witness

 

"She was only a witness to the victim's will. What motive could she have to kill?" SI Anu asked.

"Random suspicion is the #flip side of methodic investigation," Insp. Shokie said.

"Really?"

"No. But, a good crime story. What if she kills bcos her only motive is to kill?"

#vss365

two-coffee problem

 

"Met on social media, love at first post. Gives me precious gifts. Won't take, not even sex. Too good. How will the fraud happen?"

"This is, I think, a two-coffee problem," Insp. Shokie said. 

"With a #dollop of cream?" SI Anu asked.

"With cyanide, lovers are involved." 

#vss365

Toxic

 

"Why didn't the dog #bark?" Insp. Shokie asked. On the 30th floor of the investment bank, the CEO was dead. 'Toxic subprime' printed with red lipstick near his scrotum. "Bring in the CFO, the one with lipstick on his collar." 

"What dog?" SI Anu asked.

"A red herring."

#vss365

miasma

 

The miasma of #sweat loaded with garlic pointed at one suspect: the murder victim's husband.

"He has the means, opportunity, motive, which spouse doesn't?" Insp. Shokie paused, "As for the kids..."

"We've to break him."

"Yes, with the aphrodisiac."

"Garlic?"

"Love."

#vss365

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Ch. 2

Insp. Shokie wasn't the type with a #barrage of questions. She didn't meet me that day. Her dark eyes stayed, though. 

A gnarled hand called guilt reached for my throat.

"Some hand killed him," the Mgr. told me. "No weapon. No struggle. Just a severed jugular."

#vss365

Chapter 1

 

Ch. 1

Reported it to a Sr. Mgr. He phoned the police. We waited on my balcony. 

6:30 AM. Body still there, not fiction.

Rehearsed my alibi: bus, stop at #market...who saw me?

Should I tell the police I knew the dead one? It's possible his wallet has my photo in it.

#vss365

Preface

 

Preface 

I checked in before dawn. After the bellboy left, I stepped out onto the balcony and took a photo. 

5:54 AM. The last moment of peace.

I felt his eyes on me before I saw him. 

My #enemy sitting in a chair on the balcony next to mine, his dead eyes staring.

#vss365

The Best of Our Days

 

 

I turned around in my seat to face the noisy kids. “Could you please shut up?”

It was a lousy movie. It was worse after that.

When lights came on during interval, I thought of apologizing to them. I stood up. They had also stood up. They scowled at me. I noticed they had come with an old couple.

I followed the kids to the snack counter. The brother must be twenty or so, his sister at least half a dozen years younger. He kept an arm around her shoulder as they approached the unruly crowd at the snack counter.

I whispered in the boy’s ear, “Follow me, keep your sister in between, protect her from behind.”

I made way through the crowd. My grumpy nature helped. The kids followed. I heard her ask him, “What did the creep say to you?”

After the movie, I had more reason to have a foul mood. A car was parked in such a way that I could not get mine out. I shouted at the parking attendant. Not that that helped. After fifteen minutes, a lady my age or so came to the car, along with those two kids and the old couple.

“I should have known,” I muttered.

The girl told the lady, “That’s him.”

The lady looked at me. I could see where the kids got their scowl from. I returned my best.

“Shake,” the lady said, the scowl turning into a familiar smile.

That took me by surprise. Some call me Shakes, the fashionably abbreviated form of Shekhar, but only one had ever called me Shake.

“Indu,” I said.

“How are you?” she said.

“Staying alive. You?”

“Same.”

The parking attendant interrupted. “Now, you don’t want to go.”

We ignored him. She introduced her parents.

“You used to drop her off after tuition,” her mother said. I nodded.

Her father asked me what I did. I replied, “Nothing.” He frowned.

The parking attendant muttered something we didn’t hear.

“Better go before I bash him up,” I said.

She smiled.

“Can I have your number?” I asked.

She hesitated. Then, she took out her smartphone and said, “Tell me.”

I told her my number. She dialled. I took out my mobile and looked at her number.

The girl gave a loud hoot. “Look at his phone. What’s that?”

The girl’s mother smothered a laugh, “Shake, really? You still have one of those Nokia thingies?”

I turned to the girl. “Young lady, this has an alarm clock. And, Pinarayi and Shah can’t track me like they track you all.”

That got a loud snort.

They went to their car. I heard the girl ask her mother, “Why did he call you Indu?”

A few days later, I got a SMS from Indu. “Lost my number?”

I called her back.

“You could have replied with a message,” she said.

“My fingers don’t poke where fingers aren’t supposed to poke,” I said.

There was silence from her end.

“I don’t message,” I clarified.

“Definitely not on that thingy,” she said.

We did not talk for long. I told her that I do not do phone calls either. I asked her if she could e-mail. She asked for my email id and immediately sent a Hello. I told her to wait till I logged into my account on the laptop.

“Is your laptop running XP?” she asked.

“Very funny,” I said.

I replied to her email with a Hi.

