Thursday, July 31, 2014

The art of living- Part I

                         I don't have the slightest idea on how a story should be. Every time I sit down to write one, I have only one word in my mind. Entertain !!! Often when we read a story, we try to connect ourselves with the characters; we laugh, we weep and smile when they crack an old joke. In these lines, I have a story. For the first time, I have tried something. A story of two men in contrasting shades. This can be a modern version of good and evil. A honest story on the lives of two men, who have a regular share of karma. The tale unfolds between their past and present, with the fate deciding their destiny. Fate has been given a identity to do the entire narration. Hope you enjoy Mr.Fate's tale. Thanks for reading my stories.

Mr. Fate’s call:

It was that time of the year, when the heat was unbearable during days and the nights were laden with humidity. In the midst of the concrete jungle, thanks to the innumerous trees that were felled, there lay a city, whose boundaries grew every day. Just like an ink on the blotting paper, the city engulfed every district or town under its belly. The capital of Tamil Nadu, Chennai was vibrant with life dribbling out of every street and its recess. The emotion of ‘Madras’ seemed to be long forgotten in the wake of multinational morons. When one emotion gets subdued, we have several uprising on the front. As a mute spectator to these sociopathic activities, I narrate a story about two men, Mathew and Kumar, who are about to face other in a dire situation.

            I’m no good in crafting a story, but I do have a control over things that unfold before me. I’m neither a magician nor a prophet to do the invincible, but I’m someone who sees the reality and acts accordingly. They fear me more than God and blame me for all the debacles and catastrophes. Ironically, they believe me more than they believed in themselves and they call me ’fate’. Mr.Fate like a king in an amphitheatre, has the joy of watching these men fight for their breath. It sounds sadistic, but still, I would take that. The story will unfold from my vision, to be taken over by these gentlemen’s version. So this story will have three different shades. Shades of blood,brutality and bliss.

            The stinking smell from the overflowing garbage and the sound of crickets were filling the street. The lonely lamppost with a halogen lamp flickered every now and then, to produce the luminescence. A dog limped towards the garbage trash, to look for the leftovers in the scattered plantain leaves. Not far from the trash, Kumar squatted in the corner, with a bicycle resting on the road. He had a dark skin and lean physique. With a half smoken beedi held between his fingers, he gazed down to plan his modus operandi. The lungi cloaked a rusty metal close to his waist. The knife had patches of rust covering its surface, cloaking its shine. His fingers ran over the tip of the blade marveling its shape, meanwhile his eyes darted around the corner of the street.

            Kumar sprang up and made a small walk across the road. His foot kicked the crushed coke can, sending it right across the doorstep of a shop. The shutter was down, but still one could see the numerous wall clocks mounted inside the shop. The shop belonged to 'Mr.Khader', who ran this business for more than 25 years. Kumar could hear the slight click sound of the numerous clocks inside. The roaring sound of the matador milk van alerted him. In few moments time, his man would arrive and there will be no turning back for him. Despite the early morning breeze, Kumar was sweating. Anxiously, he started to walk towards his original spot, that was when he noticed a bulky figure at the far end of the street. He jumped on to the cycle and began riding towards the lonely figure.

             The bicycle squeaked through the early hours and passed the figure. The figure was middle aged man, with a pot belly sticking in front of him. A black muffler was woven around his neck with wrinkles of flesh sagging at the sides. His feet made tiny movements to compensate for his bulkiness, heaving a sigh every now and then. Kumar eyed him like a hawk and made a U turn to follow the bulky figure. The bicycle went past him and stopped a few meters in front of him. With no haste, the bulky figure moved noiselessly, except for his heavy breath. He stopped for a moment and sat down at the raised platform. His knees arched like a bow and raised his head to watch the crescent of the moon. Meanwhile, Kumar dropped the cycle down to make a small jog towards his target, Viswanathan, the ex-councilor who seemed to be enjoying the silvery moon.

Mathew, the motherfucker:

           Sub Inspector Mathew parked his two wheeler close to a tea stall. He looked tired and he know that he was in the final leg of his long night shift. All he wanted was a cup of black tea, to keep his wariness away. He does all the pending paper work in station; sorting out the pending case files based on the severity of the crime. Murders, man missing, rapists etc. Most nights he failed to dream and lived his life with a bunch of criminals and mobsters.  When fatigue hits him hard, he finds solace in the empty lockups. He would lie on the concrete bed made for the accused and in a moment’s time, his snoring will reverberate within the walls.

           Tonight, he didn’t have much paper work and he decided to grab a tea. But his thoughts seemed to be swirling around his daughter, Blesse, who was not well. She is not a regular child, she needs special attention. She was mentally challenged, with very little expression to communicate her needs. This evening, Blesse was experiencing stomach infection with her bowels going watery. Last night, Mathew realized that she had relieved herself in the bed. He saw Blesse crying with her hands trying to hug his dad. He was torn between his love for her and the never ending chores that lay for him.Despite all these, he still wanted this job to support his daughter, the lonely companion. After a failed marriage, solace was something that was deprived of him.

