Different Shades of Success

Different Shades of Success

Different Shades of Success

This play was written for a school play. It was enacted on stage and won the first prize for the school’s Best House Play competition.

Scene 1

The boys’ house

 

Naveen, a 12-year-old boy, walks into the house with a football in his hand. His mother immediately comes out of the kitchen on hearing him.

MOTHER:

Naveen, how many times have I told you not to play ball in the house? And how long have you been gone? You went at 9. It is five hours now.

NAVEEN:

Ma, it’s okay. There was a practice for our tournament this week.

MOTHER:

Tournament? And what about your exam? You have your Units coming up on Monday, don’t you? Have you finished studying?

Naveen’s brother, Kishore, 15-year-old, walks in from his room. He has a bag slung over his shoulders.

MOTHER:

Look at your brother, Naveen! He just returned from school and now he is ready to leave for his classes. While you wasted away half your day, he was studying throughout. Why don’t you learn from him?

NAVEEN:

But I love football! I am good at it.

MOTHER:

Football? Will it pay you in future? Why don’t you say something, Kishore’s father?

The boys’ father is sitting on the sofa looking at something on his cellphone. He looks up at the sudden mention.

FATHER:

Yes, Naveen, football doesn’t pay you. You must listen to your mother.

NAVEEN:

But, father… I…

FATHER:

Keep it as a hobby. But if you don’t learn, what’s the use of it? You will be kicking balls on the street. See how that neighbor’s son studies. Excellent in every subject. And your own brother Kishore? Why don’t you take some inspiration from them?

MOTHER:

Now go and change. And leave for your tuition class in five minutes. We are not paying for nothing.

FATHER:

Yes, yes… listen to your mother.

 

Scene 2

The boys’ house

Mother and father are in the room. Father is watching a match on TV and mother is on the phone. She disconnects the phone and looks at Father.

MOTHER:

You see that? I have been telling you hundreds of times to take some time out and teach your son. Now his tuition teacher had called.

FATHER:

Tuition teacher? Whose, Kishore’s?

MOTHER:

Why will Kishore’s teacher call? He has never scored less than 90 percent in any exam. It was about your wayward son, Naveen. He has again failed in all subjects at school. He hasn’t told at home yet, but she found out from his friends.

FATHER:

Failed in all subjects? That’s bad.

MOTHER:

Yes. And do something about it.

FATHER:

I will. I mean, I should. By the way, you remember that Ramesh is coming home tonight, don’t you?

MOTHER:

Yes. I’ll make the preparations for him right away.

 

 

Scene 3

The boys’ house — evening at the dinner table

 

There is a guest, Ramesh. He is the boys’ uncle.

RAMESH:

Brother, why is Naveen not at the table with us? By the way, the food was wonderful!

FATHER:

What do I tell you, Ramesh! That boy is wasting away his life. He is in the Grade 8 now, and he is getting bad remarks everywhere. Just today we found out that he has failed in all the subjects at his Units. He needs to be punished so that he understands.

RAMESH:

But, brother, we all know that he has other talents. He is more into sports rather than studies. Is that a bad thing? Look at Sachin Tendulkar or Saina Nehwal…

FATHER:

They are one in a million, Ramesh. It doesn’t happen with everyone. Anyway, he needs to learn a lesson. Let him go hungry for a couple of nights and he will understand. I am embarrassed every time I come across Dr. Rudransh in the lift. He always tells me about his son’s great achievements, and I have nothing to speak about Naveen. Of course, Kishore here is a wonderful boy, but the doctor knows where it hurts. He asks me specifically about Naveen.

MOTHER:

He’s lazy, that’s what. It’s not that he cannot study. Both of us were good students at school. Kishore is too. Then what’s the problem with him?

RAMESH:

I understand everything that you say, and it does seem to be a problem. Do you mind if I go and talk to Naveen for a bit? Is he in his room?

FATHER:

Yes. Go, if you please. But he’s not having dinner till his marks improve, and that’s final.

 

 

Scene 4

The boys’ house a few days later — morning

 

Mother is frantic. Just then, Naveen enters the house.

