Malevolent

Usman walked along the narrow pathway to the mosque. It was time for prayers, and whatever the conditions, the close proximity of the mosque demanded his presence there. He thought wistfully of the warmth of the fire crackling away in his room. But he must put away those thoughts for ten minutes at least. Sighing melancholically, watching his breath turn to mist in the cold night’s air, he turned towards the steps leading up to the mosque. Before him, a small group of villagers had already congregated, huddled up inside warm blankets, keeping to themselves. No matter how cold the night, no matter how dangerous the sleet, these men never failed to appear for a prayer. And most of them travelled a far greater distance to the mosque than Usman. Their faith gave them strength.

Usman had no such support. A life full of disenchantments had left him doubting Divine existence. He turned to reading to help restore it. But the deeper he delved, the more alienated he felt. As his scholastic horizons broadened, so did his misgivings, and very soon he was well on the path to atheism.

However, family was still dear to him, and religion was dear to them. For appearances sake, at least, he must be a Muslim, and a good one at that. Hence, his five trips daily to and from the mosque.
He hated hypocrisy, and yet, here he was committing it to the best of his abilities. The guilt never went away. Even as he ascended towards the mosque, hearing the chants of the men praying inside, his ears were filled with a voice from an age long past. He heard the voice of Plato inside him:

Is God willing to prevent evil but not able?
Then he is not Omniscient.

Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.

Is he both able and willing?
Then why is there evil in the world?

Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?


Such thoughts were in his head as he entered. Greeting those around him with a curt nod, he proceeded to stand in line with them and bowed his head in prayer. Those about him chanting earnestly, fervently, blissful in their unshakeable faith. Him, in conformity, silently moving his lips to match their chants, all the while bearing the humiliation within him of not being strong enough to stand up for who he was.
They prostrated, he prostrated, they stood up, he stood up. Blindly following their lead as his mind travelled upon foreign lands, bringing him music and memories from the past to keep him occupied as he went through the motions of the ritual that held no meaning for him.

He had tried often to get out of the obligation to go to the mosque. Feigning piety was so much less humiliating within the confines of one’s house. He would say he was going to pray, enter his bedroom, lock it, and simply read a book for the appropriate duration, then come out and continue on his day. A lie did not seem to him as bad as what he was doing now. His outward participation in prayers coupled with his inner atheism seemed to him to disrespect both him and the religion. And he bore no ill-will to the religion, he merely did not believe in it.

But his mother was not to be persuaded on this point. She immediately launched into the recitation of the Holy verse where a Muslim is promised twenty seven times the reward in the afterlife for each prayer prayed in the mosque as opposed to at home. Her maternal instinct was as strong as ever, and she wasn’t about to allow her only son to miss out on such easy winnings through what she perceived as nothing but laziness.

And so it was decided for him. His day would be punctuated by five painful breaks, where he must leave whatever he is doing, brace himself for his mental self disgust, and join the congregation in prayers. His only consolation was seeing the silent pride and joy in his parents’ faces when he returned from the mosque. Yet he never felt he had earned their pride.

Twenty seven times the just reward
Will I earn, if turban shod
I traipse to the mosque everyday
But only if, (and a big if) there is a God

This quatrain, written in his private diary, was indicative of his state of mind during those days. He could not help thinking that if there was a Supreme being, he was of a particularly unpleasant kind. Malevolent indeed!
 Was it too much to ask to have some irrefutable evidence? Why must there always be an air of mystery about it? If everything owed its existence to Him, why was He not identifiable everywhere? Why must one go through books and books of allegory and mythology and receive only hints of His existence, while dictating one’s whole life to the rules of an Invisible, and to all rational appearances, Imaginary being?

Could one not have some proof?

And so that night, during the prayers, Usman raged at God. It felt weird to be directing your anger towards an entity which you are not even sure exists. But thinking along the lines of Pascal’s wager, Usman felt it was worth a shot anyway. And so he raged. His mind raving away at the injustice of man’s treatment at the hand of God, the unnecessary secrecy, the tyrannical, dictatorial, overbearing rule-setting, the complete absence of valid justification for most of the said rules, barring an arbitrary, “because it pleases God.”

“No!” Usman screamed at God inside his head, “This will not do. You cannot very well expect me to continue denying myself every pleasure and experience in life just on the off chance that you exist. Because, as of now, it remains just an off chance, seeing as you are so against giving me any clear cut proof. So if you really are out there, show yourself. If you won’t then you may keep your rulebook and I shall go and have my fill of pork and ham, thank you very much.”

Thus, seething from within, yet outwardly still completely calm, Usman followed his neighbors into prostration. With his forehead to the ground, he thought he discerned some movement behind him. His eyes had limited visibility from that vantage point, the only line of sight being through his legs. However, of the movement he was sure. Assuming it to be a latecomer joining the prayers, Usman put it out of his mind, and stood up to commence the final part of his prayers. Standing head bowed, lips moving but mind vacant, Usman once again perceived movement. This time to the right of him, just out of the corner of his eye, he saw a head peek out from the end of the row of men beside him.

Careful not to make any sudden movements, he strained his eyes to the farthest corner to get a better view of whoever it was without actually moving his head. He was supposed to be deep in prayers and gazing at one’s surroundings in the midst of prayers is generally proof of one’s lack of devotion and concentration. Strain as he might, he could not get a proper look, but whatever was visible seemed extremely out of place and strange to his eyes. He was sure he was looking at a lady.

When the prayer ended, Usman glanced down the row to the end, but could not see anything out of the ordinary. The same men who were always there, sat there still, swaying in unison to the rhythmic chants. Usman stood and walked away from the mosque, perplexed.

At home, he sat down with great relish to read Nietzsche, whose tirade against organized religion rang true to Usman’s cynical mind. He read and re-read with glee the words, “God is dead.”

“Indeed, he might as well be,” Usman smirked to himself.

As this thought crossed his mind, he became aware of a shadow outside his window. Barely perceptible, it was nevertheless there, and was most definitely humanoid in its form. Curious as to who stood outside his window at this time of the night, Usman drew open the curtains and peered outside. The lawn his window overlooked stood empty. Moreover, no source of light existed to throw a shadow on his window. Usman shuddered, unsure whether he shuddered from the cold or because the vision of the woman from the mosque was coming back to him. Was he experiencing the supernatural? He had heard stories aplenty but they seemed old wives’ folk tales to him rather than true accounts. He knew only too well the villager’s love of exaggeration and leaps of imagination to make a good story.

Yet, be that as it may, the fact remained that he had experienced some curious occurrences this night.
He decided to go to bed. It had been a rough day and his mind was playing tricks on him. He would think about the events tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep and with a fresh mind. He went to the toilet, changed into his nightclothes, bade his parents a good night, and trudged tiredly towards his bed.
He stopped short.

There on his neatly made bed, lay a copy of the Quran.

He shook his head. This was clearly his mom’s “subtle hint” that he should read it more often. However making his bed five minutes before he was going to sleep seemed a little unnecessary on her part. He reached down to pick up the Quran, and then paused, frowning. The Holy Book seemed heavy, much too heavy for its size. Indeed he found he could not lift it with one hand. With considerable effort, he lifted it with both hands, and placed it on the table. He turned back to the bed, the impression of the book’s outline remained.

He crawled into bed, pulled the blanket over him, and slept disturbedly through the night.

He awoke abruptly just before dawn, the assigned time for the morning prayers. His mind went over the events of last night but seemed no closer to fathoming them now than it was then. Bleary eyed he climbed the stairs to the mosque, nodding to the men, who were used to him by now. As he entered the mosque, a terrible dread descended upon him. A sense of foreboding. A warning. It had no rationality behind it, he could not understand it or pin it down. He only felt it, and felt it more deeply than anything he had experienced in life. And in his mind he heard, clearer than his own thoughts, louder than his own voice could possible get, the voice of a female speaking in a crystal clear voice.

One

Usman cowered, unsure of what was happening. His father gazed at him quizzically, beckoning him to join in the prayers. He made his way shakily to the line. Raised his hands in prayer.

