The Day of The Black Balloon

[On the 29th of October a fest had been organized where I was undergoing my on job training. In that I won the first prize in short story writing. The motive was to write a story based on the following three keywords - road, balloon, and newspaper. The allotted time was half an hour. But all that I got was 20 minutes because chronically with me, a pen is never to be found when you most need one. But anyway, all's well that ends well and all that. This is what I had come up with in that short span of time. I have tried to reproduce it verbatim as far as possible, but some inadvertent discrepancies must have crept in. Oh, and you had to write the whole thing on only the two sides of an A4 sized paper. I'd never written a short story that short before. ]

Larry would always remember it as the day of the black balloon. Not that the balloon itself was black or anything, in fact it was of the brightest shade of red he’d ever seen. Rather, it signified the color of the cloud that now loomed over Larry’s life ever since that fateful evening with Samantha.

Larry and Samantha had been spending their evenings strolling down the village roads ever since the two names had been placed together in a single sentence. On that particular evening, Samantha was telling Larry all about the party her aunt had thrown in their garden the day before (to which of course, Larry had not been invited). She’d got to the part where Mrs. Miller had accidentally spilt some black pudding over Mrs. Peabody’s bodice when she all of a sudden stopped in the middle of the road as if struck by lightning. Larry followed her gaze but all he could see was a small child holding on to a string from which was suspended a red balloon.

“What happened?” Larry asked. She did not answer. He asked again, louder than before – “What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing,” was all she said as she turned her gaze downwards. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“But something’s the matter, Sammy. Tell me.” He’d grabbed her by the upper part of her naked arm as he said this and could feel the heat rising.

“Why on earth are you so insensitive? You see that child there; see that’s beauty, poetry, sublime. But you, you’d never see any of it. All you men are interested in only that one thing. You’re such a pig.”

Later, he confessed that it was the pig bit that had hurt the most. “But I’m sensitive, too,” he protested. “Tell me, didn’t I risk my neck trying to save your kitten when it climbed up that tree?”

For a moment it looked as if she did understand. Her gaze turned moist and she looked at him intently. But the very next second, he made his second mistake for that evening. “Just because I don’t go all potty over every human-ling in diapers does not make me insensitive!”

That did it. She turned on her heels saying, “I have to go. My aunt needs to take her medicine,” and stomped her way back to her aunt’s place. He did go to her place once or twice after that but a week later he was told that she was off to the city to look for work.

It happened a year later while he was sitting at the local tavern. He’d already had a few more beers than what would have been enough to lay him out cold but he’d held his ground. All of a sudden his gaze fell on a small article in the newspaper. The headline went – “Penguins perishing in Antarctica. Scientists fear they may be extinct in the next twenty years.” As soon as he read it, he collapsed on the floor blubbering like a baby. The kindly old gentleman on the stool beside him tried to help him up. Soon a small crowd had gathered. “I’m sensitive, too, you know,” he kept saying to each of them, “See, I cried for the penguins. Come on Sammy, I dare you to be quite as sensitive as that!”

Yours sincerely

Jude

The Alley Cat (A story)

He wasn’t like the rest of them – different somehow. He was one of the ‘slower’ kids. Therefore, at age forty-two, his knowledge of arithmetic was limited to adding up the little coins he got for pocket money from his seventy year old mother who lived off the meager pension that she received courtesy her late army-man husband who ran out of luck all of a sudden up on the front one fine summer day, some forty years ago. Geography, he knew no further than what street he lived on; and he probably had no idea even what chemistry was – in every sense of the word! So, as you might expect, the poor kid had few other kids for company. All the other kids grew up, you see, and he just couldn’t keep up with them. So, while they became doctors, lawyers or bankers and honeymooned with their wives in Tahiti, he still wore those ridiculous shorts and tweed jacket, and sturdy school shoes (over socks). Well, it wasn’t always that way – thirty-five years ago, his mother baked the finest cookies in the entire neighbourhood. So, every evening kids flocked in at their place for free goodies. Of course, they never played with him or anything, I mean, you couldn’t really play soccer with someone who couldn’t count the number of players on his own team! So, at school, they amused themselves by putting slugs down his back and watching him squirm or kicking him in the shins. He always thought of complaining to his mother about it, but he never could remember it all the way home. Then, one day, the headmistress saw it and immediately called his mother up for an interview. So, she came with her hair in a bun and heard her out. They advised her to put him in a special school “for his own good” where he’d get “that li’l extra care that he needs”. She sat through it all with a stony eye and a pursed lip, her hands folded neatly on her lap and her back straight as a ramrod. He, meanwhile, was quite happy making tiny ripples with his finger in the fishbowl on the headmistress’s desk. When the interview was finally over, she said nary a word but merely shook the headmistress’s clammy hand gravely and then taking the kid gently by the scuff, stormed out the door in short, quick steps and never once turned back till they were inside their home and with the door safely locked.

The following month, she did enroll him in a special school, though. This special school turned out to be a lot smaller than his previous school, but the kids weren’t quite as mean, and he didn’t have too bad a time. But after three years, on finding that her son hadn’t learnt a whit more than the delicate art of making paper planes and how to whistle, she decided to keep him off school for good, what with the high inflation rate and all. It was then that she also got a job washing dishes and running odd jobs at the local fast food joint. Of the money she made therein, she spent not a penny even though her clothes were dangerously thin from wear and they hadn’t had a decent pot of coffee in that house for over half a decade. She stashed it all away neatly in a jar within a cupboard in the kitchen so that when she was no longer there, the kid needn’t have to starve or suffer the indignity of an ‘institution’. Between 8 a.m. and 7:30 pm, you could always find her there in her customary white apron with ketchup stains all over wiping grease off the tables or cleaning up the mess made by some clumsy waitress trying to carry six plates of chop suey all at once.

Every morning, he’d get up at six-thirty, brush his teeth, and take a hot bath (even in the month of June). She would meanwhile finish up her chores around the house which included tidying up the beds and doing the odd laundry. Then, he’d get dressed in his shirt and shorts and have his hair combed out and oiled by his mother, following which, she’d help him tie his shoelaces (a tricky affair that, not one he had mastered yet) and the pair of them would slip hand in hand out onto the open streets. On reaching the fast food joint, the mother would enter through the front door first leaving the kid to wait at the back. She’d then head straight to the kitchen, where by a tacit agreement with the cook with whom they were both on friendly terms, she’d smuggle out to him some breakfast consisting of buttered toast, eggs and a glass of chocolate milk to wash it all down. He’d have his breakfast out there on the steps very slowly and with great relish, taking care not to spill any of the milk onto his shirt. Then, about an hour later his mother would come out to collect the plates. This routine would seldom vary. Then his mother would tell him to go and play all by himself and bury herself back in the bowels of the eatery.