MOTHER:

NAVEEN! Where have you been? I called up at the tuition teacher’s house and she says you haven’t been attending for a month! But you go regularly. Tell me, where do you go?

NAVEEN:

(mumbles something)

MOTHER:

(comes closer to Naveen and boxes his ears) Where have you been going? Tell me, you boy! Why are you doing this? Do you want me to fall sick?

FATHER:

(comes forward and frees Naveen) Have you fallen into some bad company, Naveen?

KISHORE:

Father, I saw him one day. He was walking ahead on the street and going into the garden.

FATHER:

Garden? Really?

KISHORE:

Yes, father. There were other boys there, all his friends. I am sure he goes there to play. They have all the things. He does not need to take anything from home.

MOTHER:

Is that what you have been doing? Do you know how much the tuition costs? Have you been playing around?

NAVEEN:

It’s not what you think.

MOTHER:

Then what is it? (she holds her head with her hand and slumps on the sofa). Oh my God! What will this boy do? Tomorrow his terminal exam starts. What will he do? He’s just going to fail again.

FATHER:

Calm down, Lakshmi. It will be all right.

MOTHER:

No, it won’t. This boy will kill me one day.

With great anger, Naveen huffs away into his room. We hear his door close with a bang.

 

Scene 5

The principal’s cabin

 

Father and mother are sitting outside.

MOTHER:

Why has the principal called us? I don’t see any other parents here. Has Naveen done so badly in the terminal? Are they suspending him? Or… oh my God! Expelling him?

FATHER:

Keep quiet, Lakshmi. Don’t get hysterical.

They are called inside. They walk in and are directed by the principal to sit on the chairs.

PRINCIPAL:

This is unbelievable, really!

FATHER:

What is it, sir?

PRINCIPAL:

About your son, Naveen. I just cannot believe it.

FATHER:

Please tell us, sir. We cannot take the suspense any longer.

PRINCIPAL:

Naveen has ranked third in his division. How is that even possible?

MOTHER:

What! Are you sure it is the same Naveen?

PRINCIPAL:

You can rest assured it is, madam. Everyone at school knows Naveen well. Look at his result here. A grade in every subject, and even A+ in two. Did you change his tuition teacher or something?

MOTHER:

No. (she looks at the result disbelievingly). But how is this… I mean, we were so angry with him all these weeks that we didn’t even teach him this time. And he only spent his time playing away.

PRINCIPAL:

No, he hasn’t cheated or anything if you suspect that. Our supervisors are very strict. This has really happened. Your boy is indeed bright. But there’s something more.

FATHER:

(cannot control his happiness) What, sir? What?

PRINCIPAL:

Naveen has been selected by the State Football Association for special training. We will need your permission, of course. Once you permit, we can send him for this special training camp in the city for seven days. They are giving him a sports scholarship.

FATHER:

Really?

PRINCIPAL:

Yes. And national level champions will coach him. Everyone who goes there has a bright future. Think about it, and reply soon.

FATHER:

There’s nothing to think, sir! Let him go, of course.

PRINCIPAL:

All right, then. And now I am sure, there will be celebrations at home.

 

Scene 6

The boys’ home — evening

Ramesh is present. They are all at the dinner table.

FATHER:

I just cannot believe how this happened.

RAMESH:

You underestimate a lot of things, brother.

FATHER:

What do you mean?

RAMESH:

(winks at Naveen) Shall we tell them our little secret, Naveen? Okay. So, that day when you kept him away from dinner, I had a heart-to-heart talk with him. Naveen wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but then he told me how he was really hurt by your constant scolding (looks at mother) and your constant comparing him to others (looks at father). He told me how he could not study even with the tuition teacher because she neglected him for being a rotten apple. That’s when I told him to come over to my place and I would teach him. That’s what he has been doing the past month.

FATHER:

What? Really? Then why not tell us?

RAMESH:

Because you would only discourage him further. We wanted to do it and show you. And we have proved, haven’t we?