Two

The voice, as clear as before, rang within him. He looked about to see if anyone else had heard it, no one else had. His father’s reproving glance made him aware that he was being disrespectful and Usman hurriedly returned to his original position, head bowed.

Three

What was happening? Whose was the voice? To be sure it was feminine. Could it be her who he had seen the previous night?

Four

What was the count leading to? What would happen?  What was he to do about it?

Five
Should he tell his father? Breaking his prayer would be a drastic step indeed, but these circumstances were hardly ordinary.

 Six

Why was he the only one experiencing this? Was he hallucinating? Was the stress getting to him?

Seven
This was supernatural without a doubt. Even he could no longer refuse to admit that. But why him?

Eight

What made him different from the rest? Why would he be singled out?

Nine

That was it! He was not like the others. He differed from all of them chiefly in one respect.

Ten

But that would mean… No, it couldn’t be. Every cell in his body rejected the very idea of it.

Eleven

He tried to recall when the strangeness began. It had been here, in this mosque, when he was ranting and raving.

Twelve

When he had sent an ultimatum to God. When he had demanded  proof.

Thirteen

A wave of understanding and also of dread filled Usman. Was this, then, His proof?

Fourteen

Was this to be his punishment for questioning God, mocking him in his own temple?

Fifteen

Usman trembled with fear. He was seeing God’s wrath in all its splendor and he had to bear the ordeal alone. For the first time in his life, his doubt of God’s existence removed, every ounce of doubt he had was now replaced by fear tenfold.

Sixteen

He now muttered the words to the prayer. He stammered and stuttered, rendered almost speechless by fear. He realized also that through lack of practice he had forgotten the words to the prayers. Now that he sincerely wanted to pray for the first time, he had not the words to do it.

Seventeen

Tears flowed thick and fast down his cheeks, his lips trembled, his whole body quivered. The men beside him descended into their ritualistic prostration.

Eighteen

Usman was in no state of mind to follow them, but it seemed no longer in his hands. An invisible force pushed him to his knees and continued pressing downwards till he too lay in prostration.

Nineteen

Suddenly a scent filled his nostrils. A sweet smell, Incense, but stronger. So very strong, Usman could barely breathe. The fumes intoxicated him in an instant.

Twenty

Still the count continued in his head. It could not be him, he could hardly form a thought.
Straining himself to some level of coherence, Usman pleaded silently for forgiveness.

Twenty one

He raised his head a little to look around. In front of him, a single orb of light danced in the air.

Twenty two

He pleaded again for forgiveness. He heard the voice laugh. A shrill laugh, mocking, sneering. There was no trace of sympathy in it. The moment he heard the laugh, Usman lost all hope.

Twenty three

The orb of light expanded before his eyes, almost blinding him, but he was unable even to blink. His body had long since ceased to be under his control. Only his mind remained his. And it was sorely out of its depth.

Twenty four

The light filled out into a bodily shape, dimming till the Female was visible to Usman. She bore a look of utmost contempt, cold fury and disgust as she gazed down on him. His very blood froze with fear.

Twenty five

She stood tall and lean. Her blond hair floating behind her in an ethereal flow. Her face hardened by fury, terrible to behold, and yet a more beautiful face could not be imagined. Every feature, every centimeter oozed perfection. Her cheekbones, high and proud, her chin, beautiful and delicate, yet authoritative. Her neck, lean, long, perfect, sloping gently outwards to her shoulders which held the eyes for a moment too long. By her side, her hands lay, clenched white. Her body was clasped in a gown of the purest white, imitating her hair in its liquid motion, giving her the impression of formlessness, though she was very much present.
This, then, was how divinity looked.

Twenty six

Suddenly the significance of the count hit Usman. He wept, knowing that any pleas were fruitless, and in his mind bade goodbye to the world and all that he loved within it, and braced himself for all that he feared without it.

Twenty seven

The incense filled his head. Her laugh rang shrill in his ears. Her light blinded his eyes. Every sense overwhelmed, Usman’s last life raft, his brain, gave in. His mind filled with a white light, blanking everything out, inch by inch erasing his essence from within him. Usman died then, lying in prostration to the God he never believed in till it was too late.

Pascal waged the winning bet
The tortoise would win the race and yet
Many a soul lay doomed beside
Ensnared by the hare's deceitful net

She is Bad for me

I woke up that morning and immediately turned to see if she was still there. Sure enough, she lay right next to me. Her face, white as snow, staring back at me, smiling. She never left my side. Every morning she would wait in bed patiently, never disturbing me, never making demands of me, until I woke up. And from that moment, till the moment I went back to sleep at night, she would remain with me. She was not intrusive, she did not require constant conversation. Ours was a relationship not based on words.
We had a mental connection, a telepathy, I would live my life and she would support me, comfort me, and ask nothing in return but that I never leave her side. And I knew I wouldn’t, or rather I couldn’t. I was hopelessly and helplessly dependent on her.

 When I was at work, I craved her, I’d arrange a little rendezvous with her during my breaks, I’d think of her while I was working.  When I was at a party, I would speak to my friends, I’d socialize as much as I had to, but my mind would constantly flit back to her.

My friends noticed how I obsessed over her, and they did not approve. They did not feel she was healthy for me. “No good can come of this, please stop right away,” they’d remonstrate.
It’s funny how even your closest friends know nothing of you. They did not know that without her I would not be alive. I had accepted this fate.

I loved her. I could not live without her.
And if I died, I would die by her hands only.

As I traipsed lazily out of bed to bathe and get dressed for work, she waited for me patiently, silent as always, lying on the bed. We left the building together, nodding to the watchman as we passed. The day looked gloomy and a light drizzle had begun. I considered the pros and cons of walking to work. It was five miles from home, but the weather was beautiful. I shot a glance at her, she silently signaled her approval. A walk it was.

Walking down the streets, I reminisced about her, even as she was with me. I could remember the trepidation with which I first touched her, my quivering fingers unsure of how to hold her, how to feel her, unsure of whether they were doing something wrong.
I remembered the warmth that flooded me the first time I kissed her. Any doubts I’d had of her being my soulmate were banished forever in that instant when my lips closed on hers. It was as though every feeling of pain, stress and loneliness left my body. She and I were one now, till death do us part.

I suppressed a cough, the chilly wind was getting to me. She gave me a comforting look, I smiled back at her. I was all right.

 Walking by shop windows I’d see her fair features reflected in the windows. Then I’d look back at her and I’d close in for another kiss. She never chided me, never pushed me away, her sole existence seemed to be for the purpose of fulfilling all my needs.
My love for her was so tangible, so apparent, that people walking down the streets could see it too. They had mixed reactions. Some would glare, or avert their eyes, disapproving of our public display of affection. Others would smile at me knowingly. I could immediately tell that they had experienced this love too. This dependence, this uncontrollable lust for constant contact. With her by my side, five miles flew by in no time. She had that maddening ability of making time fly by just when you wanted it to stand still.

I reached the office complex, it was time to say goodbye to her. One long, deep kiss and she was gone. For now, at least.

I shut my pack of Classic Milds and put her away in my pocket.
“I’ll see you when I take a break, honey,” I whispered to her, and walked inside.

It's Easier That Way

The Jones’ house lay in the suburbs of Berlin. A double story, five bedroom villa in one of those neighborhoods where uniformity is exalted and every house looks the same. All the houses were painted white as if in defiance to reality. Every house had its secrets, guarded jealously, and the facade of a peaceful suburbia was encouraged both consciously and subconsciously by the whole community.

In light of this love for normalcy, it is perhaps understandable why the story of the Jones’ child became a legend and was told and retold with countless embellishments and conspiracy theories in later generations. I shall here attempt to give an honest and accurate account of the events that took place.