Before ending the call, I laid down some ground rules. Do not twist anything I write into double entendre or something like that. Any confusion, clarify. She too made her rules clear. Do not think I am hitting on you. Ever. Replies will not be prompt or regular, she added.

Our email exchange turned out to be a regular affair. At least two or three from each side every day.

“We should have kept in touch via letters back then,” I wrote in one.

“We should have at least remained on talking terms,” she replied.

In our final year, we went to the same Physics tuition teacher thrice a week after school. The teacher’s house was close to our school. We took the 15:45 city bus; tuition class was for an hour from four; we walked to a main bus stop two kilometres from there, after having a snack at a small shop; I got off at her stop and walked with her to her house; and, I used to be back home around six.

Her family was conservative and orthodox, so was mine and every other family I knew in my city-town. One mate told me she was Pentecost and did not take medicine even when she was sick. Another told me she was evangelical and sang prayers instead of eating. At home, my folks thought I was turning out to be a fanatic. Later I learned that my school mates thought that too. It did not help that I gave a semi-religious speech for a competition in the final school year. I do not remember the details. It had a lot to do with Hindu pride and nationalistic fervour. I like to think now that I did not really know what I was saying then. I do remember that the speech was met with an uneasy silence from the audience. Younger kids who used to hero worship me maintained a distance from then on.

We used to talk, I am not sure about what, during that walk from the tuition teacher’s house to the bus stop. After that speech, that stopped. After I/she poked at her/my faith.

That is her name, Faith. But I called her Indu. She called me Shake. In the best of our days, we wanted something for ourselves.

Our email exchange revolved around our lives. We did not ask too many questions. We spoke, or rather wrote, our mind. We knew most of the details, life in small places tend to be so. We were divorced. I knew she had had an affair, after her divorce, with one of our old school mates. That idiot bragged about it in a social media group. She exited all social media groups then. I was not on any social media, and hardly in contact with anyone, but got to know all the lurid details. She knew about how my marriage went to the rocks. Those details were well-circulated. She did not know that my affair was with a married woman. I gave her details in an email.

In one email, she wrote, “For the first time, I feel that there’s someone ready to accept my version.”

“Same here,” I replied.

Given our worldviews, experiences and cynicism, we did not add that we might actually be taking in a different version. After all, we had stressed that it was all about feeling that way.

She irritated me when she wrote, “Did you hit her and use all her money?”

I replied with silence.

“Did I irritate you? I am in that kind of mood,” she wrote with a zany look emoji.

I did not tell her what I had typed and then deleted. “Did you sleep with him to ensnare him?” I guess she would not have taken it as a rhetorical question.

Slowly, gingerly, we wrote about all the other stuff people were saying about us.

“Catharsis sucks!” she concluded.

“I’ve got only her to do that,” I wrote.

“Convince me how that isn’t a double entendre.”

“That was the truth.”

In another email, she asked me if I liked kids. I replied with a very quick negative. We did not talk about her kids. Or about our family.

She read my stories. I read her poetry. We did not offer feedback. We gave encouragement. Just two amateurs wanting to be amateurs.

We became comfortable enough with each other to talk about sex.

“He turned out to be only as good, or as bad, as my husband,” she wrote.

“It is usually so,” I replied, trying to sound confident.

“Are you impotent as your wife claimed?” she asked.

“Only with the wrong woman at the wrong place at the wrong time,” I replied.

“So, always?” she wrote.

“Grrr…”

Faith was touched upon a lot later. We jointly came to the conclusion that the biggest plus point about being a social discard is to lose faith in the collective stuff. She did ask if I still gave horrid speeches. To four walls, all the time, I told her.

We probed about the individual. That seemed benign, definitely not malignant. We pushed boundaries. We kept them intact, though.

“Let’s have coffee,” she wrote.

“Outside,” I insisted.

“Definitely. But you might meet my kids.”

“That’s ok. Just make sure they don’t poison my coffee.”

“My son won’t.”

She came in an auto. She told me her kids would pick her up.

Quite formally, we congratulated and thanked each other for what we had shared so far.

“If we were in your story, how would it end?” she asked between sips.

“Probably, in love.” I thought for a while. “But how?”

“Medical emergency and we are there for each other and find deep love,” she suggested.

“Your daughter needs my help and I prove to be an able guardian. God forbid,” I said. She laughed.

She and I listed out the cliché scenes, from the tragicomic to even murder.

I wrote down all the points in my pocketbook.

Her kids turned up.

The boy gave a small smile. The girl had perfected an ugly scowl. When I went to get the kids ice-cream, the girl took the pocketbook I had left on the table and read the points. I did not object about her intrusion when I returned with their ice-cream.

“Why haven’t you mentioned the situation in ‘The Lady with the Dog’?” the girl asked.

“Aren’t you too young to read that Chekhov story?” I asked.

She gave her famous snort.

And, as explanation, she said, “I read.”

“But…” I was interrupted.

“She writes too,” her brother said.

“Oh…”

“Her second novel will be out next month,” he said.

“Her novel…?”

“She has more than thirty thousand followers,” he continued.

