Those lovely blue eyes - Part IV

Click Here for Part-I

I had never understood why I felt such rage and desire for vengeance. Violet had callously used me for her purposes without caring for me and I, after knowing about my condition, had no particular desire to live. So, why should Vince evoke so much rage in me? Every time I had tried to think about it I had felt an unreasoning panic and despair. It was no different now.

Billy should be coming any time now. Abruptly, my entire plan for escape and vengeance against Vince seemed foolish. Even if I managed to make my way to Billy’s cell – which was the logical place for the tunnel to start – why should Billy not just knock me out and escape? Even if he did take me along what made me think that I could evade recapture and prove able to kill Vince? Billy was a dead man walking anyway. I felt melancholy and had almost decided to do nothing when a glimmer of an idea sparked in my mind.

Billy walked in.

“Whaddya want, Scholar?”

“Listen, Billy! You know what I can do to your escape plans.”

His hands clenched and he glared at me impotently.

“I need you to kill a man, Billy!”

“Don’t ask me that, man! I never done no murder”

“Your choice, Billy! I am a dead man tomorrow and I have only you to rely upon. Either you swear to me on your mother’s soul that you will kill him or I shall squeal the moment you go out that door”

There was a look of pleading in his eyes and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“Billy! This guy always has at least twenty-five grand in his safe. You could beat the combination out of him easy. You will need the money for your mom. So, why don’t you just promise me? He just has two bully boys with him. You and your friends could handle them all”

After much hesitation, Billy agreed and swore as I had wanted. I gave him the directions to Vince’s apartment and he left.

* * *

It was a restless night for me. I knew that, even if I had been mistaken in Billy’s superstition about promises to a dying man and his love for his mother, he would go after the money. Vince was bound to threaten him with his uncle and even Billy’s pea-brain would realize that killing Vince was his only way to keep the mob off his back. I found myself in the surprising position of desperately wanting Billy to escape.

Sirens hooting and people running here and there in the morning heralded the success of the escape. My execution, however, could not be postponed. A harried Warden came to my cell to seek my last wishes and was surprised when I asked him to be able to watch TV.

Billy may not succeed, may not succeed today or may not succeed in time for me to get the news. I was still on tenterhooks wishing to see whether my plans had succeeded. While waiting nervously for the news I wanted, my mind wandered over to my days with Violet.

She had been much the same as she used to be before she met me when we first started sleeping together. Over the weeks, she had started taking pains to make her face – not the garish come-hither make-up she used for street-walking but the softer make-up that a girl adopts for her man. She could never really be clean – but her attempts to stop being slovenly and sudden tears when she failed were so endearing. As a cook, she was a disaster but she would never stop making dishes for me. The memory of the look of bright expectation on her face which turned to crumpled disappointment suddenly moved me now and I felt the prickling of tears in my eyes.

Abruptly, my mind was dragged to the news. “Is this the start of another gangland war? Mafia Don Galliano’s nephew was found sodomized, brutally tortured and battered to death with two other people..” The excited voice of the TV anchor receded to background murmur to me as a tremendous wave of satisfaction roared through my entire soul. Vince was dead and Billy’s goose was cooked. Whether the AIDS or the police or the mob got him was immaterial. I had succeeded beyond all dreams.

All the anger and hate in my being were wiped clean – and left me face to face with my guilt and shame. All that anger at Violet and fury at Vince was only a camouflage for my own guilt. Guilt that my accusation of callously passing on AIDS had lead to her confrontation with Vince and her death! Guilt that I had not been with her to protect her! And guilt that I may have been the one to give her AIDS and not the other way round! Had I not been a drug addict and given to indiscriminate use of needles? How was I sure that I did not pass on the HIV to Violet?

I realized that I had been in love with Violet all along and she had loved me more than I deserved. A love so sublime that, in the face of a sentence of death, her only thought had been about putting me in danger and not fear for herself! And I? I loved her with all the love that was there in me but all the love that I could lavish could not even rise to offer comfort to her in her time of need. It shamed me to see myself so clearly.

I grieved for Violet for the first time. All that I had to show for my life was Violet’s love for me. Somehow, at that time, it seemed enough to justify my life.

The warden came in with his cohorts to escort me to the execution chamber.

I was strapped to the seat. I closed my eyes.

Maybe there is a life hereafter

There was a needle prick.

Maybe I shall meet her again

There was fire in my veins.

Maybe I shall look into those lovely blue eyes. And wipe out the hurt.

Maybe......

The genesis of this story is the broad plot outline given for Indifictionworkshop by Sandeep Nair. The story is also carried here.

Those Lovely blue eyes - Part III

Click Here for Part-I

The clatter of a plate interrupted my reverie. I looked up to see the guard of yesterday’s conversation outside the cell.

“I need to talk to you”

“I got no time for scumbags”

“You got some for this one, pig! I need to talk about tonight and Billy. Come to my cell after you are done”

 “Awright” he mumbled fearfully and walked on.

It was an hour before he sidled into my cell wringing his hands and face white with apprehension.

“Whaddya want with me, Scholar?”

“I want to meet Billy ASAP”

“More than my job is worth, Scholar! I got a wife and kids”, he whined.

“You don’t want your son in jail for abetting an escape, do you?” I was merciless. “Billy is on cleaning duty, right? Get him here with his mop and pail to clean up”

“I’ll try my best, Scholar”

“Try doesn’t cut it. Get him”

He slunk out like a whipped dog.

For the first time in prison I felt like I had some power and it felt good. I was savoring the idea of telling off Billy and watching his impotent rage when I told him that I was about to squeal on his escape plans. It was not enough for me to merely destroy his hopes – I wanted to see him squirm!