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The Joneses were a nuclear family. Wilhelm and Minerva Jones, who married when they were 21, and their child, Snigmund. Wilhelm worked as an engineer, a profession he found himself well suited to, and he did quite well for himself and his family.  Minerva was a college lecturer, but was forced to leave her post for reasons that will soon become clear. Snigmund was born on March 12, 1989, three years after her parents had gotten married. She showed signs of incredible intelligence and was speaking in full, fluent and coherent sentences before the age of two. This aptitude for learning greatly pleased Wilhelm, who was an academician at heart. He remarked to his friends repeatedly that his daughter would surpass both her parents’ achievements with considerable ease.

Snigmund was brought up in a strict disciplinarian household. Excellence was expected in every field that was related to cognitive exercises. She was homeschooled; her father had no patience for the school curriculum. She studied arithmetic, logic, Latin, Greek, English and German and  all before she was ten. From the moment she woke up, she was bombarded with devilishly tricky on-the-spot tests, impromptu classes, problem solving exercises and the like. Her “playtime” was two hours a day where the only games she was allowed to play were Sudoku and chess. A tutor also came to her house twice a week to teach her how to play the violin, but she was not permitted to listen to music once he left.  She was not allowed to play with the kids outside, and lived most of her childhood within those four walls. That was the only world she knew. She often begged and pleaded to be allowed outside when she heard the other kids frolicking and laughing, but a stern word from her father would send her scampering back to her arithmetic.

The one thing Snigmund never lacked was reading material. Her father had filled his library with books which were all meant for her. He bought only those books which he approved of and which fell within his disciplinarian view of how his child should turn out.

Books were Snigmund’s one escape. She was a voracious reader, and this was the only activity she could enjoy without going against her parents’ wishes. She read literature, biographies, scientific books, philosophy and historical accounts. Her tree of knowledge had branched out to cover an incredible amount of subjects of which ordinary children her age would not even have heard of. By the time she turned 15, she could hold her own and indeed dominate a conversation with anyone, regardless of age. Visitors to the Jones household were overcome with awe at this teenager with the wisdom and knowledge base of an old man. On these occasions, Wilhelm would outwardly show his pride in her abilities. Otherwise these moments were in short supply.

Outwardly, then, everything was going to plan. Snigmund was a prodigy, picking up complex and convoluted problems and coming up with the simplest solutions, speaking 5 different languages fluently and a virtuoso with the violin.

However the cold, relentless discipline of her timetable from her infancy right up to her mid teens had begun to affect her mind, though the effects went unnoticed for a long time. The first signs showed in minor, subtle ways. Where before Snigmund had been meticulous, obsessive even, in the manner in which her activities were carried out, a hint of absent mindedness began creeping in. She would walk into a room and forget why she came there. She would start a conversation and forget what she was saying halfway through a sentence. Once in the dead of winter, she forgot to wear a muffler and gloves and walked all the way to the grocery and back seemingly unperturbed.  On returning, her mother let out a scream of horror when she glimpsed Snigmund’s face which was blue and seemed to have been drained of all blood.

These incidents were brushed aside by Wilhelm as the eccentricities of genius. After all, Einstein was absent minded too. She simply must have her mind occupied by more important musings.

Then began the sleepwalking.

Minerva awoke one night to the sound of scratching on the wall. Afraid that it might be robbers, or worse, mice, she awoke Wilhelm and made him investigate the source of the noise. Outside, he found Snigmund sitting bolt upright in a chair, scratching paint off the wall and eating it. On waking her up, she had no recollection of being there and did not remember any dream or reason that caused her to act this way. Their fears had no chance of allaying as this soon became a regular occurrence. The perfectly whitewashed house showed the scars of this latest manifestation of mental unrest in the youngest member of the household. Her nails would bleed, leaving a red mark on the spot where she picked at the wall. She was taken to a psychiatrist, a physician and even a homeopathic doctor, none of whom could explain the reasons behind this behavior.

Around this time, (she was now 17) Snigmund was often found walking aimlessly around the house, mumbling to herself. This had been a habit of hers since childhood, it was her way of ideating when faced with a particularly tough problem, and her parents had learnt to give her privacy so as to avoid disturbing her train of thought. But these wandering rambles started increasing in frequency, and her mumbling got louder, and on hearing what was being said, neither Wilhelm nor Minerva could make any sense of the words they heard. It did not seem to be coherent speech. 

Up to this point, her quirks had stayed separate from her academics, and she had continued to excel effortlessly at any subject she put her mind to. Wilhelm was considering her future already, planning her career for her, bringing her books meant for doctorate students, and the 17 year old continued to absorb and understand the intricacies of the subject without particularly taxing her mind. But her increasingly erratic behavior soon began wreaking havoc with her timetables.

Once, on a visit to a relative’s house, Snigmund suddenly went missing, and after two hours of frantically scouring the house and neighborhood, she was found her on the street, staring up at a blank wall, repeatedly mumbling loudly to herself,
“There must be something to it. There must be something to it.”

When confronted, Snigmund had no idea how she ended up on the streets and her last memory was of walking into the kitchen to drink some water.
Soon her mental state abandoned any form of uniformity and she spiraled into complete derangement.

Her condition aggrieved none more than Wilhelm. The best doctors were summoned to analyze her condition, but none could seem to point out a single reason with enough evidence to back it up. All her test results showed a perfectly healthy, indeed highly intelligent girl whose brain functioned at a higher level than average. Psychiatrists suggested that her grueling schedule may have resulted in a breakdown and that she must be given a month’s rest and she would recover.

But Snigmund still retained some remnants of lucidity and in these, she could not function without working in some form or the other. Her mind was simply too used to being worked to its limits, and lethargy seemed dangerously alien to her and unsettled her. And so she would immerse herself in her books, working away as long as her lucid stage lasted and then would suddenly abandon it, cackling loudly and spouting a whole jumble of words, in different languages, completely unrelated to each other. She began screaming at random intervals for no reason, her sleepwalking had become a daily routine, and she had in the past week wet her bed on three occasions.

Wilhelm watched the process of mental degradation reach its zenith with grief born out of crushed dreams and helplessness. His child, who had promised so much, shown so much potential, was today being helped out of her bed and needed guidance to perform the simplest actions. Try as they might, her situation only got worse. In three months time, put under observation for a couple of days, she was declared mentally unfit to function in society without a guardian.

Minerva subsequently went into depression, not having the strength of character to see her little prodigy now being fed meals while shackled to a bed. Wilhelm had a decision to make. He had two options, he could either admit his daughter into an asylum, hoping that they would find the cure that had eluded every doctor so far, or he could take Snigmund home and accept that she would for the rest of her life remain as she was now. Incontinent, incompetent, a retard. He suppressed a shudder as the word crossed his mind.

Wilhelm had now had just about enough of seeing his daughter being pricked, scanned, sliced open and tested. The doctors had done all sorts of horribly invasive tests and each time they came out of the ward looking just as clueless as they had been going in. Minerva was in no state to venture an opinion, and so the burden of responsibility fell squarely and exclusively on his shoulders. He made his decision, the papers were signed, and Snigmund was brought back to the Jones household.

Minerva eventually recovered, quit her job as a college professor and devoted her entire day to Snigmund. Speaking incessantly, bathing, washing, cleaning and changing her, handling all the household chores and also keeping Snigmund away from the walls. It was a full time job in itself, and it drained her energy till she walked about zombie like, performing her chores in a dull stupor.

Wilhelm drowned himself in his work to alleviate his grief. He became volatile and short tempered and fought with someone or the other almost daily. Once he got home, his fractious tone rankled with the already overworked Minerva and their marriage descended into a daily verbal duel followed by a whole evening of icy silence between the two. Amongst this cold war Snigmund continued, blissfully unaware of anything around her, to show more and more manifestations of her mental ailment, each more alarming than the last. She suddenly developed a crippling fear of doorknobs, screaming violently until there were no more doorknobs visible. Wilhelm had all the doors changed to sliding doors, so as to remove any traces of doorknobs from the house.

Snigmund began throwing tantrums, only calming down when she was escorted outside in the garden. Once outside, she would show an insatiable appetite for destruction of property. She would pick the prettiest and healthiest plants and uproot them, spend hours prodding at slugs with a stick, and amuse herself by putting mouthfuls of grass in her mouth, much to the consternation of Minerva, who would always accompany her to the garden.

