nemesis Shekhar.    

Going against her usual procedure, Inspector Shokie met the press and released details of the Hashtag Murders. 

She began by telling the public to be vigilant and added ominously that that might be the only way the SIT can catch this killer. 

She listed what the SIT has found till date.

1. The killer has been active in the State for more than thirteen years and killed fifty three or more.

2. The four in the last week is an escalation in activity. The average murder rate of this killer in the past was one in three or four months. The SIT is unsure if the heightened activity is due to the diversion of the police force for irrelevant political roadshows.

3. The four deaths in the last week share a common feature: the death is associated with some hashtag on social media.

a) The lady doctor in Kollam was pushed into a state of depression due to the dowry demand of her fiancé. The latter was ironically an activist doctor well-known for protests related to the hashtag StopViolenceAgainstDoctors. The lady's death was considered to be suicide before the SIT discovered that this was the first kill of the serial killer in the last week.

b) The lady professor in Kochi was a political activist. She lost her job after retweeting a post connected to the hashtag Palestine. In the post, the influencer praised his young kid's hatred and call for annihilation of the state of Israel and its people. The 'suicide' of the lady is now confirmed to be the second kill.

c) The duo in Palghat involved in the murder-suicide pact met via the hashtag WeMetOnX. The lady hacked the man to pieces before hanging herself in the outhouse. This crime too was abetted by the serial killer.

d) The kid in Kannur was kidnapped and brutally murdered by the family in huge debt. The family has a huge following on social media. Their posts with the hashtag AmateurCrime have gone viral. This was the fourth kill.

4. The deaths have another common feature which helped the SIT discover that an outside agent is responsible for these four crimes and the fifty three in the past. There were always notes left at the scene of the crime including the two 'suicide' notes in the last week. In all the notes, the first sentence is 'I am sorry to the dear ones I leave behind.' and the last sentence is 'See you at the end of the tunnel.'

5. Inspector Shokie admitted that the SIT has no leads as of now to catch the killer. She speculated that the killer of unknown gender somehow contacts, gets close and convinces the victims to do the final act, whether it be suicide or murder or kidnap. 

6. She released a profile of the killer: 'Kind person, understanding, approachable and trustworthy, altruistic, with no motive and no moral fiber as per common standards, inactive but observant on social media, not any common trope like hacking IT whiz or abused sociopath, not depressed but with persistent anger issues, not religious but with uncommon personal attachment to God.'

#crimefiction

‘This novel is made up...There is no doubt, however, that the novel is born of a specific reality.’

-Andrea Camilleri on his book ‘The Wings Of The Sphinx’

simple cases

"Always," Insp. Shokie paused, "follow the kill with no #thrill."

"If a case seems simple, it is never that. Take the bigshot whose car hit a journalist by mistake. What's the hidden story? The former was with an escort-cum-drug dealer. The latter was chased, murdered."

#vss365

honey trap

 

"Insp. Shokie, have you ever had such a case?"

"Guy falls in love. Turns out to be a honey trap. Dares the lady to reveal all. Death wish? But, who killed him? That lady? His wife, parents, in-laws, ex (plural)?  Or all? If he inspired anything, it wasn't #compassion."

#vss365

Open Up

 

Is he a bigot? Will he go back to his violent ways when Trouble comes home?

I wrote this short story 'Open Up' (yeah, yeah, a story set in lockdown days) last year.

Number of words: 2280

 

 

 

 

OPEN UP

 

Six months into lockdown and life has not been better. No husband, no abuse. He still comes for money. That is done from a safe distance. Social distancing be praised.

I have not got out of this compound. It has been eight months since I went to my village. My kids call once in a while. To ask for money. I tell them to get it from their father. Let them try that.

In this house, life has been the same. Amma has to spend more time with Appa. His bladder is giving him more trouble and he is weaker. Yettan does the shopping. I have to clean one more room, upstairs, because of the newcomer.

I have been with them for fifteen years or so. I am from their village. A distant relative of some sort. Yettan was not here when I first arrived. He was in some high post somewhere. Then, it was just me, Amma and Appa. And, the constant trouble from my husband. The old couple could do nothing to stop him.

