Her Plethora.

2009-07-01T05:33:00.000-07:00

Happy Endings!

by Aditya sengupta

“I HATE stories with happy endings. I mean, what’s the point of them? They are like, SO clichéd and predictable. What’s the point if the hero gets his heroine at the end? Everyone knows that’s what is gonna happen. Villains die at the end of books and films. The mother and son are re-united suddenly, love problems are solved.......”

Ashnil’s best friend Sunita whispered over the phone. It was past midnight, the perfect time for a long, heart-to-heart conversation. Ashnil was half listening, as she murmured, “Hmm. True, true.”

“ASH! Are you listening at all?”

“Yes, yes! It’s just that, Soumya called.”

“AGAIN? Why won’t the bastard leave you in peace? He IS cheating on you. I know it.” Sunita was absolutely livid.

Ashnil sighed, brushed aside a strand of hair from her face, and turned in her bed. The side of her pillow was wet from the 3 hour flow of tears that preceded this phone call. She searched for the correct reply, “Dunno really! You know something, the more I think about it, the more I get confused. Suni, I...”

“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! Not a word more. I know exactly what’s about to come up. You can’t stop thinking about him, you really love him from the bottom of your heart and you can’t leave him, even though he has spent that last 6 months hurting you with absolute perfection.”

BINGO! Thought Ashnil.

“No, Suni. He really loves me. I think I should give him some more time. To think things over. What say?”

“I say bullshit! C’mon gal, grow up. Get over him. Shit happens.”

The tears were coming again. Taking a deep breath, she knelt onto a comfortable position on bed, glancing at three photos kept on her bedside table. One was her and Soumya on one of their dates to the Victoria Memorial. The second was a picture of her, Sunita and another friend, Rajanya. The third one was her picture on the day she passed out of school. She was smiling in all 3 of them.

Happy memories have little practical purposes, especially in times like these. This thought flashed across Ashnil’s mind as she struggled to fight back tears.

“ASH! You there? Dozed off, kya?

“Still...still here!”

“Good, now you listen to me........”

Her voice continued speaking in a blurred, diffused voice, like a resonating conscience, as Ashnil laid the earpiece on the side of her face, as she fell back onto the pillow, silently crying. Her eyes went back to the first picture on the table. How happy they were. Ashnil and Soumya. Lovers forever.

She remembered every word that was spoken that day at Victoria.

----------------x-----------------------

“Guess who made the Victoria Memorial, Ash!”, teased Soumya.

“Mountbatten?” She chuckled.

“MOUNTBATTEN? Are you off your mind? Sir William Emerson! Great man!”

“William Emerson? Who was he? Some leader?”

“SIR William Emerson. Not just William Emerson. And no, he wasn’t any leader. An architect of the highest order.”

They walked past the beautiful gardens, past the green trees, the excited chatter of the multitude of tourists, the smell of the gorgeous lake, hand in hand. They stopped to sit on the chairs provided, gazing at the magnificent structure, architecture and science forgotten in a myriad mixture of romance and deluded passion.

And then, on that chair, in the twilight of the evening sun, Ashnil and Soumya shared true love’s first kiss.

----------------x-------------------------

“...so, don’t feel bad, girl! Go to bed, things will get better tomorrow.”

Finally, Sunita had stopped jabbering. Ashnil muttered an inaudible, “Goodnight” to Sunita and thumped back on her bed, hair falling all over her pretty face.

The past 6 months have been pretty rough. Relationships. The toughest thing to have been discovered after nuclear physics. What’s the point of indulging in juvenile romance if it does bring heartburn? True Soumya was not being himself for the past 6 months. Infrequent calls, minimum messages, not a single ‘I Love You So Much’ message. It hurt her. They were not ‘really’ lovers. They enjoyed each other’s company and felt a connection. But was it love? True Soumya once admitted that he felt them to be “destined for marriage”. A tiny conscience like voice, sounding a lot like Sunita said, “BULLSHIT!” Maybe Soumya DOES take her for granted. Maybe he’s just playing around with her emotions. Maybe Suni is right! Ashnil hadn’t told her the times Soumya had, in his drunken rage, slapped her and torn her clothes. She was scared of him.

Her phone rang twice to ‘Broken Strings’ by James Morrison. Messages. Ashnil felt tired and lethargic even to pick up her phone to check the messages. But since it was nearly 2 a.m. the messages shouldn’t be ignored, she thought.

The first one was from Soumya -–

“Cnt cme 2mrw to South City.

Gotta go someplace.

Will cal u l8r dear. Reply if u cn.

G’nite. Tk cr.

Swt drmz.”

The second one was from Sunita –

“Wat 2 do wen u face choices.

Simple.

Just toss a coin.

It works.

Nt coz it settles d confusion. Bt while d coin is in d air, u knw exactly wht u r hoping for.”

Like a bolt of lightning, Ashnil was up on her bed. Divine intervention was what she was experiencing. Jumping out of bed, she frantically searched for a coin in her bag! A second later, she was on her bed again, with a one rupee coin in her hand.