Minerva, in a rare moment of clarity of judgment, remarked that despite all that had occurred, the one comfort they could take as parents was that their child laughed a lot these days. Something which was unheard of in her glory days. Wilhelm did not reply. He never could fathom these emotional interpretations of situations. His heart was consumed with despair and disappointment.

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Snigmund's Viewpoint

I laugh a lot these days. I have a lot to laugh about. It is really surprising to me that more people do not resort to this. Could it be that I am actually deranged? Or have I just hit upon something that did not occur to many?

It does not matter. I am happy, and that is all one can really wish for.

I still shudder to think what would become of my life if I had followed father’s plans for me. My whole life could have been drawn on a chart paper, reduced to nothing but a very long and meticulous time table. What a waste of an existence! No new experiences, no profundity, merely a machine built to solve problems. If for a moment I believed that I was being pushed to work harder so that I may do well for myself, I may actually have made an effort to justify their belief in me, but I have long since realized what father wanted was not success for my sake, but success that he could flaunt to his relatives and counterparts. It explains how his preparation of my studies and the harshness of my punishments  would pick up in intensity the day a relative or a friend was dropping by. Appearances, that’s all he cares about. That’s all this whole damned community cares about.

It was a good plan from him, I’ll give him that. Homeschooling ensured I did not have a perspective on what I was missing out on in life, strict timetables were almost set up to ensure I didn’t have any time to think of myself. Every ounce of my brain power was engaged in meaningless, obsolete, childlike problems. If only these “scholars” knew what I knew. I could walk out today and revolutionize the entire foundation on which the empire that is German industrialism is based. And father would be so proud, yes, he would be. He would gloat to his colleagues. “I homeschooled her, and look where she is today.”
Yes, it was a good plan, but there was one flaw, one major flaw. They gave me books.

Books are exceptionally good shapeshifters. There may be only one book on earth and each one of us 6 billion could take away 6 billion different truths from it. Father did his utmost to only buy those books which served his purpose, but books are deceptive. I think someone somewhere had issued a warning about not judging books by their covers. But clichés are rarely taken seriously anymore.

The books dad got me would have served his purpose, yes. But only to a mind like his. My mind is nothing like his (and thank god for that).  I have always understood books. I do not only speak of the black marks on the white page, I mean the essence of it, the truths you learn and the application thereof in the real world. Something as mundane as a metallurgy textbook can teach one to permeate the mysteries of interpersonal relationships, if one has the mind to grasp the connection.

I had seen the path I was set upon a long time ago, I must have been about twelve then. And I had decided there and then that it was not to be. I did not want my life to be an example for countless other children being similarly enslaved in pursuit of bragging rights. But this was not my main motive; the real reason was much more selfish. In today’s world, and in Germany especially, there is an unhealthy  obsession with rules and conformity. Discipline, obedience and submissiveness are worshipped. My mind rebels at uniformity. I gave my whole childhood up to rules. Now I have had enough. I will never follow another rule for the rest of my life. Today I was declared clinically insane. I am, as of today, absolutely free.

It was all too easy. The very books my father gave me as stepping stones to fulfill his dream, the books that were to be the making of me, those very books gave me my way out. A careful study of symptoms, the rate of occurrences, the possible causes, means of detection, treatments and curability of any particular disease, all these factors can be researched upon while reading a perfectly acceptable book according to my dear father’s standards.

After that it was merely a case of choosing the moments. I had to be careful, my parents are not stupid. Overdoing it was bound to have caused an overreaction, or raised enough suspicion to put paid to my plan. And waiting was not an option, my mind would have imploded if I was forced to live this way for another month.

Once the execution stage began, it was actually quite fun. Behaving like a lunatic seemed so natural and so free to me that I am inclined to believe humans were naturally insane and later evolved to a state of sanity. I feel animalistic, instinctual, raw, untamed. And it never fails to amuse me that these so called sane people have to scurry about and turn their lives upside down at the whim and fancy of one 17 year old who decided to be a little different. Just goes to show you how unstable today’s society is. Today I could wipe my own feces on the house walls, and it would embarrass everyone but me. Such freedom and unrestricted living is intoxicating. I know now I can never go back to what they call normalcy. If I were ever found out, I would commit suicide. I will not allow myself to be a captive once more.

Soon I will legally be an adult. Just another label to stick on me. But I will be different. I get whatever I want. I don’t have any fiscal responsibilities. Actually, while we’re at it, I don’t have any responsibilities at all. I am an autocrat in my own house. In that way I suppose I take after my father.

"I have the right to answer all accusations against me with an eternal "That's me". I am apart from all the world and accept conditions from nobody. I demand subjection even to my fancies and people should find it quite natural when I yield to this or that distraction." - Napoleon Bonaparte

I have all my demands fulfilled, and I am not expected to fulfill any in return. I am treated as a queen wherever I go, not to mention the freebies I score at the shop. People go out of their way to be nice to me, the world isn’t out to get me, because they don’t believe I am a threat. I’m just a girl who pees her pants.

Well, I will allow them their delusions, as long as I am allowed my freedom.
It’s easier that way. 

It is Time

Nawaf Ahmed sat at his desk, working away, typing furiously into his laptop. His eyebrows knitted in concentration, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, trickled down the bridge of his nose, and hung there, as if in expectation. His jaws were clenched shut, his teeth grinding against each other as his mind flew faster even than his hands, always thinking ahead, formulating the next train of thought while the current one was materializing. His headphones were plugged in, playing a furious Wagner symphony, spurring him on to greater thoughts and greater speed.

His desk lay against the wall, the window open to let in the breeze. There was none to cool him today, though. The leaves of the trees nearby seemed to be set in stone. No rustle would be heard this night. His house was perched near the top of the hill, and at night, the view that one might behold by the light of the moon was breathtaking. Nawaf, however had eyes only for his screen. In this mood he rarely ever noticed the world around him.

A tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his trance. It was only when he stopped typing and unplugged his headphones that he realized how his hands were hurting and how long he had been working without a break. All the aches and sores came alive, his brain overwhelmed by the sensations, did not at first comprehend the source of the disturbance.

“Sorry, what?”

“Haven’t you been working late enough? It is 2 AM. Sleep now, the work can wait till tomorrow. This is no time for us to be awake.”

His mind focused on his mother’s face. She was a hardened woman, having raised and supported him completely on her own with no outside help. She took a fierce pride in her son’s professional excellence, but she was, in the end, a mother.

“Only an hour’s work left, mother. I have to submit this article before 7 AM, it’s best to get it over with now.”

“You haven’t had anything to eat either, working for so long continuously is not healthy. You are only 24 and already your bones creak and groan like an old lady’s.”

Nawaf smiled, gave his mother a hug and walked into the kitchen with her. One glass of tang and a perfectly cooked omelet later, he actually felt much better than he would dare to admit to her. She was always right, but he didn't need to let her know that.

“I ate now, mother. May I go work?”

“Night time is the time of the devil, us humans are supposed to be asleep.”

“Well, you did raise a devil of a son, you must make some allowances.”

His mother heaved a sigh, a mother’s sigh. One that indicates approval, disapproval, resignation and exasperation all rolled into one. She kissed his forehead and retired into her room. No matter how late she stayed up, she was always awake at 6 AM every morning, cooking for him and cleaning the house right after her morning prayers. Nawaf often wondered when she got any rest. His body was on the verge of a breakdown, and he decided to finish his article quickly so he could sleep till late in the morning and recuperate.

“All right, last session, let’s get this over with.”

Continuously working nights alone had caused Nawaf to develop peculiar habits. Constant conversations with himself out loud were one of them. He had found it a tough habit to get rid of and now spoke to himself even when in company. People always referred to him as half schizo, well on his way. His boss didn't care, as long as the articles kept rolling in.