A sudden thought crossed my mind. Had I not got my revenge on Billy already? After all I was HIV positive and he had sodomized me! In the very act that birthed my desire for revenge, my revenge would also have been accomplished. It was very likely that he was infected too.

Why not join his escape plan and get out? That man outside, who I had considered safe from me, was no longer safe if I could get out. He, more than Billy, was a target for vengeance and only the fact that I had assumed him out of my reach had kept him off my mind.

I laughed bitterly and almost hysterically. It was ironic that the man who humiliated me was now going to be the reason why I could gain vengeance on that devil on earth – Vince Galliano!

* * *

It was impossible to think of Vince without remembering Violet. The Pimp and the Whore! Violet took me in on one snowy night upon seeing me shivering on the footpath outside her tenement. Hard-bitten though she normally was, she had these sudden queer impulses and, on that cold day, I was glad of being the recipient of her impulsive kindness.

What it was about me that made her keep me around I will never know. It is a fact that within a week, we were lovers and within the month everyone, including Vince knew me to be her boyfriend. Vince was indifferent to the whole matter as long as it did not interfere with business.

I must have had about six months with Violet when my entire world came crashing down again. She had never tired of telling me how much she loved me. In the initial days, I had slept with her more for comfort and in gratitude but slowly I had come to love her as well. She was brassy, foul-mouthed, slovenly and amoral but there was this peculiar vulnerability about her that made me want to protect her. Above all, she had those lovely blue eyes which still reflected an innocence that was totally at odds with her coarse, ravaged and world-weary face.

At long last I thought I had found someone who cared for me without a thought for the use she could make of me. My complacency was abruptly shattered when I came back one day to see her sobbing into her hands.

“What’s the matter, honey?” I asked her.

“I am sorry, baby, I am so sorry”, she said embracing me and burying her face in my chest.

“What’s it?” I said irritably.

“I..I..I got AIDS”, she said. “I’ll never forgive my sorry ass if I have given it to you”

I thrust her away abruptly. Unreasoning anger and fear overwhelmed my mind.

“What the f***?:” I yelled. “You mean all the while you have been telling me how much you love me, you did not bother to check yourself up before sleeping with me? Even though you know what you do for a living?”

“I didn’t think….”

“You did not care, you mean, as long as you got what you wanted”

I started to go out of the house. As I was opening the door, she asked, “Where you going, Bruce?”

“To check if I got AIDS too.” A gust of fury blew through my mind. “If I have got it, I swear I will come back and kill you” I yelled and stormed down the stairs.

For three days after it was confirmed that I was indeed HIV positive I drowned my sorrows in various dives. At least, bleary-eyed and stinking of whiskey and vomit I made my way to Violet’s pad for want of a place to call home.

Vince’s bully boys were outside the tenement as was his car. I waved at them and started up the stairs to the third floor. Just as I was climbing up the last flight of stairs, I could hear Vince’s voice through the thin plywood that served as the door.

“Since when d’ya think of them as men. They are just tricks, you c***, so you better get your ass out on the street. So, what if ya have AIDS?”

Violet’s voice was a soft murmur following which was the sound of a slap. By the time I reached the door, there was a sharp bump as if something had fallen and the Vince’s voice rose to a thin falsetto.

“I’ll teach you to raise a hand at me, b****”

I fumbled for the key when a shrill scream split the silence of the night. In near panic and rage I groped with the key for the keyhole when another inhuman scream of pain drilled through my brain. By the time I had the door opened, there was a third scream which abruptly died down into a gurgle.

Vince came rushing out and I side-stepped him as he rushed past me and clattered down the stairs. I rushed in to find Violet lying down with a pleading look in her eyes that died as the light in them died. There was a horrid slash across her face, one more across her left breast and her throat was slit. Blood had spattered all over the room. The sickly-sweet smell of it abruptly caught my throat and I gagged, rushed to the bathroom and was sick.

A cold, murderous rage spawned in my brain and with an animal shriek I jumped up and ran to the door to destroy that devil of a pimp…and ran into the arms of the police.

There were witnesses enough to my threat to kill Violet; to the shrieks and to Vince having been on the other side of town in a poker game. Of course, even the rats in the tenement know enough not to hear anything to the detriment of the local Mafia Don’s nephew.

If ever there was someone I wanted to hurt and kill, it was Vince. He was safe, however, from the impotent rage of a jail-bird.

* * *

Click here for the next part

The genesis of this story is the broad plot outline given for Indifictionworkshop by Sandeep Nair. The story is also carried here.

Those lovely blue eyes - Part II

Click Here for Part-I

Billy – The Brawler! How I had hungered to avenge myself on him. That hulking ugly brute of a boxer had filled my nights with fear and fury for almost all the days I had spent as an under-trial in this prison. Had I not been sentenced to death and segregated from the rest of the prison population, I’d probably have killed him or died trying. So! He was planning an escape! Now I had my chance to avenge myself.

I was surprised at the vehemence of my thoughts. Less than forty-eight hours from death and here I was hungering for revenge. For the past few weeks, I had assumed that I was resigned to death and indifferent to the emotional storms that comprise life. I had declined any attempts to appeal my sentence and counted the days to my death placidly.

Now, all of a sudden, the haunting eyes were back in my dreams and my hunger for revenge burned as hot as ever. It seemed like I had not accepted my fate and moved on but had merely been caught in one moment of apathy like a fly in amber due to lack of choice. The first opportunity of revenge that arose had broken through my fugue and my emotions had got the better of me.

Billy! The man, who had destroyed my fragile self-respect in one uncaring brutal act, was now at my mercy. One word from me and his plans of escape would evaporate like a dewdrop in the desert sun.

