HALO. Sounds like you are saying ‘Hello’ right? It may be right because HALO is saying ‘hello’ to the world from the top of it. Well, that can be the last time one says ‘hello’ and also the last time he says ‘good bye’ to the world if things go wrong. Yes. HALO: High Altitude and Low Opening. High Altitude of 30,000 feet and Low Opening from 4000ft above the ground. HALO can make you go hollow. 30,000 feet— 100 seconds of free fall—when I pulled the ripcord the parachute did not open…
I had always travelled in my life. Not a lot but I travel. I was fortunate to have parents who takes us, if not to the foreign countries, but at least to the other states of my own country which has lots of fascinating things to see. INCREDIBLE INDIA! Both of my parents are teachers working in the same government aided school. They arrange tour on every quarterly, half early and annual vacation for staffs and their family members. Sometimes, it is a short tour and sometimes it is long. I was just five years old when I went on a fifteen days tour for the first time in my life to Delhi, Agra and Shimla. I could not remember what I saw at Taj Mahal, Qutub minar, Red Fort, Lotus temple and I don’t even know that I was in the foot hills of Himalayas. I don’t know how a child admires nature, landscapes and architectural aesthetics. But I still remember how joyful we were as children during those fifteen days. I remember wandering from the first compartment to last compartment on Tamil Nadu expresses which takes three days to reach Delhi from my home town; how I caught the attention of a white women in Taj Mahal because of a traditional dress I was wearing and she caged my fluttering child’s wings in her camera; how reluctant I was to pose for my compelling father and made monkey faces as poses. Through out my childhood, in every vacation, we go for a tour and visited various historical places and hill stations in India. And that, as I mentioned clearly, were tours. Years later when I became a traveller I realized that travelling and touring are different. I don’t want to explain it though! Of course touring involves travel. I’m leaving it for you to ponder. I’ve toured a lot but there came a point in my life in which I needed literal travel to set me off in a right position in my metaphorical travel in which I have lost my way completely. “I shall be telling with a sigh, two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one less travelled by and that made the difference”. By choosing to study literature and by aspiring to become a teacher and writer I have taken the road ‘less travelled by’. Literature had taught me about the journey of life. It had also taught about the journey in which you tread on red carpet in couple: The journey of love. I was reminded of e e cummings on the moment I saw her. “Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience”. Shifa…Shifa is her name. The word Shifa in Arabic means cure. She had been the cure for everything in my life. We set off a beautiful journey of marriage. By that time, when she was in her last trimester of her pregnancy I kept the manuscript of my first novel ready to be published. But my talisman, the prerequisite-of-my-soul-to-run, my ‘Cure’ has left me with an incurable pain in my heart with my baby too. She died in her labour. I was left alone in a dark, dungeon alley suffocating and unable to get away. That’s when I needed a literal travel to orient my position in metaphorical travel. I met Melquides, a high Bohemian. I resigned, renounced temporarily and tried to get away from the land which became strange for me without her. Living the life of Kerouac allowed me to comprehend how Wordsworth perceived the ‘Solitary Reaper’ in high land and how Arnold perceived the view of ‘Dover Beach’. I changed myself to rags and forsook all my possessions. I wandered with Melquides writing lyrics for his rhapsodies. We ate with the frugal amount gained from singing, hitch-hiked for moving, sheltered wherever we got place. What I avoided was their promiscuity because I loved and made love now no love so made no love and I avoided smoking weeds. I wonder what kind of a journey that sets you off. The whole INCREDIBLE INDIA seemed different. I understood What a person should understand after crossing through boulevards of metropolitans and cosmopolitans of India, wandering through barren sands in deserts of Rajasthan, hiking in the snowy mountains of Himalayas, burying foot in soaking swamps of Sunderbans, and walking through the dampened sands in the beaches of Arabian sea, Bay of Bengal and Indian ocean. I went with empty pockets and heavy head and came back as is if I was dissolved by drenching myself in heavy rain. But something in me was very stubborn to go away. I think I was in the last point of finding my way out of love’s labyrinth. “Enough of being Thomas Hardy, let me be Robert Browning” I thought. When I wandered in Himalayan range I met Alan Eutace. He holds the world record for sky diving from highest altitude of 135,908ft. He came there to hike Mt.Everest. He talked a lot about the ventures he did in his life apart from sky diving. He inspired me a lot. So, I thought of going for sky diving and I came here all the way to Long Island, America. One full day of instructions were given by trained and experienced sky divers. The next day, I was all set to jump. I still remember how I stood nervously at the edge of deck of back opening of the plane. 30,000 ft. I jumped gathering all my courage. I enjoyed the view of the long island during the 100 secs of free fall, for free fall is the fun part of sky diving. When I have to open the parachute, I pulled the ripcord but it did not open. I was just 4000ft and lowering and 30 seconds and counting, away from death. I closed my eyes. I saw my shifa. “Don’t worry I’m watching you” she said. When I landed I was with my Shifa. “Hello” she said. I felt like I was still falling. “what happened” I exclaimed. “Nothing Mr. I just made you cheat death” she said. The voice came from very close to my ears. I realised that I was clasped from behind by another camouflaged hands. We were both sitting on the ground. She released me. I didn’t move a bit. She got rid of the parachute and oxygen cylinder and came before me. I was still sitting on the floor like a baby who just learned how to sit. My shifa was standing before me in camouflage uniform like mine, hands on her hip and smiling. “Hey Remedy! Is he alright” shouted a man from behind. “perfectly alright” she said raising her thumb. “Remedy?!” I asked in confusion. “yes! Remedy walker” she said and put forth her hands as if to shake hands but it’s not for shaking hands but to help me stand up. I took her hands and stood up. “Remedy Walker, professional HALO jumper and trainer” she said again. It was as if my ‘Cure’ had come as a ‘Remedy’. I felt like exactly how I felt during the time of free fall. I felt very light still having the heavy camouflage cloth, oxygen cylinder and unopened parachute clutched tightly on me. I realised that I should still be in love’s labyrinth not finding my way out because it’s only difficult when you there as only person.