His playpen comprised entirely off a dark, stinking alley behind the joint littered with innumerable trash cans and the refuse from the kitchen. Here, he spent the happiest part of his day. This alley – it was like a tiny ecosystem in itself. There were all kinds of creatures here, and each one a friend. For the kid, he wouldn’t hurt a fly; and quite literally, too for the place was abuzz with flies and yet he never would swat a single one even though they constantly kept buzzing in and out his ears. Once when he was twenty, he had seen a fat, ugly man rush out the kitchen backdoor at breakneck speed with a stick in his hand. Preceding him was a small mouse that scurried along the alley floor as fast as its little legs would carry it. The mouse was doing pretty well, actually – twice the man had swung and twice the mouse had stepped away at the very last second so that the stick landed inches away from its puny body on the hard flagstones below. It was, I think, the momentary hesitation that did it. Till then, the lane had been a straight one, and all the mouse had had to do was run along a single direction looking neither right nor left. But all of a sudden, the lane bifurcated into two, each at 180 degrees to the other. So, for a fraction of a second the mouse stopped, deciding which way to go. It was the very opportunity the man was looking for. Steadying himself, he raised his stick high in the air and taking aim, swung. This time, he did not miss. A screech very much like hard fingernails against a blackboard was drowned by the sound of stick hitting against hard ground. He struck three more times for good measure, but he needn’t have, for its insignificant rodent soul was already far beyond the realms of the neighbourhood. He then turned on his heels and disappeared back whither he came from, whistling ‘What a wonderful World’ through his teeth. All this time, the kid just sat there on the street mute with fear, but as soon as the man had left, he rushed to the spot where the dead mouse lay. Slowly, quietly, he knelt down and picking up the body, blood and all, stuffed it in his pants’ pocket.

Later that night, when they had reached home and locked the door, his mother complained of the horrible stench that was following them round. He did not reply. She made him take off his jacket and searched it thoroughly. Then, finding nothing she ran her hand along the sides of his shorts, whereupon she felt a bump. Diving into his pocket, she felt something soft and fuzzy, and when she fished out the thing and looked at it, she nearly fainted from the shock. Angry beyond words, she raised her arm as if to strike him. But the kid, already a head taller than her, neither flinched nor ran, but merely looked straight into her eyes and said - “maybe, it is a mother too.” Since then, she had never once raised her voice against him, and only to be fair to the kid, he had not provided her with much of an opportunity either.

So, the days had gone by, and with each new day he had made new friends in that alley or lost someone dear. Human friends, he had none, for few people ventured into that part of the town because of the smell and the dirt, except perhaps to dump more trash. But still, some people did come – dark, shifty looking men speaking in whispers who always seemed to smoke cigars and who had endless stuff to pass into each others’ pockets. Once, he had seen a short, bald man and a tall guy in a hat walk in together. The two of them seemed to be exchanging some rather heated words when all of a sudden this tall guy fished out a gun from his pocket and promptly shot the other in the chest. He then threw the gun down and disappeared over the wall, all smooth as silk. A few minutes later his mother had come running out to him looking very white and finding a shawl in her handbag, had wrapped it around his shoulders even though the weather was quite warm. Then there had been the sirens and the men in uniform going round with a notebook asking everybody questions. All that was very exciting, but he was happy most of all that his mother had got off work early.

Then, around a year ago, some new kids moved into the neighborhood. These were real mean kids between the ages ten and thirteen who had their hair in spikes and jeans hacked apart with a penknife so that they reached only halfway down their shins. They liked to burn away their daddies’ filthy money on clothes, skateboards and food till their obese bellies were quite ready to burst. They always went around town all together, skateboards and bats in hand, screaming or throwing stones at the dogs or the occasional old lady they met. This particular fast food joint was a special favourite with them. They used to come here almost everyday and kicked up such a ruckus shouting at the waitresses and throwing food all over the place that his mother’s weary joints ached from crouching for long periods over the floor in order to clean up all that mess after they were gone.

Then, one day, one of them had dared another to go behind the eatery, since he had heard from some other kid that a ghost lived there. The other had taken him up on his challenge and had lead the way around the building on tiptoes, while everyone else followed in a close body a foot behind him. It was there they first saw him, with an empty Coca Cola bottle in one hand and a small metal pipe in the other, striking the two together and making weird music. They were very much alarmed at the sight but as they started to run, he saw them too, and letting go of the bottle, he started to get up. Scared all the more, the kid up front picked up a banana peel from a nearby trash can and flung it at him. Immediately, he flopped back on the ground and curled up in a fetal position with his head between his knees and his back towards them. This broke the ice like no other and each boy in his turn picked up something from his surroundings and hurled it at him with all his might, laughing like crazy all the while. Some of these things were quite hard and he screamed when they hit him, but this only made them laugh harder. Hearing all that noise, his mother rushed out the kitchen and arming herself with a saucepan which she brandished malevolently, somehow managed to drive the kids away.

This recurred on numerous occasions as the days went by. Each time his mother had to rush out to him, and each time she somehow did manage to drive them away despite her seventy years. But these kids had found their best toy yet and they were in no mood to back down. So, they simply looked for an opportunity when his mother wouldn’t be there. And this opportunity came one autumn eve, when the manager sent her out to inquire down at the local departmental store why their supply of flour hadn’t arrived as scheduled. They watched her go out the front door and as soon as the coast was clear, slipped out the back. He was trying to make friends with a kitten by tempting it with a piece of meat he’d found among the pile of refuse. He had succeeded in drawing the kitten at an arm’s reach. As soon as he saw them, the piece of meat dropped from his fingers and his jaw fell open. One small, cross-eyed kid with freckles boldly stepped forward and kicked hard at the kitten, sending it flying through the air. He lunged forward to protect it. They were very much amused at this. Another came forward and kicked him in the stomach, making him bend double from the agony. He screamed.

“Scream all you want,” someone said. ‘Your mama ain’t home to save your ass this time.” And they all laughed.

Then a tall boy with a baseball bat stepped forward. “Hey freak, ever played baseball? Ya know what a strike out is? Here, let me show you.” And taking a huge bat lift, he swung hard catching him on the shins and sending him into conniptions from the pain. Together, they kicked him, scratched him and beat him almost everywhere. Nobody heard his cries for help. He was a retard and his mother was a charwoman; so, even if anyone did hear, they probably chose to ignore it.

At last, when the others had spent themselves, the biggest boy majestically strode forward, and grabbing him by the collar, punched him in the eye with all his might. As the fist made contact, a huge flash of light blinded him and his head dropped down on the ground, apparently quite lifeless. This made them feel a little ill at ease.

“Geez, I hope we haven’t killed the guy,” someone said from behind. Another nudged him with his foot, but there was no response. They looked wide eyed into each others’ faces. “Let’s scram before somebody gets here.” And they ran like so many rats in various directions across the alleyways.