MOTHER:

(reluctantly) Yes. I think we were wrong.

RAMESH:

Parents often tend to compare between their children, like you do with Kishore and Naveen here. Kishore is bright, but Naveen is bright too. Everyone doesn’t shine in the same way; you need to polish them differently. Since the way you treated Kishore worked, you tried the same approach with Naveen, but he’s different. He needs more understanding. And don’t forget; he’s a sportsman at heart. You mustn’t forget that.

FATHER:

It’s so nice of you to have helped him, Ramesh.

RAMESH:

My pleasure! And I am sure there’s going to be no looking back for Naveen from now on.

Naveen looks into his dinner plate, avoiding everyone’s attention on him. There’s a smile on his lips.

 

END

 

 

The Boy, Horatio

It was on a day filled with perplexities that Horatio walked into our lives. Everything about that day was filled with conundrums, right from the way the sun tore through the dark clouds in the August sky and tried, not very successfully, to throw its rays onto the earth’s surface, to how a freak accident at the railway station necessitated most offices in my part of the town to be unexpectedly shut down. Frogs croaked in the shadows, waiting for the climate to darken a little more to their liking, but the hide-and-seek played by the sun bemused them, forcing them to scurry into their holes or wherever they went when it peeked out of the clouds. Dogs mated on the roadside, hoping to make the most of the weather, but every time nature played truant, they stopped their ceaseless activity and scampered away, their lustfulness still unquenched.

Truth be told, Horatio did not really walk into our lives; he was brought into it. I remember quite lucidly—for there is very little of this episode that I have forgotten—that I had stepped out of the house during a brief sunny spell to buy something for the day’s lunch. As I made my purchase and began walking homeward, I saw this boy standing on the footpath, clearly no taller than the fire hydrant he was propped up against. I do not have a habit of looking at people on the streets, and not in the least little boys, but there was something unsettling about this one that yearned for my attention at first sight itself.

He was dressed in a white shirt with short sleeves, buttoned all the way to the top. Underneath, he wore black shorts that came halfway up to his knees. He did not have any kind of footwear on him, and that piqued my attention. Which parent would send a child out without footwear? And in this weather?

Then, I looked up, right into his face, and something stirred within my very soul. His face was of almond-shaped perfection, absolute symmetry lurking behind every feature, right up to his narrow chin. The nose was somewhat upturned, and that made his slight mouth clearly visible, and I remarked at how tightly his jaws were set, almost as if he were withholding a secret. But, the most prominent feature was the eyes—large clear white orbs with perfectly round black circles in them. And, a mere inch above those eyes were his hair. Raven-black, and straight like the bristles of a threatened porcupine. They fell right into those petulant eyes, but he did not seem to mind.

This contrast of black and white yelled out to me, making me stop in my tracks, which perhaps I had already done so by then. And then, when the boy knew he had my attention, he spoke to me.

“Sir, do you know of a place where I can sleep?”

My heart broke. That street, the Rue de l’Hôpital, was known to be the haven for several urchins and bums, and even a few hobos. Even at the moment, there was a homeless minstrel singing a ditty in the farthest corner of the street, though there was no one to hear him or, better, throw him a coin. But seeing this child, this bundle of melancholia, weeping away for a lack of a pillow was something beyond pain.

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“I have no one,” he said.

“Then where have you come from?”

“I do not know. I was sleeping. When I woke up, I was here.”

It did not seem to be an unlikely story. Many unsavory elements were known to kidnap children and bring them to our neighborhood to beg. He seemed very much to be such a victim.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“I do not remember.”

The thunder boomed overhead, and suddenly the clouds burst, their frenzy lashing out on the ground below. I ducked under the parapet of a roadside shop, but the boy stayed rooted to the spot.

“Hey boy, come here!” I yelled. “Come in the shelter.”

He looked at me, taking his own sweet time, and then, as though he had made up his mind, took slow steps and came next to me.

“Look, my house is right here, in this building. I am going to leave now, all right?” I was shouting because I needed to be heard over the thunder and the splashing. “But I will call the police from my house. They will come and take you and find your home.”