I easily became an American citizen (you know how). I was trained by my Remedy to become a professional HALO jumper. I have also finished my second novel which is to become my first published novel, a fictional travelogue to which this piece of meta-Story will be an autobiographic, fictional preface.
“You are proving again and again that I made a bloody big mistake…… Goddammit! William….” screamed Jerome sitting behind, gripping my shoulders as I was in highspeed struggling to control the handlebar to steady on the road’s edge in order to cut in a Motorcoach. Even the slightest shake on the edge of 4154ft from the ground would cost life.
It was notably one of the one-out-of-million-well-planned-trip-miraculously-happen-at-last. And it was Masinangudi, one of the splendidious hillstations in india. We were almost ready to set off from our native for the trip and Jerome handed over his bike key to me and said “You ride it machi”. All other friends were bewildered of Jerome’s decision because of my history with riding. We know accident happens, which is inevitable, but for me it happens almost everytime. “But shift after reaching the foothill” advised Jacky with concern for one has to be well-experienced to ride uphill. And it was going to be the first time for me to travel hundreds of kilometres by bike, so i kickstarted excitedly and began our journey on the highway as the clock struck 2am. After hours of riding kindled my confidence to accelerate 120km speed on the highway that gave a fabulous feeling which can only be perceived by Bikeriders. The nearer we were getting to the foothill, the cooler the breeze began smooching us and in dark, the mountains looked like sleeping dinosaurs. As soon as we reached the foothill, we had such a nice cup of tea to warm up for the hillriding which was going to be hell-freezing especially in the month of December.
After having the tea, Jerome casually said “I am already frozen machi. Just ride it uphill too”. This time even I myself didn’t think it was a good idea to let an inexperienced ride on the deadly hairpin bends of the hill. Seemingly courageous, I kickstarted in dilemma as well as enthusiasm. In fact when I saw myself elevating from the ground after each kilometre, I got scared of losing control. But after sometimes, I was fascinated by the sceneries spinning around me as if I was thrown into a fantasy world. It was indeed bliss to fall in love with each and every inch of nature on the move with the cool breeze cuddling romantically. Absorbing the magnificent beauty of nature. I told myslef that every humanbeing must explore once like this especially by bike.
All the way to our destination, I felt like literally flying without wings. The trees, birds, mountains, clouds, the pure cool breeze, there the world itself wrapped in green were evident for why they call it Mother Nature. At last, after 5hours of riding from foothill made my friends weary but not me as I was refreshened each and every second by the beauty of the place. Riding all the way uphill is like reciting the most beautiful poem written by the favourite poet. It never ceased to engage us by its magnanimity. Then we safely reached Masinagudi, a part of the Mudumalai National Park in Tamil Nadu and is noted for its rich forests and abundant flora and fauna, which lies at a distance of 30 km from another famous hill station, Ooty. We were provided a treehouse resort by a friend of friend which is in the deep down of the reserve forest. After unpacking things as the sun set, I witnessed that the most beautiful part of the day was actually the night in the woods. It was enthralling to stay among the dark, deadly, terrific woods and mountains with the sounds of nocturnals. Tiresome put us in deep sleep after planning to go for trekking the GAYA mountain, the most hazardous mountain of southern India, the next day.
As sun rose from top of the mountains, I came out of the house wiping my eyes and saw the marvelous morning with birds flying all over the place that can only be experienced and never be explained by words. Later we were geared up for trekking but the native guy, who was supposed to take us, didn’t turn up. so Jacky said that we could go without him actually that would be more adventurous. The width of path to GAYA is exactly the size of single foot. After an hour of trekking, there were maze like paths and the one, we took, left us being lost at the summit of another mountain’s cliff. Though it was too risky as the sun was about to set, I loved being lost there in the realm of adventure. When my friends yelled blaming one another for the situation, I was standing on the cliff with arms wide-open and embracing the twilight. That moment I realised how tiny part I am of this tremendously divine nature. Suddenly there was this soothing mesmerising music flew around and it was from distance above where I was standing.
There was a woman sitting on the very edge of the cliff, playing the lyre facing the vast wide forest as if no humans exist but herself and the nature alone. While all my friends were panicked that she might be a witch for the place she sat and the music she played and the orange colour hair she had, despite their silly stance I stepped forward and spoke “how did you get there” she turned instantly and what I came across was a gorgious smily face with the glorious nature on the background. “I was flying” she smiled. She was from Germany and her name was Leena. “What are you doing here alone playing this music?” I conversed. “I am a research scholar and I am on the quest of untying the harmonious relationship between the nature and the music” she further talked about the mysterious knot of nature and music which I didn’t quite understand may be because of her accent but what I understood was how one should live in communion with nature along with music. As the time passed and the darkness engulfed the forest, she led us out of the maze and took us, as it was not safe to roam anywhere at night, to her tent on Maravakandy, a dam inside the jungle. She all of a sudden hushed and insisted me to crawl over the rock to peek. In distance, I was spellbound to encounter, across the flowing stream, a Tiger in the moonlight. “What a gigantic Form it has been gifted!.” She exclaimed quietly.
“Tiger Tiger Burning Bright in the Forests of the Night” I muttered staring it without a blink as Leena raised her eyebrows at me and husked “are you a poet? Mr. William”..
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Category : short story Word count : 1000 words Theme : wanderlust (adventure in specific) Title : the writers choice….