FLIP! As she stared into the swirling circular coin, now falling onto her grey bedsheet, she knew exactly what she had to do.

-----------------x----------------------

College brims with life always, thought Ashnil as she stepped into the campus. There was an odd sense of confidence in her.

An unknown smile played on her lips, as she hummed ‘Why’ by Secondhand Serenade and bumped into Sunita who was walking the opposite direction. Needless to say, she was pretty shocked.

“Why look at YOU! What did you do, dear? A makeover? You look SEXY!”

Ashnil laughed out loud. “Yeah, I might have brushed my hair somewhat in a different way, and wearing some new clothes, maybe with a hint of new make-up and some new perfume!”

“Wow! What’s so new about today?”

“A lot Suni. A LOT!”

“Don’t tell me, you’re dumping Soumya?”

“Er...not really. I was thinking something more along the lines of humiliation, mixed with a smatter of insults and a hint of sarcasm. What say?”

Sunita’s eyes glowed with a vicious brutality. “Are you SERIOUS?”

Ashnil smiled. “Very.”

Quickly flipping out her cell phone, she composed a small message and speedily sent it to Soumya. It was written – “Meet me aftr cls in canteen. I’ve gt a gift 4 you. It’ll be romantic. Love ya, dear. C ya.”

Sunita’s mouth fell open as she read this. “What’s gotten into you, gal?”

“Come after class, Suni. We’re gonna have fun.” She smiled and within the blink of an eye, had rushed back to her English class.

Sunita stared at her open-mouthed.

-----------------------x-------------------------

Canteen.

Big; full of students. PERFECT.

Ashnil smiled.

There he was, walking up to her. Soumya Ray. Tall, handsome, good-looking, a perfect gentleman. Well, at least that’s what he looked from the outside. His lop-sided smile, lack of interest in his casual walk irritated Ashnil. He walked up to her brusquely and languidly sat down beside her, with his hands in his pockets. Sunita was seated behind Ashnil.

“What’s she doing here?” asked Soumya, jerking his head in Sunita’s direction.

Sunita stood up. Ashnil looked back at her and indicated her to sit down.

Soumya looked offended. Choosing not to comment, he said, “So, babe! What do ya have for me?”

Ashnil took a deep breath. 6 months of hatred were tough to control. “I want to break up with you.”

Soumya stared at her for a second, and then he laughed. For a minute or two, he just kept on laughing. Ashnil didn’t move a muscle.

“Babe, if this was your idea of a joke, it isn’t funny.” He stood up and started to leave.

“HEY JERK!”

Soumya whirled around. Ashnil was on her feet.

“Hey, JERK, for six goddamn months, you’ve been the cause of trauma to my lower posterior abdomen.”

“WHAT?” cried Soumya.

“A pain in the ass, dumbo!”

Sunita burst out in peals of laughter. Three guys stopped eating and leaned back to watch.

“Every freaking time you open your mouth, your IQ drops. I’ve even met a freaking gorilla in the Calcutta Zoo who wants you to return his face!”

The boys started howling in laughter. A crowd was gathering. Soumya’s face was reddening. He opened his mouth to say something, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I just thought stupidity ran in your family.”

More laughter followed. A semi-circle of 30 odd college students had gathered to watch the break-up.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”

“Look, dear. Do the world a favour, pull your lip over your head and swallow!”

“Shut up, bitch! One slap and you’d die.”

“Oh, I’d fight you gladly. But the animal protection act sort of gets in the way.”

Sunita was on her knees now. Her stomach hurt from the laughter. Soumya felt the eyes of nearly 50 and a-still gathering crowd on him. He pulled Ashnil close to him and whispered in her ears, “If you just want a break-up, why don’t you say so.”

She pulled back, “You BASTARD! After 6 months of 3^rd degree, you want a fucking break-up? Jeez, if I had a dog, I’d shave his butt and teach him to walk backwards!”

Laughter was echoing around the canteen now. The crowd was enjoying the show.

“I mean, why the fuck did I fall for you in the first place? Someone as ugly as ‘expired Baygon spray’- such as you are - should at least have the common decency to make up for it with a decent personality, but no. You're just creepy, aren't you?”

“SHUT UP!”

Soumya’s scream was lost in the laughter that issued from the crowd which was now applauding Ashnil.

“You know something. I’d love to give you the thorough beating you so rightfully deserve, but I also know what a pain it is to try to wash off that sort of a smell.”

Soumya started to walk away. The crowd was rejoicing in triumph. Ashnil was smiling; Sunita was almost dead for breath. As he was going away, Ashnil screamed after him, “MAY YOUR ARMPITS BE INFESTED WITH THE FLEAS OF A THOUSAND CAMELS! May the gods suffer your grave to be desecrated by those who rape English sheep.”

More laughter. Soumya turned slowly.