“You are joking…no?” I spluttered. “Indu, you could have told me that your kid could help me sell my stories.”

“Do you think she will?” Indu said.

I smiled sweetly at her daughter. No scowl on that poker face.

“I have read some of your stories,” the girl said.

“You have?”

“Too much of you.”

“Too much, indeed.”

“You don’t have to repeat.”

“I don’t.”

“Brrr…have you published any?” the expert asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Not good enough…”

The round eyes compressed to slits.

“Not my philosophy,” I said.

“Philosophy isn’t philosophy if kept to oneself,” the girl said.

“She should be locked up,” I complained to her mother.

When we were about to leave, I took out a birthday card from my backpack and gave it to the girl.

“My birthday is not anytime now,” she objected.

“Kids your age should have a birthday every month,” I said.

Indu looked at me. I had said those words to her long back along with the monthly gift of a birthday card.

“Let’s have a party soon,” I said.

“It’s Ma’s birthday next week,” the boy said.

“I will make the cake,” the girl said.

“You cook too?” I asked. Without waiting for the snort, I continued, “Ok, I will bring the enji-mittayi.”

“What’s that?” the kids asked.

“Local delicacy, ginger sweet, what all kids miss nowadays,” I said. “Your mother used to finish off all my money on that.”

“Yeah, right, 50 paisa for ten,” Indu said. “Where are you going to get that these days?”

“I have learned to make that, everything is on the Net,” I said.

It was time to leave. The ladies went to their car. The boy held me back.

“Promise you won’t hurt my mother,” he said.

“I can’t promise that,” I replied without hesitation.

 

 

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The Shokie crime fiction collection (2010 - May 2021)

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 Since January 1, 2020... 

I have been posting on the other page 'New Nonentities' (https://newnonentities.blogspot.com/).

Don't ask me why.

😀

Never Together Ever Again

We were glad when our son got admission to our daughter's college. The kids moaned and protested about having each other "breathing down the neck again". The senior promised to let loose her batchmates on the fresher. Boys or girls, his only doubt.

When we dropped them off at the college, we stayed in that town for three days. The last night, the four of us had dinner at the Chinese restaurant near the college gate. We tried to be cheerful and tried harder not to cry.

I was the first to cry. "Dragon Chicken always makes me cry," I said.

She nodded with tear-filled eyes.

The kids did not seem embarrassed. I expected some remark from my son. At least, "Bet your parents were tougher." Instead, he kept his head down and chased a button mushroom on his plate with a fork. His sister did not have to kick him.

We did not take the bus from the gate to the hostel complex. It was a long, silent walk. She held her son's hand. My daughter slipped her arm through mine.

"Do you have to go tonight?" my daughter asked. Tough guy couldn't ask that, of course.

Farewell was a quick affair. Quick packing, quick hugs. Silly jokes, nervous laughter.

I think both of us noticed that the kids had the same expression when we got into the taxi and waved goodbye. They had the look that says we will never be together ever again.

En route to the airport, we did not talk. I rubbed my left upper arm, took deep breaths, stared blankly at the road. Next to me, she too must have done something like that.

Every kid has such moments. I had mine when my parents were in their eighties. Not when they were around fifty, like us.

But then, it was not the first time for our kids.

About five years back, they went out of town for a week for some cultural or sports competition. They seemed out of sorts before they left with their school team.

"Will you be here when we come back?" my daughter asked.

"Of course, idiot," I laughed.

"Both of you?" my son probed.

We were shocked. But, we made it seem like a good joke.

Two years back, just before our daughter left for college, we had gone on a short trip to Trichy. We stayed in adjacent rooms in the best hotel in town, with very thin walls. The TV in the kids' room was on till midnight. After that was switched off, we could hear them talk. We were still awake around one.

"He should have a heart attack or something really critical," my son said.

"Shut up," his sister growled.

"Every book and film suggests that," he continued.

"That's fiction," she said.

"Are you saying that even that won't make them love each other?"

She did not reply.

"Stay together?" he pleaded.

"Without us, not even that," she sounded very sure.

I do not know how they reached that conclusion.

If we were shocked then, or earlier, it was because we thought we had managed to deceive them too. Everyone, even our parents and siblings and close friends, thinks we are the ideal couple.

We are good at that. Like the best actors, we never draw attention to ourselves. The roles and the play are more important. It helps that we can be natural with our kids. With each other, to the outside world, we let small touches and brief glances do the trick.

Long back, when the kids were little, we were in Bangalore walking on M.G. Road. I remember the way people looked at us. Maybe, I had slipped an arm around her waist or we had leaned towards each other to share something or she had held my hand. We were one helluva couple. That's what their looks said. That was much before these social media days. Now, at least online, every couple appears so.