Cats are marvelous creatures. They can fall from great heights or get bitten in half by dogs and yet continue to survive as if nothing happened. When they had kicked the kitten away, it immediately picked itself up and hid itself behind the trash cans. From its vantage point, it could see the whole scene play itself out. So, it merely waited for the crowd to disperse. As soon as the boys were gone, he ambled across to the kid and began eating off the fallen piece of meat. In the process, it brushed against his face. He opened his eyes and saw the cat. It looked a little blurred around the edges. He extended an arm and touched it. The cat turned around but did not go away. This gave him a little more courage and with some effort, he managed to sit up. He propped himself up against the trash can and began stroking the cat with one hand. As if to reciprocate, the cat also climbed into his lap and fell asleep.

Two hours later, his mother had completed her chores for the day and went out the back to fetch her kid. She found him in that same position propped up against the cans with a kitten in his lap. She knew something wasn’t right. She walked up to him and gently touched his shoulder. He started to shake all over. Slowly, she raised his head up and then saw the black eye and the blood under his nose. She winced slightly. However, she had had her share of pain and had long ago resigned herself to the fact that it was to be no bed of roses for her kid either. With infinite patience, she managed to coax him into an upright position. Taking out a bottle of water from her handbag, she wet a corner of her handkerchief, and with one hand started to clean his wounds with it as he gazed away from her. Meanwhile, her other hand travelled over the back of her own neck, and as she felt the withered flesh beneath, she all of a sudden remembered that she, too had been young once –all pink and white and beautiful. A thought occurred to her. Diving into her handbag, she checked how much money she had.

“Hey kid, want an ice cream?” And all of a sudden, from behind that veil of coagulated blood a smile broke out.

“With cherries?”

“Sure, anything you like – chocolate, pineapple, vanilla, anything! And you could even get an extra scoop if you promise to be good.”

“Ooh, I’d like that!” he said almost ecstatically and grinning very widely now. Mother and son strolled down the shady lane as his fingers interlaced with hers. He was telling her all about the cat.

Yours sincerely

Jude

Lost (A story)

“All right, here we are. Now, be a good boy and stay put inside the car. Mommy’s got work to do, sweetheart, so sorry to make you wait. Oh, and keep an eye on your sister – don’t you let her blow the horn or kick up a ruckus, now.” Kissing the pair of them hurriedly without actually touching her lips, she walked briskly away from the car with her back towards it, turning round momentarily at the door to pass her right hand significantly across her throat and simultaneously click her tongue to convey the exact repercussions of not following her injunctions to the full.

He was a seven year old boy with a scar just above his right eyebrow from a fall he’d suffered two years ago trying to mount the neighbours’ fence with the sole motive of pilfering apples from their tree. Had his chin been a touch stronger or his eyes narrower, he’d have paid dearly half the times he was condoned for some mischief he caused. She was just four-and-a-half and had the appearance of a moist beetroot with a jetpack. Together, they were the greatest inspiration behind the drive in the field of natural science to come up with more effective contraceptives.

As soon as she was out of sight, he started banging his head on the dashboard in mock chagrin. Discovering on the seventh strike that it actually hurt, he abruptly ceased doing it and diverted his attention towards his sister. She was sitting on the back seat dribbling from the corner of her mouth, her forefinger stuck up her nose and her eyes reflecting the fleecy clouds above.

“Cut it out”, he said as he roughly yanked her hand away from her nose. She stared at him vacantly and open mouthed for some time, her brow creased, but then turned her head and once more her finger embarked on the treasure hunt up her olfactory tract. “Stop that! You’re freaking me out.” This time he gave her such a violent jerk that she damn near fell off her seat. The quivering pout and glistening eyes made him realize the gravity of his sin and he hurriedly clambered up the back of the seat to effectively gag her sister with his palm before the impending wail.

“Don’t cry, Gaby,” he said to her, somewhat nervously as he looked around to look for a diversion. “Ah, what luck! Mum forgot the key inside the car. Cheer up, kiddo. This is our lucky break.” Checking for any signs of being observed and finding none, he picked up the key and placing it within the lock, turned it. A mechanical click followed. He tried the handle and to his great delight, the door swung open.

“We’re free, Gaby, free!” He hauled his bewildered sister up the back of the seat and the pair of them set foot upon the brave, new world outside. And lo! The sky turned bluer and the buildings shot up higher right before their very eyes! There were a lot of people on the sidewalk at that time of the day; like so many ants – moving linearly and without apparent motive. Twice they had to scamper out of the way to avoid being trampled upon.

Right across the street was a gigantic toy store. He pointed it out to her. It got her, it did. She smiled, and her entire face lit up. She looked so much better when she did that, he thought. “I want a pony,” she said simply. “We’ll get whatever you want, but hurry up. We must return before mum gets back,” he said as he took her by the hand and the two of them rushed across the street.

The moment they entered, it felt like the other side of the looking glass. He’d never seen anything like this. Tyrannosauruses in smocks belted out classic Christmas tunes to the entire Bear family from Goldilocks. A choo-choo train chugged around doomed for all eternity to the life of a circular track. A skeleton nodded its head significantly at anyone who dared to touch it. Rocking horses rocked invitingly from their pedestals. He-man brandished his sword menacingly at Catwoman who threatened to cut him short with her razor-sharp claws. Time itself seemed to stop as he watched from a dream. He turned his head so much that his neck hurt. Towards the left was a wooden staircase leading to the upstairs section that promised toys for the ‘older’ boys. He climbed it like a zombie.

Upstairs, the first thing he saw was the greatest collection of balls in the universe. There were baseballs, tennis balls, footballs, golf balls, bowling balls, and multicoloured, multipurpose balls of gigantic proportions. Then there were the roller skates – quads, inlines, skateboards, scooters – you name it! And bicycles – mouthwateringly red. He approached one and tried the handle. “This would make a swell thing to go around on, eh Gaby?” No answer. He turned around; no Gaby in sight. He turned right, then left, and then swiveled round in 360 degrees. Still no Gaby! The wonders that surrounded him only a moment ago suddenly turned to ashes. He called out to her. He let go of the bike and dashed down the staircase. Skeleton, tyrannosaurus, rocking horse – balls, skates, bicycles; back to rocking horse, tyrannosaurus, skeleton. He ran up and down the wooden staircase around four or five times. At last he dropped down on his kness from sheer exhaustion. Then the realization that he’d truly lost Gaby hit him, right in the pit of the stomach. He drew his breath in sharply. What was he to do now? He closed his eyes and let his head rest on his knee in sheer despair. He raised his head again to come face to face with the skeleton grinning fiercely from its corner. It brought back thoughts of his mother. He’d be slaughtered. She’d especially mentioned that he had to look after his sister while she was away. And now he’d lost her!