He resumed his position at the desk, took a moment to gather his thoughts, and soon the fingers took flight once more. Words poured out of him, his lips moving in silent pronunciation. Soon his article was finished. He reread the whole thing, ruthlessly slashing out any part that did not meet his exceptionally high standards, adding a clarifying note here and there. Within an hour, he was quite satisfied with his creation and proceeded to mail it to his boss.

“Game, set, match, Nawaf,” he said, with no little amount of pride.

 He stretched his stiff back, gave an almighty yawn, glanced out of the window and took in the view. The hillside stretched down towards the river, dotted with trees and other houses. Pathways crisscrossed  in a labyrinth of intersections, creating a wondrously symmetrical  design in the dark for Nawaf’s weary eyes. At this hour, the whole town was asleep. Nawaf had hardly ever seen a light on past 11 PM.

Mist had just begun to swirl in and obscure his view, lazily wafting into his room through the open window. Nawaf shivered. The night had turned cold all of a sudden and his damp forehead amplified its effect. He leaned out to shut the window to the cold, when he heard the tinkle of jewelry. He paused, ears cocked, wondering if he had imagined it. He hadn't, he heard it again.

He squinted into the night to try and identify the source of the noise. The mist made it tougher to see anything. But in the gloom he saw a lantern flickering some way down the mountain. From the light of the lantern he spotted a shape, a crooked shape, bent almost double as one is in extreme old age. The lateness of the hour made Nawaf curious as to what this villager was up to. His sleep suddenly forgotten, he stared intently and tried to make sense of the occurrence.

The shape stepped into the light of the lantern and sat down on a chair. Nawaf saw now that it was a woman.  But she did not seem to be any ordinary woman. She was bedecked with jewelry of unimaginable quantities. Nawaf was not sure if her crooked gait was due to her age or the sheer weight of the gold she wore. Ornaments of the most extravagant nature were on display, reflecting the lantern light and tinkling against each other at the slightest movement.

“What in the world is she doing wearing jewelry at this time of the night?” wondered Nawaf.

He encountered a strange feeling in his stomach. The kind that tells you that you’re seeing something not meant to be seen. A fear gripped Nawaf, and despite the growing cold, a sweat began to form on his forehead once again. He wanted to sleep, but he could not take his eyes off the woman. The woman, on her part, seemed oblivious and sat motionless in the chair, almost as if in a trance. For how long Nawaf would have stayed there staring, he did not know, but he was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of the call for morning prayers from the nearby mosque.

Nawaf remembered suddenly that his mom would be up soon and dreaded the lecture he would get if she saw that he hadn't slept. He glanced at her room nervously, then looked back out the window. The lady was gone.

He crawled into bed, intrigued, but thoroughly perplexed. He had never seen that woman around the village before and was very interested to know who she was. He made a mental note to ask his mother.

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Nawaf awoke late in the afternoon, his lunch lay cold upon the table, his mom was outside tending the vegetable patch. He ate quickly, hardly tasting what he ate, washed his face and rushed outside to help his mother.

“Good morning, mother.”

“You live in India, Nawaf, in these parts we call these evenings.”

“I prefer not to dwell on unimportant details. However what I am interested in, is whose house that is.” He pointed out the house he had watched the night before to his mother. She gave it a cursory glance and said, “That’s Waseem Uncle’s house. Why are you interested in it?”

“Who lives there these days?”

“No one. Waseem Uncle used to live there alone. But since his death that house has been deserted. The land is not particularly precious, so the villagers keep their hands off it. You were young, you did not know him so well.”

“How did he die?”

“It was very strange. He was about to get married after a very long wait. He was, after all, 45. And just two nights before his wedding, he took a walk at night in the mountains, he slipped and fell into the Chenab. And you know what they say, once you fall into the Chenab, your next stop is Pakistan.”

Nawaf thought about it all day. So he had died just days before his wedding, and now there was a woman who waited outside his house every night wearing tons of jewelry. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, Nawaf had seen enough movies. This must be the woman to whom Waseem Uncle was to be married. And in her loyalty to him, she would wait outside his house, in full wedding apparel and look for his arrival. She must be unable to accept his death. Nawaf’s heart went out to the lady, to bear such heartbreak at such an advanced age was terrible.

That night Nawaf stayed up late again. But not for the sake of any article or other work, but out of pure curiosity. He was enthralled by the idea of that woman waiting out there and he wanted to know more. He waited for a long time with no sign of her, but around three o’ clock, he saw the lantern flicker on and there she was, dressed in exactly the same way as the night before. Nawaf did not hesitate, he took his overcoat, stepping lightly around the house to make no noise, opened the backdoor and slipped outside. Once outside, he hurriedly walked towards the flickering lantern, shielding himself from the biting wind. On approaching the house, he wondered how he was to go about the conversation, apprehensive of her reaction to his intrusion. Presently, he reached the gate to the house. The lady sat there motionless, taking no notice of him,

“Assalaam - u - alaikum,” he began, tentatively. He received no reply.

“I’m sorry to intrude this way, but I noticed you have been sitting here in the dead of the night waiting for something or someone. May I know who it is? Is there any way I can be of help?”

The lady did not say anything, but the faint trace of a smile began to show on her features. She looked much younger than Nawaf originally imagined her to be. And he could see she would have been beautiful in her day, but her face now seemed worn and beaten with the cares of life.

“I have been waiting for a long time.”

Her reply did not come loaded with emotion, she did not say it melodramatically. It was merely a statement. Nawaf looked at her, she was wearing a heavy gown under all the jewelry, but she wore no coat or sweater.

“Do you want me to get you a blanket or a jacket or something,” he asked, struggling to keep the conversation going, “you must be really cold.”

The woman’s smile widened. “Yes, I am cold. Weather does not affect me now.”

“This woman is seriously creepy,” thought Nawaf to himself. He regretted having come down here to talk to her and longed for the warmth of his bed. However he still hadn’t received any answers. The journalist in him stood strong.

“Are you waiting for Waseem Uncle?”

The smile vanished, the lady suddenly looked terrifying, terrible. Her face seemed to age a thousand years in an instant. She glared at Nawaf, stood up, switched off the lantern and walked away. She went not into the house, but behind it and disappeared from sight.

Nawaf hurried back home and fell asleep. The night’s events were too much for his mind to figure out, he would leave it till the morning.

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“I met her yesterday.” Nawaf said to his mother, munching on some butter toast.

“Thank God you are meeting girls. You are 24 now, it is time for you to get married.”

Nawaf chuckled to himself. Before his mother could lecture him on the perks of early marriage again, he corrected her assumption.

“No, no, mother, not a prospective bride. I met Waseem Uncle’s fiancée. She was outside his house yesterday.”

Nawaf’s mother stopped cooking for a second and looked at Nawaf to check if this was another one of his jokes. She was his mother and knew him inside out, but somehow she could never tell when he was kidding. This time though, he seemed serious enough.

“What do you mean you met her? How do you even know it was her?”

The point hadn't occurred to Nawaf before and he considered it now.

“She was wearing wedding clothes and she reacted violently when I mentioned Waseem Uncle to her. I did not confirm her identity, but I think it is a safe bet, don’t you?”

His mother stared at him with increasing concern, her face becoming pale, she began muttering a prayer under her breath.

“Mother? What’s wrong”

“Nawaf, promise me you will never go there again. Swear on my life.”

“But mama, what happened?”

“Waseem Uncle’s fiancée is now happily married with two kids in Mumbai. I have her photo with me, wait.”

She showed Nawaf a picture of a beautiful woman with a radiant face and a charismatic smile. This was not the woman Nawaf had seen last night. This perplexed him even more.

“Then who was that last night? Why would she be waiting outside his house in a wedding dress?”

“Nawaf, please leave it alone. It could have been a djinn or a spirit, I’m very worried. Uncle Waseem’s death also occurred under mysterious circumstances. Just promise me you’ll leave it alone.” She was tearing up now.

“Okay, okay. Calm down, mother, I won’t ever go there again. I promise.”