Velan, a renowned advocate, lost in thoughts leaning on the backseat of his car recollecting the days and memories, is on the way to his village after twelve years. The only face which occupied his mind entirely is Bharathi’s. When they were children, she follows him like a puppy whenever he goes and is excelled in crying aloud without tears if he refused to buy her the barfi Mittai which is her favorite. Knowing this, Munoo Anna, the barfi seller, takes advantage of, roams here and there shouting Barfi! Barfi! deliberately in the street. There is a beautiful temple in front of which, the jasmine field surrounded by the mango trees where they, along with other friends, play Kannamoochi(hide-and-seek) Nondipidi(hop-and-catch), in which, If she got caught to hop, he would get cought immediately to release her. “Sir.. Sir.. we have reached.” told the driver, brought Velan back to concious state. As soon as he stepped out of the car, his Amma hugged him and burst into tears lamenting about Bharathi. It had been twelve year since Bharathi passed away. It was of Childmarriage, after getting married at the age of 13 to have child when she herself was a child, she died of her labour pain. “If I knew what was going on at the time, I would have stopped the marriage” cried velan, his forehead leaning on the portrait of Bharathi.
My eye of life, my mother, my child, My Ammu Your tiny hands and feet, I even now retreat Sister in birth but a mother of my earth I lift you all around and never let touch on ground Born before me My soul, gone before me must be My Foul A part of me now is buried I am sick worried Wish to join you over there Don’t leave me here alone it is not fair Sobbing is not bringing you back The memories I possess, can’t take back I wil never let that take back I will never let that take back
Velan, drenching in tears, came out to the temple where they used to play hop-and-catch. The odor of jasmine reminded him of her voice which, he could still hear everywhere, let him sobbing. A child, playing there, came near and wiped his eyes with her tiny palms and meaningfully smiled looking at his eyes while her mother calling her name in distance “Bharathi”.
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Theme : Indianness Specific theme : life in Indian villages Mandatory device : a folk poem( rhyme is a must) describing a person/ nature / lifestyle / food style Maximum words : 400 ( please stick to the word count) Title : author’s choice
“Ammachi, I cannot walk a step more” Ponni, folding her hands, stubbornly sat down in the mud, sweating profusely due to heat and long journey. “Ponni, it’s noon already. We might lose the last bus to marudhai” ammachi told looking at the sun over their heads. She noticed the protest and weariness in Ponni’s face, it might be hectic for a nine-year old child but the only concern now is to save Ponni from the ordeal, which ruined, her daughter, Ponni’s mother. On hearing the devastating news, ammachi, without any delay, took the sleeping Ponni in her shoulders, some money and things in a bundle and left their home.
Ammachi opened the bundle she’s carrying, and gave some sundal and kolukattai to Ponni. After resuming their journey Ponni walked inserting her tiny fingers into ammachi’s copper bangle and her heart went back to her village and PanguniThiruvizha. She suddenly remembered her mother taking Mulaipaari to temple. “Ammachi, you said mother will join us before dusk. Why she hasn’t come yet?” Ammachi’s eyes moistened at once but wiping the tears unknown to Ponni, she stopped near a pond. As they both refreshed themselves, Ponni looked at her ammachi’s wrinkled but resolute face. They crossed the pudhu kulam, observing the sun retiring from the tiring day allowing the darkness to engulf their hearts. After two hours of walking they reached the town-road.
“Thambi, ippo marudhaiku bus iruka” “innum aramani aagum aatha. Vandha solludhen” Ammachi sat down on the stone alongside the road lost in her thoughts and Ponni too sat keeping her head in Ammachi’s lap “if we were in home, mother would have sung a lullaby for me to sleep” Ponni’s complaining voice strangely echoed in ammachi’s ears as she recalled Muthu informing about Ponni’s mother’s disappearance, like many of our people. And she already knew what Muthu was telling her “Aatha, they are planning to make our Ponni, the next Krishna-dasi”
Star of my skies Open not, your eyes
Twilight of thy night Fear not, here is your Knight
Blue-Moon in Guise In the Field of my Paradise Close your little gem eyes So, Heavens may rise To bless you twice
Star of my skies Open not, your eyes Pearl of my wise Break through the ties
Twilight of thy night Fear not, here is your Knight Give up not, without a fight Morrow, Sun may see your might.
“She is my delicious Biriyani. The flavour of all her condiments in the rice is delicious but when I accidentally chew one of those condiments itself like cardamom for example, hidden in a morsel I take, it’s bitter” I remarked on my would-be wife’s characteristics, straddling with my half-trousers on, on the wall of a deep well in the middle of a paddy field. He, my cousin had his lungi folded up and straddled, facing me. Breeze messed his messy hair messier. Punching the wall, he stared at me for a while and then he turned away and smirked.
“She is my pazhaya soru and I’m her pacha molaga” He said. For a moment, I thought “how patriarchal! Does that mean that there is no flavour for her without him?”
“such a deadly combination” he added some moments later, answering my alleging thoughts.
“o come on man! Why do you have to say something so ‘country-related’ always countering me?” I asked.
“Do you know what Is grown in this field you are sitting in the middle of right now?” He belittled me “samba or kurunai? Three months crop or six months crop?” I pouted out my lower lip.
“Do you know W.H. Auden and W.B. Yeats?” I tackled him with a counter question. He gave a relegating look and remained silent.
“Both are great poets. And Auden was right about country people” I kindled him for response.
“what that bugger had to say about us?” he raised his eyebrow and jutted his tongue through his right cheek.
“In a homage poem to Yeats he metaphorized village to ignorance because they didn’t read Yeats’ genius”
“avan kadakiyan kena kooo” He said in his typical country Tamil dialect . “My Tamil Selvi writes better” he said and sang in his high pitched voice.
