Chapter One - The Creature of Light
Corporate floors have an otherworldly quality, almost Fitzgerald-esque in their vibrancy, completely contrasted by the lifelessness of their inhabitants. It consists of a hoard of semi-talented, impeccably dressed people who have accepted their lot and make the best of it by immersing themselves into the mini-politics, mini-achievements and mini-failures within the cocoon of their workplace. They leave it periodically to recuperate, and return, refreshed, for another mini-battle. All this is done with impressive dullness of character and general mood.
Amongst this ocean of sedated rats, in this particular story, appeared a creature of light. None of the lowly grime of menial issues stained her countenance. No frown ever chanced across her face. She never gave any inkling that any vestiges of the baser feelings of our kind may yet reside within her. From the moment she arrived to the moment she left, every person she met, she met with a smile and a kind word. She seemed to raise the spirits of all who surrounded her by her mere presence. If her colleagues had been asked to describe her in one word, the word would be, “chirpy.”
Her name was Susheela. Her average frame concealed a strength that surprised most who experienced it firsthand. However, on getting to know her better, it was neither a secret, nor any wonder that it was so, for Susheela was one of those people who do not miss a single opportunity to put their body through variegated rigours in a quest for physical betterment. She was disciplined and unwavering in her diet, and would allow for no social occasion that interfered with her gym schedule. While choosing the stairs over using the elevator is a choice many health-conscious people make, doing it with ankle weights is something only Susheela would look forward to.
Not much was known of her personal life. She had that quality of making conversation and seeming incredibly interested and invested in it while revealing surprisingly little about herself. Most did not even notice until much later that the sharing had been completely one-sided.
The only snippet that did occasionally slip out was about her husband. Gathered from a plethora of statements and references and allusions, a picture emerged of a compassionate, kind man with a propensity for accidents. Susheela did not fall ill very often, so the majority of her leaves were availed of for the purpose of caring for her husband when one or the other mishap befell him.
She also kept away from social media for the most part, her only indulgence being an Instagram account where she posted pictures of herself with her husband once every few months.
But none of this mystery surrounding her personal life was thought to be unusual, since in a workplace setting, it is not only acceptable, but even advisable to keep one’s personal life a secret.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Two - Deceit
Abhi, 29, stared at himself in the mirror of his one-room apartment. His body, once chiseled to perfection, now had lost much of its shape, leaving him looking much more like an average person than a professional model should. He looked around at his dilapidated apartment. It consisted of a mini fridge, a stove, a mattress that looked about ready to pack it in, and a cabinet that had his clothes chucked inside it once every week after laundry day.
Every day he spent in this apartment reminded him of the fact that he had been a failure at his job. Every agency had told him the same thing. His face was too “normal,” too “everyday” for him to hit the big leagues. He could make a decent living posing for stock photos and mid-to-low range product advertisement billboards, but the high-life would be denied to him by his own face. The revenue was decent enough, but as he neared 30, it began to dry up. His body followed soon after, failing to cling to its former shape as the quality of his nutrition and facilities dropped.
Recently, a keen observer might have noticed a slight change in his visage. Where before he appeared to be a people’s person, affable and likeable, now his expression gained an aura of wildness. Not outright bestial, but with noticeable undertones of desperation.
Abhi went through his morning routine:
Breakfast, work-out, call agents, check e-mail, sulk.
His recent professional draught had led to him widening his searches for other forms of income.
Odd jobs, weird advertisements, unusual requests, none were ruled out anymore. There were many closet perverts who were willing to pay top dollar for a private experience of their particular kink, and he was long past the days when his integrity prevented him from accepting commissions of that nature.
It was on one of those adventurous skirmishes into the tabloids that Abhi came across the advertisement that was to change his life.
WANTED
Male 28-32, Indian, in good shape.
Task: Photoshoot in various locations on extremely rush schedule.
Please bring portfolio for interview.
