Category: Fiction
24 Sep 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 7:09pm
An eerie calm prevailed at dusk as the last rays of Sun reflected on the edge of the sword. Abhimanyu, the supreme warrior, had been holding and examining it with care, for he sensed a difference. The sword that severed many a head with infallible rigor refused to obey the hand that never faltered. The hand that moved with inimitable grace forgot the craft. The grip was destitute of the erstwhile resolve and the arm was wanting in strength. The invincible warrior in him was suddenly vulnerable.
As he looked at the sword with care and pondered, he remembered his master's words. "For a warrior who has mastered his craft, the sword is an extension of his hand. The day he feels the weapon is distinct from his hand, he is dead". He realised what has befallen, and smiled. It had an element of sadness, but the element of surrender overpowered. He heard someone walking toward his chamber.
Abhimanyu turned around and noticed Siddha who walked with measured steps as he approached the door. "Come in, Siddha", Abhimanyu greeted him. Siddha bowed down in respect. "The master wants to see you, sir", he said. As he sought the persmission to leave, Abhimanyu said, "stay for a while, Siddha. I would like to give you something".
Siddha obeyed and was pleased. He always admired Abhimanyu and cherished the dream of becoming as great a warrior one day. Abhimanyu, with the sword in his hand, walked toward Siddha. "When I see you, I am reminded of myself when young. I believe you will be a great warrior soon. That warrior for whom battle is a game, fighting is an art and victory is irrelevant. This sword is everything I have, and I find it befitting to give it to you this day".
Siddha was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude that Abhimanyu considered him worthy of this benediction. A master warrior never bequeaths his sword; it is buried along with him. It didn't occur to him to ask Abhimanyu the reason behind this surprising decision.
As Abhimanyu handed Siddha the sword, he was content, for he was sure it went into the right hands. He did not let Siddha touch his feet. He never let anyone do that. Instead, he embraced Siddha. And before going to meet the master Vikrama, he told Siddha, "and never forget this: the battle is always with yourself; never with the enemy". Siddha will understand the meaning only after many years. At this moment, he just remembered the words.
As Abhimanyu walked through the corridors, he remembered his master's words again.
Master Vikrama's chamber was quiet. Abhimanyu touched his feet and Vikrama blessed his fond disciple.
"Master, I was told you wanted to see me".
"Indeed. You have fought many a battle and made me proud. Prepare for one at the stroke of dawn. This is yet another test of our might. The enemy has challenged us for a duel with their best swordsman. If we win, their army will be ours. I'm not even thinking of a loss. To win, however, we must send our best, for this isn't going to be any easy duel. And that's you".
Abhimanyu spoke after a pause. "Master, I thank you for having shown unflinching faith in me thus far. And it's by your grace and blessings that I have won all our battles. But, master, I cannot fight any more. I apologise but I cannot challenge the duel".
Vikrama was surprised. "Insanity! What devil has possessed you, Abhimanyu!?"
"Master, it's a realisation. My craft has betrayed me, and the sword obeys no more".
"Is it you? Is it the same man who the world knows as invincible, who plays with the sword with the grace of an expert dancer, who slays enemies at will, who is feared by foes, respected by friends and worshipped by disciples for his matchless skill? The supreme warrior who commands entire armies! And you say you cannot command your sword today! What a shame!"
"I fail to feel the sword as my hand any more. Sadly, master, I confess I cannot fight hence".
"What has conquered the unconquerable, I wonder!"
"I know not, master!"
"You are dead not when you cannot control the sword. You are dead when you think you cannot. Get over the delusion, Abhimanyu. You are invincible. Your craft will never betray you till your death. Prepare for the duel".
"I cannot, master!"
Vikrama became furious. "I ordain you, Abhimanyu!"
"Your word means an order to me, master. But I cannot let you down, of all people. I cannot fight any more. I apologise".
"Abhimanyu! If you cannot fight, you don't deserve to be alive. Either head for the duel or be beheaded".
"I owe everything to you, master. If death be, so be it!"
"Such disdain!".
"I'm just being truthful, master".