We engaged in explicit PDA only once. We were in a movie-hall. We had left the kids with our parents. A much-younger couple in the row before ours were kissing. Some men protested about that. "Ee vrithikkedu evide paadilla (This filthy behaviour isn't allowed here)," they snarled menacingly. Lots of people shook their heads, in agreement or otherwise. I do not know what came over me. "Malayalathil ethiney vrithikkedu yennano parayunnathu (Do you call this filthy behaviour in Malayalam)?" I asked the men politely. "Englishil snogging yennu parayum (In English, it is called snogging)." Then, I turned to her and kissed her, she returned it long and deep. A few couples joined us in that counter-protest. The men left the hall. That turned out to be the best part of that movie-show.

We do not know how the kids figured it out. Inevitable, I guess, given close proximity. They are smart too.

They have never talked to us about these doubts, or conclusions. (Even we have never talked about it.) I don't think it has anything to do with respecting our privacy or whatever. It must have seemed a pointless exercise.

"Do you love each other?" the kids could ask.
"Define love," we will reply.
"Without us, will you two remain together?" they will come to the point.
"Can't think of a life without you kids," we will evade like practiced politicians.
"Are you passionate about each other?"
"Passionate as in fiction?"
"Come on, you know what we mean."
"Come on, don't be schoolkids."

They could ask better questions.

"Do you consider each other as priority number one?" or "Do you race back home from work to be with each other?"

We will have good answers. If nothing works, we will say, "Get real."

Or will we say:

"We are too old to be romantic (Kids, romantic, not romance, ok? The latter's an easy act, the former is a philosophy.) and we are too young to love for senior citizen benefits."?

Maybe, the kids are right. Maybe, we need a lesson on mortality. We have had our ups and down, nothing drastic though. Not too sure a critical situation will change anything.

Will they ask, "Was it always like this? Surely, you two must have been different when you got married?"

"Can't remember."

We were like every other young couple. Curious, excited, ambitious, principled but with rational pragmatism (which love story admits that last one?).

In the early years, we even wasted time on dumb charades with the usual reasons for insecurity: "the other", suspicion, possessiveness. I think I used to tease her with some Zahroof. Or was it Matthew? She wasn't teasing, definitely not amused, whenever she poked me with Faru.

But, long before we had our daughter, we realized that that was just a smokescreen or diversion. Filling the void with something. Temporary relief. Before emptiness swallowed us whole.

With each passing year, was it disillusionment or plain realization? Just another blow to the chin. Face it, bear it, move on. One of many dreams to be left behind with our youth.

If we were bitter or angry or stifled or dissatisfied, it wasn't for long. Role-play, complacency, lethargy and resignation took over. Lethargy is the best of the lot.

We are still attractive. I think it's pointless to look elsewhere. If she won't do, no one else will do either. It's really not about her. I don't know if she too thinks so. I don't know if she has had other lovers. Or if she wants to. Unlikely. I might not notice. Her kids would. But then, those rascals might let her. They are our kids after all.

We are good parents. No doubt about that. Strangely, I might be a good husband too. I care for her. I worry about her. I might die for her. (But then, strangers die for us every day in some foolish tussle for god-knows-what.) We talk. Discuss. We gel well. But my thoughts end there.

What is missing? Imagination? Is that what love is all about?

Maybe, that's just simplifying matters.

We got home, or what should be home. The empty nest felt really empty.

We immersed ourselves in work and social functions and books and movies. Thank god there are these streaming channels for binge-watching. News help too. We hate the same people. We are alike in lots of ways. (Oh, we are different in lots of ways too. But, that's expected.) Maybe, that's one reason. We know each other a bit too well.

Days and weeks passed. We are experts in procrastinating about anything that has to do with just the two of us.

The kids call frequently. At times, they seem surprised. More often, just resigned. Lethargic to do anything different. Like us.

A few days back, she said, "How about a trip?"

Maybe, we are playacting as usual. After all, everyone 'happy' is busy travelling, 'experiencing new places together'.

Europe? Sri Lanka? Far East? Mauritius? South Africa? Machu Pichu? Kashmir? We laughed. We cursed. We laughed again.

We chose Kodaikanal. It is nearby. We had gone there for our honeymoon.

Why not say goodbye where we first said hello?

We checked in at the hotel by the lake. Was it the same old suite?

The food is good. Real-estate development has spoiled the place but we are not too disappointed. We walked around the lake the first day. Just one helluva couple.

She woke me up at 5:30 am the second night.

"What?" my hangover mumbled.

"I want to go for a jog," she said. Was she recreating our honeymoon?

"You crazy or what?" I remember asking her that then. Not this time though.

Then, on that early morning of our honeymoon, we got into a race instead of a jog. I chose a type of interval racing--sprinting and walking. She stuck to the pace of a mile-runner. We managed to cover five kilometers. She came first.

Twenty or so years later, we settled into a slow jog at first. I can walk fast but when it comes to jogging, I have a handicap.

After two hundred meters, she increased the pace. She used to be a long-distance runner. I was a sprinter.

Not again, I thought.

I accepted the challenge and sprinted ahead, saying "Bah" to her. I had to walk after four hundred meters. She caught up with me after six hundred meters, replied with her own "Bah!" I continued to walk. I let her increase the lead by two hundred meters. I sprinted again. She increased her pace. We collapsed around the mile mark.