The sun had set in the West The mass has gone to rest Even the waning moon hid his crescent Why am I still lying feeling resent
It all started when this flower the spring had bloomed Promised by the words of love and fooled With the hand on my head I’ve been told I’ll never be let down even when I’m old.
“Wow…but what’s between you and her” I inquired
“I couldn’t keep my promise” he said anxiously.
“Why” I asked
“engappan dhiyan” he shouted angrily.
“what Mama told?”
“avanga namma aalunga illa le” he replied very hesitantly. Translation: “they don’t belong to us”. But I still can’t understand what that means!
As I lay dying in the dimly lit extensive chamber with towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting a long black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place, blood spurted out of my body in torrents, streaming over the marbled floor in this once-spectacular-secret-chamber of my master and his venerable ancestor.
Even though I deem dying for my master as a greatest of all honors, I cannot help mourning my end. It’s awful. As you may see, the poisonous fang of Basilisk, the great green serpent of my master’s venerable ancestor with bright colored yellow eyes that could kill the victim the moment he/she/it looks at it (unfortunately, it managed to kill only one mad Myrtle girl fifty years ago and all other so-called victims of this useless Basilisk are just petrified, much to my master’s dismay), had punctured my heart with its venom making a sizzling hole in the middle of my chest not only slaughtering me but also my master, who writhed in unbearable agony and died by disappearing into mist, which I had to confess with an unendurable torment.
I was overwhelmed when I saw my master screaming out of pain seeing the Potter boy plunging the fang straight into my torso, causing me and my master a great deal of misery. I was always proud of containing and concealing my master’s memory that too for fifty years but when I came to know that I’m one of the seven Horcruxes, in the sixth part of the Harry Potter collection: The Half Blood Prince, (I heard about Horcruxes when I was laying in the Dumbledore’s table in his beautifully illuminated office alongside the Gryffindor Sword and some burned broken stone.
The Head Master pointed out to me and the inglorious stone with his half blackened left hand and told the Potter boy about my master splitting his esteemed soul to attain immortality and stowed in seven peculiar powerful objects) I was hurt. But still I was pleased to know I’m the first Horcrux. But I don’t go boosting about it. You know that. You may even think I’m less significant comparing the other things that made a Horcrux, as the objects except me are precious on its own, like the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw which is said to be the key of powerful knowledge and wisdom, the Locket of Slytherin household, The Resurrection Stone in the Marvolo Gaunt’s Ring, one of the Deathly Hallows, unknown to my master, who made it a Horcrux due to his lack of knowledge, the Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup and his supposed favorite Nagini, the Snake (which was to die ashamedly by the hands of silly Neville Longbottom at the last chapter of the last part of the Novel), and the seventh Horcrux, that even my master never knew till his death, is the Potter boy himself, but even though I’m not valuable like them I’m so special for my master as not only I’m offered with his soul but also with the memories he admired a lot, which other Horcruxes deprived of.
Now I was left all alone in this chamber to bereave my death myself. The only sound in the chamber is the drip drip of the ink still oozing out of my pierced diary pages. Beside me lying dead is the giant serpent Basilisk whose body coiled, his eyes poked and punctured by the singing phoenix bird Fawkes and killed by the potter boy who drove the Gryffindor Sword to the hilt right into the roof of the serpent’s mouth.
Wait! Wait! I hope you haven’t read the Second part: Harry Potter and the Chamber of the Secrets because the muggle-born Rowling might mislead you by weaving a tale of me having stuffed into the old filthy sock and presented to Mr. Lucius Malfoy just to free the traitor Dobby, an elf, much to my apprehension, which I consider to be a greatest disgrace for a well-regarded pure-blood Horcrux like me.
PS: Excuse me for not telling my master’s name as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Leafing through War and Peace while licking the choco powder on the flat dish, that I love tasting without utilising spoon whenever I taste reading in my room where no light from outside peeks except this tiny bulb seldom blinks, I have been just sitting over my desk arranging all the books on shelf alphabetically, an imbibed habit since childhood that I am very cautious about everything in order and neat and proper, uncompromisingly, even I fold my clothes and keep them evenly elegantly in the closet, that too in order, like t-shirts on first row, shirts on the second row, pants and inners on the third row, and place my escritoire and recliner accurately straight to each other like one interviewing the other or like Dryden and Shadwell stare! he..he! which is funny isn’t it? It is not. Ok but my humour sense will tickle a lifelong meditating Monk to laugh out loud frenzily, my batchmates from University used to say like that, but who would go to Himalayas to tickle them. I certainly, definitely, would never ever, like the never-ever ever-ever, think of treading one step away from my room where my entire world is built within so beautifully so lively. I am Tony but I would preferably like you to acknowledge me as story teller. Since I pursued Comparative Literature in the University of Edinburgh from the batch of what-they-trendily-say Inter-War years. Of course, but I love not just reading novels, even an adolescent from third standard could do that nicely, but interpreting them soulfully is what one must acquire. Tolstoy, Tolkien, Shakespeare, Hardy I narrate pertinently, I am the best rhapsode that I can challenge anybody in the world. Generally I do not permit anybody’s glance to dirt my room and my precious collection of great literary canons, which I posess like a mother tiddles her new born, except this one fellow, who resembles someone I can not resist, visit me for stories and listen audiently like an ardent student. Speaking of which reminds me of the horrid quarrel-turned-into-fistfight situation when I caught him trying to touch my possessions, taking advantage of the caliginousness of my room, that led to I heavily trampling on his neck that stopped his blood flow on his face, which was groaning in red, and his eyeballs flipping backward out of oxygen. “Hackk.. Hackk.. Ahem.. what is this giant book left open for?” This must be Where an Peace for the bulky size and the coverpage drawing, which is of my dexterity with many armed soldiers with many raged horses riding and fighting and killing that reminds me of the nuclear holocaust deprived of my whole family when I was not even seven and dropped out of school to make a living out of something. The ineffable fascination towards Picasso, van Gogh, da Vinci drew me close to draw ever since. I am Shyamalan, an artist, famous for the coverpages for almost all the literary works. But My strange hobby is collecting and decorating my room with iconic books which i don’t read, of illiteracy, but the man, who ironically resembles me in every action like clone, visits my room to read and narrate all the stories so passionately to me. All I do all day long is either listening ardently or mesmerisingly staring the coverpages of the books arranged in order on the shelf, like a flawless drawing, by the classy handwork of Tony. “If you do not stop scratching the wall, you will be electrified once again today Ms. Bath” announced Dr. Mubasheer in metalic voice from the corner speaker of my room.