“No!” he screamed, louder than I, though his voice sounded more like a tormented rat’s squeak. “No police! I will run away.”

“But why? They will help you.”

“No! They are bad people. They take people away and we never see them again. I don’t want them near me. I will run away; I am not lying.”

He would have acted to substantiate his words at that instant, but I quickly grabbed his arm.

“All right, all right,” I said. “Don’t run away, all right? This place is not good for little kids. Come to my house. I will ask my wife to keep you till this rain subsides. Then we will think what to do.”

“Will you?” he said, and despite the raindrops all around us, I think I saw tears in his eyes. “You are awfully nice, sir.”

“Call me Andre,” I said.

***

It took me a good part of half an hour to explain to Helene how I had come across the boy. “Oh Andre! You mustn’t get an orphan off the street like that,” she said. “Isn’t that criminal or something?”

That thought had not struck me until then. I contemplated on it for a moment, and then said, “Right now, the boy needs some care. He would have died in this weather. Could you be an angel and take care of him?”

“Why’re you so worried about him?”

“My heart is like that, I suppose,” I said.

Maybe that disarmed her, or maybe the kiss I planted on her cheek with that sentence. But she smiled and said, “A’right! How can I refuse when you say it like that? What’s his name?”

“He does not remember his name.”

“Let’s call him Horatio then,” she said. “He’s a character in a book I’m reading.”

“Perfect.”

Horatio had warm chicken soup after a hot-water bath. He wore Helene’s old shirt that came up to his knees, another white affair that had a pattern of thin blue lines crossing over his heart. Throughout the meal, he was quite polite and thanked us several times for taking him in. I could sense that Helene was growing fond of this boy too, and I could not fault her in that. I felt a lump in my throat every time he said, “Thank you, sir and madam. You both are so awfully nice.”

For that day at least, we were like a perfect family. In a particular weak moment, I saw Helene looking warmly at the boy as he sat watching television, and I held her hand. I knew she was thinking about our son who was never born, who suffocated and died in her womb when her tube coiled around his neck. If he had been born, he would probably have been as old as Horatio.

***

Then came the night.

The rain made it darker, and the fact that the windows were tightly shut to prevent even the slightest amount of moisture from seeping into the house made it mustier. The wind howling outside rattled the windows several times, which in turn rattled our very bones.

While Horatio sat at one of these closed windows, looking noiselessly out into the blind darkness, we debated our sleeping arrangements. Finally, it was decided that we would put a mattress for him in the spare room, for there was no other bed in the house apart from ours. Helene took him to the room and helped him go to bed, while I waited for her to come back in our room.

When she did, I asked her, “Did he sleep?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s a brave little darling. Didn’t make as much as a whimper.”

“That is good.”

“Wonder where he’s come from,” said Helene. “Someone could be mighty worried about him. You must go to the police tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, we must, though he does not want to go with them,” I agreed. “We have no other choice.”

That night, we slept right away after Helene put the lights out. The rhythm of the environment lulled us immediately to sleep.

The night was probably halfway gone when I heard Helene’s gasp.

Still sleepy, I turned over to see what the matter was, but she blankly sat there, looking at something in the distance.

“What—” I began to ask, and then turned my head to look in the direction of her stare. And I got a start myself.

It was the boy, Horatio, standing right over the foot of our bed, looking at us with an unflinching stare.

In that moment, he seemed almost like a stone statue, as though there was no life left in him anymore.

“What is it, Horatio?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

But the boy did not move. The only sound I could hear was of Helene’s heavy breathing. I brought my body out of the blanket and walked up to him. Holding him by his shoulders, I shook him. “What is it?” I asked again.

Then he blinked several times.

“Thank you, sir and madam,” he said. “Just wanted to say that you are awfully nice.”

This time, there was no smile on his face as he said that. There was no twinkle in his eyes. Only his lips moved and the voice came from somewhere deep within his throat.

Slowly, I held his arm and said, “It is all right. But now you must sleep. Come,” and I led him to his room.