I felt like vomiting. She too looked a bit green in the gills.

"Bloody old age," we cursed.

The hotel staff did not laugh at us when we got back. One helluva couple. Strays must have dragged in better stuff.

We collapsed on the bed. Took hot shower an hour later, separately. We were fine at breakfast. When we returned to our room, we collapsed on the bed again.

I raised one leg. Tried to stretch it. I told her to get up and lean against it, to push it towards my chest.

"Your tummy is in the way."

"Jokes will be very injurious to your health."

She helped with one, then the other leg.

I groaned. She too groaned.

"My bloody back," I said.

"I am going to the Spa for a massage," she said.

I don't know what got into me. I sat up.

"Let me."

She seemed unsure. Stared at me for a long while. Then she lay down on her tummy.

I started with her neck, ears, scalp. (I 'cracked' the cartilage of her ears. I learned that from a barber up north. She did not let me 'crack' her nose, or her neck.) Then shoulders, arms. I removed her blouse. I worked on her back. I rubbed, pounded, even kissed. I removed the bra. I moved lower. Removed her trousers. Worked each toe, calves, ankles, thighs. Removed her panties. Kneaded her bottoms.

It was time to say, "Turn over."

On our honeymoon, I asked her to turn over. When I massaged her front, facing her, me naked too by then, by her side or straddling her, something had happened.

If only I could remember it exactly. Should I ask her if she remembers what had happened that day? Or will she hold that against me? Does that matter? If it was good, why didn't we try it again the last twenty odd years? What happened then? Or did something happen even before I asked her to turn over? Was it something she or I imagined then? What is the point in remembering that? Did I imagine anything now? Did she?

When she turns over, will we stare blankly at each other?

Or, will we see a spark of imagination in our eyes?

Another Rotten Day

Yesterday turned out to be a rotten day.

(No, it was not because of the usual water supply problem. That has been resolved. The Water Authority and the Minister for Water Resources have decided that my family can be ignored. We belong to the insignificant minority. It is such a relief when a case is closed so amicably.)

I received summons from my kids' school.

I had to meet the Principal (message on mobile said, "...to deal with a delicate matter...").

My better half wondered, "Is he (son, not Principal) the delicate matter? Or is she (daughter)?"

I asked her to come along for moral support. She gave the usual mother-talk about the eternal bond between mothers and kids, "I carried them for nine months...that is, eighteen months, mind you...you promised to bear everything thereafter." I am sure I am not daft to make a promise like that. But has anyone won a battle against that nine-month-mother-talk?

I took my time outside the Principal's office. Reels of déjà vu rolled, flashback in black-n-white and technicolor too.

"Ah yes, come in..." the Principal said. Four words, four swings of the paddle.

My son was already in his office, assigned to a corner. He looked like one in quarantine silently protesting his incarceration.

"Ah good sir, thank you for coming," the Principal said.

"Ah," I replied. The Principal frowned. He clearly had the patent on Ah.

"Ah!" he reclaimed possession. "Do you know why I had to call you?"

"Nah," I tried. He frowned again.

"He has spoiled the delicate fabric of this social community," the Principal announced.

"He?"

The Principal's squint-eyed stare made it clear that I was not to interrupt his judgement or execution.

He reached for a sheet of paper.

"Read this, good sir. Ah. This is what your son chose for the school's elocution competition. Ah. This poem by some unknown good-for-nothing."

I read it.

"You might know your mother
But never be too sure 
About your father."

I didn't have to read the rest.

I looked at my son. He returned a blank-eyed stare. Finally, I could understand the last scene in "The Omen" where the much-tortured Gregory Peck tries to kill his son Damien.

"Ah sir, now..."

I must have gone pale or looked terribly daft (the better half says that I am terribly good at it). I remember waking up from that reverie with the Principal looking down on me.

"Ah good sir. I thought we lost you there. Don't let this affect you so. Let us forget this whole matter."

"Nah," I said.

"Ah sir, I have decided. Say no more." The Principal told my son to go back to class. He dismissed me too.

Thus, I did not have to tell him that I am the unknown good-for-nothing. My son must have discovered my 'pome' among the boxes of old stuff. He has inherited that from my better half. She has this knack for finding my carefully hidden personal diaries. I tried to cure her once. On our first wedding anniversary, I noted in my diary, "She is such a pain." She found it. I had to endure two years of marriage counselling. I was cured of every desire to cure her.

Back to the 'pome'. I was very young when I wrote it. I had just discovered Philip Larkin's "This Be The Verse" and Allen Ginsberg's "Howl". My 'pome' was supposed to be a clarion call against patriarchy, caste-system and every other social ill that allowed some creeps to seem like well-endowed creeps.

Outside the Principal's office, my son tugged at my sleeve. "Great act, old man."

I whacked his head.

A lady-teacher appeared there out of thin air right then, made a clucking sound with her tongue or wherever.

My son scooted from the scene. I too tried. She blocked my way.

"Ah sir."