"Then let your craft too be truthful to you! Watch your own head being slayed". Vikrama summoned Siddha without a moment of delay. "Siddha, this man has chosen martyrdom for self. I confer on you the honour of beheading this great warrior who has gone insane too soon".
Siddha was struck with utter disbelief. What a merciless turn of fate! He was in tears as he looked at Abhimanyu. "Being a disciple is not easy. You must walk the rough terrain. Take the sword, Siddha. This is your first test", Abhimanyu said.
Vikrama advised Siddha, "unshakeable grip, unwavering gaze, and one swift cut. On the neck. Should sever the head before he can blink".
Abhimanyu bowed down and touched the feet of Vikrama who refused to look. Four despondent guards led Abhimanyu and Siddha to the execution chamber. As they walked out of his chamber, Vikrama turned around and looked out through the window. Hesitantly, tears filled his eyes.
Moments later, a loud clang of the sword was heard.
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16 Sep 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 12:47pm
The Man Booker shortlist is out and Coetzee is in the running for the first hat-trick. May the master win! Besides Coetzee (for Summertime), the others are:
A S Byatt, The Children's Book
Adam Foulds, The Quickening Maze
Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall
Simon Mawer, The Glass Room
Sarah Waters, The Little Stranger
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16 Sep 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 12:40pm
Yesterday.
He wanted to know how she is. Hurriedly, he mailed. To ask how she is, to tell her that he will always stand by her. He looked at the monitor; he saw her face. She was in front of him, he felt. He was talking to her, tenderly holding her hand. Wanted to hear her words. One word, at least. One smile. He would ask no more questions, speak no more words to hurt her more; he just wanted to see her smile. Expectantly, he clicked "send".
Instantly, he received a mail delivery notification. The email account does not exist, it said. When life mocks and luck betrays, the unfortunate one stands no chance. Disbelief took over. He knew it was going to happen, for she had told him. And he also knew why she had. Yet, yet he refused to accept. He sent the mail again. With the same result. He sent it again. And again. And again. It had no loophole. There was no furtive path open for his words to reach her. No generous messenger, no instant messenger, no messenger. If only he could hug her once, he thought. But melancholy was all that held him in its cold embrace. Holding so tight that it was almost choking.
In the bitterest moments of life, the only music that plays is the pulsating beat of one's heart fueled by the rending pain. A line from Coetzee's Disgrace that occurred to him a few days ago when she took the train, occured to him again: "A day like any other day, clear skies, a mild sun, yet suddenly everything is changed, utterly changed!"
It was a city of millions. Yet he felt utterly lonely.
Today.
He sends the mail again. The result is no different. He wants to see her. Her smile. He wants to look in her eyes. Once. A walk in the darkness, life has become. It's a city of millions. And he feels utterly lonely.
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10 Sep 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 1:29pm
The bus came to an abrupt halt. The jolt woke up the baby. She had been blissfully asleep thus far, lost in the celestial world of her innocent dreams. "Careful!", the conductor, bespectacled and in his early-fifties, shouted at the driver, who didn't seem to care. The baby was displeased. She felt as if someone has forcefully pulled curtains on the beautiful world she was dreaming of and dragged her back into this infernal chaos that the people inside and outside the bus are living in. The rude intrusion into her sleep and the inexplicable end to her dreams didn't impress her. Striving hard to open her eyes, she burst out weeping. Sikandar held her close to his chest and patted on her back to put her back to sleep. The conductor held the door open for Sikandar to get down. "The baby will be fine. Don't worry", he assured Sikandar, as he alighted. "Give her medicine on time", the conductor loudly reminded. Sikandar, with his back to the conductor, smiled, waved his hand and said, "Sure, dada!"
Sikandar had been impatiently waiting for the stop, for it started getting cloudy an hour ago. He wanted to reach Saharanpur before it rains. So, when it finally stopped, he was quite relieved. He just wanted to rush to the village. He couldn't give even a moment to turn, look back and thank the conductor properly.
