Beth twitched her neck slightly to the left. It was a quick, involuntary movement that made her look much like a startled pigeon. Her mouth was agape, with her lower jaw held slightly to the left, like a jewelry box that wouldn’t shut properly. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, her jet black hair undone, eyes red, and naked. The steam from the hot shower was slowly fogging up the mirror. She kept splashing water on it to get a clearer view.
“Susan is such a bitch!”, she kept murmuring under her breath.
“A wise-ass, know-it-all!” “She can fool everyone with her schoolgirl hair, fake smile and slutty little skirts. But she ain’t fooling me!”
“She’s such a bitch! Attention seeker! Opportunist! She’ll do anything to please her superiors. I’ve had my fill watching from my seat while the others shower her with praise, the fake bitch!”.
She spat hard on the mirror.
Beth was an introvert. She rarely mingled with her colleagues at the office, and even when she did, it was mostly through nods and raises of the eyebrow rather than words. She always felt anxious in groups, around people and at conversations directed towards her. Her desk was directly behind Susan and she could always see the back of her well plaited hair. She would often notice how Susan maintained a perfect posture throughout the day, and would try to sit upright when she did; only to find herself slouching a minute after. She never understood why Susan used so much perfume when she already smelled nice. Beth didn’t have a particular reason to hate Susan as much as she did. It was an involuntary hatred that made her stiff whenever she saw Susan, be it her walking into the office, talking with her colleagues, or simply working at her table. At times she found herself faced with a curious wonderment as to why she disliked the very existence of the woman. She tried to convince herself that the hatred was probably because Susan was better than her in many ways.
Susan was everything that Beth was not. Her being the ‘Employee of the Month’ consecutively for the six months since she had joined the Company hadn’t stopped her from being the most liked person among her colleagues. She was the most popular among them, but without the air of a college cheerleader. She was a natural leader, but without any desire to project herself. Her neatly plaited hair with short bangs, the angelic face that was too kind and forgiving, the frock dresses that reached just below her knees and the stockings that reached just above, and the knitted overalls she wore, together gave her the aura of one of those perfect Catholic wife characters one would see in movies. Susan’s eye reached every nook and corner of the office. She radiated happiness when someone was happy, laughed out loud at another person’s joke even when it wasn’t very funny, shed an involuntary tear when yet another’s pet died, and would blush and walk away timidly if she overheard someone crack an indecent joke. Susan was one of those people who was selfless to a fault. But she had a minor flaw, a black dot on an otherwise perfectly white sheet that she tried hard to hide with the only fake smiles and words she ever smiled and spoke in her rigorously religious life. She hated Beth!
She thought that Beth was shabby, which she was.
She believed that Beth was an alcoholic, which she was. Oftentimes, she could almost get a faint whiff of stale rum from Beth’s breath, which she immediately repelled with the pocket perfume from her purse.
If you were to ask Susan, Beth was an invisible woman. No one bothered to talk to her in the office. It was as if she hadn’t existed in their eyes. The groups in which they stood together acknowledged Susan alone, and ignored Beth as if she were a ghost. Beth’s tired attempts at bringing out a limerick or a joke would almost always be cut off by Susan. While Susan considered this as a kindness that she was showing her weird colleague whom she was sure would become the laughingstock if she uttered what she had in her mind; Beth saw Susan as someone who overshadowed her constantly. She stood tall and dark over the limp frame that was Beth, basking in all the attention and love, at least a part of which was rightfully hers for all she cared.