***

The next morning, I paid a visit to the police station on my way to work. The Boisdonné Police Station was full of frenetic activity, with the policemen in navy blue running around for something that my unaccustomed brain could not quite understand. No one saw me walk in, and I found the way myself to an officer who sat at the front desk with a huge ledger.

“Sir,” I said, clearing my throat, “I found a boy on the street yesterday. I would like to see him united with his parents.”

“Where is he now?” said the officer without even a pretense for cordiality. Police officers, I think, deal with so many criminals in a day that they cannot quite understand people who do not fall in that category.

“He is at my home now, being looked after by my wife.”

“You shoulda brought ’im. What good is a missing lad if we can’t see ’im? I ’ope you aren’t ’iding something.”

“No, sir, of course not! The boy is paranoid of the police. He is reluctant to come.”

“That be no excuse; anyway you seem to be a man of a decent business. Right now, we’re chock full with complaints. The train accident ’as been pretty nasty too. Been driving us up the wall, matching the bodies with their families like that.”

“So, should I come again?”

He considered me for a moment, and then stood up and got a huge file from the top shelf of his cabin. “This is all the missing complaints we ’ave. See it and tell me if you can see the lad in ’ere.”

He pointed to a bench near the door. I lugged the heavy file and sat on the bench, seated next to someone who looked every inch a rapist or a murderer.

It took me well over fifteen minutes to go over all the pictures. They were all boys and girls, and ironically they were laughing in these pictures, their eyes hopeful of a brilliant future looming in front of them. And now, probably, they were in a ditch somewhere with random limbs torn off their bodies to make a living through begging.

“He is not in here,” I told the officer when I was done.

“That be a crying shame for sure,” said the officer as he took the file back. “But did you look good and proper? That’s a lot of missing kids in there.”

This kind of conversation went on for five more minutes and I realized the officer’s reluctance in even filing a complaint.

“Our files are full!” he said. “So many stray children in the city! Any more of them and we will burst!”

But, finally, he gave me some assurance. “If someone comes up reporting a missing kid like you’ve described, with all the details you gave, then we’ll come knocking at your door.”

“When could that be?” I asked.

“How do I say that?” He threw his hands in the air.

“So, until then?”

“Well, until then keep the frigging critter with you, or send ’im to the convent, or turn ’im out in the street and ’ope ’e doesn’t run away or get carried away.”

***

When I returned home, I saw him shelling peas in the kitchen with Helene. He was wearing a new shirt and shorts, and my eyes made a quizzical gesture.

“We’d been shopping,” said Helene. “Doesn’t he look cute?”

There was a certain wistfulness in her tone. Then he asked for ice-cream and she gave it to him without a moment’s hesitation. Ice-cream? I do not remember having that in the house ever. She never bought it for us, for me.

I should have realized then—my pretty wife was slipping. She was entering into a dangerous world of delusional solace, for this child was not ours. That was never meant to be.

But I did not want to burst her bubble just then. It would have been brutal. A new fondness is highly difficult to break. But if it stews awhile, the chinks of familiarity begin to show themselves and the fondness runs out its course. I decided to let it proceed as it did.

The child smiled at me, but I did not return that faint quivering of his thin lips. I moved on to our room, changed, and came out again for lunch.

The boy was at the table again, but this time he was sitting more cozily than on the previous day, cozy to the point of being smug. I sensed, not without discomfort, the sense of belonging that was swelling up within him, and my gaze was fixated on how Helene kept putting things in his plate that he did not say no to.

For the first time in years, Helene and I did not have any conversation at a dinner table we shared. It irked me, for on each occasion that I opened my mouth to say something, I found her face turned to see his—that wretched boy whom I had brought home in a moment of passion.

And so I ate my dinner, eating it just for the purpose of filling my stomach and not for any other reason that a homely person might have a family meal for.

***

Over the days, my hate increased. The boy, who had once enamored me with just his eyes, and convinced me to act against my best counsel, had now turned to be an eyesore. If he were a mere pet, I would have turned him out without as much as batting an eyelid. But the fondness that Helene seemed to have developed for him proved to be a major deterrent in implementing such a plan.