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge Category : short story Word count : not exceeding 600 words Style : postmodern Specific element : unreliable narrator Theme : alone in the dark room Title : the writers choice….
This should have been my second nuptial night. We should be laughing, giggling and had had a wonderful time of our life. Now, I’m all alone in this dark room, turning off every decorative lamp that I meticulously bought and set up different light in different places that would create a perfect ambience for romantic actions and fierce love-making. I planned to make a chiaroscuro of your naked body by setting up a light in a place which will illuminate your full naked body half-naked because you may feel shy for the first time. How it would have been to be in the warmth of each other in this freezing December cold? I have been also longing for the warmth of love for a long time. But, It’s pitch dark now here, baby. I don’t even want to see myself. Everything is dark now: this room and my life without you; you, like the lights I scrupulously bought, not only illuminated my life but also adorned it aesthetically like the chiaroscuro I planned: illuminated my positives and darkened my flaws. The only wrong I did was concealing the truth about my first marriage. That fellow, Mr. Mason is a gull. He gulled me by getting his mad sister married to me. How I begged you not to believe that fraud. My Lolita, do you not love me as I love you so dearly. You know how ashamed I was? I was in no intention to deceive you. I really love you! Even after planning to marry you I thought I would look after my mad first wife too. You don’t know how much torments I have undergone in my life past, because of her. She could not give me what a wife should give her husband. Nevertheless, I took good care of her. Only after meeting you and fell in love with you, I forgot all my sufferings and thought of dedicating all my life to you, baby. Now, tell me baby did I cheat you? Did I cheat you???
I overheard Rochester’s ranting to his lovely Jane, his Lolita on phone through a peep hole in door of his now-dark room. Oops! I forgot to add a double quotation. So what? Why care about quotation when a big full stop is awaiting soon. That Bastard—how dare he is to call me mad? O how was that, how was that? He did not get what a husband should get from a wife? You know he fucked me to all the satisfaction of his fantasy. Fetish fucker. I, like Anastasia, succumbed to all the desire of this Bastard of a Grey. Now he is bored so goes lusting after other women like a dog. Manacle rings for me and wedding ring for her? I’ll never let that happen. He was too worried about his room being dark and cold, right? I’ll make it brighter and more warmer. And how was that? How was that? “You don’t know how much torments I have undergone in my life past, because of her”. I’ll permanently escape you from the torments of life. I’ll show who this Bertha Mason is! Bertha Mason, a specialist ARSONIST!
“My sister really had a psychological condition” confessed Mr. Mason, Bertha’s Brother as I sat near his death bed and read the above paras in Bertha Mason’s diary. “This entry is the last one she wrote before she burned Rochester and herself that night I stopped your marriage” he said and died. With Bertha’s diary in my hand in the gloomy room of Mr. Mason I’m sitting alone overwhelmed with tears. My poor Rochester!
Once upon a time in a beautiful jungle, there stood a tremendous tree right by the highway. He had been living for more than century with nests full of birds on his branches. Every morning the tiny birds’ chirping was the Beethoven’s music for him. His flourishing leaves had always protected them even when the west wind came up with destructive forces and his fresh, tasty fruits had fed everyone in thier hunger as well.
One bright morning, the tiny colourful birds residing on the tree talked about the mysterious world out there since they had never been to the places where humans lived. All they had seen was the metal-giant in which humans sit and move on the road. Meanwhile a deer walked towards the tree and asked them politely “Is this the magnificent tree sheltering you all for century as they say?” “Who are you to investigate that. You squirrel face? Hollered the parrot rudely, stretching its wings “All the elder animals in the woods talk about the tree and his magnanimous conduct in helping other livings everyday. Therefore I have come to” narrated the deer courteously “Living here is so expensive! you poor boy and squirrel faces like you are not even allowed to see him. you better leave now” interrupted the cockatiel scornfully “I just wanted to talk to him for a second. Thereafter I will take leave and I am not squirrel! you blind tiny insects” yelled the deer annoyedly
“Stop your quarrels, close your nose and mouth now. It is coming” advised the tree with concern At that very moment, wicked fuss with dark devil smoke surrounded and put all of them coughing repeatedly “Ughh Humans! Don’t they ever stop moving that metal-giant thing on road here and there” shouted the crow angrily, covering itself with wings “Closing our nose and mouth has become habitual now whenever the human moves that metal-giant” sighed the dove in frustration “Did you notice this besides all those things?. the smoke has dimmed my true, beautiful colour. That is the worst part isn’t it?” Crow replied to the dove which looked confused at the statement “Happy heavens! Nobody in the woods would believe if I told that you responded to me” exclaimed the deer coughingly despite the suffocation “What brought you here.. little bud?” Inquired the tree endearingly “I have traveled so long to know one thing” requested the deer “What would that question be. My dear? Interrogated the tree “what do you get back by giving shelter to other livings for century?” Asked the deer eagarly “How dare you asked such reluctant question in my presence! You squirrel face” hurled parrot irritatedly “No my dear birds. Do not yell at this little fella. I will asnwer to that question” continued the tree “The answer is that I believe it is my purpose of life in the world. Will you ask the flowing water why they shelter the fish? Wil you ask the soil why she shelters trees like us ? Our life depends on one another. Little bud. Hating each another, living independently will never give the true essence of happiness” explained the tree wisely with smile on his face. The deer went back delightfully learning a life lesson and visited the tree everyday ever since.