A phone call revealed little else to him, except that he was to be generously compensated. In his experience, this usually meant he was to perform other acts that were not fit to be published in a newspaper. Abhi sighed, knowing he could not refuse such a significant sum of money, no matter how shady the offer sounded. His client had asked him to meet her at a restaurant where they could discuss the finer details, and so he could, at the very least, get a free meal out of this advertisement.
He donned his Sunday best that he reserved only for interviews with the biggest clients and, checking his bus routes, set off into the overcast Bangalore evening, praying it wouldn’t rain.
Forty-five minutes later, Abhi arrived at the proposed venue, fifteen minutes early. It was a snazzy restaurant, allowing for both luxury and privacy. The signs indicated to Abhi that he was in for a much-needed windfall.
The client was already seated when he walked in, sipping on a non-alcoholic beverage. She sat almost on the edge of her seat, her back ruler-straight, leaning forward, putting her weight on her legs. Her entire posture radiated rigidity. And yet, this did not seem to be out of nervousness, rather out of discipline.
“Hi, I’m AB,” Abhi said, holding out his hand.
“Hi. I’d rather call you Abhi. Is that okay with you?” she asked in a manner that made him feel that the decision was not his to make.
“S-sure.”
“Please have a seat. Let’s get straight to it.”
Abhi sat down, looking around for a menu card, but his client seemed intent on getting business done early.
“I need you to travel with me. We won’t be staying long in any location, the purpose of the trip is not tourism. We’re just going to go to different locations and click a bunch of pictures together. The idea is that, through the pictures alone, we should be able to tell a story of a relationship many years old. A tale of a married couple, long since settled into domestic life, comfortable and boring, and yet, very much in love with each other. Most of the pictures will be taken in Bangalore itself, but we need a few which show that we travel and vacation together as well.”
Abhi nodded. “Are these pictures for some sort of art project? A modern take on the narrative art? Still photography as a novella? The colliding of two disparate genres?”
“I’d like to make it clear that at no point are you at liberty to discuss this project with anyone, nor the details of your employment. You will not receive any copy of the pictures we take, I’ll make sure of that, but for the rest of the world, you should behave as if this project never existed. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, perfectly clear.”
“Do you wish to be paid in rupees or dollars? The payment will be in cash.”
“Erm, Rupees is fine. How mu—”
“You will be paid 5000 rupees for each day you spend with me for this project. Your lodging and food will be paid for, as well as the ticket cost for your travel. For the next fortnight, you are to cancel any and all commitments you have to anyone, no matter what the cost. I don’t want you to work out for the duration of our project. What you will eat, I’ll decide. I’ll leave it to you to decide the quantity. The project starts tomorrow. If you agree to these terms, I have the contract here with me. If you breach the confidentiality agreement, you are going to jail. Are these terms acceptable to you?”
Abhi, still catching his breath from thinking of the money coming his way, nodded silently.
She handed him the contract, which he signed multiple copies of. She handed one to him and stood up.
“Thank you, Abhi. I will be seeing you shortly.”
Before he could utter one word, she was gone, shortly followed by the waiter coming in with the bill.
“She didn’t pay?” Abhi asked the waiter, stomach growling.
“No, sir.”
Abhi handed over the amount, sating his appetite with fantasies of the luxuries he would soon be able to afford.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Three - Paper Cuts
Jim squatted in the corner of the room. In the darkness, it was hard to know how many hours had passed, and how many more he would have to wait for a meal. Mother had never been forthcoming with her schedules. She fed him when she wished, and no argument was tolerated.
The only indication he had of the time passing was his weekly bath. Every Sunday, Mother would enter, clothed in full medical scrubs, armed with a torch and a hose. She would send the fury of its deluge his way, cleansing him and the floor around him of his leavings. The hosing lasted for a good twenty minutes, by the end of which Jim was left prone, spluttering and gasping for air. He usually lost consciousness for a bit after the ordeal, and woke up to a plate of boiled vegetables, a bowl of gruel and chia seeds. The chia seeds were his reward for enduring the hosing. On other days, no such fancy garnishings graced his food.
While he ate, Mother would spread newspapers over the floor to gather his leavings for the next week, and inform him of any updates that she wished to make to his rules.