Then, Yettan came back. Retired early after all that trouble in the papers. I still remember that rainy afternoon. The brute of a husband was drunk and he was hitting me with his belt. We were fighting in the small backyard. He wanted money. He did not like it when I asked him about his woman. We did not notice Yettan at first. I saw him only when the beating stopped and when my husband looked up, his anger turning into something meek and scared. Yettan was standing on the first floor back balcony staring at us. Truth be told, his eyes scared me too. I have seen such eyes when Rajan, the village butcher, kills a buffalo. Dead eyes to bring death to the living. After that day, my husband behaved well within the compound. Even when we met outside, he was better-behaved. Once, when he was drunk, he said something like, “You and your Yettan…” but he did not complete the sentence even though I urged him to do so. When the lockdown started, Yettan told us that I could meet my husband outside the compound only if I wanted to leave for good. I did not want that, nor did my husband.

Do I not make it sound as if Yettan is always hovering near me? After he returned home, disgraced and alone, he occupied two rooms on the first floor. Amma, Appa and I continued as usual downstairs. The old ones were happy to have his company. Even when he was away working, he visited every two months, took them to the village and to the hospital for check-ups. Their two daughters have been here only for Onam or some occasion like that. The Uncle next door and Appa talk on the phone at times. They do not really need the phone. Both are hard of hearing and the whole neighbourhood gets to hear what they say. It is fun when they talk politics. Amma here and Aunty next door try to hush them up, scared that the local goons will hear their views and pay a visit. “Let them come, those parasites,” the old men cackle. They are more serious when they talk about their kids. “Don’t worry, they will come when you are dead, if they haven’t grabbed all that’s theirs, they will come.” Appa kept quiet when Uncle said that.

I think Yettan is just a guest. The house will go to one of the two daughters. Once in a while, when Yettan is in a bad mood, he pokes at Amma and Appa about their two beloved kids. He never says three kids. He might be a guest but he did not want me to clean his bedroom or study room. I saw him only when he came down for meals. Or when he cooked chicken. I can cook better but it is fun when he tries these new recipes. That is the only time I have seen him smile. He was not like that before. I remember when he was young, when he used to visit our village. “The young man with a sweet smile always,” everyone said. He used to be religious then. Now, he does not even pray before the lit lamp downstairs. I think he is still very religious within.

She arrived about a month after lockdown started. Two days before she came, Yettan had a yelling session with his parents. “Don’t you dare say anything to her. And tell your two kids to stay away from her.” Amma and Appa looked scared and uncomfortable. They kept their heads down. Amma cried in the storeroom.

Even though I had expected it, I remember the news when Yettan retired, it was quite a shock to see her in that outfit. It took a while for us to notice her big expressive eyes, so like Yettan’s. I knew that look in her eyes. She was scared. Really scared. Of course, I would know that look. Poor thing, I thought. Still, she did not have to wear that here? I didn’t say anything. I wanted to. But Amma silenced me with a look.

How old is she now? She was two years old when all that happened. Thirteen years have gone by, I think. She must be in high school. At home, she wears normal stuff. Yettan gave his bedroom to her. Set up a study table there for her. He asked me if I could clean her bedroom too. Of course, I said. I helped them set up a prayer corner. She placed her mother’s photo there. Amma told me that the kid’s mother and step-father were among the first casualties of the Covid. The kid prayed quite frequently. First few days, we saw her only during meal time.

Appa smiled at her. It was a fake smile. He is like that. He just cannot lie. When Yettan was not around, he poked at the kid. “Don’t you have to wear that when you eat? How can you raise the veil when you eat?” Amma pinched him and made him stop. They glared at each other. They acted as if nothing had happened when Yettan turned up. The kid did not tell Yettan about all that. He would have given Appa hell then.

Yettan slept in his study room. The first week, he stayed in that room a lot. She stayed in her bedroom. There was a lot of silence in the house.

It was Appa who changed first. He is like that too. Quick to show his emotions, quick to change his affection. He told the kid stories of his childhood. How they struggled during the war, how he lost a year of school because there was no money. I knew those stories by heart. He narrates it over and over when I clean the house. Amma took her time. But then, she is like that. Even with Yettan, who she loves dearly, I wonder if she has hugged him even once. He has not either, I am sure. Like mother like son. But he has got Appa’s temper. Not quick though. But when he loses control, he is worse than Appa. Is that not why he lost all?

Ten days after her arrival, Yettan made new rules for her. A schedule. She did not like it. Those scared eyes turned angry. Like father like daughter, I thought. Yettan did not give her a choice. “I am not a baby for you to order me around,” she shouted at him. Downstairs, I heard that and smiled. Appa too. It was exactly like how Yettan shouted at his parents. Amma glared at us. Appa continued to smile. He nearly laughed.