There were several painful occasions when I found them neatly ensconced in each other’s company, whispering things into each other’s ears, usually when they thought they had the advantage of being out of my line of sight. But though my eyes could not see them at all times, my ears would hear them. Even when they slept, I could hear them, hear them in the silence until that began to deafen me.

I paid several visits to the police station, in the vain hope that someone might have come to collect the boy, but he was as yet unclaimed. They offered me to send him to the convent, and that thought held my interest, but for Helene. Then, after I had been visiting for close to a month, I heard the snide comments the officers made behind my turned back, and therein were some words no sane man should have to hear—of them all, the one that lingered was ‘lunatic’. That was when I decided I would not visit the infernal place again.

Things began to drastically change after that last visit to the police station. It was a late evening when Helene was working elsewhere in the house and I was sitting on the couch, my head buried in a book. The boy sat at his favorite place by the window, looking out into the increasing darkness. I never could fathom what he could see in there, but I never questioned him, for those were the few instances when my wife did not seem to be hypnotized by whatever the charm was that he had.

However, on this particular instance, I heard a sound escaping his lips. I could not see them, but there was certainly a few words there, floating without direction in the air, hoping for some ear to receive them.

Strangely, I felt there was an ear.

I just could not see it.

I moved closer. I needed to hear what the boy said. If nothing, it could allay my manic state. And then, as I moved almost within an arm’s reach of him, I heard it:

“I am all right, mother. These people are nice.”

I suddenly turned, turned to face the window, and perhaps I thought I saw a shadow escaping but nothing more than that. At that very moment, a wail seemed to emanate from the air outside the window, but it was quickly drowned in the hollow rattling of the wind against the windowpane, and the boy turned to look at me.

I thought I should spring up at him, and tell him, “Ah, so that is what you are hiding! You have a mother out there,” but before I could say or even properly think anything of that sort, the boy broke out into a loud wail.

No, it was not the crying that kids his age are prone to do. This was hollow, and had an ominous ring to it.

And in that brief instant, I saw. The eyes, the very eyes that had captivated me once, turned fully black, and the lashes grew longer even as I stared.

And there was a grin on his face, a grin sans any mirth; it was but a curve of pure wickedness, and I knew there was evil in my house.

I stumbled against a piece of furniture and fell backward, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. Then I saw the familiar hem of Helene’s gown busily swishing into the room.

“What happened here?” she shrieked. “Are you all right… Horatio?”

Horatio! HORATIO!

Here I was, fallen on the floor, and all she cared about was that little devil? I sat up, angry words foaming at the corners of my mouth, but what I saw arrested me.

The scene that I was faced with was reminiscent of Mother Mary and Baby Jesus n, the innocent lamb that was being prepared for sacrifice, tended by his mother who knew nothing. He had returned to his childlike self, and Helene, in her blindness, did not even see the gash that had begun to spew blood through the back of my shirt.

***

 I refused to stay alone with him after that, even though Helene was going rapidly insane with her obsession for him. “He’s our son,” she told me one day. “Come back to us. Don’t you see?”

“Stupid woman!” I yelled. “Dead people do not come back.”

“Look at his face! Isn’t it just like mine? He’s my son. I’m his mother. I know. No one can take him away from me.”

“He is not our son!” I shouted back, clasping the palms of my hand against my ears, and I ran out of the room even as she stood breathing heavily in the center of the room.

And that evening, it happened again. I was immersed in reading a particularly interesting article in a newspaper when I suddenly heard breathing next to me. I lifted my eyes and was shocked to the bone. The boy was sitting on the couch next to me, close to the point of uneasiness.

“You don’t like me?” he asked. “Why you don’t like me? I thought you are awfully nice.”

These were not the words of a child. The sound was of him, but the passion behind his words seemed to belong more suitably to some jilted lover. I could not find words to answer him.

“Tell me, Andre,” he said. “Why wouldn’t you let me be near my mother?”

He moved closer to me, his little spindly knee jabbing into my thigh.