* * *

When I had been diagnosed with AIDS and, almost immediately after, been arrested for the murder of my girlfriend I had sunk into apathetic indifference. Death was, anyway, a stone’s throw away and it had not mattered to me that it would come by execution rather than by a long-drawn process of illness. I thought that I might as well live the rest of my days in prison instead of the rat-infested tenement that I had shared with Violet.

It was Billy who shattered my sense of relative security in one brutal hour in the prison showers. I was chivvied along with the rest of the naked, sweaty, hairy and stinking mass of humanity into the showers and had just stood under the icy water for a second when there was a rush of men behind me and someone rabbit-punched me.

I fell to the floor and, at once, there was a hand pressing my face into the grime on the floor. Fingernails pierced my hands and legs as I was spread-eagled. Rough fingers dug into buttocks and spread them. Then there was the pain and the burning and the pounding as my anus was penetrated.

All the physical pain was insignificant compared to the bitter bile of humiliation and the impotent raging of inexpressible fury that burnt my being. It is difficult to express the utter shame that engulfs your soul when your body is violated and you are helpless. I felt soiled and, for days after, I could hardly see myself in the mirror for fear that I would see my shame branded on my face.

“Enough man! We don’t want to kill him” said a voice.

“He is walking dead, anyway!” said another.

“What?” roared a gravelly voice close to my ear.

Suddenly the pressure on my body was off me and I was being lifted up. For the first time I saw my molester. He was a monster of a man with a flattened nose, a cauliflower ear and brutal piggish eyes.

“What do you mean – walking dead?” he said.

One of the others said nervously, “He is in for Murder one, Billy! Word is he is almost certain to get the chop”

“Asshole! Why didntcha tell me before? Let’s get the hell outa here”

I scrubbed myself over and over again as though the soap would wash the shame away. The pain and weakness in my body and the dizziness in my head was such that I would have probably laid myself down in the showers and curled up but for a brutal whack on my back.

“Get going, you scum”

Every single step and every small act was an ordeal but, somehow, I dressed up and went on to the dining hall, picked up my meal and staggered to a table and slumped on the seat. As I was squirming uncomfortably to find a position that would lessen the pain, a couple of jerks came over to the table where I was seated.

One of them smirked at me and said, “So, how’s the day, girl?”

I was too far gone in pain and exhaustion to even feel a spark of anger and uncaringly bent to my plate.

Suddenly, a presence loomed in front of me and someone said, “Bugger off!” There was a clatter of plates and a patter of feet rapidly making their way away.

“You are under Billy’s protection, now” said the man. I raised my head and saw one of the others who had held me down in the showers.

“Why?” I asked apprehensively. My last few years had been with the scum of the world and I knew enough to know that being under someone’s protection in prison could mean that you were his paramour while there.

“Not that, Scholar! Billy is gay, alright, but he don’t want no truck with you walking dead.”

“Yeah! Right!” I muttered.

He lingered on as though waiting for something and then slowly moved away. Like he expected me to be grateful to Billy after all that had happened in the morning!

I had met this sort of sudden respect for the near-dead before. It was as though they either thought that death was something catching or that the near-dead would shortly be whispering tales about them in the ears of the Maker.

For the rest of the period as an under-trial I took far less interest in the progress of my own trial and far more in trying to come up with a way to get my back on Billy. Whether we were in the showers or the dining hall or the exercise yard, he always had his three cellmates tagging along like shadows and I could see no way of getting to him to shove a knife in his back.

Then my trial came to an end and I was sentenced to death. As one of the walking dead - officially now - I was shifted to the death row and segregated from the rest with no chance to get at Billy.

* * *

Click here for next part

The genesis of this story is the broad plot outline given for Indifictionworkshop by Sandeep Nair. The story is also carried here.

Those lovely blue eyes - Part I

It was that pair of lovely blue eyes, again! Glistening with tears that did not conceal the deep hurt that lay behind them! The eyes that had tormented me in my sleep for many days! The eyes, that I had thought I was free of for many weeks now, had come back to haunt my sleep again.

I tossed and turned in my pallet tormented by guilt that I knew no reason for feeling. Why should a hooker’s eyes pierce my soul with guilt? A hooker who I loved; a hooker who had professed love for me and a hooker who had betrayed me! A hooker who had cared so little for me that she had given me the worst disease mankind has ever known!

Acquired Immuno-Deficiency Syndrome! A word she could not even know but a disease that she could acquire and pass on. And I, Bruce Tracy - the erstwhile wunderkind of the world of investments, was now on death row awaiting execution for her murder. But what did imminent death mean but a release to someone who had nothing else to look forward to but a long and painful slide to oblivion?

In the tormented realm of half-sleep I could imagine the wonder and disgust of the people who had known me in my past if they only knew where I was today. Immured within these dark walls, in an atmosphere stinking of urine and feces and surrounded by the dregs of humanity, I would appear a very unlikely candidate for the bright young executive juggling funds for millionaires. But all that was in the long-distant past.

One mistake was all it took when you played brashly with millions! One mistake had brought all my dreams crashing down; had caused friends of yesterday to turn their backs on me; had my dewy-eyed girlfriend spew contempt; had shattered my self-confidence and left my sense of self-worth in tatters. The long spiral down laced with alcohol and drugs had laid me low in the gutter till this whore had taken me in. How I had loved and trusted her then!

My mind shied away from exploring my feelings for her any further. Sleep had completely departed and I swung my feet down and sat up. Why was I feeling all this so strongly now when, for so long, I had been quite content to await my scheduled execution? Was it the conversation that I had overheard in the exercise yard yesterday?

* * *

“The Brawler is pissed with you, you b******!”

 “Ain’t got a choice, have I? Steve called in sick and Iron-Ass put me in here with the walking dead”, said the guard.