Jim thought back to the early days, back when the name “Mother” was just an inside joke between a newlywed couple. He had made it, he felt, landing himself a strong, independent woman, whose very smile would light up his life. He had not known then what that smile concealed. He could not even begin to guess the horrors that lurk beneath the veneers of the nicest human beings. His imagination, like his personality, left something to be desired, and so it could not match up to the strength of her reality.
And so he found himself, two years later, crouched in the lightless basement, clawing at the multiple coats of black paint that blacked out the sole window.
The lack of light had never bothered him before. He had found a queer solace in the darkness, unable to clearly see his own state, and therefore leaving room for hope. But now, he scratched desperately at the window, trying to pry away the layers to allow some vestige of sunlight to come in. It wasn’t for himself that he endeavoured so. It was for Oscar.
Oscar was of the genus Chlorophytum comosum, commonly known as the spider plant. After two years, during which his sole contact with the outside world was Mother’s nightly beatings and weekly hosings, he was, with no warning, presented with the plant. A companion in any form was what he craved most, and so within a couple of days, Oscar had become indispensable to him.
It had, however, not taken him too long to realize that the conditions he lived in were less than optimal for a plant. Water, he could provide, but plants need light. And Jim was not allowed light. He had tried asking for one for the plant, but that only aggravated Mother, and so he was left to his own devices.
He was sure she would object to his scraping the paint off the window, but he couldn’t just sit idly by, as Oscar died a slow death beside him. He had to try. His incessant clawing had begun to yield results, he could see a faint light start to filter through the gaps that he had chiseled out in the paint. Squinting around the room, he found Oscar and brought him to the light, taking immense pleasure in revitalizing his companion.
As Oscar drank in the paltry light, Jim’s bloodied fingers tried widening the gaps. His whimpers melded into the melody of his scratches, and the symphony kept him focused on his task, numbing him to the pain. He was making significant progress, when he heard the latch for the basement door click, making his heart stand still.
There stood Mother, rationed meal in hand, framed against the doorway. Though her face was covered by a surgical mask, Jim could sense the rage emanating from her. But he felt strangely defiant. What did a few broken bones matter if it meant Oscar could live just a bit longer? Today, for the first time, he would take his punishment willingly.
“Time to hit the Jim,” as Mother loved to say.
But Mother made no move towards him. She merely stood, seething. Each moment was eternal agony to Jim. Finally, she moved, walking with slow, measured steps towards Jim. He assumed his position on his knees, the designated punishment position, but she walked right by him. Pulling Oscar down from the sill, she walked back to the doorway, where she had left Jim’s meal. Turning to look Jim in the eye, she raised the jar of milk, and slowly, deliberately started to pour the milk into the jar.
Jim’s eyes widened as he realized what she was doing. With Oscar drowning before his eyes, he let out a primal wail of anguish, arms and bloodied fingers outstretched.
But the deed was done. Mother had left, Oscar was dead, and Jim was alone. Again.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Four - Molting
I’m getting so very tired of it all.
My workplace is a cesspit of bumbling gorgonzolas, who can do anything on Earth except what they’re paid to do. My team is in shambles. If it weren’t for me, they’d be sacked within the week. And oh, God, the conversations! Every single one of them goes on for hours about the most mundane of things, and none of them has anything even mildly original to say.
I have the misfortune of sitting next to one of those talking savants who takes any movement at all as an invitation to a discussion. He talks about books a lot, but his views are so shallow, they wouldn’t wet my ankle weights.
Then there’s that bitch who thinks she is a comedian, coming and writing little notes to me in my work diary every day. She doesn’t eat much, which gives me hope that she will die early and I’ll be rid of her shit.
And then, Mr. Pantene, the silky-haired dipshit, who will compliment your knifing ability if you stab him in the stomach, because he cannot be anything but revoltingly nice.
Steaming piles of turd, all of them. As characterless and gormless as Jim, but without the redeeming submissiveness. How many nights have I put myself to sleep fantasizing about the different ordeals I’d put them through.