"Nah, naht agaaain." I howled internally.

"You are just the man I have been looking for."

When a woman says that, you can be sure the horror is about to begin soon.

"Sir, I have to talk to you about your daughter."

"She too, Bruteh!" my innards groaned. Why is it that teachers inspire stream of consciousness?

"Have you and your Mrs noticed that she has been acting differently lately?"

"It is a congenital condition," my brain noted.

"She seems so lost, so uncared for. She was such a good student. She is still good. But she seems lost."

"She gets that from moi. I too feel lost," I muttered silently.

"I asked her if her parents help her with her studies and other activities. She told me no."

"She told us to stay away," I wanted to say.

"I asked her if her parents make her feel secure with a promise of foreign education after school. She told me that you told her to get in somewhere good and cheap or be a home nurse and take care of her old parents. Surely, you did not say that."

"My parents told me that. Why can't I?" I wanted to cry about my deprived childhood.

"It seems you don't encourage her in any way. You don't even mention on social media about her success in studies or extracurricular activities."

"She promised to kill us if we did that." How could I tell that to a teacher?

"Ah. Please, sir. I have seen too many good kids end up badly. Please change your ways."

"Oh." I managed to say finally.

Hush

Alone.
Silent.
Tired.

The sun has not set
But there's darkness
An oily shroud wraps us.

The rascals are laughing
They claim to have light
Aren't they burning?

Hush.
Hush.
Hush.

wonder

there are people

who can stare at beauty
wonder
about god

and then torture and kill

or support with silence

and have an excuse

who can still stare
if it is blood
on the ground.

Kadalil Thaazhvaaram

A cliff stands in between
My valley
And the sea above with a sinking sun.

Not a thing separates
My people
And the idiots, there's not a thinking one.

writer's block

Nothing changed. Not the times. Not the people. Not the place.

Awareness screwed up everything.

I didn't give a fuck who the PM was back then. Not too sure half the country cared either. That may not be true. There must have been the same proportion who cared for such stuff. After all, thousands or was it lakhs or millions were ready to massacre and kill even then...no, not just ready, they had killed and raped and buggered...for...exactly, that is the question...for god-fucking-what?

Now, why did I think of killing and raping and buggering when I wanted to tell a love story?

Yes, that is when I fell in love with her.

(To be continued...)

paradise lost

it's been two days
just two days
nothing
compared to eternity of left-right-boot-shot
i've been a prisoner
just a prisoner
nothing
compared to what's to come o what's to come
i've not heard
just not heard
nothing
compared to vacuum within without where are you

open relationship

He: I love you.

She: You talking to me?

He: Don't eavesdrop when I am talking on the phone.

She: Go to another room when you want to talk to your love. Not in the bedroom.

He: Geez...

She: I love you too.

He: Did you say something?

She: Shoo...

He: So, you can phone in our bedroom and I can't? Ok, ok, I am going.

She: Not to you, silly. He was hanging around.

daddy

"You should let them fly the coop," a family friend advised. I wanted to ask if I had restrained her in any way.

There were the bitter moments when I thought I should not have helped her in any way. I had written letters to the MEA with regard to the complications concerning her passport and sorted it out. I had written to everyone I knew who could help her settle out there.

It was the gentler moments that hurt me more; taking her shopping for bags and clothes; and, the quiet dinner later.

I saw daddies there, with my kind of look, helping daughters find the right bag or winter-wear; smiling, sliding into the shadows, holding back the tears, listening to the excited young lady across the table, the lady who was still his little girl.

It is nothing new, I consoled myself then. 

The fight the day before her flight was expected.

At 10 pm, at the airport, she waved and went inside the terminal. I walked back to the parking lot, alone. I knew then I had lost her.

Even she must have realized it when she whispered, "I love you, my darling husband."

rights

A democracy
With beggars for rights, left nought,
Is not that, never!

chance

Given second chance,
The same life I would have tried.
That's tragicomic.

halo

"Is that all," It asked,
"Too little faith, or too much?"
Its halo flickered.

ask

Lick me there, she said.
I licked, here and there. (O where?)
Ask! For right climax.

choke-hold

In between her legs,
It could have been erotic,
But for her choke-hold.

love with bad luck

She brought bad luck too.
Perfectly balanced the love.
Thus, fact not fiction.
 

past with no future

I love her a lot.
There's the past, no future though.
I loved her a lot. 

true crime

I love crime fiction.

Couple of weeks back, I read Michael Connelly's "The Late Show" which introduces a new "hero"--Renee Ballard. I didn't like her. Lately, even Connelly's tried-and-tested Bosch novels have been as comfortable as Malayalam movies with ageing superstars. Quite tragic and definitely a bore.

Yesterday, I started reading Ian Rankin's "Rather Be The Devil". My now-declared-former hero Rebus has quit smoking and seems to be having lung problems. His daughter has a kid and he seems to have an understanding partner. Geez! If Holmes and Watson had got into a same-sex marriage, I would have felt less sick.

This year has been bad for my fiction too. I have not written a story this year. That should be good news for my friends, much-tortured or not, if there are any.