“Dontcha know how Billy loves his mother, you mother-f****er? Word has come that she’s sick and Billy gotta go to her. Mess this up, asshole, and your life ain’t worth rat’s piss.”

“Trust me!”

“Tomorrow night is the time! You oughta have let the Brawler know some way”

“It’s all laid on. The getaway car will be on the road near where the tunnel opens.”

“Shh! You got shit for brains, man, shouting it all over the place”, muttered the trusty, looking around with apprehensive eyes.

He saw me leaning against the wall looking incuriously at the soccer game in progress. No one else was in ear-shot.

“It’s only the Scholar – and he ain’t close enough to listen” said the guard ingratiatingly. There must have been something about the acoustics of that area, since even their whispers carried clearly to me.

“Awright! Cannya trust the driver?”

“It’s my son! He will be there before midnight tomorrow”

“He better be!”

The menace in the words was unmistakable. I could see the guard tremble visibly as the trusty walked away.

* * *

Click here for next part

The genesis of this story is the broad plot outline given for Indifictionworkshop by Sandeep Nair. The story is also carried here.

Strangers in the Night

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 31; the thirty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Strangers in the Night'

“Sneha! This is Vijaya, our estate manager’s wife”

Sneha barely glanced up to acknowledge the greeting. The warm smile of recognition died on Vijaya’s lips. Was this the same girl who shared a room with her at college? The poor girl whose fees she had paid, whose books she had bought and whose wardrobe she had purchased? The one who was so willing to do any job for her? This woman bedecked in golden finery was scarcely recognizable as the poor yet lovely girl at college.

“Rama! I do not agree that it is luck that makes us what we are. It takes intelligence to keep what luck has given us.”

“How do you say that?”

“Well…there was this girl at college with me – Lakshmi! Born of rich parents and could have lived a life of luxury. She was fool enough to love a middle class botany student and marry him against her parent’s wishes. They disowned her and she is now probably eking out a miserable life somewhere”

She had not changed all that much from college – bar a few wrinkles on her face. The night was dark but the place was festooned with party lights and, so, it must not be too difficult to see her face. How could Sneha not recognize her – Vijayalakshmi – while she talked so disparagingly about her?

“Don’t you know what your friend is doing now?”

“No! After I married Rajiv and we went for our honeymoon to Switzerland, we lost touch. Anyway, she would only be embarrassed to meet me now”, said Sneha smugly patting her silk sari and adjusting the diamond necklace around her neck.

Vijaya was embarrassed. How could she have invested so much emotion in this woman who could not even think of the possibility of happiness without a Ferrari in the garage? How blind she had been when she held affection for someone who seemed to dole out her love and attention in proportion to the recipient’s bank balance?

Vijaya took leave of the duo. It was better to pass each other as strangers in the night.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 5

Yesterdays and Tomorrows

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 30; the thirtieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Was it only a year back that life had looked so rosy? He had everything then – a loving wife, a son to rejoice in and work that he was passionate about. After a decade of working for others he had embarked on his own venture full of optimism and hopes for tomorrow.

It took such a short time for dreams to come crashing down and to lose everything that you had slaved for to get. Rohit looked across at his wife, who was busy managing his fidgety son. She had warned him to close shop and look for a job. Why had he not listened to her then?

One year was an eon in his profession. God knows he had tried everything at his disposal to find a job after his venture crashed a month ago. If his wife had not been working, they would have found it difficult to make both ends meet. As it was, they would have to take a drastic cut in their lifestyle. The future he had dreamt of for his son had vanished like a mirage.

“Mom! I want to play in the water”

“Shh!”

Rohit looked around. There was the elderly man, who had carried out all his responsibilities and was serenely watching the sunset. The well-to-do slender man in designer shorts with his son was enjoying the beach.

He had come over to the beach to escape the stifling feeling of claustrophobia at home. Now, the deepening sunset only highlighted the gloom that had descended on his life.

* * * * * *

Geeta! The word was a moan of anguish in the depths of his heart. His wife of forty years and the beat of his heart! In the symphony of his life, she had been the basic harmony. Now that she was no more, there was no music in his life or in his heart.

Three months! Three long months since she had gone to sleep and never risen again! Three months since he had forgotten to live and merely existed like an automaton. His son and daughter-in-law had resumed their normal lives. They took care of all his bodily needs but it never struck them that he also needed someone who would find the time to talk to him – merely because he was loved and not because it was their duty.

When Geeta was around, he had never felt the lack of company. It had not always been so. Their marriage had been an arranged one and their initial days very acrimonious. She had always been feisty and would not knuckle down to social conventions. But, how compassionate, how caring! It was the basic generosity of her heart that broke through his conventional expectations and he found himself, almost unwillingly, head over heels in love with her. Loneliness had merely been a word to him since then and not the bone-chilling, soul-sapping reality that it was now.

Now, she was gone. Forever! That word rang with hollow hopelessness and opened up a vista of endless gloom in front of his unseeing eyes. A gloom as deep as the one presaged by the sun setting across the sea!

He looked at the family of three sitting together in silent companionship and at the slender man bonding with his son. The gust of bitter envy that shook his being shamed him but the shame could not shake the chill despair rooted in his heart.

* * * * * *

“I am going to die, am I not, Dad!”

Tears prickled at the corners of Atul’s eyes. The boy’s high-pitched voice had attracted the attention of the people around him but Atul was oblivious.

He looked down at the solemn face of his son. He was so young. His was the age to be running around with exuberance; an age where he should have been with his mom fighting for the TV remote or for time on the PC; an age where sorrow was a loss in a video game or a poor test performance and everything else was ecstasy; not the age to be talking solemnly about death.

“Cancer is curable, Vinay!” the words came out strangled by the lump in his throat that threatened to suffocate him.