The roar of thunder echoed all around. The clouds were closing in with haste. Saharanpur is still 12 miles away. It's a narrow, muddy stretch through dense forest to the village. Only carts and autos bring and take people between the bus-stop and the village. As one has to wait for hours to find an auto or cart, the young usually prefer to walk the 12 miles. Sikandar hastened his walk as the baby slowly gave in to sleep. He looked at the clouds and it was gloomy. The Sun has completely disappeared behing the dark clouds and the earth smelt of rain. It's raining at a distance, certainly not far away. He quickly assessed that he must waste not even a second if he should reach the village before it rains. For, if it rains, even walking becomes quite difficult on the road. "She is down with cold and high fever. Don't let her outdoors or she'll get weaker", Sikandar remembered the doctor's words. The baby must not get wet in rain. He must rush. He had walked on this stretch many times earlier, so he knows where and how to step and pace.
As it got darker, lightning wouldn't stop. The forest stood in utter quiet. If it rains now, it will pour from the skies. There's nothing to stop by and take shelter at. Suddenly, Sikandar was possessed with apprehension. He thought, for a moment, if it was wiser to go back to the bus-stop and wait till it stops raining. But where would he wait? The barren road aside, it's just shrubs and bushes. Not any better than this stretch. He walked on. Faster. A blinding streak of lightning ran through the sky in front of him, and it appeared as if the clouds were being torn apart. A tender rain droplet fell on his forehead. And with it vanished the last element of his wish that it should not rain. Now he must find trees for shelter. He knows the route thoroughly and the nearest one is 15 minutes away. Not a faint heart that he is, he was hopeful that the huge tree will protect him and, more importantly, the baby from rain. If it rains through the tree too, he will, he hoped, hide in the groove of the trunk. But all the trees that he knows have full trunks. Or, better yet, he hoped he will find a tiny brick structure, laid overnight by strangers, with a roof. He could put the baby there. Or, how about the clouds suddenly going, by some miracle, shallow and cannot rain? It isn't raining yet, so he can still play with hope. For some more time. Just.
With every drop of rain, however, hope dwindled. He must believe in miracles now. The baby is sleeping, and hasn't felt the rain yet. Shortly, however, she will. Sikandar held the baby closer. He has walked a good distance off the road but the village is still far away. When he left for the town at morning, it was bright and sunny. It didn't occur to him if it might rain. He cursed himself. But it was more out of helplessness, for he couldn't have foreseen anyways. Nevertheless, he cursed himself. He felt he should have anticipated, however impossible it was to. He heard the faint sound of rain. It's approaching him. He must run. Inevitability looked straight in his eye. That he failed to foresee didn't appear an accident now; it appeared like a downright mistake, instead. He must pay for it now. But must the innocent baby pay for it, too? Sikandar was anrgy. Rain pelted against the still foliage, and it'll reach him in a few seconds and drench them both. He looked up at the skies. Angrily. That he was always dismissive of God didn't bother him. He prayed. He prayed that the rain should stop soon. If the baby gets drenched and stays wet for a long time, it could be fatal. She is his life and he must save her.
The sky roared loud and rain caught him. Millions of gallons pouring incessantly from above. The baby woke up with a shiver. Startled, she looked at Sikandar. He looked lovingly into her eyes. Little did he know that it is the last time she would look at him. His anger dissolved, hope surfaced, but her glance had a thousand questions. One question, repeated a thousand times, rather. "Will you save me, papa?" she seemed to ask. Tears rushed into his eyes, but he stopped. How could he tell her she means everything to him and that he will do everything to save her! He caressed her face, held her closer, and said, "It will be all right, darling". Did she understand? He thought she did. Maybe she indeed did. Or maybe she didn't. The cold rain water soaked her clothes and skin, and she could not keep her eyes open. Crying aloud, she held Sikandar's collar more firmly.
(...to be continued)
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25 Aug 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 7:18pm
A long, tiring trek it has been. But it's not over yet. Twenty more steps to the peak, and the incline was at its steepest. Meursault felt weary in legs, muscles and bones, but he must reach the peak.
Nineteen done. The final step.