One reason for that is that I have been involved in a true crime. It has left me tortured, sleepless and totally hopeless. And barely alive.

Recap 1: Since January 24, 2019, we have hardly got water. Well, to be exact, we got on 3 days (February 9-11). Then, we got a total of 600 liters on March 1 and 2. Today early morning, March 17, we got 85 liters in 1 hour.

We got plenty of lies though. We were told that the water shortage was because of power failure at the water treatment plant. Then, it was because of Attukal Pongala. Then, the trump card---global warming and water crisis. We believed all that, especially the last, even when we had anecdotal evidence of people in other areas having enough and more water to waste. Well, even our neighbours were wasting plenty.

Yesterday, we got to know the real reason. They diverted water from our line, which was already insufficiently supplied, to a new government Eye hospital. Who are the "they"? The government---Water Authority, politicians, Corporation, etc.

Instead of taking a new line from the Mains, they decided to save time and pennies by taking from a residential line where most would still get enough. Most, not all.

Recap 2: We have survived the last 2 months by begging for water from our Councilor. It feels like God's gift. We have written to the CM, the MP, the MLA and the Collector. The CM forwarded it to the MD of Water Authority. The MLA promised to get us water immediately. We communicated with Water Authority too. We thought we were heard when they installed one of two valves required for better distribution in this line. But even before the first valve was tried and tested, the Residents Association got the police to do a hit job in 3 days. That "valve-project" was left unfinished.

That was not the first time the Residents Association used the police to "hit" us. Not the first time it resulted in reducing our water supply. Not the first time it has worked to the advantage of its Committee members and preferred residents.

Who knows if the Water Authority ever intended to install the more important second valve? Who knows the current state of the first valve? Has it been opened totally? Or has it been kept partially closed so that the near and dear ones of the Residents Association get water but not us?

There was the stink of caste in the air.

I wrote again to the MP, the MLA and the Collector. No response.

The stink got stronger.

There is a bit of irony in that. The MP has in recent times raised quite a few protests about Churchill and his views on Hinduism being partly barbaric. If the MP does not consider caste to be barbaric, and if he cannot take a stand against discrimination based on caste, then should he be talking about Churchill?

As in crime fiction, one of the smaller villains turned out to be a good guy, relatively. In 2017, during a water crisis of a smaller magnitude brought about by drought, one Asst Exec Engineer of the Water Authority was brutal but frank. He told my old parents to carry water in buckets from a tank 50 meters from our house. He told my parents that if people in a shanty/slum area of Trivandrum have to do that, why can't they? He also told us that our water problems could end if someone or anyone at the top gave him orders to correct the situation. How true.

No one above him was/is interested. How true.

Most crime fiction fails to be considered as literature. One of the reasons is that the formula for crime fiction includes a satisfying ending. The criminal has to be identified. The hero has to be successful, at least partly.

True crime and great crime fiction do not have that restriction.

The criminals live happily ever after. And the hero gets b*ggered.

Of course, in great crime fiction and in true crime too, the narrator cannot be trusted totally.

MAD play

I know that all of you have been worried about two nuclear neighbours going into Mutually Agreed Destruction mode.

Out here, I have had other petty troubles. Since January 24, we have received water for only 3-4 days, that is, about 2500 liters in 38 days.

On February 7, I sent my last and final prayer to the Chief Minister (cc'ed MLA, MP and Collector). I told them that the Water Authority had thought of installing a valve but were scared of hooligans in the area who would violently oppose any reduction in their water supply (they need more than 1000 liters a day).

On February 26, a valve was installed and kept in a semi-open state. And as a result of that, we got about 600 liters of water in 2 days (that is included in the 2500 liters in 38 days). The hooligans tried to block on February 25 and 26.

The hooligans did another surgical strike.

On March 2, the valve was opened totally, and everyone is back to square one.

Please note: only Indians are involved in this MAD neighbourly play.

doggerel

it feels good
to be off-
line
to be off-
off-
line 2
u dont give a damn
i dont give a damn
wtf who cares
i m busy
u 2 better be
this aint goodbye
i n my friends
never say goodbye
v will meet
v will say cheers
v dont give a damn
wtf who cares

This Year's Trip---Part 1

A middle-aged man sat by a window of a first-class a/c cabin. A young lady in her early twenties sat diagonally opposite near the door.

He ignored her and kept on staring outside, not really seeing the people on the railway platform. Then, as if he had remembered something suddenly, he opened his backpack and took out a diary. He flipped through the pages. He smiled, smirked rather, probably wondering if he had actually written those words. He raced through the entries.

A date in 2012: 7:10 pm---Waiting for the bus to Kodaikanal. This trip is going to be about observation…a storyteller’s sabbatical… (There were observations and with each one an associated story.)