The thought of losing his son almost unmoored his reason. This was the child, whose smile had filled his heart with unbearable joy as a babe-in-arms; the child whose first steps had made him prouder than when he had made his first million; the boy who could break a priceless vase and blow away his anger with a woebegone look and a whispered ‘Sorry’; the boy whose unexpected embraces and happy smiles made all his other achievements pale to insignificance.

Was it just a shade more than two years ago that Vinay had been a mischievous boy, who could hardly stay still for a second? Every day when he had returned exhausted from work it had taken him barely fifteen minutes with Vinay to feel like he was brimming with energy. The lovingly drawn pictures that Vinay presented to him for his birthdays; the infectious laughter; the merry romping on the bed and the silent loving hugs – all would be gone, drowned in a raging torrent of cancerous cells coursing through Vinay’s blood.

“I am glad we came to the beach today, Dad!”

Tears sprang unbidden again. So young, so young! Was this the time for a boy to be whimpering with pain as chemicals dug with sharp knives inside his body? He could not bear to remember the sobs from Vinay’s room, muffled because Vinay had not wanted to distress his parents. He thought of his wife, devastated with grief, when the doctors had given scant hope of a cure.

They should not be here on the beach today. Vinay was susceptible to infection and he had refused the boy when he first made the request. The disappointment on Vinay’s face tore at his heart and, when Vinay closed up over the next few days, he had given in. God! With all his wealth, he could not even readily give his son the simple pleasure of playing on the beach! Atul found his tears flowing out unbidden.

“Dad!” The hint of exasperation came out incongruously from the boyish lips. “I know I may not live for long. Must I spend all that time moping? I know you and Mom are sad. But can’t we have some fun every now and then?”

Atul was ashamed. Why was he ruining his son’s days with his distress? Yes, he may have only a few days left but they did have those few days! When his son wanted to take as much joy as he could out of his life, why could he not enjoy those days with his son?

“I do not know how many tomorrows I have, Dad. But, today, the dusk is beautiful!”

* * * * * *

The old man was jolted. What was he doing, moping around for his lost yesterdays? He had had a wonderful life with a wonderful woman and, instead of celebrating it, he was tainting her memory with bitterness.

His son and daughter-in-law still cared for him but they had their own lives to lead. Why could he not enjoy the time that they could give him instead of bemoaning the fact that they could not give time when he needed it?

Yesterday was gone and what he had rejoiced in yesterday was no more. But, today and tomorrow would bring their own joys - if he was open to them - instead of enshrouding himself in bitter grief.

The boy was right. Today the dusk was indeed beautiful!

* * * * * *

Rohit looked across to his wife. Her eyes were brimming with tears as, indeed, were his own. Life recently had been acrimonious between them but for this moment they were in accord in their sympathy for the boy.

What were they fighting for, anyway? As far as he could recollect, even in the bitterest of their fights, she had never once blamed him for stubbornly sticking on with his venture. Nor had she verbally belittled him for being dependent on her currently.

Was his fear of his tomorrows – the thought of never finding a job and being a hanger-on – embittering him? Was he taking his wife’s every little act and converting it into an unstated insult? He had a caring wife and was he jeopardizing both his and her happiness today out of the inchoate fear of tomorrow?

“Sorry, love!” he said, impulsively. “I have been a grouch this past month. Never again!”

Tears fell unhindered from her eyes as she snuggled close to him. They looked out at the beach.

The boy was right. Today the dusk was indeed beautiful!

* * * * * *

Two boys ran towards the water shouting in glee. Vinay looked at his dad enquiringly.

“Go ahead, Vinay!” said Atul.

Vinay jumped to his feet. He turned to his Dad.

“Coming?” he said with a trace of his old mischief in his eyes.

It seemed as though he had invited everyone. The old man found himself on his feet. Rohit’s son had taken off towards the water in his own direction. Rohit and his wife rushed after him.

Atul got to his feet. His heart seemed lighter than before.

“Come, then! I will race you to the water”

A dying child had taught them all how to live! Yes, today, the dusk was indeed very beautiful!

* * * * * *  

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. I’m thankful to The Fool, who introduced Blog-a-Ton to me, and I debuted in 27 edition.

Credits Image - Shades of Orange by Harsha Chittar Courtesy - Curious Dino Photography via www.blogaton.in

The Gates of Hell

Abdul was running for his life. Little Hussain, who was feather-light when he had started out, seemed to get heavier as he ran. Behind him was a village in flames consumed by the unreasoning hatred fanned by communal tensions. Hussain’s father and mother lay hacked to death back there.

Despite the fear riding his shoulders, he felt a spark of happiness. Nobody knew that he had been to the village or that he was carrying Hussain away. Hussain’s uncle Shahid would only think that his nephew had perished in the flames. Rehman was still staying near his home and had offered Rs.5000/= for a child to be sent to Mumbai with him as a household help. Allah seemed to be favoring him with a golden opportunity.

There could be no truth in the rumors that Rehman maimed the children he took away and set them to begging on the streets, could there? The thought that the innocent hands, which clutched his neck so trustingly, would be cut off made him shudder. The picture of the sparkling eyes of the child he had dandled on his knee being blinded made him blanch.

He shook himself to rid his mind of these vivid pictures. None of that would happen. Even if it did, the thought of the money and all that it could mean to him hardened his heart. He ran on though there was no sign of any mob chasing him.

* * * * * *

It is fun sitting on Abdul Chacha’s shoulders. It is like flying. Chacha is running so fast. I am holding him tight. I am not afraid. I am a brave boy.

Kishan Chacha scared me badly in the morning. He came with other men and shouted from outside the house. He was banging on the door. Ammi and Abbu were afraid. I was so afraid that I hid under the bed. Why was Kishan Chacha so angry with Abbu? Only yesterday they were playing cards together.