His mother looked at him for a long moment, then kissed his forehead and continued with her day’s work. Nawaf banished the memory of the lady to the back of his mind and immersed himself in another article.
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That night, around three, Nawaf heard the tinkle of jewelry again.

“I promised mother, I cannot break my promise. Just ignore it.”

He stood up and walked away from the desk and lay down on his bed, nervously muttering a prayer. He was not a religious man, but under the circumstances, he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
Just as the clock struck three, Nawaf heard a whisper, as if emanating from right beside him. “It is time.”
He jumped and looked around, there was no one. But he knew he had heard the lady whisper to him.
He looked out the window and saw the lantern flicker in the distance.

The light held a strange attraction to him. He forgot all about the promise he made his mother.
He forgot all he had heard that afternoon. He did not even remember why he was walking out of the house. All he knew was he wanted to get closer to that light. He quietly unlocked the door and stepped out.

He was never seen by human eyes again.
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Many years have passed since that tragic incident occurred. Mrs. Ahmed lives alone in the same cottage.
Nawaf’s room has been preserved just as he had left it on that night. Every night, she offers her prayers to God, though now she has precious little to pray for. Every night she glances at Nawaf’s bedroom with tear filled eyes. Every night she asks the darkness why Nawaf broke his promise.

The White Curtain

“Wake up, Amir. It’s time for school.”

Amir opened his eyes and blearily looked out the window. Every morning since he could remember, he had awoken to the sight of that stunning landscape. The Himalayas stood proud and mighty, like a wall of white guarding the very gates of heaven. Clouds floated leisurely up towards the mountains and, finding them impenetrable, contented themselves with lazily milling around and creating fantastic shapes for those lucky enough to see them. Amir saw them now and the overwhelming whiteness of the clouds and the sunlight reflecting off the snow removed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

“Yes, Ammi, I am awake.”

His mother turned away, smiling. She never once had to check on him once he had awoken. Amir was the definition of a morning person and it made life much easier for her. She had six other kids who laid claim to her attentions.

Amir bathed, got dressed, shoveled down his breakfast and stood waiting for his brothers at the door, impatient to get going. His brothers glared at him, they could never understand how a child Amir’s age could ever be eager to go to school.

“What in the world do you like about school anyway? They make us do so much work, it’s so boring.”

“It’s fun if you stop looking at it as work,” said Amir, wisely.

“Sometimes I think you must have been adopted.”

Amir giggled, his brothers’ irritability amused him. And what secretly made him even gladder was that no one, not even his mother, knew the real reason for his eagerness. That secret remained within Amir, and its warmth made his face positively radiant.

The brothers set off towards school, situated three kilometers away near the base of a particularly beautiful mountain. The school had no classrooms, the students were taught in the open air, under the shade of a tree or in the adjoining meadows. The daily trek took the brothers forty minutes each way, mostly because they spent the majority of the time chasing each other, getting into fights and organizing impromptu races. Amir always stayed out of these games; however he was secretly glad of these delays.
They gave him an excuse to tarry a while longer and listen to the voice he so craved.

 Every morning for the past five years, when walking these streets to school, or on weekends to the grocer’s, Amir heard the most beautiful voice ring out to him. He had never heard a voice that could so effortlessly pierce his heart and from the very first day he had been lovestruck. The voice would sing songs of love in perfect English, and the purity of the voice held Amir in thrall no matter how many times he heard it. Over the years he memorized the songs and would hum along quietly as he went on his way. He liked to think she sang only for him, and indeed he seemed to be the only one who ever paid any attention to her voice. His brothers remained immersed in their fun and games and never once mentioned or wondered as to the origins of the voice. Amir was careful never to show his excitement, fearful that he would never be allowed to listen to her voice in peace if his infatuation became known amongst his brothers.

Where the voice came from, Amir himself did not know. His village was a large-ish one, with the houses spread wide over the plain on one side, and climbing up the mountain on the other. The houses near the higher end of the mountain lay hid from view by the expanse of clouds that collected at the side of the mountain. Amir had never ventured that far up; the clouds formed a vast, white curtain, hiding all behind it in a luminescent veil. From behind this curtain it was that the ethereal voice emanated. The silence of the mountain valley allowed it to carry over great distances and it was always clearly audible to Amir for the duration of his treks.

He would often sit at his window at home and try and put a face to the voice.
“Such a voice must have a face most beautiful,” he would say to himself. But then he would remember the pain in her songs and he would feel depressed, cursing at the world for its heartlessness in dealing out misery to even its most beautiful creatures. He would chide himself for not being brave enough to cross the white curtain and see her with his own eyes, to rescue her from her worries. He imagined himself as a white knight, disappearing in the whiteness of the clouds, to re-emerge with the maiden in his arms, safe from the world’s troubles. But they were a mental block for him. Try as he might, Amir could never muster up the courage to go and see what lay beyond the clouds. He would rage at the clouds, cursing them for denying him the pleasure of setting his eyes upon her. Then he would snap out of it, shake his head sadly, and say to himself, “What can you do, Amir, you are only a boy of ten.” And so shaking his head, he would put himself to sleep. Every night, Amir’s hopes died this death, and yet he always found them alive and kicking the very next morning.

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“Wake up, Amir, it’s time for work.”

Amir opened his eyes and blearily looked out the window. He was a strapping lad of 17 now, and the years had brought a muscular toughness to his frame, but his eyes remained as soft as ever.
Lots had changed over the years, his brothers, all elder than him, had married and gone away.
His father had retired and now spent his days helping around the house. The house expenses were taken care of by Amir, who now plied his trade as a highly competent carpenter.

Lots had changed indeed. But for Amir, the most important thing remained the same.
 He still heard her voice every morning.

He got ready for work, ate a hearty breakfast with his parents and then bade them a hurried goodbye.
Once on the street, his ears immediately strained to hear her voice ring out over the valley. The village had changed so much so fast, technology making it seem so rigid and geometrical where it had once been flowing and natural. But neither technology nor time seemed to affect her voice in the least. She still sang today with the same clarity and the same feeling in her voice as she had in the days of his childhood.

Amir trudged on slowly, reluctant to move on from the spot where her voice seemed the closest. He stopped for a while, deep in thought. Suddenly a look of determination set upon his face.

“I am no longer a child. I am no longer afraid. I can seek her out and confess my feelings. I could put an end to her pain and misery. I can marry her and bring her to live with me. Then I can listen to her sing to me whenever I wish.”

Such thoughts ran through his brain as he stood listening. There was nothing stopping him, yet he hesitated. For twelve years now, this woman had lived in his dreams. She was a spirit, beautiful and otherworldly, he attributed qualities to her which had no basis in reality. Amir was afraid that his trespass beyond the curtain may put an end to that fairy tale. He was afraid of the voice losing its aura once he had glimpsed the singer. He was afraid of his dream dying forever.

But he was more afraid of being a coward. And so he made up his mind and turned to walk up the mountain. The climb was steep and the streets were unfamiliar. Amir kept glancing nervously down at the village, as if unsure if he would ever return. Higher and higher he climbed, looking about him, taking in every new sight and sound. After climbing for a while, Amir glanced down again and gasped.

Before him stretched out not the village below him, but an immense sea of white. He felt almost God-like, standing upon the clouds, staring away into nothingness. He marveled at the view and felt a pang of irritation at himself that he had never before witnessed this spectacle. The melodic voice did not seem out of place in this setting, it seemed as appropriate as the harpist would in heaven.

Amir continued along the streets, guided, almost beckoned by her songs. He stopped to ask directions from an elderly old man.

“Excuse me, could you point me in the direction of the house from which the woman sings?”

The old man gave him a strange look and then pointed at a dilapidated building up the street.

“Thank you,” said Amir, turning to look at the building.

“I swear this generation’s kids are getting nuttier by the minute.”

Amir ignored the man’s comment. He had ears only for her voice, but now his eyes craved her too.
He was unsure of how to approach the matter, he couldn't very well just barge in. But in the end, he decided honesty was the best and simplest way to go about it. At worst he would be turned away at the door.