“Get a grip on yourself,” he told himself. “Panicking will get you nowhere.” He must think – use his head. “I bet she is within this store somewhere”, he thought, for any other possibility was simply too scary to imagine. He looked around. There were tons of stuff in there making for a million odd hiding places. So, he must be methodical. Gaby, he said, was even smaller than the retriever next door. So she’d probably fit within an amazingly small volume. He resolved then and there that he’d leave no stone unturned, even turn the store inside out if necessary.

Start from the door, he told himself. And he did. He looked everywhere – behind the bears, under the rocking horse, on the shelves, in the trash can, beneath Catwoman’s cape, under He-man’s legs, and even lifted up a corner of the carpet to peer underneath. But Gaby remained as elusive as before. “Mustn’t-lose-hope,” he cried, mouthing each word painfully as he clawed his face in desperation. His eyes itched so hard from the dust he’d encountered that he wanted to gouge them out. Well, if she ain’t downstairs, it figures she’s somewhere upstairs, he thought. So he once again mounted the stairs. Upstairs, it was pretty much the same story. Once again, he did all he could – looked under the balls, above the balls, behind the bicycles, beneath the skateboards, and behind the curtains. Still no sign of Gaby! He felt goosebumps all over. Maybe aliens came in and abducted her! But, knowing Gaby, they’d probably have returned her by now. No, she must be in the toy store. But, the problem was that the toy store consisted only of upstairs and downstairs, and she was to be found in neither, unless of course – the stairs! That must be it! He jumped up and dashed down the stairs. There, in a dark, putrid corner under the staircase was her own little Gaby, smiling and sucking her thumb with great satisfaction. Being inclined to discipline her at the slightest occasion, he would have given her a smacking for sucking her thumb (even though he himself was not above it when greatly agitated), but not this time! Instead, all he did was pick her up and kiss her about a billion times all over her happy face, startling her considerably. But his happiness was short-lived, for with a start he realized that by now his mother was probably all over the street looking for them, in hysterics.

“Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll go outside and check first if mum’s there.” He pushed open the swing doors and peered outside. Then he saw her. She saw him, too. She looked like Godzilla on an adrenaline over-secretion. She dragged some subliminal thing behind her.

“There you are, you little rascal. I hope you’ve had your fun at last, young man,” she said between clenched teeth. It was hard work talking to that marvelous chin in that tone, but she was determined to see it through to the end this time. “Never once did you think about me, not even your little sister. The poor thing got so scared on being left alone that she ran back straight to my office, crying so hard that nothing would induce her to stop. ” He did not understand. He looked down and to his utter amazement realized that the ‘subliminal thing’ was actually Gaby herself, very much alive and well, except for a bit of red about the eyes. He whirled around, and sure enough, standing behind him was Gaby, too. As his mother approached him, she too came creeping up from behind until she was standing at his side. It was then his mother saw her. “What on earth –” was all she managed to say before almost biting her tongue in half and passing out on the hot sidewalk. The two Gabys simultaneously let out an earth-shattering wail. He made no attempt to shut his ears to the sound.

He had searched well – very well, in fact, perhaps only too well, so well that he’d found her even when she wasn’t there!

Yours sincerely

Jude

Good and Evil (A story)

From the notes found on the desk of the one they called Bùxiǔ (the immortal), the night of July 2, 1976:

They’re coming to get me. I can smell them. They’ll be banging on that door in precisely 30 minutes from now. The precious few minutes that I have, I wish to tell everybody my thoughts in as few words as possible. It’s certainly odd that I choose to write and at such a time as this, for I am not in the habit of maintaining a journal to commemorate the nuances of everyday life. But I find that at the expiry of the aforementioned period, things will no longer be the same, and as it is, I have nothing better to occupy myself with at the moment. The need to occupy the mind in the waking hours – that is the driving force behind every action. First of all, I would like to clarify the fact that I do not feel any fear in the conventional sense of the word. It is not that I find fear to be unmanly or demeaning, far from it – in fact I worship this particular trait in humans and baser creations as I do every other feature under the sun, for had it not been for fear, perhaps my operations would never have succeeded. And whether you choose to believe it or not, everything I have ever done comes from a deep sense of love and awe towards the creation as a whole.

The tide of memories overwhelms me. I was born on this very day thirty-nine years ago, in the cold, dry Ningxia province. I never knew who my father was. My mother, a maidservant, left me for her heavenly abode one bleak winter morning when I was just three years of age. The old man of the village took me in. He lived alone in a secluded corner of the settlement in a cottage with no one for company. He was small and weak, in a perpetual fit of coughing that used to make his entire frame vibrate like a cement-mixer. He spent most of his time in bed with the mosquito-net down, and got up only to fix us lunch and to perform his ablutions. Even this tiny inconvenience I somewhat dispelled for him, when at five I started to cook the food all by myself.

Looking back, in the eight years or so that I stayed there, only two events are worthy of being committed to text. One was when I was six or so; this old man – he had a pet canary, the prettiest little bird with the most melodious of voices. One summer day, when it had broken into a song that was simply divine to hear, utterly unable to contain myself, I got up from my place in front of the oven and stood there at the kitchen door listening with my eyes. As I watched, all of a sudden a cat black as the night itself appeared and with lightning agility, pounced on the canary and methodically tore it apart. I remember watching, paralyzed with fear, and yet a strange ecstasy welling up from deep within me. There was this bird, supremely beautiful, and yet this cat had not the slightest remorse in killing it – this wonderful impermanence of being and the creator’s impartiality towards one and all left me awestruck. Later, while having my tea, I accidentally sipped too much of it at once, and it scalded my tongue. As I got up to look at the injured appendage in the mirror, there was a revelation. Right there at the centre of my tongue, there was a black mark shaped exactly like a cat. It was at that precise moment that I came to realize that the canary, the cat, the old man, and everything else around were really me. I was foolish this far to believe that my being consisted solely of my own flesh and bones. The flesh and bones were mine, of course, but there was no reason why my being should be contained in such a narrow dimension. This whole world was really a part of my very being; something that existed as much a part of me as my own tongue. You could cut my tongue off me, but you could not cut me off my tongue! From then on every man’s joy was my joy and every man’s pain, my own. This world was mine, and I could do whatever I wanted with it, but ever so tenderly, with my head bowed in reverence.

The other event of note occurred around five years later, just prior to leaving for Shanghai, when I killed the old man. I did not murder him as he slept. Instead, I deliberately woke him up and told him in great detail, knife in hand, exactly what I was about to do. He listened with mounting horror and I embraced him and ran my fingertips lovingly over his face. Then slowly, I cupped my left hand over his mouth, and with my right simultaneously thrust the blade into the side of his neck. I kept my left hand there until the last of his spasms died down, and then I rushed out into the open where I retched out an enormous quantity of blood.