It is always difficult to comprehend the hate someone has for another which would cause them to kill the latter. Neither was the decision to kill Susan an easy one. Planning the process of killing Susan felt easier to Beth than deciding to do it. That is precisely why she had so easily managed to duplicate a key to Susan’s apartment, leave the office early on the day, and hide under her bed. Nothing but a weird anxiety and excitement played in Beth’s mind when she heard Susan enter the apartment. The surgical blade she had secured from a shady chemist was sharp enough, as evident from the deep wound on her left arm, which she inflicted on herself as a kind of practice for cutting tissue with a scalpel. The careful footsteps that she took walking behind Susan as she undressed herself and headed for the bath, surprised Beth. Beth felt that she was almost walking alongside Susan and still Susan hadn’t noticed her. She thought with a sad smile on her face that being unnoticeable had finally paid off. Blood sprayed directly along the right line that the scalpel created on Susan’s neck. Beth remembered thinking that it was not how she had imagined the scene to be. She had pictured a more uniform flow of blood down the neck rather than the random spurts, gushes and sprays or the slight pop when she cut through the windpipe.
“Susan Bethany Myers” read the police report the next day, “was found dead in her apartment with a scalpel in her right hand, a deep incision on her left arm and a slit throat. The victim is believed to have made the incision on her arm with the scalpel before proceeding to slit her own throat.”
No one at the office understood why the lovely Susan had killed herself.
Many of them hopelessly wondered about the kind of trauma that such a clear headed person as Susan would have gone through to kill herself.
Yet a few others pointed out the importance of mental health and opening up about problems in life.
Very few understood the seemingly simple words like dual persona that Susan’s psychiatrist shared with them, as the police brought her in for a session at the office.
No one had heard of a woman named Beth.
POSTS
Zombie!
The zombie’s heart, dark as his hair,
the zombie’s face, pale as the air,
the zombie’s thoughts, all blood and gore,
and his eyes, all red and sore!
The zombie wakes to the morning’s choir,
his room lit dark, like a movie noir.
The sun has shown it’s far from dawn.
The zombie howls a dire yawn.
He walks away from the light
rubbing his eyes with all his might.
He gives the wall all his weight
as he moves in search of another light.
Why in hell would you need a door?
It could be walls on all four!
walls that held and tightly hid
those dreams of his nipped in the bud.
“Zombie! Zombie”, the love bird chirps,
the tree leaves hiss, and the wind quips.
“Zombie! Zombie!”, honks a car
and a jogger’s stare from afar.
The zombie smiles a crooked smile,
for he has been called names more vile.
The zombie moves in a poof
back to his little room, the grave with a roof!
“The morning is here”, the zombie hissed,
through his gritted teeth, and tightened fist.
“All good and gay!” the zombie said,
his arms aloft on his shaking head.
The zombie’s thoughts, all blood and gore,
the zombie’s eyes, all red and sore.
Those thoughts he bore to his pillow’s core.
Screaming loud, he lets it all pour.
He turns on his bed, his coffin bed,
pulls the blanket back over his head.
As the blanket flies, a dream falls down.
He pulls it back in with a frown.
He looks at it, heaves a sigh,
his breath still stinking of last night’s high.
The dream burns bright from his breath,
in a hopeful strife before its death.
He holds it close, hugs it tight
holding on with all his might.
The dream moves close and holds on tight,
burning on with all its light!
“Zombie! Zombie!”, cries the wall clock’s bell.
“Zombie! Zombie!”, howls that dog from hell.
“Zombie! Zombie!”, burns the sun so hot!
“Zombie! Zombie!” whispers a kettle to a pot.
The zombie grins while he cries,
like a crackling fire in winter’s ice.
He still smiles his crooked smile
for he would be called names still more vile!
The zombie’s heart beats a dying march.
The zombie’s lips, with a downward arch.
The zombie’s thoughts and pains he bore,
in his eyes, still red and sore!
The zombie sleeps in his grave,
his dream still burning on so brave.
Though with creaks and scars and smell of gin,
he still has his crooked grin!
Red
It was for the umpteenth time that he was being woken up by a crushing pain in his stomach; the same irritating pain that felt as if his insides were being churned by someone who disliked him particularly. He knew what was coming now. He would pick himself up, drag his body, half walking, half crawling, across the floor, open the door to the brightly lit toilet, fall on his knees hugging the cold porcelain, and let the pain do the rest.