Day by day The road was busy with more and more metal-giant moving and the whole jungle filled with the dark devil smoke everywhere. Suddenly inspite of it being spring, the leaves sheded, the branches darkened and the birds fell sick. “He seems to be affected and in pain. He is dying because of the merciless smoke coming from the iron giants” apprised the crow sorrowfully with teary eyes “Cruel Humans! The giant thing’s smoke is killing countless of us. and now him.? We can’t let him die” cried all the birds desperately hugging the tree with thier wings to resist the smoke. He had always given them food and shade but now he himself suffered from the pollution caused by the human. Heartbroken, The deer ran spreading the news of tree’s plight across the woods which fell into scarce silence in sorrow. All the living things there prayed to the Mother Gaia in tears for him.
The very next day surprisingly there was no metal-giant with human passing the highway. No smoke, no noise, no garbage. And ironically all the humans tied thier nose and mouth with clothes and ran on foot here and there like the sheded leaves dancing to the tune of west wind in autumn.
Now everything is back to normal in the jungle as well as the tree and all the birds sing and play over him as always. Playing on the branches, the birds laugh rolling on one another “It is so funny that the humans cover their nose and mouth now in panic like once we used to be” tells the parrot mockingly “The Mother Gaia ordered them to shut their mouth I think” cheered the deer laughing out load with the birds.
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Category : short story Word count : no limit Theme : anything with Corona included Title : the writers choice….
The sultry weather outside polluted the air hot. Nevertheless, the gentle breeze came into the classroom caressing the dense Neem tree, was chill as the ordinary, unnecessary-to-human carbon-di-oxide from the mouth turns to mesmerizing melody when blown into a flute. It came with a thousand muses to bloom the mad bud that was listening to mad interpretations of poem into mysterious flower of fiction; it came with a thousand psychedelics to drug me into wild hallucinations— wilder than that comes off Coleridge’s opium; to set me off to the weirdest of the journeys. The sound of the breeze hitting my ears sounded to me like it was whispering slowly:Bon Bloody Voyage!
***
As we drove through the bridge, across a river in the evening, the roads with the dimly lit street lights looked strange. The twilight in the sky seemed as if the dyes in the sky are worn out like somebody sucked the syrup alone from the ice candy lollypop. Holding the steering I jolted the lever underneath it with my middle finger for that’s my style and the high beam light flashed on the board on the half-way of the bridge and the dull reflection from it revealed “WELCOME TO someSHIRE”. The faded reflection from the first four letters of the last word was inconspicuously sombre to make it illegible. As the proximity between us and the board kept increasing we felt the pace of our vehicle decreasing despite of the fact that my speedometer showed 100km/h constantly. We crossed the entrance and abruptly the pace decreased but still the speedometer showed 100kmph. No vehicle accompanied us inside the city, but once we entered the city we saw the vehicles of the city moving like a limped tortoise. It was dim all around but not absolutely gloomy: The LED lights in the name boards of restaurants, shopping malls, grocery stores, the traffic sign boards. There was a tram going statically across the road that blocked my way and I waited approximately for I-don’t-know-how-long minutes. I was frustrated with the speed of my car and accelerated to 180kmph but still it was moving sluggishly. During this monotonous, five kilometer ride multifarious thoughts tumulted in my head. It’s oblivious about others but I tend to roll a lot if I am let alone for even a minute. So I was not amazed to have those thoughts rumbling inside that too while driving in this city albeit having my wife with me. Is it abnormal to be so?; If you think it is, remember that the great magnum opus of Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude sprouted in his head when he was driving his family to a picnic and as the thought relentlessly proliferated in his head he abruptly took a ‘U’ turn to his home. But whatever hell of a master-piece-creating idea had to arouse in my mind “there was no getting away from” that particular place for whatsoever reason. I think now I’m being monotonous. I myself could feel that but I cannot figure out why. Let me get right to the point. I was talking about the multifarious thoughts in my mind right? Actually, I was about to talk of one particular visualisation from those melange of mind videos, that is the visualisation of butchering a goat: usually a beheaded goat whose fractured hind legs are tied to a rope from clamp in the ceiling and make it hang by its headless head-side facing the floor. That’s how it is all over the world even if it is not like that all over the world, that’s how it is, to my knowledge and as far as I have seen. That Was the first image I got then I saw a butcherer drawing the small intestine of the goat like Dushashan draws the Saree of Panchaali in Mahabaratha. Again I’m still unaware of the reason for such evocations.