“You are the ignoble, ignorant, illiterate, incestuous, illegitimate progeny of parents who belong to the phyla insecta. You are a sleezy, slimy, sticky, stinky, scum bucket full of maggot vomit and horse poo.”

Soumya’s face contorted in confusion. The audience was now screaming their approval, applause was raining down.

“Oh, I forgot. English, right? You don’t get much of it, do you?”

“You bitch! You and your WHOLE FAMILY are a bunch of dogs” screamed Soumya in blind rage.

The crowd fell silent. Family was a touchy issue.

Ashnil paused. “You know the reason they keep killing abortion doctors? It's because they didn't abort you!”

Applause. And laughter.

As the applause heightened, Ashnil strode up to Soumya. SMACK!

She slapped him hard on the cheek.

He brought his face close to her, “FUCK YOU!”

“Good for me. As for you, you couldn’t even get laid if you were a free prostitute at a sex club in Paris with a spark light up your ass. Goodbye, Soumya.”

Saying this, she turned and left.

The crowd cheered her, clapping at this wonderful woman, who showed this cheating, two-timing man, the door to the exit. Ashnil went to Sunita, who hugged her with delight and shouted, “THAT WAS AMAZING, BLOODY AMAZING!”

Ashnil laughed with her.

----------------------x-------------------------

That night, after midnight, she was talking to Sunita once again.

“...but happy endings ain’t all that bad, na?”

Ashnil glanced at her side. Two pictures now adorned her bedside table. One with her friends Sunita and Rajanya. The other on her school graduation day.

“Yeah, you’re right. I like happy endings too, y’know.”

And they chatted on till late that night.

--------------------------------------------------

2009-05-11T04:03:00.000-07:00

EXTRACTS

By Aditya sengupta

“Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely, dear. Thank you.”

“Happy anniversary dear.”

“Happy anniversary.”

Extract from the last page of the diary of Mahesh Sarkar in the year 1995, after which Mr. Sarkar retired from his occupation and settled in Cape Town, South Africa.

1^st December,

1995.

A lot of people had come for Dad’s funeral today. I think most of them were his ex-patients. Some doctors of the stupid hospital where he worked had also come. Loads of people kept on coming up to me and giving me their phone numbers and telling me to call them if I needed them and all that fucked up bullshit. I guess ~~people are fools~~ most people don’t lose both their parents one after the other. The only two people Dad really loved never came. One was Mom. The other was his best friend, Paritosh Sen. He was the one who found out Dad’s dead body. I didn’t get time to call him. I thought he knew. The papers made such a big fuss about the way Dad died, that I didn’t really get time to contemplate why he did what he did. It’s been all so fast. And I guess I’ve given up writing. I’m abandoning the novel which I started 4 months back. I was going to dedicate it to Dad. Now, I guess, there’s no reason left to finish it. After all it was he who used to spend the nights reading my stories and giving me suggestions to improve upon. I can’t seem to move my fingers across this page to finish it. I think I’ve lost the ability to write….

I guess this is the last page of my diary.

M.Sarkar.

“How much did this cost, dear?”

“It’s my gift. It’s priceless.”

“Will you place it around my neck then?”

“Gladly.”

Extract from the postmortem report of Mr. Akash Sarkar, on the 23^rd of September.

Name: Dr. Mr. Akash Motilal Sarkar.

Address: 56 M, 4^th Avenue House, Asian Syndicate,

17/6A Park Street.

Kolkata: 700-016

Occupation: Cardio-vascular surgeon

Name of Spouse: Late Mrs. Suparna Sarkar.

Name of Child/Children: Mr. Mahesh Sarkar.

Time of death: 20:52 p.m.

18^th September, 1995.

Cause of death: Excessive bleeding from arterial

veins.

Location of death: Room No.204

3^rd Floor, Starson Hospital

Items found – 16 pearl beads covered in blood.

“This necklace is the grandest gift anyone has every given me.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“How can I not like such a beautiful gift?”

“I love you.”

Extract from the last page of the diary of Mr. Akash Sarkar. This diary was discovered in his bedroom three days after his death on 18^th September.

13^th April,

1995

The necklace has been purchased at long last. I plan to surprise Suparna tomorrow morning itself. It’s a magnificent pearl necklace. Each pearl costs an approximate 20,000 rupees. There are around 16 pearls in that necklace. Now I don’t mean to brag, but that’s a lot of money. But for our 25^th marriage anniversary, nothing is too cheap. I know she must be planning something equally worthwhile for me, but I guess this necklace will reign supreme. No more talk now, two more surgeries tomorrow morning, before that – Suparna’s gift. Tomorrow will be special…

“Where did you get the money to buy this necklace?”

“Money’s not a factor. It’s been 25 long years with you. And today, money can never be a factor.”

Extract from the last page of the diary of Mrs. Suparna Sen, who died on the 14^th of April from a severe heatstroke.

13^th April,

1995.