I took whatever money I could lay my hands on in that tiny cottage and came to Shanghai. There was so much to see, so much more to do. Only, I did not know where to begin. I spent my early days like a vagabond in the outskirts of the great city, rummaging in the garbage or stealing from shops and hawkers to satisfy my ever-growing hunger. It happened on one such occasion when I had nicked a leg of mutton from a butcher and was seen doing it. Suddenly the whole town was after me. I ran blindly forward with my prize held tightly under my jacket. I noticed a dark alley and slipped into it just in time to see my pursuers dashing past. It was there I met Zhǔ. There was something about him that made him seem taller than he was. As he approached me, his face was scarcely visible in the dark. The distant wail of a cat told me that this was to be another turning point of my life. He wasn’t much for small talk. “Come with me”, he said simply, his hand upon my shoulder. I felt myself drawn towards this individual as if I’d known his touch forever.

That was my formal incorporation into the world of crime. From there started a string of murders, robbery and torture that has not ended to this day. Zhǔ taught me to read and write, the art of fighting and how to handle guns and ammunition properly, and most importantly, how to meditate. In a small number of years, I was the very best he had. The most delicate and dangerous of all missions was entrusted to my care. I also found that the deaths on these occasions did not pain me quite as much, perhaps because the people involved pertained to a less sensitive part of my being. However, through him I came to understand that it was not your skills with weapons that distinguished you in the world of crime. “Even a child,” he explained once, “can fire a gun. That is not important. But what we forget is that shooting and killing are not one and the same. It is odd that while the reformers are working day and night to instill some goodness in the hearts of men, these same men cannot be evil beyond a certain measure, either. When you build an empire, it may just cost you your life if you hesitate due to any softness of the heart. You, my son, do not hesitate. For that, one day you shall wear my crown.” By way of an answer, I had said, “I do not kill – merely make amendments to suit my purpose.”

He was a man of his words. On my twenty-first birthday, he called me to his room and giving me a dagger, locked the door. “I am old now,” he said. “It is time for someone else to take my place. Please, I beseech you, do the needful.” He sat down on the bed, his eyes turned heavenwards. I tightened my grip on the dagger and as I plunged it into his heart, an indescribable agony ripped me apart and I screamed and screamed until I was nearly ready to faint. Blood flowed freely from my nostrils. I steadied myself and unlocking the door, exited. Outside, a large section of our clan had assembled in response to my cries. Seeing them, I raised the bloody dagger for all to behold, and as if comprehending, they closed their eyes and bowed before me.

From then on, my empire attained unparalleled heights and shall forever be put down in boldface letters in the annals of crime. I cut down the size of my organization to a handful of men who were more readily acceptable as an inevitable extension of my persona. The rest, I simply exterminated, something which caused me immense torture of the body and spirit, and it was only a week later that my breathing became less constricted and my movements less painful. With the reins of power in my hands, my empire spread far beyond the city the realms of Shanghai, its tentacles reaching all throughout mainland China. Blood flowed freely, and so did the money. In my endeavours to reach the pinnacle, I spared no one – young and old, men, women, and children – I mowed them down and rooted them out like so many weeds; lovingly, like a gardener ministering to the cares of his bower. I loved every bit of it, and it was through love that I finally overwhelmed the pain. Through the years, as my empire grew stronger, ironically, the less pleasure the glory afforded me. In fact, slowly, I became almost completely desensitized to all forms of joy and sorrow. I began to spend an increasing part of my waking hours in deep meditation, contemplating the fluidity of life and the marvel of creation.

It happened this morning while I thus meditated. I had another vision. Zhǔ was before me, looking younger than the last time I saw him. He handed me the dagger, saying, “come, my son, the time has come. I beseech you to do the needful.” As I clutched the dagger, I looked down at my hand and it seemed strangely old and withered. I tried to push the dagger into his flesh, but my hand bent of its own accord and the blade dug deep within my own ribs. I woke up, clutching my chest in agony. As the pain subsided, I realized exactly where I had to do. First of all, I sent a wire to the local chief-of-police informing him of my intention to retire and asking him to meet me at precisely eight o’ clock in the evening. I also gave them the exact address where this meeting was to take place. Then, accordingly I quietly slipped out of my chambers and betook myself to this little cottage outside of town, where I have been waiting since morning, meditating all the while. A strange happiness engulfs me, one that I thought I was quite immune to. But enough said; I already hear the sound of a car approaching. I must make adequate preparations to welcome them.

Here, the note ended. As the ex-chief-of-police, Shanghai carefully folded the sheet of yellowed paper and put it back in his pocket after reading it out loud, we waited eagerly for him to continue. We were young, huddled together as if from the chill even though it was the mid of June, taking little sips from our steaming cups of green tea. He then extracted a cigar from his pocket and proceeded to light it in a way that oddly contrasted with the timelessness of his tale. Meticulously, he took out a handkerchief and proceeded to blow his nose. Only after his nasal tract was clear to his satisfaction did he resume.

“When the elusive Bùxiǔ sent us the telegram, we could scarcely believe our eyes. Just when we had given up all hopes of ever restoring law and order in the country, this knocked us right out of our senses. From experience, we knew that these great men never lied. Accordingly, that evening, I, accompanied by another senior police official set out on our mission. As I sat in the car mechanically moving the steering wheel and biting my lips, it was all I could do to keep from going mad with excitement. The thousands of killings and the huge reserves of wealth we had managed to track down to his organization were, we knew, just the tip of the iceberg. We hated to imagine what lay before us.

“When we finally reached our destination, there was a strong wind blowing. Under the silvery moon, the tiny cottage looked old as time itself and the flickering lamplight through its windows lent the outside world such a fearsome aspect that it chilled us to the marrow. With extreme caution, we made our way to the door and tried the dilapidated handle. Finding it unlocked, we stepped back, and sharply kicked the door open, commando style.

“A small man of indeterminate age with a bald head wearing the saffron robes of a Buddhist monk sat at a desk with his back towards us. He neither moved nor spoke. A lamp on his desk was the only source of illumination in the entire room. The room itself seemed entirely devoid of any conscious effort to make it more agreeable to occupation. “Hello,” I said, my revolver pointing straight at him. Never in our wildest imagination could we conceive what was to follow.

“He stood up, as if extricating himself from a dream. Then he turned. I will never forget the sight of his face. His skin had a deathly pallor that is to be found only in bodies drowned at sea. His cheekbones were high and stripped of all flesh. The chin was round and delicate, almost like a woman’s. But his eyes – they were unlike anything I’ve ever seen. There was not a hint of white in them, merely two deep, dark voids that seemed to consume everything in its vicinity, including us. We fired simultaneously, the two shots ringing as one. But we needn’t have, for a blinding flash of light accompanied by a scream so loud and so terrible as cannot be wrought by any earthly creature sent us sprawling to the floor. I pressed my face against my knees and shut my ears in agony. I cannot say for certain how long it lasted. It may have been a few seconds to anything close to the span of an hour. But eventually it disappeared just as suddenly as it had come. Slowly, I opened my eyes and got to my feet. The lamp stood extinguished on the desk. In the moonlight streaming through the windows, I could see my partner lying unconscious on the floor. But of Him, there was no sign. A small, dark heap remained on his chair. As I watched, the thing suddenly moved and metamorphosed into the shape of a small, immensely black cat. With majestic grace it licked its paw twice, and then jumped onto the desk. In another instant, it had leapt clean through the window and disappeared into the night. I dropped down to my knees and for the first time in my life, prayed in all sincerity.”