And speaking of Jim, I seem to have gone overboard with my last stunt. The idiot actually managed to get attached to a plant. I don’t know whether to be amused or offended. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Killing the plant seems to have broken him completely.
What a joy it was to slowly dismantle that man’s entire life and reduce him to where he is now!
Some of the best days of my life. But now, the thrill is gone. He doesn’t even protest my beatings anymore, just lies there like a corpse.
Well, so be it. He has made my decision for me. I cannot keep up my facade without the catharsis of my nightly beatings, and those have, of late, lost their cathartic value. And I’ve almost run through all the pictures I took with that dolt, Abhi, on those photoshoots. It appears the time is ripe to make a change. I must relocate.
But first, the loose end. Can I trust Abhi to keep this secret? Probably yes. But can I trust him to not fuck it up inadvertently? No, I don’t think so.
It’s settled, then. Abhi is coming with me for one last trip.
I’m going to Norway.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Five - Abandoned Nest
“Did you guys hear about Susheela?” Syed asked, as he sat with his friends at the office cafeteria.
“No, what happened?” Marise asked.
“She quit last week without serving notice, and set off for Norway with her husband.”
“Norway has the world’s longest tunnel. I read that somewhere,” said Mohammed.
“That’s nice,” said Syed, “but I’m not done with my story. As soon as they reached Norway, they set off on a cruise.”
“There may be an argument that Hitler saved the cruise ship industry by heavily subsidizing it in the 1930’s,” Mohammed said.
“Shut up,” said Marise.
“Thank you,” said Syed. “Now comes the tragic part. Apparently, yesterday, Abhi fell overboard while taking a night-time stroll. The search for his body is on, but Susheela, judging by her posts, has already lost hope.
________________________________________________________________
Jim, lying on the newspaper covered floor, pondered the prolonged nature of Mother’s absence. He could not be sure of how much time had passed, but he was sure it had been more than a couple of days since she had last visited.
He had not eaten in a while, and he could not find the strength in himself to call out.
And so he lay there, thinking of explanations.
I’m sure she will come. Mother always comes.
Corporate floors have an otherworldly quality, almost Fitzgerald-esque in their vibrancy, completely contrasted by the lifelessness of their inhabitants. It consists of a hoard of semi-talented, impeccably dressed people who have accepted their lot and make the best of it by immersing themselves into the mini-politics, mini-achievements and mini-failures within the cocoon of their workplace. They leave it periodically to recuperate, and return, refreshed, for another mini-battle. All this is done with impressive dullness of character and general mood.
Amongst this ocean of sedated rats, in this particular story, appeared a creature of light. None of the lowly grime of menial issues stained her countenance. No frown ever chanced across her face. She never gave any inkling that any vestiges of the baser feelings of our kind may yet reside within her. From the moment she arrived to the moment she left, every person she met, she met with a smile and a kind word. She seemed to raise the spirits of all who surrounded her by her mere presence. If her colleagues had been asked to describe her in one word, the word would be, “chirpy.”
Her name was Susheela. Her average frame concealed a strength that surprised most who experienced it firsthand. However, on getting to know her better, it was neither a secret, nor any wonder that it was so, for Susheela was one of those people who do not miss a single opportunity to put their body through variegated rigours in a quest for physical betterment. She was disciplined and unwavering in her diet, and would allow for no social occasion that interfered with her gym schedule. While choosing the stairs over using the elevator is a choice many health-conscious people make, doing it with ankle weights is something only Susheela would look forward to.
Not much was known of her personal life. She had that quality of making conversation and seeming incredibly interested and invested in it while revealing surprisingly little about herself. Most did not even notice until much later that the sharing had been completely one-sided.
The only snippet that did occasionally slip out was about her husband. Gathered from a plethora of statements and references and allusions, a picture emerged of a compassionate, kind man with a propensity for accidents. Susheela did not fall ill very often, so the majority of her leaves were availed of for the purpose of caring for her husband when one or the other mishap befell him.
She also kept away from social media for the most part, her only indulgence being an Instagram account where she posted pictures of herself with her husband once every few months.