Tomorrow is our 25^th marriage anniversary. From the excitement and the apprehension, I wish I could keep my hands from shaking. I can’t wait for tomorrow morning to dawn bright and beautiful. I’ve got Akash a handsome Titan gold watch – the one he’s been staring at since it’s arrival in the showroom. Men can be so predictable at times. He’s thrown me a million hints that he wants that watch. Pity me, I won’t even get that pearl necklace that I so wanted while we were on holiday in France last month. But there’s hope still – Akash has yet to disappoint me on our anniversary.

Good night…

“And I’ve got you….hmm…guess.”

“Let me guess, hmm – can it be that Titan Gold watch, can it?”

“Ha ha ha, so funny. It was an easy guess. You knew I’d get that didn’t you?”

“Yes, dear, I did. And I love you for it.”

Extract from a newspaper clipping dated 30^th June, 1995.

The unconscious body on one time famous cardio-vascular surgeon Mr. Akash Sarkar was found on the crossing of Rashbehari Avenue late last night. His clothes were torn and his hair, unshaven and dirty. He was picked up last night by the night policemen of Jadavpur Police Station. An excessive amount of nicotine and alcohol substitutes have been detected in his body after blood tests were carried out by the AMRI Hospital. Following the tragic demise of his wife on the past 14^th of April, Akash Sarkar had publicly retired from his profession. His sanity of mind was under question of the officials. He soon squandered the family wealth on cigarettes and alcohol. Now, sadly, he is in acute debt and completely bankrupt. His colleague Mr. G.Das said, “The only way Akash can save himself now is by selling off his family possessions and items of value.” This is just another sorrowful case of mental retardation caused due to the death of a loved one. More news related to mental depressions on Page 5.

“I’m going to go mad from delight. You are actually giving me 10,000 rupees to shop for anything I want?”

“Yes, darling. I have 2 surgeries this morning, and this is a sort of keeping you busy while I’m at it.”

Extract from the last page of the diary of Mr.Paritosh Sen, close friend of Mr.Akash Sarkar. He left his house, early morning on the 19^th of April and has not yet been found.

18th April,

1995.

What I have witnessed is beyond understanding, beyond words and beyond imagination. To see your friend, your closest childhood friend in such a state of physical and mental repugnance, is mortifying. I received a call today at around 7 p.m. It was Akash. He was hysterical. Nothing could stop him from laughing. He kept mumbling something about a ‘necklace’. I could understand nothing, except that he needed me badly. I immediately set off, knowing that he had made the call from ‘STARSONS HOSPITAL’. I reached the hospital at a quarter to eight. Akash generally sits in room 204 on the 3^rd floor to meet patients. I wasted no time in reaching room 204. As soon as I opened the door, I saw darkness. Only a dim light illuminated the room. Akash was huddled in the corner of the room; blood spilt nastily all around him. He was laughing feverishly, tears falling from his eyes at the same time. He screamed at me, “Paritosh, they’ll never take that necklace from me. Never!” His laughter rang violently in my ears. Shaking with fear, I stood rooted to the spot. Suddenly, he started crying out, “Help me sew it back, Paritosh. Help me sew it back.”

I approached him silently and I looked at his arms…oh! So dreadful.

“Sir, your wife. She’s been…she’s had a severe heatstroke. We’ve taken her to MediCentre Hospital…sir, we need you to come here right this instant…yes sir, Mahesh has been informed, he’ll be coming directly.”

Video Extract from the security files of Starsons Hospital.

NOTE: The following words have not been spoken of or written of, nor will they ever be spoken or written of.

The CCTV camera placed inside room 204 of Starsons Hospital recorded the movements of Dr.Akash Sarkar on the 18^th of April. What happened past 18:00 hours on the same day is noted as follows without any exaggerative adjectives.

Dr. Akash Sarkar enters the room silently. He throws the key of the door on the ground. He has a slight air of drunkenness. His clothes are torn, hair is white and uncut. He falls blindly on the work tables and starts rummaging the medical drawers. He withdraws a scalpel and a needle. From inside his shirt pocket, he takes out a pearl necklace. He turns off the lights in the room except one corner floor-light. He falls to that corner, settling against the wall. Nothing can be seen of Dr.Sarkar, except his silhouette, shrouded in darkness. He takes his cellular phone and at 18:57 p.m. he calls someone. He then drops the phone. From now on, Dr. Sarkar does nothing, but scream out in muffled tones. It is evident that he is pain. Some blood spurting on the floor is faintly visible. At 19:43 p.m. Mr. Paritosh Sen, friend of Dr. Sarkar, enters. From the outside light, we glimpse a pool of blood on the floor and a fanatic expression on Dr. Sarkar’s face. The latter speaks in a muffled voice. His voice is not audible. But after sometime, he screams out the following words – “Help me sew it back, Paritosh. Help me sew it back.” The video goes blank thereafter.

“I’m sorry sir, but your wife has passed away. It was an unfortunate incident. We could do nothing about it. Nothing at all. I’m sure you understand. We tried our best…so sorry, sir…so sorry.”

