MISOPHONIA

I do not know tranquility, for even at its quietest, when the world abandons its chaotic refrain for an infinitesimal moment, I am subjected to the sound of life.

My ragged breath, infected with tar and cholesterol, struggling forth from my coal black lungs, falls limply out of my mouth and nose, defeated by its gruesome origin. It meets the fresh, incoming horde that is all a-bustle with zest and enthusiasm. It infects them with its disillusionment so that, even as the horde enters my person, it is already a minion of despair.

This arrhythmic phenomenon plays out over and over, keeping time for decay and degradation, flooding the universe with discordant malaise.

It is a constant reminder to me of my frailty, of my insignificance, of my helplessness.

And yet, I do not begrudge it its existence, for even the botched may demand its right to exist. What I object to is its extortion. I partake of its abortive existence without consent. I was not consulted when this commingling took birth. I am a bonded labourer, forced to participate in this parasitical endeavour.

For it is a parasite, and nothing more. Always begging the Universe for life, and returning only fumes. A grey, stolid edifice that spews forth toxicity. I did not wish my body to be an imitation of the pollutive industrial revolution. They, at least, had the excuse of facilitating progress. I consume only to prolong this downward spiral.

And yet, I am not allowed an option to extricate myself. The contract is absolute. Where the parasite wishes to go, I must carry it. I am a powerless vessel, given illusory rights and meaningless titles, but in the end, a glorified slave.

And so, though my soul craves tranquility, yearns for solace and solitude and pleads for stillness, I run headlong into cacophony, submerging myself in the brash and the loud, surrounding myself with chaos and pandemonium. Anything to distract from this endless, gangrenous hiss. Anything to drown out the festering rattle of half-life.

I live in fear of the calm. I go to bed with the frenetic, trusting in its incessantness to be my guardian through the perilous, mute nights.

One day, when I have fulfilled my obligations to this pitiless tyrant, and my body has broken beyond repair, I will be set free and embrace, unbreathing, the silent void. And only then will my soul know tranquility.

The Unwanted Tenant

I do not know much about my past. It seems all aswirl with vague wisps of sounds and urges. It is far too liquid for my simple brain to grasp, to come to terms with, to claim.

My first memory is of a beautiful visual. To those who have lived and remembered long, it may not seem all that wondrous, but to me at the time, with my near non-existent body of experience, it was breathtaking.

It was, for lack of a better word, a box. Not a dead, drab box of cardboard and creases, but a living, throbbing, all-encompassing box. It was my universe and I had no trouble believing in its infiniteness.

It seemed to be saturated with the stuff of life, and I unabashedly nourished myself at its expense. The ectoplasmic texture did not repulse me, I felt one with it. I did not feel like a consumer, but a fellow amoeboid, at once imbuing and being imbued.

And I grew.

There are various forms of power that sentient beings seek to manifest in their lives, many that have been studied, written about and analyzed ad nauseum. But there is none that approaches the sheer euphoric experience of pure expansion. There are its subsidiary forms that man and beast have practiced, i.e. territorial expansion, expansion of the phallic member, so-called expansion of the mind. Each of these has enthralled man from the beginning of time, and yet how hollow, how frail they seem in comparison to true expansion.

I grew at a disconcerting rate, my infantile mind was not equipped to coordinate such vast entities. I flailed uncontrollably, and my malleable shoebox universe contorted itself to accommodate me.
And as I grew, I became cognizant of the first stirrings of my bane.

It grew from within, an unrelenting volcanic urge, the ferocity of which overwhelmed me. No longer did I feel the oneness, the merging of two homogenic entities. All I felt now was a yearning, a deep, wild lust for possession, for absolute domination.

And as this seething, animalistic urge reached its zenith, disaster struck. Suddenly, my safe, secure existence was assaulted with the cold winds of reality. My liquid life-stuff drained away, baring my just formed skin to the rough, vulgar kiss of the ragged air.

My universe began to convulse, tossing me hither and thither with gay abandon, bending me to its will. Gone was the accommodating, nourishing love. And, for the first time in my fledgling life, I felt fear.

This was not a passing mood. This was a brutal spurning, a message sent in the clearest terms. My advances had been rejected absolutely and I was no longer welcome.

Everywhere, the walls squeezed at me, pressuring me towards the harsh and ugly light. I thrashed in desperation, but one cannot outmuscle one’s creator. I found myself gasping, when I had never needed to breathe before. I felt pain, a sensation I could not have imagined in my darkest dreams. But, over and above the entire miasma, the scalding spear that pierced to my very core, was my unsatiated lust. It grew too strong within me for it to be denied an object. Rejection was not acceptable. It gnawed at my insides, ravaging all in its wrath, and in excruciation, I shrieked.