But none of this mystery surrounding her personal life was thought to be unusual, since in a workplace setting, it is not only acceptable, but even advisable to keep one’s personal life a secret.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Two - Deceit
Abhi, 29, stared at himself in the mirror of his one-room apartment. His body, once chiseled to perfection, now had lost much of its shape, leaving him looking much more like an average person than a professional model should. He looked around at his dilapidated apartment. It consisted of a mini fridge, a stove, a mattress that looked about ready to pack it in, and a cabinet that had his clothes chucked inside it once every week after laundry day.
Every day he spent in this apartment reminded him of the fact that he had been a failure at his job. Every agency had told him the same thing. His face was too “normal,” too “everyday” for him to hit the big leagues. He could make a decent living posing for stock photos and mid-to-low range product advertisement billboards, but the high-life would be denied to him by his own face. The revenue was decent enough, but as he neared 30, it began to dry up. His body followed soon after, failing to cling to its former shape as the quality of his nutrition and facilities dropped.
Recently, a keen observer might have noticed a slight change in his visage. Where before he appeared to be a people’s person, affable and likeable, now his expression gained an aura of wildness. Not outright bestial, but with noticeable undertones of desperation.
Abhi went through his morning routine:
Breakfast, work-out, call agents, check e-mail, sulk.
His recent professional draught had led to him widening his searches for other forms of income.
Odd jobs, weird advertisements, unusual requests, none were ruled out anymore. There were many closet perverts who were willing to pay top dollar for a private experience of their particular kink, and he was long past the days when his integrity prevented him from accepting commissions of that nature.
It was on one of those adventurous skirmishes into the tabloids that Abhi came across the advertisement that was to change his life.
WANTED
Male 28-32, Indian, in good shape.
Task: Photoshoot in various locations on extremely rush schedule.
Please bring portfolio for interview.
A phone call revealed little else to him, except that he was to be generously compensated. In his experience, this usually meant he was to perform other acts that were not fit to be published in a newspaper. Abhi sighed, knowing he could not refuse such a significant sum of money, no matter how shady the offer sounded. His client had asked him to meet her at a restaurant where they could discuss the finer details, and so he could, at the very least, get a free meal out of this advertisement.
He donned his Sunday best that he reserved only for interviews with the biggest clients and, checking his bus routes, set off into the overcast Bangalore evening, praying it wouldn’t rain.
Forty-five minutes later, Abhi arrived at the proposed venue, fifteen minutes early. It was a snazzy restaurant, allowing for both luxury and privacy. The signs indicated to Abhi that he was in for a much-needed windfall.
The client was already seated when he walked in, sipping on a non-alcoholic beverage. She sat almost on the edge of her seat, her back ruler-straight, leaning forward, putting her weight on her legs. Her entire posture radiated rigidity. And yet, this did not seem to be out of nervousness, rather out of discipline.
“Hi, I’m AB,” Abhi said, holding out his hand.
“Hi. I’d rather call you Abhi. Is that okay with you?” she asked in a manner that made him feel that the decision was not his to make.
“S-sure.”
“Please have a seat. Let’s get straight to it.”
Abhi sat down, looking around for a menu card, but his client seemed intent on getting business done early.
“I need you to travel with me. We won’t be staying long in any location, the purpose of the trip is not tourism. We’re just going to go to different locations and click a bunch of pictures together. The idea is that, through the pictures alone, we should be able to tell a story of a relationship many years old. A tale of a married couple, long since settled into domestic life, comfortable and boring, and yet, very much in love with each other. Most of the pictures will be taken in Bangalore itself, but we need a few which show that we travel and vacation together as well.”
Abhi nodded. “Are these pictures for some sort of art project? A modern take on the narrative art? Still photography as a novella? The colliding of two disparate genres?”
“I’d like to make it clear that at no point are you at liberty to discuss this project with anyone, nor the details of your employment. You will not receive any copy of the pictures we take, I’ll make sure of that, but for the rest of the world, you should behave as if this project never existed. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, perfectly clear.”
“Do you wish to be paid in rupees or dollars? The payment will be in cash.”