There was a loud noise. Then lots of men were shouting in the house. I curled up and closed my ears. Still the noise was there.

Then Ammi gave a loud scream. There was more noise and then it was silent. I was still afraid and stayed under the bed. Abbu and Ammi did not call me out.

After some time, I crept outside. Ammi was sleeping on the floor with gulaal all over her. Abbu also had gulaal on him and was sitting near the door. No one told me today was Holi. All my friends play Holi and I play with them. We do not have Holi at home.

Then Abdul Chacha came. Abbu was talking to him. He told me to go with him to Shahid Chacha’s place.

Why did Abbu not take me there? Why was Ammi sleeping in the afternoon? She never does. I feel like crying now. I must not cry. I am a brave boy.

* * * * * *

The little boy on his shoulders gave a pitiful little sob. Then stifled noises of weeping came to his ears. His heart melted for a moment. Memories of his little son came to his mind. If Ayesha and Hamid had to have enough to eat then there was no choice. He hardened his heart again.

Fate did play scurvy tricks on him. He had come over to Hussain’s house for help. The eerie silence in the village had already given him some premonition of disaster. His premonitions were proved true when he found Hussain’s mother hacked to death and Hussain’s father bleeding from a dozen cuts and on the verge of dying.

One single runaway couple – of different religions – had set both Hindus and Muslims at each other’s throats. The violence that engulfed the village had cost his friend and his wife their lives at the hands of people whom they had always considered their friends. The little boy, who crept hesitantly from the bedroom, had now become his responsibility to safeguard and carry to his uncle’s place.

He had been lucky that the scene of the conflict had shifted elsewhere and he could safely make his escape. He, however, had still not got the money that he came to get. Now, of course, he had his chance in the form of this little boy and Rehman back at his village.

* * * * * *

Why is there no one in the fields? I wanted to wave at them. My friends are also not there to see me riding on top of Abdul Chacha’s shoulders. Even Ammi and Abbu did not wave to me when I left home.

I feel like crying again. Was Ammi sick? Why was Abbu sitting like that? And why did he not come out to wave to me? Abdul Chacha told me they would come later to Shahid Chacha’s house.

Abbu and Ammi normally make me walk. Abdul Chacha is good. He is carrying me all the way. Every time he comes, he plays with me. His house is far away so I can’t go there. Abbu says it will be trouble for him if I go.

Shahid Chacha is also very good. I can play with my cousins and Chachi would give me nice sweets. I want to reach there soon.

* * * * * *

The boy had become silent again. Abdul was now walking. Some people were walking towards the distantly burning village, drawn by curiosity. He ducked his face down in order not to be recognized even though he was well outside the village limits now. By nightfall he should be back home. Maybe it would be best to go to Rehman and sell the boy before he reached home. He did not know how his wife would react to his selling Hussain. Women were too tender-hearted.

The half-starved look of his wife and the hungry look on the faces of his children turned his heart over. Whatever his wife may say, he was not an evil man. What could he do with his harvest failing him two years in succession and the baniya threatening to take over his land? Working on other people’s farms when the opportunity arose only kept his family just about alive. If he lost his land too they would all have to starve.

When things had become so bad that he was actually considering giving his son to Rehman, what was a man to do? How could he hand over his son to someone who would maim him and set him to begging on the streets? Surely his wife would understand that he was doing the best thing possible for all of them.

A pang of misery shot through him. So he did believe all those rumors about Rehman. So he was condemning this trusting child to a maimed life of beggary. What else could he do? If he gave this child to his uncle and went back home penniless, he could not pay the interest on the loan that was due this month. His land would be lost and his family reduced to starvation.

He swept aside his momentary weakness. Life was harsh and if this child was to be sacrificed for the good of his family, then it had to be. After all, had it not been for him, the child would probably be dead by now.

He started walking faster towards his village as though afraid that given more time he would change his mind again. In his haste he tripped over a stone and fell. Without a free hand to break the fall he banged his head so badly against the ground that he was momentarily unconscious.

* * * * * *

Abdul Chacha fell down. I too fell but it did not pain badly. Chacha did not get up. I was scared. I started crying.

Abdul Chacha started groaning. Poor Chacha! It must be paining him so much. Ammi used to pat me where it pained and the pain went away. I started patting Abdul Chacha’s head.

Chacha slowly raised his head. He was crying. I wiped his tears away.

* * * * * *

He regained consciousness and raised his head. The ache in his head was so piercing that tears of pain sprang in his eyes. Little Hussain started wiping his eyes.

“Bad Ground! Why did you hurt Abdul Chacha”, said the child and hit the ground with his little fist.

“Chacha! The ground is saying sorry! Now please do not cry!”

In the little hands that were wiping his tears off again, Abdul saw the hands of his son Hamid. When Hamid had taken a fall, he had done exactly as Hussain was now doing in order to console him. In the way of children, Hamid had taken to consoling him the same way whenever he saw him in distress.

The innocence of the child’s concern for him and his actions to console him moved him. If he could not think of selling Hamid to Rehman, how could he think of selling Hussain? This, too, was a child he had cared for since his birth; a child he had played with; a child whose every little step he had rejoiced in and a child who was as affectionate with him as was his own son.

What, then, of his family and their future? Life ahead seemed filled with despair without the money that he could get from Rehman. He could sell Hussain and keep the baniya off for the next couple of months, at least. By then something would turn up. If he did not take up the opportunity now, however, he would lose his land within the fortnight.