NOTE : What exactly had happened to Dr. Akash Sarkar is something that nobody knows clearly except the deceased and Mr. Paritosh Sen, who has not been found since the 19^th of April, 1995. Some people say that Dr.Sarkar had slit his wrist in order to commit suicide, which explains his motive of taking the scalpel. Some are of the opinion that after slitting his wrist, he wanted to sew it back, with a needle, thus explaining his motive of taking the needle. However, no two theories match. And his frequent ranting about the necklace does not match in with these theories, since the beads of the necklace

However, one person had suggested that Dr. Sarkar might have slit his wrists, and then had pushed the beads of pearls inside his wrists so that they could not be separated from him. This explains the bloody beads of pearls being found and also the reason why Dr. Sarkar had shouted- “Help me sew it back.”

But this theory was set aside as everyone agreed that such a thing was too brutal for a human to commit. No-one accepted the fact that love makes us do strange things.

Case closed.

“Thank you dear. That was the best anniversary ever,”

“I know, darling. I know.”

2009-04-22T02:13:00.001-07:00

Poisoned sympathy…

by Aditya Sengupta

45 year old Mrs. Dutta walked back to her room. It was an excessively tiring day. She turned off the lights. The only light glimmering in the corner was that of her bedside lamp, its fluorescent glow contrasting sharply with the dark red shade walls of her room. She slowly took off her slippers, pushing them neatly underneath her bed. She sat on her bed, sighed heavily and looked at the digital calendar on her bedside table.

11:53 p.m., Thursday.

25^th February, 2007.

She turned off the bedside light and curled up cozily under her blanket. As the cold blasts issuing from the air conditioner swept over her, Mrs. Dutta clutched her blanket closer around her. Staring at the empty half of the bed, her heart ached once again for the man she had loved 25 years ago. It was almost 2 hours after she cried herself to sleep.

*****_____*****

“How many times have I told you to have my coffee ready on the table ‘before’ I come down for breakfast, hmm?”

Mrs. Dutta looked up from the coffee maker, into the annoyed eyes of her husband, 48 year old Dr. Dutta. He was looking at her with the same frustration as he had done this past 5 years.

“You know the goddamn hospital opens the chamber at 8. It takes half an hour to reach there. And the bloody coffee isn’t ready yet.”

Mrs. Dutta tried to smile, in spite of that insinuation. “It’s almost ready, dear. Just wait for a minute. Please.”

Dr. Dutta slammed his hand on the table, upsetting the flower vase. Mrs. Dutta quickly turned off the coffee maker, and swiftly entered the dining room. With a wet cloth, she promptly started clearing up the accumulated water on the table.

“Listen to me, woman. It’s been nearly 20 years of painful marriage with you. And can’t a man expect his coffee to be ready on time?

Mrs. Dutta looked at him from over the table, her eyes as wet as the cloth she held in her hand. “I…I…went to sleep a bit late…yesterday…that’s why…I was a bit late to get up this morning.”

Dr. Dutta went sharply into the kitchen and poured the coffee into a cup, shouting loudly from inside, “WHO IN GOD’S NAME TOLD YOU TO SLEEP LATE?”

Knowing that her husband was out of sight, Mrs. Dutta hastily rubbed her glistening eyes. She straightened the flower vase, and the table was once again spick and span.

She timidly went into the kitchen, and saw her husband blowing at the coffee in the cup and sipping it hastily. She approached him and softly laid a hand on his shoulder. “Rajat…”

“Don’t talk to me now. I’m angry. And very, very late. Bring my bag, NOW!”

Mrs. Dutta rushed back to her husband’s study, and quickly located his bag, buried beneath a stockpile of medical papers and torn x-rays. She rushed back with the bag to her husband. He was standing in front of the doorway, impatiently clicking his boot heels. She brusquely walked up to him and kindly handed him the bag.

Dr. Dutta looked at her. Mrs. Dutta smiled kindly. He turned away, and swept out of the front door without another word. As Mrs. Dutta closed the door behind her, she heard the edgy vroom of the car engine, as her husband sped away into the depths of the city.

She went back to her room.

She entered the bathroom.

She turned on the shower.

She dried her hair with a towel.

She dressed herself in a dull sari.

She cleaned the house.

She made lunch.

And she felt alone.

Mrs. Dutta felt like an old woman. Every morning, her face seemed to be wrinkling more and more. Her dull eyes seemed haggard and fatigued. All around her house, there were more than 30 pictures of her and Rajat, in happier days. She missed him terribly. She went into the drawing room, and stood by the mantelpiece. Their wedding picture hung on the marble walls, framed and brimming with life and happiness.

She cried. She used to cry almost everyday. Today, February 26^th wasn’t an exception. She didn’t used to wail and scream her lungs out. She just stared at the picture and felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them. They trickled till her chin and tenderly dropped onto the mantelpiece.

All of a sudden, the distant ringing of a phone seemed to be delving its way into her consciousness and into forgotten memories.