Thus, his tale came to a close as he nonchalantly stuffed his hands within his pockets and turned to look at the sky. We, meanwhile, sat paralyzed with fear, too afraid to look into each others’ faces. As an afterthought he added as he made to leave, “the only thing that separates mortals from the Gods themselves is moderation. When evil crosses its own reaches, all our notions of the world as we know it crumble, and evil ceases to become distinct from good. The only reason you and I dare to make it through each day is because we are two insignificant lives on a lonely planet, blissfully oblivious of the vast universe that surrounds us.”

Yours sincerely

Jude

The Train-ride (A story)

As he sat there on that train, he kept telling himself, “This couldn’t be happening! Hell – I’m not even 25 yet.” His grandfather always said, when troubles start raining on ya, they really pour. The irony here was that Grampa himself had been one such raindrop. He hadn’t really been a very good person ever since he could remember, and therefore, he wasn’t very sorry he was dead. The exact opposite of Grandma – ‘Grand Mama’, he often called her owing to her massive bulk. She was the sweetest human being he knew. Thank God she was still alive.

Looking out the carriage through the window, he could see the world outside bathed in an aura of gold, the precise light that brings the full force of reminiscences upon you and makes the living dead stir in their graves. Snatches of his childhood, his teenage, and finally the very recent past flashed before his eyes. He was born to parents who had married very young (his mother was 18 and his father 19 when they’d married), before their blood had cooled or their minds had had the time to accept the reality of their adulthood. So, only a few days after his third birthday, the couple, while returning from a party severely inebriated had crashed their car into a tree beside the highway and died on the spot. With no one else to take care of, the orphan was taken into the household of his grandparents (maternal) where he stayed till he finally moved out at age seventeen.

But a lot happened before he turned seventeen. He had moved in with his grandparents when he was far too little to develop any serious affection for his parents (he had a faint recollection of the perfume his mother wore and her lovely, even teeth; but of his father, he had no remembrance whatever save for an ever-present scent of tobacco) and therefore for the next 12 years of his life, his grandmother was the sole object of his adoration. His grandfather was a mean old man with a perpetual scowl on his countenance. They were farmers with a medium-sized piece of land to their name on which their entire livelihood depended. In that one plot, they grew corn, kept chickens, and even had a minuscule apple orchard growing in a tiny corner beside the house. This apple orchard was indeed the apple of his grandfather’s eye. Although his grandfather did love him in his own peculiar way, he always suspected, and probably rightly so that he loved his apple orchard more. More than half of his day passed in keeping the neighbourhood brats out of his apple trees. He would sit on the porch all day reading a newspaper or swatting flies, and whenever he caught a glimpse of any kid eyeing his apple, he’d promptly rush out with a cane in his hand and a mouth shooting profanities like a machine gun, and occasionally with the especially pigheaded ones he wouldn’t even refrain from throwing stones. He wouldn’t consent to sell them apples, either. No wonder he had few friends his own age within the village and they almost always had apple pie for dessert. When he finally moved out, it was all he could do to keep himself from barfing at the mere sight of another apple.

Looking out that carriage window at a tiny building over the hill, he thought about how any unpleasantness really impressed itself far more strongly on the mind than all the good memories put together. What right had he to nurse a single bitter grudge when there was his grandmother, too? All grey, and yet without a shade of black, that’s what she was. Hadn’t she far greater reasons to complain? He knew all the time that he wouldn’t be staying there forever, but where could she go? And to top it all, she loved his Grampa to pieces. He realized that in all the twenty four plus years that he’d lived, not counting all his past lives, he did not understand shit about women. She was old, weary, slightly lame, and with cataracts, and yet she was there at his beck and call every instant, till about a fortnight back he had to bring his grandfather up to the city to this hospital because of the stroke he’d had. And now he was sitting on this train this lovely summer day - on his way to break the news of his demise to her. She had tried her best to come with him, but he wouldn’t let her for she had broken her hip from the fall she’d suffered in the bathroom about a month ago. He’d engaged a nurse for her – the best that he could afford. Yet, even the best of nurses wouldn’t heal a broken heart.

Looking at his Grandmother, he could tell his mother must have been a real pretty woman, if she’d not inherited her looks from her father, that is. Every morning she’d get up very early to make tea for his Grampa and butter his toast, which she’d place daintily on a tray and bring it right up to his bed. His Grampa would then get up, take a leak in the bathroom, come back to bed, complain about his tea being cold and his toast burnt, eat it real slow (very bad teeth) - dribbling from the corner of his mouth all the while which her grandmother would keep mopping up every minute for him using a white napkin, and then at last light a cigarette and move downstairs, scowling at one and all. Then, she’d proceed to warm his bathwater (they did not have electric heating back then in the country) and finally, she’d help him undress and wash himself. He was her baby, and she cared for him like no other, while he, knowing it all only too well, would have every filthy trick up his sleeve to emotionally blackmail her. He’d complain the water was too hot, then only two minutes later too cold, his gouts would resurface, he’d feel a pneumonia coming on, and so forth, and at last he’d move away not being able to hold it in any longer. But she - nothing he did could obliterate that angelic smile from her face. She in fact had an aura - pretty much like that fine summer day outside the window.

Of course there was school – not something he had much to talk about, though. He was a congenital loner, and the fact that he was really good at studies meant that it was the perfect social suicide for him. He rarely got invited to hang out at parties or birthdays, and therefore he had hardly a friend to call his own all the time that he lived there. But there was this picture of a girl in an elaborately frilled frock beside her Grandmother’s bed that used to pique his curiosity so much. He'd asked his Grandma a million times who she was and was told that she was the granddaughter of some friend she’d had in high school. When he turned fifteen, this girl all of a sudden materialized in flesh – looking a lot better, actually. In place of that frock, there was a white t-shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and jeans. Also, she was almost 2 years older than him and much better read, living in the city where they had a much bigger library. He would have felt a little ashamed before her if she’d only let him. She was the most natural, impulsive human being he ever met. And also the most talkative. She’d only come for the weekend, and following the weekend she did leave, but not before giving him a pocket full of dreams, and incidentally, her phone number.

So the moment he arrived at the city (he’d finished high school back then and also earned a scholarship to study law at the university), he called her up. She’d picked up at the eleventh ring and agreed to meet him for lunch that very evening. At seven-thirty sharp (he was really a bit disappointed not to have been kept waiting) she’d arrived at this greasy, fake Italian restaurant with her hair in double ponytails, one above each ear. They’d ordered chocolate milk for starters (they were young, you see), and when he looked at the way the it left a faint lining of a moustache above her lip, in her double ponytails and all, he decided that he could look at her for the rest of his life.