Hussain was prattling away innocently. He thought of all the innocence and joy drained away and replaced by maiming and misery. He shuddered. Buying two month’s grace at the cost of condemning this child to a living hell seemed like the act of Satan. He thought of his Hamid being maimed, set to begging and living a life of hunger and unfeeling callousness. It shamed him that he had even considered the idea of selling any child into that sort of slavery, leave alone the child of his friend.

 Uncontrollable tears gushed down his face washing away all thoughts of selling off this innocent child. Hussain’s face puckered in distress at the sight of his tears and his little hands were busy wiping them off.

“Please do not cry, Chacha!”

Abdul swept up the child in his arms. How could he have ever thought of selling this little one, betraying his innocent trust as well as the trust of his friend? It seemed to him that the child had dragged him back from the very gates of hell with his little hands. His life ahead may be one of misery but, at least, he would live it as a decent human being.

He lifted Hussain to his shoulders and directed his steps towards Shahid’s house. Whatever would happen to his family would happen. It would all be as Allah wished.

This post is part of the contest A picture can say a thousand words.. on WriteUpCafe.com

Blank Pages

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 28; the 28th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'BLANK PAGES'.

Blank Pages! He stared down at them with the unaccustomed weight of a pen in his hands wondering desolately whether he had the words to get his life back. Geeta’s face appeared, obscuring the pages, with the icy far-away look that had made him feel an outcast far more than any words could have done. Remembering the way her face, posture and tone of voice had made him feel the last time he saw her, he despaired of any chance of reconciliation with her.

At that time all he had felt was anger at the betrayal of his beliefs and had felt that her departure from his life would make little impact on him. He had not been prepared for the feeling of vacuum in his heart or for the fact that he could find no savor in all the things that he had, till then, enjoyed. His pride would still have stood in the way of approaching her for reconciliation but last week’s incident had upset all his notions.

So, here he was staring down at these blank pages trying to find the words that would bring Geeta back to him. His calls had gone unattended; his SMSes ignored and emails probably deleted unseen. His only chance now was that a letter from him would get her attention.

 * * * * * *

He could still recollect his early days after his marriage to Geeta. She was not a raving beauty but her eyes were lovely and, when she smiled, her whole face lit up with irresistible charm. She smiled often those days and was so accommodating then that he still had difficulty in reconciling to the fact that she could have become so aloof to him in the five odd years of marriage.

On their honeymoon, he had presented her with a red salwar-kameez. Her eyes had looked at him with so much affection that his heart had turned over. Then she said softly, “This is a lovely present, Ajay! My favorite color is blue, however. Would it be possible to exchange this?”

“I love red, Geeta! Blue is such an insipid color. Please get used to wearing red”, he had said. Her eyes showed hurt for a moment. Then, she had smiled brilliantly and said, “Ok!”

Even though theirs had been an arranged marriage, Geeta seemed to have so much affection for him even in the initial days that she would do anything to please him. It was not as though she was financially dependent on him considering that she was a banker as he was and they worked at almost coeval positions.

In fact, looking back, he could hardly remember her wearing blue dresses in the five years of their married life. It was still surprising to him that such an accommodating person had turned so adamantine in a short span of five years.

* * * * * *

The initial days after marriage and the process of settling into a new routine are normally turbulent especially when it comes to a working couple. He had not found it very difficult, however. They had, somehow, settled in remarkably well very soon. Now, in retrospect, it seemed to him that it was Geeta’s soft-spoken and generous nature that ensured the achievement of the equilibrium with little acrimony. He did help her around the house but, now that he saw those days with more clarity, whenever there was something disputatious it had been Geeta who had given way with grace.

Food had, however, been a problem. Neither of them was too fond of eating out and, thus, Geeta had taken over the cooking but her idea of food was too chilli-laden for his bland tastes.

“God! You are expected to add chillies to the vegetables not vegetables to the chillies”

“I’m sorry, Ajay! At my home, we eat food as hot as this.”

“You are no longer at your parents’ place, Geeta! Please make something edible for me”

It took about three months before the food became palatable to him. Till then the dining table had been a battlefield from where Geeta had invariably retreated in tears. He had soothed away her hurt in the night but it was only after she had learned to cook blandly enough that the house had turned peaceful.

* * * * * *

Life had gone on with relatively little friction for the next five years. True, there had been disputes when Geeta put her office responsibilities above their commitments to his family. Initially she, at least, used to apologize and try to give her flimsy reasons for not being able to come to his cousin’s wedding or his nephew’s first birthday. Lately she had taken to listening to his righteous anger in meek silence but did not change her ways. That was the only fly in the ointment as far as his marital life was concerned.

The bombshell when it fell was totally unexpected. Geeta had got a coveted posting in UK from her bank and came home excited about it.

“You refused the posting, didn’t you?” said he, confidently.

“Why would I?”

“How can you shift to London when I am working in Mumbai?”

“You can find a job in London, can’t you?”

“I am doing very well in this bank now and can expect to reach the top. How can I jeopardize all that? You go over tomorrow and tell your office that you cannot take up this posting.”

Geeta was silent. He was sure that she would refuse the posting the next day. It had been a long tiring day for him and he went to sleep almost immediately after.

The next day he came back from his bank and found Geeta all packed up.

“Ajay! I am moving to my parent’s place right now. I have taken up my posting and will be leaving for London within a month.”

“What?? Geeta! What do you mean?”

“Listen, Ajay! I have not been happy in this marital life of ours for quite some time now. I am not sacrificing my career merely in order to live the sort of frustrating life that I have been leading till now.”

“What do you mean not happy? I have been helping you around the house, putting up with your entire obsession with your office and giving you a decent lifestyle. What do you think anyone else would do better than me?”