He reached the building, her voice almost tangible to him, tantalizingly daring him to enter. Amir knocked twice. The woman stopped singing immediately.

A man of fifty or so opened the door. He was in his night clothes, wearing a loose t-shirt and  pajamas and did not look like he had washed his face. His eyes were moist as though he had been crying, but upon his face was the most joyous smile. He looked at Amir curiously, as one does when one is visited unexpectedly by strangers.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Amir, I am from this village, I live a little further down. I was wondering if I could have a few words with you.”

The man did not say anything but stepped aside to let Amir in. The house looked even shabbier on the inside. Pieces of paper lay strewn all over the floor, dishes lay unwashed, the shelves coated in dust.
“How could she live in such a place?” Amir thought to himself.

He could not spot a chair to sit on, so he cleared a few feet of space and sat on the floor, the old man sat on the table.

“I realize this visit is sudden and unexpected, but I came to speak with you about the lady upstairs who sings every morning.”

The old man’s face lit up, no longer suspicious, but bore the expression of one who is conversing about his favorite subject .

“Ah, you mean Ella. I hope she has not troubled you with her voice?”

Amir indicated that this was not the case.

“Then you are a fan, wonderful, wonderful. It is rare to find boys of your age who appreciate the quality of her singing. Most of the visitors I get are complainants who are tired of her voice and want me to make it stop. As if I was anyone to stop her singing!”

“She has the most wonderful voice, I have listened to her every day since I was five,” said Amir.

“Wonderful, wonderful. This makes me very happy. Won’t you have some tea?” the old man asked meekly. Amir got the impression he did not have any tea to offer. He refused politely.

“I was wondering, sir, if it would be possible for me to meet her?”

The old man let out a great laugh and slapped his thigh. “Why certainly, nothing would make me happier.”

Up he pranced and took Amir by the hand and led him up the staircase. He led the way into a small corridor at the end of which a closed door was barely visible. Amir’s heart thumped loudly in his ears as he approached.

The door opened to an empty room. It consisted of a bed, a cupboard and a table. The man walked to the end of the room and busied himself fidgeting with something on the table.

Suddenly Amir’s ears were filled with her voice, coming from within the room, as loud and as clear as if she were singing from within him. He glanced confusedly at the old man, and he pointed at his table, grinning widely. Amir looked at the table and understanding washed over him.

On the table stood a tape recorder.

“This is my faithful old tape recorder. It belonged to my father, it came into my possession when he passed away. I own only one tape, and I play it every morning from start to end.”

He held up a cassette cover, Amir read the words, “The Best of Ella Fitzgerald.”

Amir did not speak. He sat in the room for an hour, listening to the voice he was so familiar with. Finally he took his leave from the old man, thanked him, and left.

Out in the streets, Amir walked aimlessly. He was unsure of how he felt. Eventually his footsteps took him back downwards towards his workplace. He gazed about emptily, the picture of the tape recorder stuck in his head. He reached the spot where he had made his fateful decision and looked up.

The clouds were there, they always were. Her voice was still there too, as clear and real as ever.
Amir smiled. He had gone looking for a woman and he had found music, unchanging and eternal. Time or weather would not affect her, he would hear her voice every morning, coming to him from beyond the curtain.

The Laughing Buddha

Gautum was a sports fanatic. His entire childhood had been spent using his innovative mind to manufacture that extra hour of playtime everyday that every child craves. He had been brought up in a strict household, one that demanded academic excellence. He realized very early on that for his sporting activities to be given a loose reign, he had to ensure his academic proficiency never came into doubt. To this end, he worked hard, almost feverishly in school, always ensuring his marks were at a respectable level. But academics never interested him. They taught him nothing of value. They were a means to an end. In his free time, Gautum would sprint outside to the neighborhood playground and put his heart and soul into whatever sport the boys were playing that day. He did not have a preference, tennis, badminton, basketball, football, cricket, volleyball, Gautum loved every sport the same. He was in his element. His diligence quickly made him the best sportsman in the neighborhood, he was always appointed captain, and his opposing team was always loaded with the strongest players to make the teams equal. He never bothered with books about sports. He didn't believe sports was something that could be taught from a textbook. His entire sports philosophy rested on two pillars, passion and hard work. Once a match started, the only thing that mattered was victory and excellence. The usually genial child’s face would contort into a red, sweat drenched mask of concentration. His eyes had grown so used to concentrating on the ball, he developed a squint which remained on his face throughout his life.

The only time he skipped a day in the playgrounds was when one of his countless sporting idols was on display on TV. He would sit for hours on end, studying every move in minute detail, practicing it himself in his room. His game evolved to emulate those he worshipped on TV. He would even copy their mannerisms, not knowing which one would hold the key for that transition from excellence into genius.
When he slept, he would dream of one day playing in a huge stadium crowded with thousands of fans and watched by millions on television. He dreamt of kids who would watch him, worship him, and try to emulate him just as he had done to so many of his idols. He was notoriously difficult to wake up on these nights as his mind was reluctant to leave this world of dreams.

Gautum matured into a stout, athletic adult, and his talent had developed to a fearsome level. High school passed in a blur of trophies, medals and outstanding achievements. He had qualified for the Under 14, Under 17 and Under 19 nationals and was a class apart even at that level.  He got into a Commerce college without any hassle under the Sports Quota and another flurry of certificates and trophies followed. He was a star, students loved him, teachers were proud of him. The transition into professional sports was thought of as only a matter of time.

But life seldom follows the track set out for it. His family had hit upon financial difficulties over the years and his consistently respectable marks had given his parents hope that he would graduate and take up a job in the corporate sector and alleviate their monetary concerns. On graduation, his parents set down the rules, put their foot down and absolutely refused to budge. Gautum resisted, fought, pleaded, begged, but their stance was resolute. Gautum was shell shocked. He saw before him, in a matter of days, his dreams of 20 years crumbling into a fine layer of dust which proceeded to leak out of the now gaping hole in his heart. He got a decent job at a decent company and proceeded to do decently well at it for the rest of his days. His parents were content and his dream was dead.


“I'd like to fly,
But my wings have been so denied” – Alice in Chains
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Fifteen years later, Gautum sat on the balcony of his fifth floor apartment, watching some kids play football. He was a senior executive now, doing quite well for himself. His parents had passed away recently, he lived alone. He spent his evenings watching matches on television or watching the kids downstairs play their games as he had done so many years ago. His love for sports had never gone away.
He noticed a boy of twelve or thirteen struggling to keep up with the elder boys around him. The boy was not lacking in ability, but struggled to physically compete with his stronger, faster athletes. Gautum watched him closely, noting many errors in technique and a generally unpolished game. He could see the boy get demoralized every time he was outmuscled, out maneuvered, outwitted. But the boy kept coming back to play, no matter what the weather, and no matter what the challenge facing him.

One day, after a particularly tough match in which he was hopelessly mismatched, the boy broke down, crawled into a corner and began to weep. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Gautum.

“You will be a great sportsman one day.”

It was not a grand announcement, it was not an empty sentence of encouragement. It was a simple statement, one spoken with conviction and based on experience. Gautum had seen the two pillars of excellence in this boy, hard work and passion.

The boy he took under his wing. Every day for four hours he tutored him. Teaching him the tricks of the trade. Telling him how to use his opponent’s strength against them, how to maximize his skill and compensate for his weaknesses. In the boy he found a willing and sincere student. He never missed a session of practice, never made the same mistake twice and most importantly, never thought he knew enough and retained his hunger to learn even more. His game came along in leaps and bounds and soon he was not only competing with his earlier tormentors, but comprehensively beating them. His mental strength increased, but he never became complacent, he strove to better himself even when there was no one who could compete with him. Gautum taught him the intricacies and subtleties of the sport, pouring a lifetime of knowledge into this expectant sponge.

Their relationship grew stronger over the years. They would sit long after practice sessions and discuss their favourite moments or the sportsmen they admired most. They would regale each other with funny anecdotes. And all the while, Gautum held within himself the faint hope that this young man would become what he couldn’t.