“Erm, Rupees is fine. How mu—”
“You will be paid 5000 rupees for each day you spend with me for this project. Your lodging and food will be paid for, as well as the ticket cost for your travel. For the next fortnight, you are to cancel any and all commitments you have to anyone, no matter what the cost. I don’t want you to work out for the duration of our project. What you will eat, I’ll decide. I’ll leave it to you to decide the quantity. The project starts tomorrow. If you agree to these terms, I have the contract here with me. If you breach the confidentiality agreement, you are going to jail. Are these terms acceptable to you?”
Abhi, still catching his breath from thinking of the money coming his way, nodded silently.
She handed him the contract, which he signed multiple copies of. She handed one to him and stood up.
“Thank you, Abhi. I will be seeing you shortly.”
Before he could utter one word, she was gone, shortly followed by the waiter coming in with the bill.
“She didn’t pay?” Abhi asked the waiter, stomach growling.
“No, sir.”
Abhi handed over the amount, sating his appetite with fantasies of the luxuries he would soon be able to afford.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Three - Paper Cuts
Jim squatted in the corner of the room. In the darkness, it was hard to know how many hours had passed, and how many more he would have to wait for a meal. Mother had never been forthcoming with her schedules. She fed him when she wished, and no argument was tolerated.
The only indication he had of the time passing was his weekly bath. Every Sunday, Mother would enter, clothed in full medical scrubs, armed with a torch and a hose. She would send the fury of its deluge his way, cleansing him and the floor around him of his leavings. The hosing lasted for a good twenty minutes, by the end of which Jim was left prone, spluttering and gasping for air. He usually lost consciousness for a bit after the ordeal, and woke up to a plate of boiled vegetables, a bowl of gruel and chia seeds. The chia seeds were his reward for enduring the hosing. On other days, no such fancy garnishings graced his food.
While he ate, Mother would spread newspapers over the floor to gather his leavings for the next week, and inform him of any updates that she wished to make to his rules.
Jim thought back to the early days, back when the name “Mother” was just an inside joke between a newlywed couple. He had made it, he felt, landing himself a strong, independent woman, whose very smile would light up his life. He had not known then what that smile concealed. He could not even begin to guess the horrors that lurk beneath the veneers of the nicest human beings. His imagination, like his personality, left something to be desired, and so it could not match up to the strength of her reality.
And so he found himself, two years later, crouched in the lightless basement, clawing at the multiple coats of black paint that blacked out the sole window.
The lack of light had never bothered him before. He had found a queer solace in the darkness, unable to clearly see his own state, and therefore leaving room for hope. But now, he scratched desperately at the window, trying to pry away the layers to allow some vestige of sunlight to come in. It wasn’t for himself that he endeavoured so. It was for Oscar.
Oscar was of the genus Chlorophytum comosum, commonly known as the spider plant. After two years, during which his sole contact with the outside world was Mother’s nightly beatings and weekly hosings, he was, with no warning, presented with the plant. A companion in any form was what he craved most, and so within a couple of days, Oscar had become indispensable to him.
It had, however, not taken him too long to realize that the conditions he lived in were less than optimal for a plant. Water, he could provide, but plants need light. And Jim was not allowed light. He had tried asking for one for the plant, but that only aggravated Mother, and so he was left to his own devices.
He was sure she would object to his scraping the paint off the window, but he couldn’t just sit idly by, as Oscar died a slow death beside him. He had to try. His incessant clawing had begun to yield results, he could see a faint light start to filter through the gaps that he had chiseled out in the paint. Squinting around the room, he found Oscar and brought him to the light, taking immense pleasure in revitalizing his companion.
As Oscar drank in the paltry light, Jim’s bloodied fingers tried widening the gaps. His whimpers melded into the melody of his scratches, and the symphony kept him focused on his task, numbing him to the pain. He was making significant progress, when he heard the latch for the basement door click, making his heart stand still.