‘Rajat left his phone at home’ was the first thought that crossed her mind.

The incessant ringing of the phone continued, as she rushed into her husband’s study and picked up the cell-phone kept on the table. The caller ID on the phone said –

Priya

9875648541

She hesitated for one second, and then curtly answered the phone. But before she could even speak, an infuriated voice called out from the other end of the line –

“What is your problem, Rajat? You won’t receive my calls, you won’t answer my smses. What did you think? I’d let you sleep with me and then you can run away? Hello? Rajat? Speak up. “

In a shaky voice, Mrs. Dutta asked – “Who is this?”

“SHIT…” the line went off from the other side.

The phone slipped and fell from Mrs. Dutta’s hand. Her entire body started shaking. She slumped beside the fallen cell-phone, her hands quivering. She could sense her heartbeat gain momentum. But she did not feel tears sliding down her cheeks. She did not feel sad anymore. In the faint recesses of her mind, she found solace in the thought that her husband was cheating on her. It gave her room to express her emotions to her own self and not be afraid of being true to her feelings.

She stood up hastily. Staggering, she pushed aside the stool lying in front of the table. She paused for a second’s thought. Accumulated thoughts swept over her. And then, she swept her hands across the table and the flurry of papers, books and pens went flying across the room. Reveling in the savage pleasure she gained, she arrived at the mantelpiece. Without even a passing glance at the picture, she seized the picture frame and brought it crashing down to the floor in an almighty wrench. For the first time in her life, she screamed, as she did this. It was a scream of glory. A scream of renunciation.

She traipsed back to her bedroom and opened her husband’s medical drawers. Forces of impulse had captured her being. The very thought of suicide had never occurred to her before and she always used to think of self-sacrifice as weak and cowardly. She found innumerable bottles with unknown names and dangerous symbols. Her hands shook as she took out a bottle with a familiar name and popped it open.

*****_____*****

Vroom.

Dr. Rajat Dutta parked his car in his garage, racing the engine a little before turning the ignition off. He stepped out of the car and sharply rang the door bell thrice. He noticed that the front lights of the house were off.

There was no answer. “Bloody woman.” he swore and reached into his pocket. He took out the duplicate key and opened the door with a slight click. The first thing that greeted his eyes was darkness. He switched on the lights, and placed his bag on the centre-table.

“Maya? MAYA!!!” he screamed. There was no answer.

“Where is that goddamned woman?” he entered the kitchen, and took out a jug of cold water from the refrigerator. He was just about to drink it when a voice behind him called -

“Hello, Rajat.”

He bustled around. Mrs. Maya Dutta was sitting at the dinner table, shrouded in darkness.

Rajat furiously opened the fridge and placed the jug back inside. “I will not tolerate insolence, Maya. I’ve yelled my lungs out and you don’t bother to answer? Huh?”

“Sit down, Rajat”, replied Maya, coolly.

Rajat glared at Maya. “DON’T ORDER ME AROUND!!!”

Maya Dutta met her husband’s angry defiant stare with her calm sophisticated look. “Sit, Rajat. Have dinner.”

Rajat infuriatingly sat down on the chair opposite Maya’s. The table was set with sumptuous dishes. There was chicken pakoras, ravioli, meat balls, spaghetti, mixed fried rice, ham steaks and an ice-cream pudding. There were two candles on the table, and paper napkins were neatly folded and kept on both sides of the table. An expensive array of cutlery adorned the sides of the china plates. A bottle of French wine stood at the centre of the table. Rajat stared at the table for a while, anger forgotten. In his 20 years of marriage, seldom had he seen the table so beautifully furnished. Following the candlelight, he looked up and saw the most beautiful face that he had ever seen – that of his wife.

He had never seen Maya so stunning and so gorgeous. She was wearing an expensive silk sari, with an attractive necklace garnishing her bare neck. Diamond earrings hung from her ears and Rajat was speechless.

Without another word, Maya stood up and picked up the bottle of wine. She poured out a glassful for herself and her husband. Sveltely, she handed him his glass of wine and kept her one beside her plate.

Rajat was stunned into silence. He was at a complete loss for words. If only he could envision the whirlwind of emotions playing within the murky depths of Maya’s ravaged heart, he would have truly felt pity for almost a decade of distrust.

He sipped the wine a bit and found Maya observing him. He silently put his head down and took another sip of wine. The fire from the candle crackled.

Maya took a deep breath and spoke up quite suddenly, “I’ve had enough, Rajat. I’ve suffered for 20 years. Not any more. Not any longer.”

Rajat looked shocked. Regaining his composure, he said, “Don’t speak nonsense. Eat up, silly woman.”

“Exactly. That’s what I am to you. A ‘silly woman’. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because I’ve had enough. I can’t stand waking up every morning to your abuses. I can’t wake up half an hour before you to make your coffee. I can’t stand to stay at home, doing nothing.”