After a tedious 5 kilometers drive we reached the hotel in which we were going to stay. Until we got down from the car it did not occur for us to check if our actions are normal so as soon as we got down from the vehicle I punched and kicked the air like a kick-boxer rehearsing punches and kicks before entering the ring and by performing such movements, to our amazement we found that our actions are perfectly fine and normal. The transparent glass-slide door works with a sensor through which the drabby lobby is visible, opened inch by inch like a giant, ancient, mechanical door as we went near it, made us doubt that the door will be left ajar owing to mechanical problems despite noticing it moving an inch with regular interval of I-swear-I-don’t-know-how-long. It was rich in its architecture. The first thing that caught our eyes was the fountain in the middle of the lobby: it was modernly well-constructed. The water that jet out from the fountain stayed in the air for sometimes and fell down slowly. On the right side we saw a long reception table and on the left we had sofas and bean bags. On the wall we found interesting portraits and pictures in frames. They were all modernistic and surrealistic. One frame had these words on it: Carpe That Fucking Diem. My wife turned to me throwing her hands in the air and blinking at me. I shrugged at her, smiling. I turned my gaze towards the ceiling. ‘What is that hanging at the middle of the lobby?’ I thought and asked another question to myself: ‘is it Miss. Havisham’s wedding gown?’ No that was a chandelier. There was a huge clock hanging in a rod from the ceiling. It had ‘n’ numbers in it that I could not read the time in it. Only then I realized that I forgot about the watch I was wearing. I looked at my watch I thought momentarily it was not working. But after few minutes I saw the seconds’ needle moved some strokes. Rich granites laid on the floor in black and grey combination like a chess board. We approached the reception and said “excuse me” “yeeesss siiirrr, hhooowww maaayyy iiii helllpp yoouuu” the womam replied. She was wearing a white blouse and black blazer and a black short skirt and full in makeup. But what’s so strange is there are dark circles under her eyes. But only later that I realized that not only her but everybody there had dark circles under their eyes like an insomniac patient who did not sleep for years. They always have their lower lips jutted out because of their tongue pushing it from inside and resting behind it which makes them look like a zombie. “We are here for our honey moon” I said and smiled “caann yoouu jussst pleaaassee coommee agaaiinn siiirr. Iiiii caaann’tt unnnderrrsstaaand. Yooouu aaaree tooooo quuuiiick” “ufff” I sighed and I repeated as if I had understood the way how to converse with them. “weee aaarree heereee ffooorrr hooonneeyyy moooooonnnn” “ooohhh thaaattsss grreaaatttt sssiirrr, maaayy iiii knnnoooww wheeerrree aaarrree yoouu frroomm” she had her lips extended until she finished that sentence which I suppose that she was uttering those words with a smile but it didn’t seem to like that. It was rather terrifying. “Iiiii aaammmm ffrrooomm eaarrthh” I said and thought for a second: first of all why am I even talking like this. Secondly, why I even said I’m from earth. This isn’t earth? “Why did you even said that? This isn’t earth?” my wife asked coinciding with my thought. “I don’t know” I said “are we in somebody’s hallucination?” she shouted at me angrily “I don’t know” I insisted again. She let out a sigh of frustration shaking her head. “Sssiiiirrr?” The receptionist called “Yyyeeaahh” I replied “Azzu this is awkward” she persisted “shh” I said and smiled at the receptionist. “caaannn yyoouuu filllll uupp yooouuurr deeettaaiiillsss in thiisss reeggiiiissssteerrr” “ssuurree” I said and started writing. I don’t know what happened to my writing hand. When I received the pen in my hand it felt like a quill but as soon as a started writing I felt like I’m having a pen that weighs a ton. I don’t know how long it took me to write my address in the register but sure that it was not the time I usually take to write such small thing. It was way longer than that. What I managed to write was this:
Azzu, earth, universe.
The woman took the key from the hanger behind and asked us to follow to the room. It was in the third floor. She went near the elevator to press the button. “let uuusss ttaaakee theee steepppss” I insisted “theee elleevaattoor wooullldd beee muuuchhh quuiickeerr sssiirr” Again me and my wife exchanged a look and followed her to the elevator. “siiirr weee haaavee commm tooo thiiirrddd fllooorr”
The receptionist shook us both. We literally slumbered on each other within the time the elevator reached the third floor. We walked through the gloomy veranda following the sluggish receptionist. We stopped her half way and got the key from her and told her that we would see to it. She was about to say something but we shut her off and sent her back. We were greatly relieved. We went inside the room, leapt on the bed, spread our arms and legs apart and relaxed. I asked my wife to switch on the fan. Nothing curious would have happened. You guys know it. We sat close to each other with our eyes smiling at the other ones’. Both of my hands went behind to remove the clips and locks of her hair to let it hang lose and to grab it by letting small bunches of hair between each fingers. She closed her eyes as I moved my head towards her. My heaped lips gave a gentle touch on her closed but still-smiling eyes. Removing my lips from her eyelid I tilted my head slightly for nothing could turn me on than rubbing the edge of my lips and cheek part near the edge of my lips in the longest and sharpest of her eyelashes. To turn her on, I started kissing her cheeks. I smudged my lips all over her face painting it with saliva. From the face I drove to the shoulder via nape of the neck and from shoulder to cheeks via the same road. She remained still when I kissed her face but I felt the quiver of her body and short, heavy breath puffed out of her mouth while crossing the path between the neck and the shoulder. She smiled like a child smiles in its sleep. She allowed everything without resisting until I went for her lips. She pretended to loathe. She kept pulling herself backwards as I pushed myself forward and she eventually she lied down. Are you such a voyeur that you still need to peep into my bedroom? If you are a voyeur, nowadays you don’t have to peep into others’ windows. You just have to peep into Windows. Anyway, if you are so curious – we made it like how Fermina Daza and Dr. Juvenal Urbino made it on their way to Paris. We did not stop with the first round. We went for the second round, third round and fourth round….and I was exhausted before the tenth round. But she seemed to want more – it seemed like she would be ready for hundred and one after hundred. But even she after some minutes felt bored. I remembered the romantic night I spent with her, without even touching each other before our marriage in her house while she was left alone. She was informed by her parents that they would return early in the next morning. I had to leave her before the dawn. That’s when I wrote my first song of Aubade.