Every day, they get up at half past five. That is when I wake up. They exercise on the back balcony. I do not know what they do there but I can hear them. “I can’t do more,” she would complain. Silence from him. A little later, “Raise your leg higher. Kick properly.” I took mental notes when he told her where to attack a guy. “If anyone touches you or irritates you in any way, you tell me.” Silence from her.

They have breakfast after bath. Then, for one hour, she has to be with Amma. “Wash or wipe dishes, help around.” Amma and I wanted to tell him that she is not needed but we keep quiet. Then, she studies. That was even before school started. After lunch, again, she has to help. Then, she is free till teatime. After every meal, she has to help us like Yettan even though both were just making it tougher for me. She helps Yettan and me sweep and clean the courtyard and back area. She can pray when she wants. The schedule includes that. From six to dinner time, he sits with her and both of them go through textbooks. I sit on the stairs listening to them. He is so different when he is teaching. Soft, involved. The kid responds accordingly. She sounds excited, curious, happy. I wish someone would talk to me like that.

There was some problem when schools started online classes. That too came in the paper. Saroja, the helper next door, told me that something had gone viral socially. Not Covid. She gives me such news. She is very good with her clever phone.

Yettan got her admission in his old school. They wanted her to wear uniform, and not her outfit, during online classes. Yettan argued she should be allowed to wear her veil.

Amma and Appa were very tense then. “I knew he would do something to her,” Appa mumbled. Amma silenced him quickly when she saw I was around.

It came in the papers. The government and some politicians got involved. Saroja whispered from the other side of the wall that the fight was really vicious online. She said that the kid and Yettan were being roasted alive. Even those who used to support him were attacking him.

The kid was really scared. When the fight turned ugly, she asked Yettan, “Should I change my ways?” He did not reply. She repeated her question. He replied then, “Continue as you are till you are an adult. Then, you better think.”

The fire died down unexpectedly. Saroja was really excited. She told me Yettan turned up online. Saroja told me he killed all with one tweet. “What’s that?” I asked. Saroja ignored my question and reported the tweet, “Ask your bosses if you want skeletons to come out of the closet. If my daughter, or anyone close to me, even catches a cold…” After that, nothing. Not even a poke from any side.

The school did not like the publicity, I think. Some politician called him a betrayer and that he had had more guts when he stood with their party against such stuff. Yettan was not with any party at any time, I am sure. He had bashed up the guy really good, I know. Who would not bash up a guy who takes your wife? That too like that! Yettan did not touch his ex-wife but she made it sound as if he had hit her too. Someone senior in the government helped Yettan avoid jail. She got married to that guy, converted to their ways, brought up the kid their way. Yettan lost a wife, a kid and his job. I remember the talk in our village. We were so angry with that lot in our village even though they were not at all involved. Even they were angry but they must have understood what Yettan had to do.

After online classes started, it was back to the schedule. Followed it religiously. Poor kid. He was very harsh with her at times. She had this habit of leaving her used clothes carelessly. “Pick it up. Can’t you leave it in the laundry basket? And, wash your own underwear.” He scolded her in front of me another time. “Don’t call her by name. Do you call your teachers by name.” That time, the kid replied. “Mamma used to do all that.” And, he said, “Yes, I know.” She did not give up, “You want to erase everything of Mamma.” He stared at her for a while before replying, “Only her irritating ways.” The kid had the good sense not to retort.

Last week, there was a scare. The kid told Yettan that the teachers and the school Principal want to talk to him. “What have you done?” Even Amma and Appa were very anxious. He continued, “Ask my parents. Not once did my teachers want to talk to them.” What could the poor kid do?

He took the video call in the dining room. I was in the kitchen. Amma, Appa and the kid were in the living room.

“What’s the problem now? What has she done?” Yettan started without even a polite greeting. I heard laughter from the other side. Amma later told me what they said. The kid has topped her class. At first, her teachers thought she was cheating in the online exams. They tested her individually. They realized she was not cheating. In fact, she is a class or two ahead of others, they said. They asked her if she got coaching from elsewhere. She mentioned her father.

“They wanted Yettan to help the other kids too,” Amma told me the rest too. “I just sit with her,” Yettan told the teachers. “I’m not suitable for the other kids.” They understood.

Amma added, “He has got his smile back.”