Done. Accomplished. Contentment. For now. With his eyes closed, he relished the moment. A quick smile later, he prepared himself to look at the world for, so to speak, one last time. The world he had lived in lay a few thousand feet below. The world thought he was a misfit. He thought he was a misfit, too. The world was a Rubik's cube, unsolved though, and he was a redundant micro-cube. Not even a cube, perhaps. A skewed n-faced, n-edged, n-dimensional piece. Maybe. An absolute misfit. He threw away the remnant of the fag and turned around. Curtains down. His back to the world. He looked at the expanse that greeted him. An expanse that filled the canvas that his eyes could see. And the tranquil waters a few thousand feet below. At the farthest point of his vision, the sky, the land and the water seemed to merge.
The waters, reflecting the blue of the sky, beckoned. The sun hid behind the lone cloud, fleeting past the top of a distant mountain. The playful cloud, the dreary Sun and the reposing mountain - the silent, uninvited witnesses to his stealthy but loud act of repudiation of the world. The breeze moved gently and the birds were returning in flocks to their homes, after another day's toil and play.
Meursault took a deep breath, looked at the waters, lifted his hands up, fingers pointing toward the sky, thrust his feet against the dry ground, and as his feet rose up, he let them go off the ground and leapt toward the sky. The sky would push him, the ground would pull, but he will float in emptiness, along the edge of the cliff, descending to the cold of the waters whose waves crash relentlessly against the immovable mountain. Moving downward in spite of himself, Meursault felt no sense of his self, as if the entity that his frame has embodied thus far has mysteriously dissolved into nothingness and vanished without a word, leaving behind no trace. As quietly as he wanted to walk out of the world.
The bamboo shadows move over the stone steps
as if to sweep them, but no dust is stirred;
The moon is reflected deep in the pool,
but the water shows no trace of its penetration*
All he noticed was the waters into which he will soon crash, the resounding noise of which will remind him of his existence. An abrupt, compulsive reminder. Yet again.
---------------
* A Zen poem
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17 Aug 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 6:51pm
"Br.o.k/en", Sid writes in the diary and closes it. Distraught, he stares at the guest who has been pretending to be, or indeed, unaware that he is feeling down. The guest enjoys another sip of wine and speaks for the first time. "Why you feeling low, son?"
Sid: "As if you don't know! Come on, you are God! You know how much I love her".
God has an easy smile. He tastes another sip before saying in a measured tone, "Love is not enough. You need luck. Too".
A pause. Sid stares intently at God. God acknowledges his awaiting stare. "Actually, you need loads of it. And you... YOU... you have none of it, son".
Sid is agitated and surprised. "Why!? Why me?"
"That's a wrong question, I'm afraid. I don't choose. I just throw dice. Whoever gets it, gets it. Whoever doesn't, does not. Random event".
"Ah! But you can control, undo and change anything. Randomness cannot be beyond your powers".
"Omnipotence is, I must remind, an attribute that YOU have ascribed to me".
"Have we been wrong, then?"
"Wrong/right, good/bad... Sorry, I am incapable of understanding duality. How does it matter, son? An ant believes you humans are omnipotent. But, are you?" God asks with a mocking smile.
"Don't trick me with dialectic. I want answers".
"Dialectic is your domain, son. I am a simple chap. Famous as God. Thanks to you".
Sid is in no mood to appreciate humour. "Fair enough. Later. Importantly, here I am. In love. But utterly shattered. Everything seems to be going against me. Despite my best efforts not to, I end up hurting her and inflicting more trouble. Worse, every word I speak and everything I do is implying the contrary. I feel helpless".
God is listening, with an air of indifference. He looks at the empty glass and it gets filled with wine in a moment. Sid is on the brink of a breakdown. "Life is unfair, son. Being at the right place matters. And you are not. Luck, as I said. That's how it is".
"That she is not beside me is already killing. Can I not have at least her trust and love?" Sid asks, his eyes wet in tears. "I am a wreck. I cannot recover from this".
"What do I care?" God says. Shaken, Sid feels. Pitiless. As life. A cold stare. Cold enough to freeze Sid's tears.
"Some delicious drink this is, indeed! Want some, son?"
-------
Such is the intrusion of the tragic, when one becomes aware of the turning wheels of life
- Self, Yann Martel
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16 Jun 2009
Posted by Oblivion in
Fiction
| 8:47am
Monsoons - she adored this time of the year. However, tonite, as the dark, broody clouds made an ominous appearance in all their cumbersome glory, she was especially cranky. On the edge. Not a wink of sleep rested on her tired, searching eyes.