He had eaten nothing that day. He wondered how much he could keep vomiting. He expected to see the tip of his intestines prodding out of his mouth soon. But before that, the bloodshed had to stop. He was used to it by now. The white porcelain, the yellow tiles and the stainless steel taps had already acquired various tints of red, gushes of which came in well-timed, strong jets .
The same happened this time too. He began shooting rivers of blood out of his mouth –
a pinkish red at first which reminded him of the Sherbet bottles he had seen on the ragged wooden tables of the street vendors, on the evenings, as he returned home from school with his dad. He would plead for a glass, and his father would say no immediately, only to surprise him with a glass hidden behind him;
a crimson hue followed, which brought back another good memory of his life – the little peck she planted on his cheek as he gave her the rose she had asked for, which was strangely the same shade of red;
a scarlet river ensued, which seemed like a cry for help from someone inside him who seemed to wail, “Enough! Enough, no more! You don’t have anymore!”;
and finally, a thick cherry flow, that was almost indistinguishable from black, with which ended the pain.
He let out a deep sigh, got back on his feet with great effort, wiped his mouth, reached for the door and let himself out of the red toilet, into his room.
The room was dimly lit, with a comforting chill.
“Perhaps it is the fan,” he thought, “or perhaps, Christmas is in the air.” He faintly remembered thinking how Christmas seems to be somehow associated with the colour Red, when he was filling red pools a few seconds ago.
“Maybe it is Santa’s coat,” he thought. “Or maybe it is the glass balls hung on Christmas trees.”
“Wait a minute, is it Rudolph’s nose?”, he smiled with great effort.
He brushed these thoughts away as he was tired and needed the sleep of this night badly. “Tomorrow is a big day,” he reminded himself. “You would call mom, first thing in the morning.”
He was giving himself the itinerary. “Then you would apologise for not calling her for so long, and tell her how much you missed her. You should also tell her that Christmas was already in the air.”
“Then you would talk to Dad too! Tell him that you knew every single time that the sherbet glass would be hidden behind his back , and that he looked forward to their little game every day.
“Then you would call her. Make it a point to tell her that you loved her. Even though both of you are sure of it, a little reassurance wouldn’t hurt. She seemed to need it once in a while.”
“Make sure you buy the Christmas star. You should be the first to signal Christmas in your locality. It is your favourite time of the year, after all. Oh, and make sure the star is red!”
He continued making plans as he dragged himself across the room to his bed. He remembered that he had spread fresh sheets that morning. He stood by the side of his bed, looking strangely at his own body which was lying on the bed, curled into a foetal position.
The confusion made way for sadness, followed by helplessness. There was a tear that almost flowed down his cheeks, as if waiting for his permission. He smiled, and the tear nodded and went it’s way.
Of pigs, cows and God knows what else!
As I’ve not written anything worthwhile for some time now, I tried provoking myself into writing by thinking of topics of discussions that irritated me in the recent times. And I ended up with a topic that was, is and will continue to create a big fuzz for a considerable time to come. And, in the process of putting this out of my head and onto the keyboard, I will try my best to provoke you too (which I can’t help doing). So, if you are someone who is easily offended, better shove off right now!
(I know this line will surely keep you reading further!)
There was once a farm, a farm so green and fresh that it glittered in the morning sun. In the farm, there lived a variety of animals of all sizes and shapes, ranging from common house lizards to muscular, galloping horses. They lived in total harmony and peace in the farm, which was owned by a man with no religion! Yes! I said it! He had no religion. (Now close those wide-open mouths and swallow that lump in your throat!). The man with no religion was a vegetarian, or as the pretty Hollywood ladies would say, a ‘vegan’! which meant he didn’t care for killing animals, skinning them, peeling meat off their bones, cooking them, and eating almost all of the body parts he could possibly find. He didn’t like any of this, simply because he thought he felt it would hurt if the same things were done to his body; and not because he believed in philosophical or highly morale things like the ‘sanctity of life’ or ‘purity of soul’ or any such stuff. Thus, he and his animals lived peacefully in that little, beautiful farm of his.