He’d worked his ass off at college. Not that law school wasn’t tough of itself; he also had to earn his keep working at fast food joints, supermarkets, and even do his time at the garage on weekends. He knew she was working and had in his own mind had classified her somewhere between a secretary and an aspiring actress, but it came as a bit of a surprise to him to discover that she was a merely a waiter in a pub, reading on the sly crouched behind the counter. That meant that they had no money to call their own until he got a real job, which didn’t happen until four years later when this bigshot firm of corporate lawyers interviewed him and hired him on the spot. The very next day, he’d rushed to her and they’d agreed to take each other for better or for worse presided over by the rightful authority whose deathlike solemnity for once had failed to instill any temporary feeling of piety in an about-to-be-married couple.

That happened when he was twenty-one. Three solid years ago that had been the happiest days of his life. Now, he was twenty-four. He’d been kept up at his Grandfather’s bedside for about a week now and was going through some periodical while the old man slept, when she all of a sudden marched into the room chewing gum and arm-in-arm with a guy who looked like something the Beatles had forgot to flush, and told him then and there, right in front of the nurses and all that she’d finally found her ‘soul mate’, and that she must leave him for the one she'd lugged along all the way to show him. This happened exactly five days ago. He wouldn’t have minded so much but for the looks of the guy. All the time she was with him, she used to run this crusade against stubbles and untidy hair. He remembered the ordeal of having to shave everyday and wash his hair every alternate day while he was in college. Once he'd got out, it seemed the whole world had conspired against him to side with her, and his was a job that demanded he keep up appearances as best as possible for the sake of the clientele. But here was this guy with the filthiest of beards and hair so unkempt that he seemed to have suffered some kind of high voltage electric shock. It made him feel positively soulless. This one, he knew would take some time to heal. But his Grampa had created a diversion for the moment by falling ill and dying at precisely the right time, and he’d locked it all in and hadn’t told anybody.

About two hours from when he started, the train finally pulled up at his destination. He hauled his rucksack up his shoulders and made his way out the station. As he geared up for the fifteen minutes or thereabouts walk to his former home, he thought about how his grandfather had finally died. It had been a reasonably quiet affair, and while he was dozing on a plastic chair in the corridor, this nurse had come and woken him up to give him that bit of news. Not something that surprised him overmuch, though, for he’d been in a coma for the past three days. That telling him bit was the easy part since he never loved him, but how could he possibly break the news to his Grandma? Maybe she too would succumb from the shock of it all. She was already over eighty and fairly weak, and that fracture had been the last straw. He hated to think that with his Grandpa dead and his wife gone, there was an even greater surprise in store for him. All of a sudden he wished he had a brother or some, who could do his dirty work for him. But no, him it must be!

Climbing the all too-familiar staircase, he twice thought of chickening out. She didn’t have many days to live herself, so what was the point in telling her? He could just call her up once in a while from the city telling her Grampa was still at the hospital, very much on the improve. She was probably so batty by now, she wouldn’t be able to see spot the lie - which meant that at least she’d be happy as long as she lived. But as he climbed that staircase, his legs seemed to have developed a will of their own and taking him to places he least wanted to go. He found her lying awake in her bed, gazing out the window and the nurse asleep in the adjacent room (talk about constant vigilance!). “The sky looks so much bluer when you see it against a really tall tree”, she said before turning round to smile at him. God, he felt like an executioner.

Then, something magical happened. “I’m sorry, Grandma, Grampa’s gone”, he said. And as he bent down to embrace her to cushion the blow, his glance fell on the picture of his wife as a child, exactly as he’d left it. And then something inside him seemed to snap and the floodgates opened. All the hurt he’d bottled up these past five days seemed to unleash upon him with tremendous force. He realized for the first time what it was to go on living without his wife. He buried his head upon his Grandmother’s shoulder and began sobbing hysterically.

When she heard the news, she sat up and did not move a muscle for about fifteen seconds or so. She’d felt like crying too, but here was her dear little grandchild crying a river, and she realized she must be the stronger man. “Now, now,’ she said. “You poor dear, I know you loved your Grampa very much. But we’re all old, you see, and our time is past. What’s the use of crying over what cannot be undone? So you be strong now…”

Yours sincerely

Jude

Old Sir Rider Haggard (A story)

Of all the attractions that the house contained, the garage was the best place to hang out in. The only place in the house that had an ambience! It wasn’t overly clean like the rest of the house under the able vigilance of his paranoid aunt, nor was it odourless and synthetic, which was perhaps the most undesirable side effect of excessive neatness – the kind that was the arch-nemesis of any personalization (it was his private opinion that his yellow tennis ball, his red baseball cap, and his favourite Asterix edition (Asterix and the great crossing) should always be strewn across the bed or the floor with anybody picking any one of them up only when they really needed it and then tossing it aimlessly with eyes closed when they’re done with it). Plus, it was bursting its corsets with treasure - the kind of treasure that requires no hiding as it is automatically hid from you once you cross a threshold age barrier. There were cobwebs of the most sinister forms, cartons containing all these really old stuff each of which you could go through for about an hour or so, getting catapulted back into an era so long gone that even your mother wouldn’t remember. There was this one scrap of some newspaper (a favorite of his) from the fifties wrapped around this antique pair of galoshes that belonged to nobody he knew that had one large advertisement of a guy in a hat with the creepiest of smiles eating a piece of toast with some margarine on it of a brand that was no longer to be seen. Perhaps the man was no longer to be seen either, so that meant that even though the advertisement focused on all sorts of health benefits from the margarine (vitamins, et al), it wasn’t probably all that effective either. The moral of the story, he inferred, was you gotta buy a product solely based on what it tasted like, and not by reading the nutritional information on the side.

This aunt, whose house and whose garage it was, wasn’t really an aunt in the true sense of the word, meaning that she wasn’t a sister of his mother or anything. In fact, she wasn’t probably even related, and consequently a fondness so profound had sprung up between her and his mother as can only be found between women who had never fought each other for bathroom rights or the affection of the same adult. Thus, by not being related, she had become a greater sister to his mother than her real sister and a greater aunt to him than any other aunt he knew of. And it was the unwritten code in the family that the first fortnight of every summer vacation must be spent in the aunt’s house (who, by the way lived eight hours away and it wasn’t possible to visit her daily), a prospect wholly agreeable to him. In fact the only unpleasant bit was Sir Rider Haggard. For disambiguation’s sake, the Sir Rider Haggard referred to here was his batty old aunt’s hideous lhasa apso – a vicious, senile ass of a dog that she loved to distraction. Every time they’d park their car in his aunt’s driveway all ready to get out after the long and tedious journey, Sir Rider Haggard would come running out of nowhere to greet them yapping like a kid with the whooping cough by taking a leak right on the front tire in full public view! And whenever he’d be sitting in any of the rooms all alone or talking to his aunt or anything, it’d be watching out of the corner of one eye like a vulture waiting for the death rattle to sound from his soon-to-be-meal, pretending to be asleep all the while. It was his biggest fantasy to give it a bone with a concealed stick of dynamite on the inside and watch as it blew up, its fragments spewed all the way to Mars. And yet, she not only would have it live with her in her own house, but also love it and care for it as if it were her own baby! It nauseated him to watch as she’d bathe it, cuddle it, lavish it with praise, and refrain from clothing it in diapers perhaps only because she couldn’t figure out what to do with the tail bit. Therefore, to avoid causing injury to her feelings, he had to force himself to be civil to the cretin.