As my primal wail reverberated through space and time, my universe contorted itself one last time, pressing me through a gap that seemed to small to allow me through, as if it was not meant for me, but for some less significant creature. I felt the indignity of this forced departure severely, and yet I had no time to wallow in my grief. For, with jarring suddenness, I was introduced to my new universe.

Many words and emotions flitted through my head as I took in my new world. Its vastness seemed unfathomable, and yet it was not awe that overcame me, it was disgust.

While my shoebox had throbbed and hummed and moved to its own symphony, maintaining a melodic oneness with its inhabitants, this new world was all brash cacophony and discordant din.

And the ugliness.

Vulgar and depraved colors struck my eyes, causing me anguish beyond cognition. Warped and deformed beings in strange skins surrounded me, jabbering at me in barbaric tongues. Why was this universe allowed to exist? Where was its melody? Where was the unity?

The sensations overwhelmed me, I felt putrid hate rise up within me and it spewed out the orifice in my face. I felt the world around me darken, as my eyes refused to open again, and my heart, in protest, stood still.

The Birth of Impurity

Tiny hovels, hidden away in remote corners of faraway nations, often conceal the essence of an army of spirits, the strength of which, in more fortunate universes, may have steered the course of life towards a more meaningful end. Many a potential revolutionary died in obscurity, having drained their life-force battling the elements of nature, trying to coax a good yield out of the earth so their families could eat. The human mind does not allow for ambition before it is paid its due.



The particular spirit that inhabits this story was only slightly more fortunate, in that her life was not frittered away in the mere pursuit of fuel. Born not into abject poverty, her family was, nevertheless, far from affluent. Their lot was not to starve for food, but for experiences that were denied to those without cash to burn. And thus, her spirit stewed for two decades, assured of life, but denied living.



And her life would have continued these meandering, meaningless wanderings, eventually merging with the universe and dissolving into nothingness, had it not been for a chance encounter with another spirit that muddled the entire course that had been charted out for her, and left it in tatters.

The assailing spirit belonged to her antithesis. It seemed to exist merely to accentuate its contrast to her in every way, calculable or incalculable.

She was light, he was the void. She was kindness, he was cynicism. She was temperance and moderation, he was excess and vulgarity. She was conscience, he was instinct. She was tradition, he was atavism.



She was civilisation, he was the wilderness.



Love, up to its old, mean-spirited tricks, wove her into his web, setting into motion the spiral that so many have been lost to. As the indecipherable chasm that was his being gaped open, her spirit flew headlong into it, determined to illumine it, and in doing so, become illumined herself (for light is often blind to itself).  



She was a woman of defined goals and a disposition towards stagnation. She had learnt early what she desired, and stuck to those dreams for most of her life, perfectly content to let them remain dreams without aspiring to any action that would help realise them. She wanted the simple life: a warm hearth, general good cheer, marriage, kids, and all the frills that come with it. She was possessed of a not insignificant amount of latent talent, but its latency caused her no chagrin. She was content to be a homemaker and devote her life to mediocrity. 



The Assailant changed all that, for he was a man of restlessness and action. His personality was akin to a river that did not acknowledge banks or dams, and overflowing its bounds with gay abandon, wreaked havoc wherever it went, leaving everything it touched a congealed, rotting mass. 



The courtship was swift and fatal. His skill lay in eloquence, her ruling trait was empathy, and this deadly concoction sealed her fate. He weeded out and laid waste to every opinion, every aspiration, every harmless belief she held dear. All the inconsequential little nothings that piece together to form a whole soul were hunted down and destroyed with a ferocity that left her defenceless. A few whirlwind months into the relationship, she stood no longer on stable ground, but floundered in a current characterised by torment and tumult, dragging her down to the composed wrath of the deep sea. 



Every flicker of humanity that unwittingly escaped her in her unguarded moments, whether it was a display of genuine sympathy to the downtrodden or a moment of private mourning for some public tragedy, was immediately extinguished by a flood of polemic. He had immense resources to draw upon, a library full of authors provided him with all the ammunition he needed, for artists are a bitter lot and contain within themselves a heavy tendency towards cynicism. 



Her repartees were confined to ethereal nothings and prettily phrased wisps of smoke. Her flower petals wilted, toothless and impotent before his steel and fire. Her flickering candle could not melt his age-accumulated, hardened slabs of ice. The battleground was rigged heavily in his favour, and there was only one winner in this non-contest.