One day, a dreaded dirty day, he had some visitors. They were his friends and were three in number. One was a Christian, the second a Muslim and the third a Hindu. (Don’t worry! I’ve used caps for your religion’s name to make you think I respect it). They came uninvited into that little farm of his to surprise him on his birthday, and what a surprise was it indeed! They were meeting after a long time, and wanted to celebrate the occasion along with his birthday, and indeed wanted to prepare a feast in love fr their old friend. They said that they would do all the cooking, and that he could rest since it was his birthday.
On hearing people in the house and knowing that it was their master’s birthday, the animals were so happy that they decided to sing ‘Happy Birthday To You’ in a chorus wishing their master a long life. The did so indeed, and thought that the song was beautiful. But all the humans in the house heard was
a chorus of ‘brays’, ‘oinks’, ‘cuckkoos’, ‘bays’ and ‘neighs’. They rushed t the farm on hearing the sounds and were so surprised to see so many animals. Nah! not the animals. In fact, what they saw was MEAT! So much meat in such a small area that would last them for a week. They began to drool thinking of the wide variety of things they would eat that weekend. The three men, although they belonged to three different religions, were all the same when they were hungry! (point to be noted).
The Christian was the happiest because he had tasted the meat of almost everything in there, from the common house lizard to the muscular, galloping horse, (and even some things which were not in the farm, like Ostrich, Camel, Iguana, small garden snakes, Spiders, Earthworms, and other animals of assorted sort). He went drooling away into the kitchen to get the knives to start the killing process and savour the pleasure in ripping the meat off the beasts. He came back with the knife and advanced to the pig, licking his lips! He could not see the pig itself, but instead saw a big plate full of bacon, garnished with salad. As he raised the knife, he heard a shout. “No, brother, haram! haram!”. It was the Muslim.
The Christian looked at him in astonishment, and the Hindu was sneering at him! On being enquired of the reason for the shout and throw of random Arab words (see, I used caps for Arab too!), he replied that Pig meat was haram for Muslims, which meant that he was forbidden from eating it. He also laid out a carefully scripted list of reasons explaining why one should not eat pork (which looked suspiciously similar to the posts that you see everyday on Facebook. If his friends hadn’t known him better, they would have believed that he happened to by-heart the entire thing). The others were disheartened on hearing this because they didn’t want to eat something which their friend would not.
However, the Christian took heart again and now moved towards the cow. Now he heard another shout. “No, brother, gomata! gomata!”. It was the Hindu.
The Christian looked at him in astonishment, and the Muslim was sneering at him! On being enquired of the reason for the shout and throw of random Hindi words (see, I used caps for Hindi too!), he replied that Cow was gomata for Hindus, which meant that he was forbidden from eating it. He also laid out a carefully scripted list of reasons explaining why one should not eat beef, especially since the cow was the sole source of income and livelihood, and was treated like a mother in the ancient ages. (Well, the women of the early ages enjoyed so much freedom that they could choose their own husbands! (baap re!), and walk through the streets without being scanned like a xerox paper or judged on the basis of what she wore. Surprisingly, only those qualities of the ancient age as were related to the cow, seemed to appeal to the guy. Maybe a cow is now more important than a woman. Lucky old gals!).
The others were disheartened on hearing this because they didn’t want to eat something which their friend would not.
(I just had to copy paste the above paragraph from the one before that, and make some minor changes. I did this on purpose so that you can see we are not as different as we think we are.)
Third time’s the charm they say! Now, the Christian moved towards the Chicken, half expecting a shout to stop. He didn’t hear any! The Chicken was neither impure nor divine. The Goat was waiting his turn by the Chicken. He too failed to seek enough importance from a religion, and now had to suffer the consequences. The knife rose and fell. But not on the Chicken or the Goat. The owner of the farm, the ‘vegan’ guy (who was keeping quiet so far and now had to say or do something before his heart would burst) had kicked the knife away from the hand of the Christian.