On this particular occasion, as he stepped out of the car, he was so relieved that he was actually a little sad that there was no yapping and no stream of yellow to welcome them. Instead it was merely his aunt smiling one of her milk-and-cookie smiles from the doorway. Oh well, he thought. Perhaps the old rascal was busy eyeing the neighbourhood poodle. What did he care, anyway? After the initial formalities were over, he immediately betook himself to the garage. Somehow, this part of the house was almost never touched by her aunt’s hand. It seemed as if the past year had conveniently passed this place by without altering it a bit. As he was rummaging through the trinkets in a huge carton in the corner, a high pitched yapping startled him. Turning round, he came face to face with the inevitable.

“Oh, it’s you again, huh? There’s no getting away from you, is there, you ugly little mongrel?” Two yaps, followed by some panting and vigorous wagging of the tail was all the response little Sir Rider could muster. “Oh well, I guess I will have to put up with a flea bitten donkey like you, after all. It’s not as if I could get rid of you if I wanted to.” Saying this, he turned once more to carton, with Sir Rider at his heels, sniffing, scratching, and for no apparent reason, very much contented.

Now, in another corner of the garage was this huge bureau that he had never seen before. Perhaps it had been shifted from one of the upstairs rooms since his last visit. It, like the house was prehistoric. It had escaped his view from being kept in a corner in the dark just beside the door, and he saw it quite accidentally turning around to brush off a tiny spider crawling on his back. As he approached it, he saw that it was really unstable with one of its wooden legs broken, as if it were a signal for him to back off. But it looked very promising, and such a trifle wasn’t going to deter him from exploring it. He gave the handle on the middle drawer a tug, but it didn’t budge. Looking more closely, he saw that the wood around the edge had become swollen from the damp and long disuse thereby jamming it. So he gripped the handle and pulled with all his might, egged on by a highly excited Sir Rider, close at his heels, making short growls of impatience. A thunderous crash and a high pitched bestial squeal was all he could hear as he scampered out of the way of the falling bureau with tremendous agility.

As he got up brushing the dirt off his knees, through the cloud of dust he could see the bureau lying face down on the ground, slightly raised at one point with a now motionless Sir Rider below it. In a few second the pool of scarlet that oozed out confirmed his worst fears. For a minute or so he stood there paralyzed, his jaw hanging and his throat making weird gurgling noises. His aunt – his favourite aunt, living all alone shunned by one and all in her old age save for that queer, old dog upon which she had conferred a mother’s love. But merely by its presence, it had repaid all the favour and the couple had lead a fulfilling life. And in one single blow he had ended all that. How could she ever forgive him for this? As soon as the initial shock wore off, he ran out of the garage.

As he ran out in the open with tears streaming down his cheeks, he realized that there was no one he could tell this to. His father wasn’t at home and may be gone for a couple of days, and his mother – once, in her presence he’d been irritated to the point of insanity by its constant yapping and had proceeded to kick it, but one look from her had frozen his foot in mid air. Malevolent was the only word he could use to describe that look! If she got to know of this, she’d probably think he’d done it on purpose. So, he must bear his plight all alone. He had to run away.

Slowing down, he quietly made his way towards the house. He’d made up his mind. He had to get out of there – go to the station, then catch a train and go to some place far away where he’d have to work in some factory under an assumed name and live in the ghetto, just like they do in the movies. Despite his grief, he felt a little pleasurably excited at the thought of the adventure. To make a success story of it he knew he had to calm down and use his head. So he did calm down, and used about as much of the head that was the fair share of every seven year old as he possibly could. His aunt was out at that moment as she had to get stuff from the supermarket. His mother, after having lunch was probably upstairs with her head buried in some historical novel. So, with any luck, he’d have the entire ground floor to himself. Just the privacy he needed to kick in on the supplies. He made his way up the steps to the front door treading as lightly and noiselessly on his feet as a cat. With extreme caution, he pried it open just an inch, and peeped in to make sure there was no one around. Then, he widened the gap and slipped himself in. Among his bags, he found what he was looking for – a small, suede rucksack. Hauling it up his shoulder, he made his way up to the kitchen and, on reaching there, he cut himself around five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. These, he neatly packed in a brown paper bag and placed it in his rucksack. In another ten minutes or so, he was all geared up. His supplies consisted of the aforementioned sandwiches, a carton of milk, a bottle of water, a bag of cheetos, a notebook, a black, ball-point pen, and two pairs of clean underwear.

As he made his way through the gate, he couldn’t help but turn and look at the window of the room in which his mother was supposedly reading. This might be the cause of some grief for her, and she might perhaps cry a little. But his father would be there to take care of her, and maybe a year later they’d have another baby. Babies were like that – they sprouted of their own accord where married couples lived. And anyway, he was already feeling a little proud of himself for the sacrifice he’d made.

He knew the way to the station, it being only half a mile away. But as he turned around the corner, the house all of a sudden disappeared from view behind the high wall and he felt a wave of fear creeping over him. What if he’d never make it past the train? What if, once he got off the train, he couldn’t get a job? Would that mean he’d have to starve to death? And he’d heard from his mother the awful things that happened to children who stray too far out from their homes unaccompanied. All of a sudden he felt tired and lonely, and above all, dreadfully afraid.

It happened just as he was crossing the post office. A hand on his shoulder and a female voice inquiring, “Hey, where are you off to, all alone?” The suddenness of it startled him so much that he’d almost performed a somersault right there on the street. He turned round to see his aunt looking down at him kindly, somewhat amused. And then he told all, with the tears falling fast. “Its Sir Rider – it – he died. It wasn’t my fault – the cabinet – I tried to get rid of it but it wouldn’t quit following me around, you see – and it fell -”

His aunt, meanwhile had let go of his shoulder and was staring at him fixedly and open mouthed. “But my dear,” she explained almost pleadingly – “what is this you are saying? Sir Richard died last year. Didn’t our mother tell you? His poor heart the vets said – it just stopped.”

Yours sincerely

Jude