 

Shokie in my village

 

#vss365

I met Insp. Shokie in my village. In her first week, we had the Raju-Saju killings. They killed their father in the river and, hanged mother at home. Shokie had little to do. 

The whole village knows the who, when, why and where of this heady rush of #traffic in bodies.

During our annual festival, when we allow murders with a mystery, she had her first real case: a tourist's kid in a well.

But then, that's the only type we allow gods to kill. So, the murderer had to be a tourist.

Shokie got to the killer before us. The kid's father. Tourists!

theme-based reunion

 

Went for a school reunion yesterday. This year, the theme was murder. 

(For our first reunion, many years back, it was love; that's when most of us had the seven-year itch.)

The organizer (a guy we wouldn't even remember if he wasn't the organizer) suggested that it could be a random victim. 

That didn't tickle the twist in our tail. 

We decided that the organizer should get the axe.

So, there we were. Each one with a bottle of the same poison. But, with no motive, it seemed like an #adventure with no purpose.

That's when we found the most popular guy in our batch dead. Killed with the same poison. 

No dearth of motive there. 

What a delightful reunion!

#fiction ?

not #vss365 !

G-string killer

 

(diary entry) 

Day 1. Honeymoon. High on #anticipation. 

Murders!

11:00: Receptionist. 

16:00: Lady at spa. 

22:00: Blackjack dealer.

They had such sweet smiles for me. 

All 3 garroted. Clueless about G-string killer. 

23:55: Wife plays guitar. After we made love. 

#vss365

happy ending

 

"Security rushed the Minister to the safe room after the blast. He was fine till he got to that #place."

"Get details of that lot."

"Why would they kill him, Insp. Shokie?"

"Who wants him alive? Maybe, he was human after all and took his own life for all that he did."

#vss365

Tell Me...

 

 

TELL ME…

(Part 4. The End. Or. The Beginning.)

 

“Why do you want to know about…that…now?”

“Why not now?”

“It’s not something parents tell their kids. All I got to know was that my parents did not meet before their wedding and, on their wedding night, my mother slept on the floor and my father on the bed.”

“That was then.”

“It feels like a death-bed talk. And, I’m not ready for that.”

“Don’t joke!”

“Don’t you have to attend German, or is it French, classes?”

“I will. After this.”

“But…”

“Look, the entrance exams are over. In a month or two, I will go to some college. We will be seeing a lot less of each other. Now might be our last chance for this talk.”

“You don’t have to make it so morbid.”

“Appa!”

“I still don’t…”

“Yeah, you won’t. I am the one who had a loving mother till the age of three. And I can’t remember any of that. There aren’t even any photos. Then, she died. And I have had only you since then.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. What the…yes, I am complaining. I need more!”

“It’s in my stories.”

“I know the fictitious part.”

“Not all of it.”

“I know that too.”

“Ok, what do you want to know?”

“Everything, the ugly stuff too.”

“A father can’t tell his daughter the beautiful parts.”

“I will fill in those parts from your stories.”

“This won’t end well.”

“Your stories never do.”

“Where should I start?”

“How you two fell in love…”

“If ours had been love at first sight, I could have finished this off before you can say cuckoo.”

“It wasn’t? In all your stories…”  

“For two years, or was it three, we remained strangers who did not even bother to be acquaintances. I used to admire her walk. Even when we were put in the same office, we did not talk to each other for months. It might not be right to generalize but that might be true for a lot of relationships that develop into something more substantial. A few might find their one in an instant. For others, circumstances have to fit. It might be a pointless exercise to analyse tropes about falling in love. But one has to wonder if love at first sight or enemy to friend to love seems a bit too convenient.”

“Don’t go into literary criticism.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Were you…did you have someone else then?”

“I was too poor even to have friends.”

“Nice excuse. Weren’t you poor even when you got to know her?”

“You don’t have to be Sherlock spotting the faults.”

“You don’t have to dodge inconvenient stuff.”

“Not inconvenient…just embarrassing.”

“Go on.”

“There were a few I liked. But, without scope.”

“Without scope?”

“No future.”

“Problems with them?”

“Not really. Lovely girls. They were great friends. With one, I would have had to migrate. With another, I would have had to…”

“You are lying.”

“No, I swear. They were lovely girls with some inconvenience or other.”

“That might be true.”

“And, they were not interested.”

“But…you are lying about your indifference towards them.”