“A Chicken or Goat has as much life in it as does a Pig or a Cow. When you kill a man, it’s murder! If you kill a Dog, it’s cruelty! But you kill a Chicken or a Goat, it is Chicken 65 and Lamb chops respectively! Don’t pretend you are something great by thinking it’s a sin to kill a Cow or a Pig, but it’s pretty OK to kill other animals. There are only two conclusions, either you kill, or you don’t! You call this the sanctity of life? (He was becoming philosophical). Sanctity my ***”, he said and was panting now. Now his friends began bombing him with questions as to why he ate the plants, especially since they provide Oxygen to the atmosphere and all that shit. (Which, again, looked similar to the ridiculous arguments made by non-vegans on Facebook). Now, he calmly replied (while he was trying his best to stop himself from holding them by the head and shaking it till some sense finally came into it) that he doesn’t eat plants. He was not a Cow or a Goat, but a human, who ate the fruits and vegetables, and sometimes leaves of plants, which would all grow back unlike the limbs, hearts and dicks of the animals they ate.
Assured that they were not in danger of depletion of Oxygen due to their vegan friend, they had a lovely meal which was vegan of course, and thus celebrated their long overdue get together.
Of plans, chores and a broken heart
Prologue:
The arrival of some five or six people was not going to affect him.
“Ah, guests!. They come and go. But I….I remain”, he thought in his almighty tone. He was sure he could, as he had ‘planned’ about five minutes ago, manage the guests and then run back into his room and dive into his books as if nothing happened.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The morning was as beautiful as ever with his dad waking him up with his daily bed-tea and himself sitting idly on the drawing room-chair with one leg over its arm-rest, sipping in the beautiful tea, with eyes wide open, gazing into the eternity beyond the wall, wondering how things would be so perfect. Nobody could sense anything special in the way mornings work; not even his dear dad (who could make the most wonderful of teas) who would now begin his routine chorus telling him to study.
Finally, after five minutes of the chorus every day, he would understand that if he sits there further, things would get ugly. So, he goes to his room, sits on his study chair and opens a book which is ever-present on his table. He had a special notebook to gaze into on every morning whose ownership, content or even the cover page is unknown to him till date. If one were to ask him what that book was, all the acquaintances with it over the years of mornings would only bring into his head a crocodile tattoo stuck in its front page. After all, the front page was all that mattered.
But this particular morning was quite different. He had to do something today. He had his examination the next day and he was as ignorant of the subject as ever. So, he opened his text book instead of his daily buddy. The lines in the text began making sense when he tried reading. “It is just like making new friends”, he thought. “You just have to get to know them and they will remain with you”. But frankly, friends and text books are entirely different issues. Firstly, not making friends will not make you fail in exams, but not reading text books will. Secondly, friends are not boring (enough said). However, he could not run away. He had to face the exams no matter what.
It was then that he remembered that he had guests today. He had to help in the day’s chores. So, he made his first ‘plan’ for the day. He would clean up the house in not more than an hour and then dive back into his text. As the plan was being formulated, he heard his mother’s footsteps in the kitchen. Soon, the smell of chutney would fill the home and the sweet ‘clang’ of steel on stone would herald the birth of a new ’dosa’. “How perfect can a day be?”, he thought, “dad making tea, mom making dosa”…according to him, it was high time his sister too started doing something towards making his day perfect. She could help mom in the holy process of dosa-making, or dad, who would, by now, be watering the plants. It would be a whole lot better if she could do anything……anything at all, except greeting him with a sullen “oh !” in this perfect morning of his. But he “forgives”. After all, he needs her to get things from the top floor or to help him wash the car or in cleaning or n a million other ways. Although his relation with his sister is ‘parasitic’ in many ways, he likes to think of it as a ‘symbiosis’ (mainly because he doesn’t want to feel guilty).
The guests were to come by noon. He had finished his breakfast and was halfway through the cleaning process. Clearly, his so-called ‘plan’ had failed and so he made a new one, one which seemed better. He would begin his studies after the guests left. That would give him the necessary peace of mind.