And thus it was that the Assailant drew her light so far into the nothingness that he concealed within, that her illumination, although inextinguishable as all light is, was lost to the world. It was dispersed and entangled and entrapped under loathsome blankets of vitriolic bile, an unending fount of which seemed to spring forth from him at every opportunity.



Her pure flow of simple thought and genuine emotion was befouled by cold, impersonal statistics and stolid facts derived from sources that viewed humanity not as a living, breathing and evolving entity, but as a rotting corpse fit only for a post mortem conducted to sate mild, whimsical curiosity. Her waters turned slowly putrid, frothing over, saturated as it was with his toxic refuse.


The Spirit, once pure and radiant, of fair and elegant countenance, now found in her reflection a bruised, battered and broken face. The eyes still bore the twinkle of innocence, for the damage was all external, but lost amidst the scabs and swellings surrounding it, that twinkle suffered the familiar fate of death in obscurity.



Long after the Spirit had become one with the Eternal, and left behind her fragmented husk, passersby would remark on its depravity and ponder the circumstances that allowed such filth to fester. 

And somewhere within that decomposing husk, Innocence would cry out, unheard, pleading its case to Nothingness.

YOUR WORLD IS ENDING

The world is ending. The world is ending.

They pay no heed to me. I am an abstract concept, they say. But I will send them their doom and will still be here long after they aren’t.

They know much about me. Many careers were built studying me, many households ran on the earnings from said careers. But they still do not quite grasp it. They know all the little details, but they do not see the bigger picture. They never have, and now they cannot, for their time is up.



The world is ending. Yet I see little people making little plans, oblivious to their fate:

A mother, daydreaming, fantasizing about her son’s upcoming wedding, hoping it will bring an oft aloof family closer. Dreaming her dreams of lavish ceremonies and the distant, gurgling laugh of future grandchildren.

A couple, struggling for three years through misery, tears and sacrifice to build a relationship that will stand the test of time. That endeavour may just be successful, for Time itself is not long for this world.

A rural settlement, situated at a location which was once dictated by economics and convenience, is now annually threatened by deluges. But they do not move, for they are significantly more averse to migration now than they were in their early years. They cry when their clutter is washed away. They gnash their teeth and beat their chests. But once the waters have died down, they start collecting their little fragments and putting them together again. They know not that every brick they lay serves only to strike all the harder at the next house when the time comes.

Sometimes, they raise a great hue and cry at some events, naming them disasters and pulling together momentarily to control the extent of its damage. But at other times, when the ones affected are far away or not so high-born, they turn a blind eye and continue to live their lives.

The noble ones sit around tables, sheltered away from the world, making plans that span centuries.
“We shall save the world,” they say, but they mean to save only themselves.

The greedy ones care not, and frolick with abandon. One could ascribe wisdom to their behaviour, but there is no depth to their activity. They are compelled by nature and a lack of cognition to behave that way, and so blundering, just happened upon the optimal path.

“The world could end at any time,” say the experts, and list out all the different ways they could die in a neat little well-edited YouTube video. And the masses gasp and shake their heads and then make their way to the kitchen to cook their next meal.



The world is ending, and yet order is what everyone seeks. Whole millenia of “progress” has strived towards this goal. Establishing stability, predictability, and, above all, control. However, the entire structure is contructed on the frailest and ficklest base. One flinch, and all is lost.

Save money.

Make the world a better place for your children.

Do not litter.

Protect the environment.


All these little manifestations of denial infest their kind, and any who do not heed these dictums are dismissed as immature.

“Cynicism gets you nowhere,” say the civilization, sitting atop a teetering tower.

“If you aren’t helping fix the problem, then you are a part of it,” moralizes one krill to the other, as the both of them and everyone around them gets swallowed up by a blue whale.

“Plan ahead and you shall be successful,” says the bishop to the rook, while the chessboard itself prepares to crumble.

“Pandas are no longer endangered,” says a man, pride in his eyes, as he rests in his house built on fault-lines that could submerge entire countries with one little slip.


The world is ending, and yet they wish to meet their end, squabbling about gender pronouns and pay-to-win mobile games.


I could end them with a prolonged siege, sending forth my liquid host, piecemeal. But I, unlike them, have a sense of style. The end of a being, no matter how insignificant, should be a cataclysmic event, not a gradual fading.

No, theirs shall be an end by earth, wind, ice and fire. The hordes shall not die meaninglessly, like nameless soldiers vaporized in an accidental blast, but shall enjoy the honor of variegated inflictions.

They, who did nothing of any value in all their lives, will achieve sublimity in their annihilation.

Discipline and Punish

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.

                                                                              ***