“Indifference? Never that. Disinterest, maybe.”

“Out with it.”

“As I said before, there are stuff a father can’t discuss with his daughter.”

“There was no sex between you and those girls.”

“Saraswathi!”

“Don’t try the prude act with me, Mr. Father.”

“I should have disowned you long back.”

“Sometimes, I feel like a fatherless child…”

“That’s my story, definitely not yours.”

“That story I know. Stick to this one. So, am I right?”

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“In all your stories, you…”

“Me?”

“The guy who is you…it’s either Jekyll or Hyde in a sexual way. Highly oversexed or pathetically impotent.”

“So?”

“By that stage of your life, you must have realized that reality about yourself.”

“What reality?”

“You won’t give too much of your time to a lady who does not interest you sexually.” 

“You make me sound like a pervert.”

“Don’t worry, I too am like that.”

“Girl, have you done something I should know about?”

“No, Appa. I have your other problem too.”

“My other problem?”

“Oversexed you might be but you don’t believe in casual sex.”

“Oh, I do! It’s the other party’s fault.”

“Yeah, yeah…don’t digress.”

“You did.”

“I know. It was a note to myself. So, you were a moping loner. How about her?”

“When I got to know her…of her…when I joined that Institute, she had a boyfriend. Then, a year or two later, she got married.”

“To that boyfriend?”

“No, to another…arranged.”

“Why?”

“The boyfriend wasn’t ready, I guess. Idiot!”

“So, she was married when you…? It’s in one of your stories.”

“In that, she is married and I have a partner.”

“A double cheat for literary effect.”

“We were not cheating.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really. She wanted to get out of the terrible marriage.”

“It’s cheating if you have sex with another even if one’s marriage is at that stage.”

“We did not have sex then. You were not born then.”

“I don’t buy that platonic crap.”

“It wasn’t platonic.”

“Now, you are confusing.”

“We expressed our interest. We did not act on it then. That’s all.”

“When was this?”

“Late nineties.”

“Ah, the Clinton years! Now I get it.”

“Don’t be crude.”

“It’s not crude. You hiding stuff is just pathetic.”

“I’m not hiding. It’s just difficult. Come on, give me a break, will you?”

“Ok. Did you fall in love with her during the crying scene?”

“What crying scene?”

“The one you keep repeating in your stories. You finding her crying in office and you like an idiot telling her that others might misconstrue the situation.”

“That was just funny me trying to be funny.”

“Did she actually smile when you said that?”

“She laughed. She was a sweet lady. Not at all like her daughter.”

“So, was it then you fell in love?”

“Hey Torquemada, don’t rush things.”

“Then, when?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Even on her birthday, when I gave her a gift and a poem for the first time, I am not sure we were in love with each other. We were close.”

“Close?”

“Yes, very close. I knew all about her troubles. We talked about everything. Sex and all. We could have been just best friends even then. To tell you the truth, I just don’t remember.”

“You are lying.”

“No, my kid, I am not. The timeline is a bit fuzzy. Someone must have made us realize that we should talk to each other when we occupied the same office, when it was just us in that room mostly. I was just her friend for some time, a long time. Gradually, I became the best friend or confidante trying to make her marriage work. Then, I stopped playing devil’s advocate and became the best friend forever who took her problems very seriously. We became lovers…without the…”

“Just two people together due to circumstances and need…no fireworks?”

“Well…”

“See…you are hiding…”

“We did not hide our lust for each other. That’s all I can say about that.”

“Ok, I will fill in those blanks with stuff from your stories. The groping in public places, the stuff in private…”

“Don’t make it too risqué.”

“Wasn’t it? Bet there were many blue-ball moments.”

“Girl!”

“Don’t girl me. When you can’t be open. Fine, what happened then?”

“She divorced, we lived together, you happened, she died. End of story.”

“Oh no, you don’t get to finish it off that easily.”

“That’s all there was to it. Not really short story stuff with an interesting denouement.”

“I happened.”

“I agree that’s a passable climax.”

“I want more than that summary.”

“I would give you more if I could remember the details…wait…”

“What?”

“So, that’s why you want to know now?”

“Why?”

“You think I am forgetting it all. That I’m losing it.”

“It’s a risk for anyone. Even me.”

“Have I forgotten other stuff…other important stuff?”

“I don’t know, Appa. You are increasingly…”

“Forgetful?”

“By choice. That’s my problem.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah!”