O night! Why are you not the don of dawn? O Dark! Why are you not the don of light? O Earth! Why do you revolve when the sun stands still? O Hope! Are you the metaphor of light? O Light! On your arrival is there any hope of being with my love? O love! Do you succumb to all these conspiracy? O farewell! You think you part us? We say heartlessly: Fare thee well But in each others’ heart we dwell.
But neither Andrew Marvell nor any other poets would have written To his Coy Mistress or songs alba if they had been to this place. They would have rather wrote:
Being greedy for more time Is the biggest of all my crime When I got it as per my demand I went actually mad O how long shall I patiently praise Your eyes, your breast, your forehead gaze For every five seconds my dick Goes on to give a kick O my gosh my penis Is no longer now a phallus Any women does not deserve this state Five minutes will be more than great To make love, you need worldly eternity? That would be the height of insanity.
We waited, waited, waited and waited at last we saw the hope of morning twilight. I could sense a heaviness on my head. When I saw myself in the mirror it seemed like my hair and beard had grown longer by 4 inches and my finger nails had grown longer by 11 millimeters. The time it took from dawn to the morning—we were also amused to see that we have developed dark circles under our eyes. But neither of us cared to react. I remembered a couplet from a doggerel that I wrote: Nocturnal creatures are owls/ Nocturnals like owls at night think about doing fowls. I wondered why it came to my mind at that time. We locked our room to walk down and have breakfast though we did not feel hungry. The sun is out but streets were unusually bright: as if thick layers of mist covers our sight from looking at things but no mist out there. We walked through the half-hazy visibly-invisible mist. “Heeeyy yyoouu sssttoopp theerrree” said a formidable voice. The man was dressed full in black, tucked his shirt in, wearing a leather boots. The only other colour in his whole dress is the buckle of his belt that was in silver colour. The badge in his left arm stiched to the shirt in the shape of a shield as a Lamborghini logo had these letters on it written in golden colour: S.S.P.D. He had pistol in a black pouch hanging in black waist belt on his right hand side and on the left, was a baton. It seemed that the officer was watching us from the place he stood when we in yonder distance but we did not notice. As we Crossed him he turned his head slowly and stopped us. “yes officer” I answered him and went near. The officer clutched my hand tightly: it took some time for him from starting to clutch my hand and gripping very tightly. Nevertheless, I could not loosen his grip even when he started to grip my hand. Then he took a handcuffs and cuffed my hand and Sara’s hand. “yooouuu aaarree unndderrr arressstt”
***
Attender Anand came into the classroom with a slip in his hand and handed it over to the professor. The professor, after seeing it announced “As two of your professors who should engage the next two hours are absent I will continue to engage the hours”. The energy of my muse doubled. Another heavy puff of wind came to hit me…
***
Behind the bars I was standing like a werewolf. I found myself consoling my wife who with one hand on her swollen belly and other hand on her back complained of fatigue. Suddenly my wife started yelping. “Officer….Officer” I shouted, shaking the iron gate. “ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…donnntt yyoouuu knooowwww whyyyyyyy aaaarrreeee yyyooouuu hheerreee?” “ooofffiiiccceeerrr” I reduced my voice “thaaaaatttsss gooooooooddd” the officer smirked “nooowwww ttteellllll mmmeeeeee”. “Mmmyyy wwiiifffeee iiisss ooonnn hhheeerrr Llllllaabbbooouuurrrr” My wife started shouting and it sounded like it was it recorded and played 0.5x slower in a media player. “llleettt mmmeee ccaaalll ttthhheee aaammmbbbuuulllaaannnccceee. I was confused. He could have taken us to the hospital on police vehicle. But neither ambulance nor police vehicle could help because — “ooofffiiicccer, pppllleeeaaassseee ooopppeeennn ttthhheee gggaaattteee. Iiii wwwiiilll cccaaarrryyy mmmyyy wwwiiifffeee tttooo ttthhheee hhhooosssspppiiitttaaalll tttooo aaavvvoooiiiddd mmmiiissscccaaarrryyy”. I pleaded “yyyooouuu aaarrree cccaaapppaaabbblllee ooofff aaa nnniiicccee pppoooeeetttiiiccc Lllaaannggguuuaaaggee” the officer laughed “Nnneeevvveeerrrttthhheeellleeesss, yyyooouuu wwwiilll oonnnlllyy bbeee llleettt oouuuttt wwwhhheennn ttthhheee aaammmbbbuuulllaaannnce cccoommmee” the officer continued to laugh. “Fuck you, officer” I shouted. “wwwhhhaaattt?” the officer asked. “nnnooottthhhinnnggg ooofffiiiccceeerrr. Pppllleeeaaassseee ooopppeeennn ttthhheee gggaaattteee” When I was arguing with the officer my wife who was shouting like a slowed down recorded voice started shouting normally. The intensity of her sound kept increasing. As I turned back at the one last big yelp I saw squirts of water mixed with blood and mucus like substance travelling in the air in slow motion towards my face. I waited until it came close to my face and I moved a bit left side turning head right side. It crossed my face just missing it and went out of the cell between iron bars and splattered on the officer’s face. She had given birth to a beautiful Little Sarah. But that happiness lasted – I heard my daughter crying like my wife pretended to shout few minutes ago and she was kicking her legs slower than the slowest of baby-kicks.
***
The bell rang after three continuous sessions. Why did not the bell ring at the end of first and second session? Who cares. The professor was at the verge of completing the poem: “…and that’s how the poem comes to an end. The problem with the poem is that it has lots of grammatical mistakes. In particular there are lots of syntax error in sentences”. I would have rather been in the cell of SLOWSHIRE POLICE STATION
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