One day, getting ready for the day’s practice session, Gautum looked up to see the boy standing in his room, his bags packed, clothed in a suit and tie.

“I’m leaving, Gautum sir. I got through the entrance exam at Delhi University.”

Gautum stared for a while, unspeaking. Then he went into his room, took down his favourite poster of his footballing idol, Ryan Giggs, and presented it as a gift. The boy, tears in his eyes, accepted the gift and left.

Gautum sighed, took off his shoes and settled back down on the sofa to watch the match.
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A few years passed and Gautum was now a middle aged man, balding and obese. He had always retained his athlete’s appetite, but had stopped any physical activity years ago. His belly protruded forward and hung down, as he sat munching on a beef burger. It had been a boring Sunday so far, but a football match was about to start and he waited expectantly.

The show started and the pundits discussed both the teams.

“Very exciting news for Millwall FC as they confirm the signing of the bright young talent from India. 
From all accounts, this boy is the next big thing in the footballing world and we cannot wait to see him ply his trade in the best league in the world.”

The beef burger lay still on the plate, confused by the sudden lack of interest from its holder.
Gautum stared at the screen transfixed. The picture of the young boy from his neighborhood popped up on screen. Only now it was of a young man. A young man who had just joined a professional football team in England. He was on his way to stardom.

Gautum felt something bubbling inside him. A smile broke upon his face. He began to quiver and shake with glee. Soon he was in raptures, laughing heartily, open mouthed, with his hands raised above his head.

That laugh never died.

Walking Home from College

It is a curious thing, the Indian mind.  One can never really truly fathom it unless one has lived and experienced it in all its glory and learnt to differentiate between the subtle variants that are present in such abundance in this country. It is almost criminal in India to not belong to any faction. The logic being that if you pledge allegiance to one or the other group, in a country with such a vast population as this, you make classification a tad easier. One can immediately be described as the tall, fat, bald Kashmiri Muslim or the pissed off, over-gelled Delhi brat, or the sweet, slightly preachy social worker or the intellectual, artistic Bengali writer. It helps make some sense of a situation that has long since spiralled out of control.

The classification I am most concerned about, as I make my way down the narrow streets of Palampur is the lecher. Not just any lecher, but the Indian variant. The one that believes he is unnoticeable and invisible as long as he keeps a distance of 10 meters and looks the other way when I meet his eye.

I am not a large woman. 5’3”, thinner than the atmosphere in Mars, and a face that betrays fear far too easily. If Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory really worked, I’d be the first in line for extinction. I might as well have a neon lighted sign pointing at me saying, “TROUBLE WELCOME HERE”.
But I live on, a perpetual “Fuck you” to Darwin.

My diminutive stature has not gone unnoticed, wherever I went, my family ensured I usually had an escort. I was to be picked up, dropped, accompanied and guided to every activity in my life by a “strong figure”, usually my father or brother. Today, though, was an exception. My personal security firm had failed to turn up and I faced the prospect of walking 5 kilometres back home alone, with Palampur, still deciding if it is a city or a town, looming large and menacing before me. The same buildings that were insignificant blurs and blotches on the landscape every other day, suddenly seemed to teem with possibilities of unspeakable horrors. My furtive eyes took in every detail, and my imaginative mind (I am of that artistic Bengali class) refused to calm down and played out every single scenario in gory detail before my eyes.

When a woman walks alone on a street in India, she is an instant celebrity. Every male in the vicinity gawks, nudges his partner, passes a comment which he sincerely believes to be witty and original, and then aloofly tries to get as close to her as possible. Those fortunate enough to be in her way suddenly feel an inexplicable reluctance to walk quickly or to give way for her to pass. They become stone like, almost under a spell, immobile until the wielder of sorcery has passed from their eye line.

I braced myself, heaved an unnecessarily melodramatic sigh, and set on my way. Past the coconut vendor with the dangerously sharp sickle, speeding up to cross the tea shop where a possible underworld meeting was taking place, hurriedly jogging past three middle aged women who were sure to judge my clothing in unabashedly loud voices. The first street had been negotiated. Victory!!!

When one leads a sheltered life, one must celebrate one’s accomplishments with embellished vigour. 
I congratulated myself and beamed a smile at my reflection of a car window. I looked up and my happiness vanished quicker than a man’s when he hears the word “headache”. Before me stood a street with cars flying past and no pedestrian crossing in sight. Not that it made a huge difference. A pedestrian crossing is only effective when those in the vehicles understand that it is meant to ease the activity of crossing roads for pedestrians. Indian drivers seem to interpret it as the chequered markings that mark the starting point of a race. A person who has learnt the art of crossing roads in India is at least on par with a state level dodge ball player.

I, on the other hand, had never been athletically inclined. My frail frame ensured I was kept away from dangerous sports like basketball and football, in cricket I was graciously “selected” as the umpire, and dodge ball was as alien to me as diabetes. So crossing this main road seemed to me to be an unnecessarily sadistic test of faith by the Eternal Prankster seated up above.

I checked left and right to see if anyone else wished to cross this death-trap. In this matter of life and death, I was willing to put my trust in a complete stranger’s judgment rather than mine. But the sidewalk, full of milling passerby’s, failed to produce one single Christ figure that was willing to help me bear the cross. (See what I did there?)

A few minutes passed, the traffic did not thin out. The entire driving population of Palampur seemed to be racing for road position at this very junction. Finally, I spotted the exact sight I had been hoping for. An elderly lady driving a beat up Maruti 800 which had obviously seen many “lapses of judgment” from its owner, driving at a snail’s pace right in the centre of the road, blissfully ignorant of the procession forming behind her and obviously deaf to the cacophony of horns blaring at her. This provided me with the much needed gap in the traffic, I darted across, covering the ground in quick, short steps, fighting hard against the urge to close my eyes, and found myself on the other side of the road.
Victory!!!

I checked carefully for any more obstacles and, seeing none, allowed myself to smile once more.
These unprecedented athletic demands on my body and problem solving demands on my brain were beginning to take their toll. The one slice of toast I had in the morning lay alone in my stomach and it sounded like it had begun to contemplate the meaning of life. And it didn’t seem to like whatever it contemplated. My wallet, almost empty from my ill advised splurging on needless luxuries at the start of the month, could now provide no relief to the moanings of my internal machinery.

I continued walking, ignoring the smells of frying chicken and boiled corn on the cob. A passerby seemed to recognize me and waved at me, but in times of crisis, one does not have time to exchange pleasantries and I hurried on, ignoring him as comprehensively as Canada is in matters of World Politics.
I later learned he was my uncle, and he took great offence at his treatment, but I felt guiltless given the dire, life threatening circumstances in which I had been placed.

Half an hour had passed since I left the booby trapped college road behind and I was beginning to approach familiar neighbourhoods and recognized the bakeries I was in the habit of frequenting.  Home was not very far away now, and hope grew within me with every step. In the field of achievements, this would rank right up there with the time I managed to negotiate a whole night at a friend’s party without making a literary reference that no one understood. Those were fond memories of victorious days and I was keen to add to them. Finally my magnificent, sprawling apartment complex loomed large in front of me. I greeted the Nepali watchman with more than the usual amount of cheeriness and mentally admonished myself for all the racist jokes passing through my head. I almost, in a rush of blood to the head, decided to take the stairs two at a time, but then sanity prevailed and i abandoned the daredevil attitude and climbed them as usual, still managing to trip myself twice. My front door greeted me with a warm smile, i greeted it back, stepped inside my house and found a note lying on the dining table.

“Tanu, we have gone to Bubble Aunty’s house for dinner. Leave immediately and come, we are waiting for you before we start eating. Love, Papa.”

I was found lying unconscious four hours later, lying right next to the dining table with the note clutched in my hand, an expression of agony etched upon my face. The doctor told my parents I had fainted from severe shock and advised a week’s bed rest. My parents decided then and there never to let me walk anywhere alone again.

I listened in on all of this while pretending to be asleep. An imperceptible smile crept into my features.

Victory!!!