“It’s just how it is. Even back then, I wasn’t good with dates. The day we kissed, the day she left. Even then, the events got mixed up in my head. It could be because of my writing. I mix-n-match the past for a better plot.”

“Is it just that?”

“I don’t know. Freud or Jung might say there’s something else at play. Guilt. Or whatever.”

“Guilt?”

“Imagine her situation. She was under a lot of stress when I entered her life.”

“Every girl’s life.”

“Could be.”

“Why should you feel guilty about that? You were there for her.”

“Hmmm. I was.”

“Come on, Appa.”

“We were…I was passionate. Yeah, I could be that. Don’t look so surprised. At times, we were just happy to hold each other. To sleep together. It’s the other stuff. I didn’t force anything on her. But can anyone under such stress be capable of giving consent with proper thought?”

“That way, no consent is legit.”

“But…”

“Don’t think too much about that. I’m sure she wanted to be with you, do whatever you two did.”

“Thanks.”

“But…something else happened. Something you are not telling me.”

“Nothing, really.”

“Why didn’t you two get married?”

“She had a job. I didn’t. Still doing the postdoctoral circuit. Marriage did not seem important.”

“Why was she erased after her death?”

“She was not erased. Never will be. I had to focus on you. With any reminder of her, I would have faltered.”

“In all your stories, she is the dead one who is never dead.”

“Yes, she will be that way. Always.”

“Is she dead?”

“Of course. What a question!”

“You are lying.”

“I am not…”

“Think twice before lying.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?”

“I don’t know. I just know you are lying.”

“I…”

“Appa!”

“Fu…”

“We don’t use such words in this house.”

“That’s my line, lady.”

“Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Why do you have to be like me in such situations and not like her?”

“Don’t even try evading.”

“Oh God…”

“That bad?”

“I think this is the end of a beautiful friendship.”

“Please…no Casablanca…now…”

“She is not dead.”

“What?”

“She is not dead.”

 

“You are joking, right?”

“Huh?”

“Appa…”

“She left us when you were three.”

“Left…?”

“Went abroad.”

“Didn’t she like having me?”

“Don’t ever think that.”

“Then, what?”

“She loved you a lot. She loved me too. But…that does not make up one’s life, does it? You have seen me when I can’t write.”

“You are miserable then.”

“Yes, my dear Saraswathi. She was good at her job. Very good. She had lots to do in that field. She would have been wasted out here.”

“You could have gone with her.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Not even for me?”

“Not even for you.”

“You were both selfish. Why didn’t she take me?”

“Then, I would have had to go with her.”

“So, stay here with you and me and screw her career. Or, take me and drag you along against your wish. Or, leave me with you and chase a career.”

“Sums it up.”

“And you still love her?”

“Not in the old way. Anyway, now, it’s all water under the bridge. She is still the best woman I knew…”

“Best, my foot! Left a kid for a career?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Saraswathi.”

“Me idiot? Left motherless and I am the idiot?”

“Idiot for spouting nonsense.”

“Really?”

“Family, parenting, dreams…life is complicated. Don’t apply rules.”

“But there should be.”

“Yes, we followed one rule. You were and are our top priority. She knew I would be there for you. And I knew she would be there for you if I could not be there. But…”

“But?”

“But we have our lives too. We accepted the best compromise. For you. You may not agree. Now.”

“Will she accept me now?”

“Ah!”

“Ah what?”

“She has…a family.”

“Wow, she’s only getting better.”

“What did you expect? Yes, she went there. Yes, she is a wonderful lady. Yes, she was lucky to meet the right guy there. Yes, she has kids with him. Yes, if you go to her now, she will love you and fit you in.”

“Without you.”

“I will be here for you.”

“Why didn’t she want to be a part of my life after going abroad?”

“She wanted to. I didn’t think it was a good idea. I wanted you to have a steady life. I knew we would have our separate lives. She with some new man, new family. Me with someone.”

“But, you never…”

“My problem.”

“Didn’t find the right girl for Hyde?”

“Jekyll probably decides everything now.” 

“Not because of me?”

“Never.”

“Liar.”

“Any other lies you need to know?”

“This will do for now.”

“Good.”

“Old man, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“Bah! Casablanca sounds better from me.”

“Bah!”

 

Part 3: https://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2022/06/tell-me-part-3.html

Part 2: https://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2022/05/tell-mepart-2.html

Part 1: https://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2022/05/tell-me-part-1.html