“This is my home too, you know?” his words went on. “Why haven’t you realized that so far?”

“Who… who is your mother?” I asked, my uttermost thoughts shaping themselves into words.

“My mother is a witch. An awfully nice witch.”

That moment, when I still fumbled to get my voice again, Helene emerged from the bathroom and sat next to the boy on the couch. In a chirpy voice she said, “I’m so glad to see you two together. This is a joyous moment, isn’t it?”

She took the boy on her lap, and they sat with smiles of contentment on their faces. I saw that smile and it horrified me to see how similar they were, but what horrified me more was the way their eyes turned. It was happening again, and this time, Helene’s eyes grew black in tandem with that boy’s, and the malevolent grins grew on both their faces, which were frozen cheek-to-cheek as though for a photograph. In that moment, the thunder clapped and the lightning struck, and I could take it no more.

***

That night, when darkness ruled the house, I got out of the bedroom leaving Helene in there, and tiptoed to the little room in which the boy slept. Creeping more silently than even the shadows that lurked in the house, I slowly came up to his door and pushed it open.

I had hoped to catch him in his sleep and quash his existence right then, for he was not unlike any rat that I had so often terminated from the house. To achieve that object, I carried the bust of an Egyptian statue in my hands, a heavy and grotesque ornament that my wife had procured on one of our foreign travels. I even pictured myself hoisting that thing up in the air and letting it fall on that evil creature’s black-haired head, thus removing myself out of my misery forever.

But that was not to be.

For the boy was not in his sleep. Instead, he was sitting up on the mattress, facing the door with a solemn look, his eyes staring at their widest extent.

And despite the darkness, I was conscious of the blackness in them.

Then he grinned, that same spiteful grin that had begun to haunt me in my nights and in my days, and I saw the marks of vileness beginning to erupt on his cheeks.

“What are you up to, Andre?” he hissed.

Before I could move, before I could respond, his mouth contorted into an oval hollow and from there emanated a wail most vile. Nay, it was not just a scream but a caterwaul, a sound that could raise the dead from the grave.

I turned and saw Helene standing right behind me.

And the communion between the two, evil child and evil mother, had never been more apparent as then. I saw it, I saw it clear as day—her hair flying despite the stillness of air in the room, her eyes turning to nothing but black beads of doom, her mouth turning into a source of the most revolting stench.

In the next instant, she was on the ground.

Dead.

The bust in my hand dripped blood, her blood, and the corresponding wound on the side of her head needed no further testimony as to the cause of her death.

From the corner of my fast-swooning eye, I saw the boy rise on his limbs, more like a spider, and walk like the same creature that he resembled now, up to the window. With one hand, he opened the window, and escaped into the darkness of the night.

***

They still call me lunatic, now with greater vehemence than ever. Earlier the word was a whisper; now it is spat into my face.

And it is not the only word that they speak.

Wife-killer is another.

Sitting there in my cell which is almost a dungeon as dark as the inside of my heart, I brood in silence. I have no remorse for having killed my wife, and I do not expect these people to understand, because only I had seen the witch in her. I heard they had a prayer in the church for her, but all I could hear was a bundle of lies.

But why should I explain anything to anyone?

I am happy here.

Happy in my desolation.

Happy that I can see no one. That no one can see me.

Except him.

He comes in the nights, right through the bars, and sits on my stone bed next to me. His face is still like an almond, and his hair are still black, and black also are his eyes. For he does not need to hide them from anyone anymore.

And when I feed him the leftover food in my prison plate, he sometimes tells me even now, “You are so awfully nice.”

END

The Makeover

The Makeover

The firstThe Makeover thought that entered Kiran’s mind when she opened her newly-purchased vanity case was, “Oh, I’m not good at this!” The various hues of red nail paints and lipsticks intimidated her. The mascara was an object of horror.

Not that she hadn’t decked herself before. But those few times when she had adorned her lips had been only for herself. For some reason, she had always felt embarrassed to show anyone her cosmetically-enhanced form. Once, when there was no one at home, she had even gone as far as rouge and eyeliner, and then she had washed it off her face almost immediately.