The tea stall was brightly lit, with a melody escaping from the FM radio, that hung on the ceiling. A large portrait of God Ganesha, Goddess Lakshmi and Saraswathi welcomed him, with the smell of incense sticks hitting his nostrils. Narasimhan looked small on the stool directly below the portrait. He mustered a smile, to reveal the gutka stained teeth.

“Black tea, thambi!!!”

“Sir! You are early tonight. Did you change your shift?” asked Narasimhan.

“If I don’t have the tea now, I can’t keep my eyelids open for the next two hours. My health is deteriorating, I’m not sure how long I can take night shifts” snorted Mathew

A boy not more than 14yrs, brought the tea for Mathew. The hot tea felt soothing and refreshing.

“Sir, Can’t you find another shift??” smiled Narasimhan.

“I can, but the Inspector is not happy with me and he is chewing my balls. Son of a bitch !!! At times, I envy you guys. You don’t have to worry about rapists and spend time in mortuaries”, chuckled Mathew.

“Haha!!! We have other shits to take care, Sir!” Narasimhan said with an alarm.

Mathew nodded his head in agreement and pushed himself up. He left the shop, waving his hand and doing a cheeky smile to Narasimhan for the freebies.

"Motherfucker!!! Wish I could place a gun at this guy's mouth and push my trigger. Can't he pay for his tea??" growled Narasimhan and he began to count the cash.

        Few minutes later, Mathew's pulsar cruised along Vincent road and made a right turn to enter Crescent colony. The area was dotted with housing units like a deck of cards, with patches of paint and mold gloving it. Mathew was not far from a nightmare that he had been dreading so far. He is about to witness the murder of ex Councillor-Viswanath. I'll be there to watch these two battling out, exchanging blows on each other to see the light of the day. Soon, I will be rolling the dice to decide on their lives and that's why they call me Mr.Fate.    

Kumar's Swarna

           Some say that I run like hell, but it's my strides that are long and I can cover meters in few seconds. Every morning when I wake up, I know that I'm alive for one more kill. It's not that I have got a craving for murder or blood, but it's something that I don't falter much. I was 17, when I  first slit the throat of a woman. That was my first kill. Rivulets of blood came trickling down her heavy bosom. The next minute, I had my guts out, puking on the floor close to her. Only then, I realized not to have a meal before my kill. All my subsequent murders were a walk in a park, just like the tiny feather that can float effortlessly in a breeze. Now you see me jogging towards my target, with a knife in my hand. I'm here for my next kill.

           I'm yet to see the day, perhaps, I may not see it too. This could be my last kill, and I could feel the chill down my spine. Fear is something, that shadowed me all my life. Now, I fear because, I might not get a chance to meet Swarna. The voluptuous body that can make any man go begging. Before I tend to reach my target, I would like to revive my memories, from the very first day in Chennai, working in Madras cafe.

People always called me 'the tea master', but my boss used to yell at me, "Kumar!! you fucker, son of thousand fathers!!!".

            My day starts with preparing dough for the samosas. With 2 kilograms of flour, preparing dough is not an easy task. Every time, I tend to roll the dough, a sharp pain jolts in my elbows and joints. Dough preparation was always the toughest battle and it hurts like hell. Frying the samosas, especially during summer, can be demanding. With the temperatures soaring in 40's, I need to spend hours frying samosas and making tea for the crowd. We are located close to Murugan theatre and I need to make 150 samosas for them, on top of my regular share of customers. My days were brimming with the nauseating smell of burning oil, tea dust and my boss's regular call,

"Kumar !! Kumar, you fucker!! get up you asshole, prepare the dough"

              I never knew that my life will be taking a roller coaster ride, until that moment. The moment, I looked into Swarna's eyes. It was a Sunday, the only day I get to leave early. I was swinging myself out in an electric train bound towards Arakonam. the afternoon was overcast, with clouds threatening to relieve themselves. With very few passengers in the train, I was able to see her in a corner. She tried to conceal her face in her sari but I had a glance of her swollen lip. The thundering sound of the clouds broke my stare. Drops of rain from the window frames were falling on her and she was unperturbed by it. She knew that, I was watching her and she began to walk towards me. With the train jiggling around, she made her way, swinging herself sideways to sneak between the passengers to stand beside me.

              Her face was caked with talcum powder and a red bindi bridging her brows.

"I'm getting down at Avadi"' whispered Swarna, with her head stooped down. 

I wasn't sure if she was talking to me.

"What??? Are you talking to me??? She gave me a look that had a million words that were telling me, "yes!! I'm talking to you, asshole"

Meanwhile, the commuter came to a halt at Avadi and she got down. With my mind still battling, I followed her. She took me down the main street, adjacent to the station's over-bridge. Like a dog following his master, I was trailing her, down the alley. It was marked with shops like a fallen dominoes, with hardly enough room between them. Globules of yellow light were hanging in front, to make light in the dark dungeon. Swarna pushed herself forward towards a narrow corridor, where the walls were stacked with packets of tiny pooris. It was a pani poori stall. With the space growing darker, I found myself walking in a no man's land. I was shoved into a room with a small cot and a dirty white bed on top of it. Swarna was staring at a mirror, with her back close to the broken earthen pot. An increasing sense of apprehension made me to sit on the edge of the bed.

The art of living-part II - (copy and paste it)

No comments:

Post a Comment