“Don’t be unreasonable, Maya. We have discussed this before. We’ve been through this be…”

“DO NOT GIVE ME ANY OF THAT SHIT ANYMORE, MR. RAJAT DUTTA. I am your wife, for God’s sake – not a machine!”

“Lower your voice, Maya.”

“Lower your voice? Lower your voice, Rajat? All these days, have YOU lowered your voice? HAVE YOU? Don’t tell me to lower my voice. Don’t test my patience, today.”

“Why are you acting so strange?”

“You knew this was coming. You knew this was coming, Rajat. You think I’m a fool? YES, I was a fool. A huge fool. A fool to lay awake for hours staring at the empty bedside, waiting for you to return. A fool for wanting to kiss you when you leave for work. I know I’ve been a fool.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Maya. Eat your food.”

Rajat sipped on his wine once again. He coughed twice and hastily wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Maya smiled. And she leaned forward, whispering, “Priya called today.”

Rajat’s glass fell from his hand onto the tiled floor, smashing into a million claustrophobic pieces, spilling the liquid remnants of the wine onto the ground.

“P…Priya?”

“Remember her? The woman you slept with?”

Rajat glanced at Maya’s eyes. It was cold and dark. Maya unmistakably knew the truth. Rajat impatiently looked around. A chilly seep of sweat seemed to run down his spine. There was an awkward silence. Maya just sat back, and smiled at the uneasiness.

Rajat suddenly screamed out – “LIES!!”

Maya laughed. A dark, sarcastic laugh. “She called up. I had a long talk with her. How many other women have you been with?”

Rajat was starting to sweat. He started coughing once again. It was evident that he was in discomfort. He managed to answer - “I know of no-one called Priya,”

“Answer my question, dear. How many other women have you been with? Four? Five?”

“WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME?” screamed Rajat, he upturned the table in his blind fury. China plates, cutlery and food went soaring through the kitchen, breaking, landing and distorting the unsoiled floor. Maya smiled through this display of pain and frustration.

“I am not torturing you, darling. I’m just doing what you have done with me these 20 years.”

“Is this because you don’t even have a bloody child? Is it my fault that you can’t give birth? Is it?”

Maya sat up straight, she felt 20 years of disgust streaming through her. The absolute realization of betrayal, distrust, anger and repulsion broke through the shackles of a failed marriage. She could not stand another second to be married to the man whom she thought she had loved. Rajat found a new strength in his voice.

“Yes, yes…that’s it, isn’t it? Don’t blame me, if you don’t have a child. It’s you who’s incapable.”

Maya rose up. “SHUT UP! Don’t utter another word.”

“Why? Hurt you…where it hurts most? Eh?”

Maya calmed. She closed her eyes and searched her heart. “I thank God that I didn’t have to bear your son.”

“There’s…there’s no use…blaming me.” Rajat coughed once again.

Maya smiled. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m visiting our banks in the morning; I’ll be withdrawing all our money. Maybe get a nice job. Settle some place. Take up some hobby. I’m sure it’ll be a nice life. What do you think, darling?”

Rajat got to his feet and tottered towards Maya. He grabbed her by the throat viciously, screaming, “YOU BITCH!!”

Maya lurched backwards. Rajat gripped her neck, squeezing it. Maya tried to scream, but couldn’t. Rajat nastily struck her face in a livid frenzy. Rajat struck her again and again. He held her violently by the hair and kicked her brutally. Maya was stunned into a state of shock. But she didn’t do a thing to stop Rajat. An exhausted Rajat coughed violently as he grabbed Maya’s hand and pulled her close.

“Had…had…enough? Hmm? HUH?”

Maya laughed once again. A laugh that was interspersed with some tears and some pain. Then she brought her face close to Rajat’s and whispered into his ear, “I knew the Atropine in your medical drawer would be of some use one day.”

Rajat stared into the deep, emotionless eyes of Maya Dutta. His grip on her arm loosened. He fell on all fours and started coughing violently. Blood spewed from his mouth onto the polished marble. He looked at Maya’s face with tears in his eyes. Beside him lay the broken wine glass, the spilt wine still dry. He looked up at Maya once again in an earnest appeal. Maya stared into his eyes, burning his soul with poisoned sympathy.

“You…you…poisoned…poiso…me? Me…?”

Maya smiled at him and said, “No dear, ‘you’ poisoned me. Goodnight.”

*****_____*****

11:38 p.m., Friday.

26^th February, 2007.

She turned off the bedside light and curled up cozily under her blanket. As the cold blasts issuing from the air conditioner swept over her, Mrs. Dutta clutched her blanket closer around her. Staring at the empty half of the bed, her heart did not ache for the man she had loved 25 years ago. She fell asleep almost immediately that night.

____________

2008-10-05T23:08:00.000-07:00

Tales from a Kleptomaniac's Unwritten Diary.

2008-10-04T23:04:00.000-07:00

Story 1 - My Diary...?