There stood Mother, rationed meal in hand, framed against the doorway. Though her face was covered by a surgical mask, Jim could sense the rage emanating from her. But he felt strangely defiant. What did a few broken bones matter if it meant Oscar could live just a bit longer? Today, for the first time, he would take his punishment willingly.
“Time to hit the Jim,” as Mother loved to say.
But Mother made no move towards him. She merely stood, seething. Each moment was eternal agony to Jim. Finally, she moved, walking with slow, measured steps towards Jim. He assumed his position on his knees, the designated punishment position, but she walked right by him. Pulling Oscar down from the sill, she walked back to the doorway, where she had left Jim’s meal. Turning to look Jim in the eye, she raised the jar of milk, and slowly, deliberately started to pour the milk into the jar.
Jim’s eyes widened as he realized what she was doing. With Oscar drowning before his eyes, he let out a primal wail of anguish, arms and bloodied fingers outstretched.
But the deed was done. Mother had left, Oscar was dead, and Jim was alone. Again.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Four - Molting
I’m getting so very tired of it all.
My workplace is a cesspit of bumbling gorgonzolas, who can do anything on Earth except what they’re paid to do. My team is in shambles. If it weren’t for me, they’d be sacked within the week. And oh, God, the conversations! Every single one of them goes on for hours about the most mundane of things, and none of them has anything even mildly original to say.
I have the misfortune of sitting next to one of those talking savants who takes any movement at all as an invitation to a discussion. He talks about books a lot, but his views are so shallow, they wouldn’t wet my ankle weights.
Then there’s that bitch who thinks she is a comedian, coming and writing little notes to me in my work diary every day. She doesn’t eat much, which gives me hope that she will die early and I’ll be rid of her shit.
And then, Mr. Pantene, the silky-haired dipshit, who will compliment your knifing ability if you stab him in the stomach, because he cannot be anything but revoltingly nice.
Steaming piles of turd, all of them. As characterless and gormless as Jim, but without the redeeming submissiveness. How many nights have I put myself to sleep fantasizing about the different ordeals I’d put them through.
And speaking of Jim, I seem to have gone overboard with my last stunt. The idiot actually managed to get attached to a plant. I don’t know whether to be amused or offended. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Killing the plant seems to have broken him completely.
What a joy it was to slowly dismantle that man’s entire life and reduce him to where he is now!
Some of the best days of my life. But now, the thrill is gone. He doesn’t even protest my beatings anymore, just lies there like a corpse.
Well, so be it. He has made my decision for me. I cannot keep up my facade without the catharsis of my nightly beatings, and those have, of late, lost their cathartic value. And I’ve almost run through all the pictures I took with that dolt, Abhi, on those photoshoots. It appears the time is ripe to make a change. I must relocate.
But first, the loose end. Can I trust Abhi to keep this secret? Probably yes. But can I trust him to not fuck it up inadvertently? No, I don’t think so.
It’s settled, then. Abhi is coming with me for one last trip.
I’m going to Norway.
________________________________________________________________
Chapter Five - Abandoned Nest
“Did you guys hear about Susheela?” Syed asked, as he sat with his friends at the office cafeteria.
“No, what happened?” Marise asked.
“She quit last week without serving notice, and set off for Norway with her husband.”
“Norway has the world’s longest tunnel. I read that somewhere,” said Mohammed.
“That’s nice,” said Syed, “but I’m not done with my story. As soon as they reached Norway, they set off on a cruise.”
“There may be an argument that Hitler saved the cruise ship industry by heavily subsidizing it in the 1930’s,” Mohammed said.
“Shut up,” said Marise.
“Thank you,” said Syed. “Now comes the tragic part. Apparently, yesterday, Abhi fell overboard while taking a night-time stroll. The search for his body is on, but Susheela, judging by her posts, has already lost hope.
________________________________________________________________
Jim, lying on the newspaper covered floor, pondered the prolonged nature of Mother’s absence. He could not be sure of how much time had passed, but he was sure it had been more than a couple of days since she had last visited.
He had not eaten in a while, and he could not find the strength in himself to call out.
And so he lay there, thinking of explanations.
I’m sure she will come. Mother always comes.
***