Geeta flared up. “Helping me around the house? Putting up with my obsession? Nothing that the two of us did around the house was our job with you, was it? It was mine and when you did something you were magnanimously helping me out. You never stopped to think about what makes me happy, either. You never bothered to ask me how I felt about the life we were leading or what sort of lifestyle I would have wanted to lead. Don’t talk to me about how good a husband you have been to me!”

“Ha! So if you think you can find someone better than me go right ahead.” he yelled.

Never had he seen Geeta look as she did then. She gave the impression of an aloof ice sculpture and her eyes looked at him with total disdain. In a voice cold as the wind from the Arctic she said, “I have left my contacts on the table. You may require them for legal purposes. Goodbye, Ajay!” Her voice and demeanor made the parting seem final and irrevocable.

 * * * * * *

He had still not got over Geeta’s betrayal. Three months had gone by and she had been in London for the last two of them. He has thought that she would come over to him for reconciliation but she had not bothered to even inform him of her departure. Sometimes it seemed to him that she had merely been putting on an act of affection when they were still a couple. At other times, he blamed her career ambitions for getting in the way of their marital life.

What he could never understand was why she was so angry about the life that they had lead. He had never forced anything on her and she could always have done what she wanted. He had never refused to do anything that she had asked him to do though, of course, he did grumble about it as who did not? It seemed to him like she had unreasonably accused him and justified her act of putting her career above their relationship by blaming him without reason. He missed her badly, nevertheless, and was sometimes sorely tempted to call her up but his pride would not let him do so.

* * * * * *

It was a busy day at office and his boss called him in just when he was planning to call it a day.

“Listen, Ajay! You will have to stay back tonight. Remember that project loan we are processing? Apparently the client is in a hurry and our management wants it processed expeditiously. You have to make a presentation for me by tomorrow so that I can have it cleared for taking up with the credit committee.”

He was irritated. It was close to 8 PM and his boss was practically ordering him to stay without sleep that night without even the courtesy of making it a request. He swallowed his resentment, collected the details and went back to his cabin.

It was 4 AM by the time he was done with the job. He saw little reason to go back home since he would have to be back by 9 AM to hand over the fruits of his work to his boss.

While explaining the details of the presentation to his boss, he could not help yawning repeatedly.

“Sleepy so early in the morning, Ajay?” said his boss, censoriously.

“Had to stay at office all night to finish this presentation”

“That is your job, Ajay!” said his boss dismissively and returned to the work at hand.

Ajay was furious. First he had been asked to do something out of the way, sacrificing his sleep, without even the courtesy of an apology. Now that he had done it his boss was taking it totally for granted. No wonder this man was the least-liked boss in the entire bank.

For no reason his mind went back to Geeta, then. Suddenly, the reason why Geeta left him hit him like a douche of icy cold water.

* * * * * *

How could he have been so self-centered? So insensitive? So domineering? He had never thought of himself as a bad person but, suddenly, it seemed to him that he had been positively evil in his treatment of Geeta. He had always thought that he loved Geeta but, now, it seemed to him that he had not even known the meaning of love.

Geeta had loved him or, at least, tried to ensure that they lead a life of love. She had tried to make him happy at the cost of sacrificing her own likes. He, on the other hand, had not never ever bothered to even learn what she liked nor had he given any importance to the likes and dislikes that she had voluntarily expressed. Worse still, he had taken her sacrifices for granted without even a cursory acknowledgement. In effect, what he disliked in his boss was exactly what he had done to Geeta. Now, it seemed to him a wonder that she had stayed with him for as long as five years.

It was neither what he sought her to do nor what he did not do that was the problem for Geeta. He realized that now. It was his attitude. When first he had presented her the red salwar and she had expressed a preference for blue he could have said, “I love seeing you in red, Geeta! Will you please wear it for my sake” and she would have happily done so. Instead he had laid down the rule. She had been hurt but still generous enough to fall in with his wishes for all their time together and it had not even struck him as necessary to tell her how much he appreciated that.

He cringed when he thought of their initial battles about food. Why had it never struck him that if he felt difficulty eating hot food, Geeta would have equal difficulty in eating bland food? After all, your tastes are determined by what you have been brought up on and changing them would be as difficult for her as for him. Instead, he had imposed his tastes on her, derided her when she was changing over her style of cooking and had grudgingly acknowledged the change-over. Never once had he even thought about how much affection she must have had for him to put up with all that and, still, change her tastes to suit.

It seemed to him that Geeta had asked little of him but an acknowledgement of the fact that she was doing things to please him because she wanted him to be happy and not because she felt bound to do so. By refusing to even give her that acknowledgement he had made her feel like a servant instead of his wife. Now he could realize that Geeta must have felt that there was no use in discussing her career with him since he had never once bothered to consider her point of view.

She had been an essentially non-aggressive person and, subconsciously, he had equated that with weakness. Had she been truly weak she would have continued to compromise with him and lead a loveless life till the end of their days together. When she showed how strong she was by deciding to leave him, he had lashed out in surprised anger and, probably, lost her for ever.

* * * * * *

Geeta had been like a flower ready to give freely of her fragrance and he had chosen to try to crush the flower to get the fragrance. He smiled wryly. The time for poetic fancies was when Geeta had still not lost hope of a loving relationship with him. They seemed out of place now that she had frozen her emotions against him. So frozen had she become that for one week now all his attempts at communicating with her had fallen on deaf ears.

A wave of guilt rushed through him. If he had caused Geeta to become less willing to love, less willing to be generous with the people around her and frozen in her emotions; if he had indeed crushed all the fragrance out of her then that was a sin far worse than the five years of, what he now acknowledged as, misery that he had caused her to live through. It seemed more important to him, now, to apologize for his unpardonable behavior than to even try to get her back in his life.

He bent towards the blank pages – as blank as his desolate life – and started to write.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.