I woke up. Cold sweat had washed my bedsheet. I touched my pillow gingerly with my shaking hands. I got reminded of my high school days when I had loved a girl once, and had cried literal buckets of tears into my oppressed pillows to rid myself of that severity of mental torture.

My pillow was dripping wet. What was wrong with me?

I glanced around my demolished room. My bed looked straight out of a stationery shop storage room. Packed copies, unused pens and refills, geometry boxes (fresh out of their wrappers), rulers and books - what was going on here?

I tried to remember what had happened to me. I remember clearly going to the supermarket to get myself a pair of new shoes. Thats where the memory goes blank.

I get up gingerly. The lights and fans wer off. No wonder i was sweating.
What lay on my table scared the living daylights out of me.

A brand new 26 inch television set, not even unwrapped from its box. As i proceeded to touch it, i noticed a deep cut on the back of my right hand. It had not healed yet and looked pretty deep.

Where did i cut myself from?

Question after curious question flooded my sweaty brain.

Shards of glass were lying on the floor, looking up at me innocently from underneath their shallow immobility, glinting ever so strangely from a few rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate the shield of curtains that were blowing in the wind.

A horrible thought occured to me. Did i 'steal' these artefacts? Is this what i am reduced to now? A thief? A shoplifter?

From afar, I could hear police cars fast approaching.

----------------------------------------

"Kleptomania sir", sub-inspector Naren spoke with certainty.
"Kleptomania? What are the symptoms?", inspector Manish Darman asked.

"Sir, people are compelled to commit theft of small items like pen, paper, knives, tapes, small toys, cds etc. You get the idea? The victim himself does not realise that he has committed a crime", Naren looked at a piece of paper inside a blue file.

"Hmm...are we there yet?", asked the inspector.

"Nearly there, sir. His home is just round that corner. What course of action are we to take?"

"We don't kill. We arrest him. How dangerous are kleptomaniacs?"

"Vulnerable completely sir....if unarmed", spoke Naren with conviction. His eyes were fixed on the now approaching building.

"And what if armed?"

"Then sir, i think we are the vulnerable ones", Naren gave a small chortle of laughter.
-------------------------------------------

They are coming for me...was the first thought that came to me.
Should i run for it? Do i have a gun? Or a knife.

I went to the window, creaked open an inch and stole a glance outside. The cars were right in front of my home, their flashing sirens baring their ugly teeth at me through the grilled iron bars of the front gate.

Without wasting a single second, i ran. I opened the door and climbed the low wall behind my home and made a dash towards the main road. I didn't see the police car tracking my every move. It rushed at me like a mother trying to protect her only child from the clutches of a fire.

--------------------------------------------

"Sir, bad news," Naren spoke in a low voice.

"Don't tell me Naren, that the victim is in any way injured or unable to be interrogated?", the exasperated voice of Manish Darman inquired.

"The victim has been hit by one of the police cars. He is...he's...been killed."

"WHAT? WHICH OFFICER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?", boomed the inspector.

"It was Devrup's car. Its not his fault. The victim was trying to escape. The car was revved up in pursuit. The victim slipped and fell. The car tried to brake but...it hit the victim's head. Devrup managed to hear the last words of the victim before the concussion in his head killed him."

"What were his last words?"

"He said - 'My diary...?"

"Diary? Was it a statement or a question?", the inspector was stumped.

"It was a question sir."

"Have you searched his room? Did you find a diary there?"

"No sir. None at all."

"Strange. An unwritten diary. Case closed Naren?"

"Case closed sir."

--------------------------------------------

The lights have forever faded in that one room. The stolen articles were recovered. Just the owner's life couldn't ever be recovered.

There on his table, in full view - lay an unseen, unwritten diary. The window was open, ever so slightly. The small gusts of guttural wind that sometimes blew, ruffled up the unfelt pages of that kleptomaniacs unwritten diary, till the end of time - when the earth cracked and swallowed up this diary. That day, the plastic pages of that diary folded itself and fell like acid rain on the trees of hell.

_________x_________x___________

Tales From a Kleptomaniac's Unwritten Diary.

2008-10-04T22:57:00.000-07:00

Presenting - a series of small, strange, unbelievable tales, written by Yours Truly!

I've named this series - Tales From a Kleptomaniac's Unwritten Diary.

2008-10-03T02:08:00.000-07:00

Me and my friend Kalpan Mitra were just having a discussion on the best scene in the movie 'The Dark Knight' and i had to come up with the Joker Interrogation Scene!

So, for the enjoyment of all my viewers - let me give you the proud privelege of witnessing it!

So, i guess i win!CIAO!

2008-01-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

Bow to the Majin Prince....Vegeta

2008-01-21T10:27:00.000-08:00

My intense love of the anime series Dragon Ball Z has led me to have immense respect for this guy. His name is Vegeta, and i really bow low to his attitude....one of a true prince. A Prince of Saiyans!

Me in Delhi visiting the Taj Mahal for the first time!

2008-01-21T09:56:00.000-08:00