A date in 2013: 7:10 pm---In the train and waiting to leave. This trip is about visiting the past and moving on…(Walking on a beach, alone in a taxi, standing on the rampart of a fort staring at the sea beneath…with memories of a past long dead…wondering how to move on, wondering how to enjoy the sublime in solitude…)

A date in 2014: 7:10 pm---In the train and waiting to leave. This trip is about having fun. (There were two foreign ladies with him on that trip…they claimed to be just colleagues…he suspected they were lovers…he told them he was a widower first and then divorced…)

A date in 2015: 7:10 pm---In the train and waiting to leave. This trip is about connecting with people. (There was a high-ranking bureaucrat in the cabin. They talked for nearly two hours about the state of the nation. The bureaucrat talked about his family too and then inquired about his. He replied that he was divorced and then a widower too.)

He laughed. He stared outside again, probably wondering what it was actually…divorced, widower, both or neither?

A date in 2016: 7:10 pm---In the train and waiting to leave. This trip is about being open to all, without inhibition. (Once again he talked to the companions, in the train and in Goa---a naval officer with roots in Pakistan, a CPI politician, a newly-wed lady in a club, two men from Thane busting rolls of cash in a casino and a young lady who latched on to them…no one asked him about his family status.)

There was no entry in 2017.

He looked at his watch. 7:03 pm. He wrote in the diary.

A date in 2018: 7:10 pm---In the train and waiting to leave. This trip is about nothing and no one. I am not going to trouble anyone with my company.

The train left Trivandrum at 7:20 pm. The TTE came soon after. The TTE asked the lady if she wanted to shift, to a coupe perhaps, for more privacy. She politely declined the offer and said thanks. The older man had some problem in showing a suitable identity card. He gave his wallet to the TTE and pointed at the cards in it, as if he was telling the TTE to choose. He did not speak.

He had got his ticket by courier. There was a note with it (Be on the train), along with a copy of a letter with his signature and handwriting. He had placed the ticket and the note in his memory-card pouch. It was as big as a pocket diary, an improvised visiting cards folder. Instead of visiting cards, it had notes to aid memory. 7 am: Brush teeth. Go to toilet. Have breakfast. Water plants…10 pm: Check all taps. Close all doors. Check all switches. Brush teeth. Urinate. Sleep. There were entries with dates too: Telephone bill…Electricity bill… Water bill…The ticket and the note was in that section. There were no notes about what to do at the destination.

Soup was served around 8 pm. He noticed that the young lady liked the soup with lots of pepper…like him. They did not speak. She took a sip and started coughing. Instinctively he raised his hand as if to pat her head. He lowered his hand. She must have seen his action. She focused on the soup.

Dinner was served at 9 pm. Later, he wrote in his diary…9:30 pm: I wanted to talk to the girl but that must be a thing of the past. I should not trouble her…   

She read a book. He stared outside at the darkness and the images that whizzed past, houses with low-watt bulbs, shadows and silhouettes, drooping trees.

He mumbled to himself, “Pettah, Veli, Kochuveli, Kaniyapuram, Kazhakkoottam, Murukkumpuzha, Perunguzhi, Chirayinkil, Kadakkavvoor, Akathumuri…”

He stopped suddenly as if he could not understand why he said that or as if he did not know the rest of the stations.

An attendant came to prepare the lower berths for the night. The older man asked for an extra pillow. The lady too requested for the same. Sitting on the freshly-made bed, he opened his pouch. He checked the switches, went to the toilet and returned. He lay down to sleep.

At 10:30 pm, the train reached Ernakulam and two more entered the cabin, a middle-aged lady and a young man of about twenty. They spoke to the young lady in hushed tones. The older lady took the lower berth and the other two the upper berths. 

The man had looked at them when they entered the cabin. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. His diary entries told him that he rarely slept well in trains.

He must have slept well this year. He woke up with a start around half past seven when morning coffee and biscuits were served. He looked confused. He opened the pouch, read the entries, calmed down, had coffee and biscuits, and then went to the toilet. He returned and took his seat by the window. The young ones had climbed down from the top berths. The two ladies sat near the door. The young man took the place by the other window.

The older man wrote in his diary…8:30 am: In the past, we would have covered everything by now, where we lived, what we did, even if we had relatives in common. Not this year.

Breakfast was served at 9 am. No one spoke.

He returned to his diary…9:30 am: It is weird when four people sit in silence. The girl has looked at me once or twice. That lady, must be their mother…why was she staring at me? Maybe, she was staring outside, thinking about something. But, did her eyes fill? Was that anger or sadness? They do not know I can see them reflected in the window. Or, maybe, they do know. The young man has been staring outside the whole time, like me. He is definitely angry. Something about him seems so familiar. Is it the way he stares outside, with one eye partially closed, head tiled to the side? Maybe, that is not so uncommon. Even I do that.

Around 10:15, the two ladies and the young man got ready to leave. They collected their smartphones, wires and other possessions. They took out the suitcases from beneath the lower berths. The young lady took out his suitcase too. She took his diary and placed it in his backpack. He thought of protesting but did not. He sat looking confused.

At 10:30, the train reached Madgaon.

The young lady told him, “This is our station, Appa.”

(To be continued…)

click here to read Part 2