By noon, he was ready for the guests. Apparently, they too were ready for him. He had to pick them up from different places since none of them knew the way to his house. He wondered how people could get lost in the narrowest of lanes when there was a whole wide world of roads waiting for them to get lost in. He was surprised by the number of different ways his guests would come to his silly house. There was a straight road, however, that no one took. After all, people never like taking straight roads.
After an hour past noon, all the guests were in his home. He was neither tired nor exhausted and helped his mom serve them. In the midst of eating and drinking, people, it seems, have a particular tendency to throw certain ‘casual’ questions which were supposed to ‘break the ice’. This, however, was theory. The practical occurrence follows a particular questionnaire which is strangely similar, irrespective of the nativity, race, clan, gender or even the age of the guest.
Question 1: Hi son, and you said your name was…???
He wanted to say, “ Oh, I didn’t say what y name was. What’s yours? “. But what he actually said was his real name with a short smile which was supposed to be pleasant.
Question 2: Hmm…which class are you in ???
“Buddy, ‘class’ was a long time ago. Now I’m in college” would not come out of his mouth. Instead, he said, “engineering, uncle/aunt”.
Question 3: Ooh!!! So how’s your studies ???
Now they were not breaking the ice. They were breaking his heart.
“Going good” plus smiley was the answer.
Question 4: What about you little girl ???
Ahhhh!!! Cease-fire. The Americans have now fully exploited Iraq and had gone to the next country for their petroleum.
But his sister was not going to fall. The first and second questions went unnoticed. It was the third question that brought sparks in the eyes of my father. He said, “Oh, she’s fine in class. She does everything on her own, studies well and knows how to look after herself.”
He wanted to say, ”Hey dad, that first part is sufficient answer for the question. They aren’t interviewing her for a job.” But he had to keep ‘mum’ plus the smiley, of course.
Now, it was mom’s turn, “oh she’s a great help for me, whether in kitchen or outside. I always wish my elder one was a girl.”
“Hellooo !!! an elder girl couldn’t do half as much as he could”, he thought. But he didn’t care to speak anymore. The smiley was long gone already.
Now, it was time for the people to comment. “Yes”, they would say, “boys are usually on the lazy side. It is the girls who will come to be of help in the end.”
His mind was roaring, “Traitor !!!, it was the ‘boy’ who picked up your sorry **** from the lane you got lost in. I should have left you there.” But he had to swallow that thought, of course, plus the smiley.
This way, after heated discussions about various things for which he never cared and talks which he did not pay attention to, the conversations ended. The guests left.
According to his ‘plan’, he had to study now. But his house needed him. “Oh shit! , look at this mess”. Cleaning up is never easy. It took a hard effort to bring his home back to normal, after which he was really exhausted. He decided to take a bath. His shower was his elixir. It usually recharges him fully. But this time, it went a step further. He was sleepy now. Thinking, “maybe I’ll rest for a few minutes”, he fell into his bed.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
”Aren’t you having an exam tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be studying?” were the next words he heard. His dad was glaring at him. He looked at the clock. It was half past eight.
“A few minutes??? You idiot…” , he said to himself. Running to the wash, he splashed water on his face , some on his head too and ran back to the study table.
“Anyway, its late. Why don’t you have dinner and then start studying ?”. His mom was pushing steamcake out of the cylinder. This is something he hated about tasty food. All his favourite foods presented themselves during his worst times (a rare coincidence maybe), and so he had to finish it in a hurry.
Now he had not less than three modules to study and a single night ahead of him. He stretched himself and opened his book. Now, the curse of good nourishment is that it is often accompanied by good sleep. Was he going to sleep? The well-spread mattress was beckoning him invitingly. “No”, he thought. The words he had scribbled in his book seemed to make sense now.
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep?”
The crocodile in his book was smiling at him…
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
epilogue:
later in the night, he thought lying in his bed, “So, I’ll wake up early in the morning and cover as much as I can. Maybe I will get time to read the previous questions too.” That was his last ‘plan’ for the day….