As she cuddled up to her sleeping hubby, restless and pensive, she recalled the rushed, stinging smack by the silvery sharp needles of rain on her face earlier that evening.
The rain, she mused, like love, is the greatest leveler - of the rich and the poor, the good and the evil, the most beautiful and the ghastly ugly. The sleepy, and the awake. The lonesome and the alone... She wondered why the rain that had sprouted fragrant joy into the parched land also swelled up raging teary waves by the lakeside? Why couldn't the rain delight her... Like it'd always. She had felt a little caressed by the generous swoosh of its all-enveloping arms, and why had it then wearied her soul out?
As she felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks, she wanted to get out and be one with it again. Desperately. So, she could melt her tears away in the cold uncaring monster of a downpour. Even as her soul let out a heart-rending cry, nature, seemed overcome with emotion, responded - with torrentials of it.
Her feelings began to overwhelm her. To the point of choking her. And then, she could hold no more. She went out into the balcony and texted her friend. She just wanted to sms him and tell him how sorry she was for having hurt him, his feelings. She apologised, said she had never meant to be nasty or call "twisted" - his intentions, his care for her, concern for her, feelings for her, his very love for her!
Having sent the message, she was all lost deep in his thoughts getting thoroughly drenched in the rain, when her hubby called out to her. Suddenly bolted into reality, she feared the worst.
Her premonitions, her sixth sense had warned her against taking such a risk. Why did she? And, now, she would have to pay! What would her hubby think, and say. What if her friend messaged her back right now? Her hubby wouldn't read her messages. Yet, he would be enraged if he knew she got a message from a guy that late at night. Rightly so, perhaps. What, if he insisted he would want to see her friend's message. After all, despite all the space they gave each other, they never kept any secrets between them. And, what was she upto, he would definitely wonder and be saddened...
Even as these thoughts played havoc with her already-aching head that was working overtime, she suddenly found her concerned hubby standing behind her, gently taking her by the arm and leading her back inside.
Outside the voluminous rain poured hasty and violent. The thunder yelled and threatened to tear the sky apart. Inside, another drama was unfolding. Asking what bothered her, so late at night, and why she was out in the balcony in the rain, he glanced upon her cellphone, buzzing with the tone of an incoming message. Puzzled, he tried to take a look. Frightened and shocked out of senses, she grabbed it. Didn't let go of it even when he asked for it. Almost muddled, as though in a trance, as if unaware that it was normal for her hubby to be curious and ask, she couldn't comprehend why he was so 'bothering' her... she was irritated, and wondered why was he being suddenly so overly-protective and concerned?
Almost crazed into a frenzy, she yanked her phone from his hands and screamed at him in all her thundering threat of a tone. Angered, her hubby only got more curious and insistent, asking if she was hiding anything from him. Awfully guilt-ridden, and all enraged, she thundered back a loud 'no.'
Even as the rain beat up outside, loud and fierce, the two exchanged harsh words. Harder feelings. He finally did what she had been fearing - Asked her if she was having an affair and why she had behaving strangely for the past few months. Why was she so transformed all of a sudden. Why was she so lost always? Why wasn't she irritated anymore when he teased her? Why didn't she laugh out loud when he cracked jokes? Why was she now so into love songs, when earlier the very sound of any music drove her mad? What was she so "lost" about...
Breaking down, completely, she just ran outside. It had suddenly become all quiet - the rain had, as though magically, disappeared and rendered everything silent. Not a leaf moved. She fell to the floor weeping inconsolably, almost as though mourning at a loss of a loved one. He was petrified, but extremely moved by her plight. Tenderly picking her up, he brought her back in. After a while she calmed down and apologised. He said he didn't need to know anything. Her happiness was of utmost importance to him. That was all that mattered - just the two of them to be happy and together.
The storm had passed. Balance was restored. However, the monsoon was here to stay, at least for a good while, and the storms would be back at the slightest of chance and on the hottest of angry days.
"Love is a minefield. You take a step and get blown to pieces, put yourself back together again and stupidly take another step..."
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