But today she didn’t want to hold herself back. It was a momentous occasion after all. The job was good. It would be her first ever interview, and she expected all the other girls to come in their finest. There was no place for a shy, reserved girl in the hospitality business anyway.

So she started a video on YouTube on how to apply makeup. She made sure to choose the one with the best reviews. She wanted a professional touch, no less, and the salons were uber-expensive for a girl who was just starting out with a job.

A few seconds into the video, she brought out the foundation cream and applied it on her cheeks, which felt rough to her self-prejudiced mind. But she went on. Not quite satisfied with her work at the basics, she took the color brush and applied it on her upper cheeks in deft straight strokes. She smoothed it out and blended it with the rest of the background just like the woman in the video did. And then she went on with the lipstick, and even outlined it with a lipliner. The eye shadows came next.

She didn’t look all that bad now. It turned out much better than those days in her early youth when she used to clandestinely practice the cosmetic art on her with her mother’s things. Yes, she could go out with this look!

Half an hour later, she came out of her room. Brijnath Jaiswal saw her in the tiny red dress that stopped woefully above her knees and her heavily embellished face and let out a hollow cough.

“Are you all set, beta?” he asked.

Kiran wanted to answer that question because it was asked with the right concern, but the last word riled her.

“Why do you keep calling me beta?” she asked. “When will you realize that I am not your son but your daughter?”

Brijnath realized his goof. He didn’t want to anger his daughter on this all-important day. “Sorry,” he said. “Old Indian habits die hard.”

“Change them,” said Kiran. “Times have changed.”

“I’m trying.”

“Well, it’s not enough. If you really put your mind to it, anything can change. Anything.”

Brijnath stood up and came to her. He was a short man, or perhaps his daughter was taller than him. He looked funny when he put a hand on her shoulder.

“I know that more than anyone else, Kiran,” he said. “Anyway, go forth and conquer. Make today your day.”

“I will,” said Kiran, and touched her father’s feet for his blessings.

***

Kiran stood in queue for the bus, a little away from the other ladies. They were all working women. It was evident that they worked in different places but had the same bus route. A strange thought entered her mind — if this job materialized, she would probably be sharing the bus with such ladies too. Would she become like one of them? She particularly observed one of them who seemed to complain about everything. But the more alarming thing was everyone agreed with her ideas. Kiran shrugged and looked the other way.

When she got into the bus, she tried to sit as far from the gabby women as possible. The bus moved and she bought her ticket from the conductor. A minute later, she felt the man standing next to her brushing against her. She flinched but said nothing. It could have been an accident. She stiffened and turned away.

Another minute later, the bus took a wild turn.

The man almost fell on her, making a hasty apology with his bad breath, and as he pulled back, she felt his hand brushing against her in a wrong place.

Now, clearly agitated, she turned her entire body to face the window. She looked out but her mind was conscious to every action that occurred behind her back.

And it would not stop. It was mild at first, but then it increased. She squirmed, but he only pressed further. Angry as daggers, she turned to look at him right in the eye.

There was a smirk on his face. And he winked.

That was it.

Kiran stood up at her full height, and landed a resounding slap on the man’s face. The man, surprised out of his skull, lost his balance and almost collapsed on the college students standing behind him.

“What do you think, you worm?” Kiran yelled loud enough for everyone in the bus to hear. “I’m a woman so you can do as you please?”

The chatting women stopped and looked at her with both admiration and awe.

“Take your filthy thing and go somewhere else,” she said.

This alarmed the women. The fact that there was one of them who could say ‘filthy thing’ so openly and so loudly was unheard of. Embarrassed, they tried to look anywhere else but at the raging woman.

Presently, the bus screeched to a halt.

“That’s my stop,” said Kiran. “Move aside.”

Saying that, she shoved the man aside and strode on. When she got off the bus, she heard the murmurs behind her, and maybe even a clap or two. A smile escaped her lips.

***

Chaos reigned in the buffet space of the Bluefinger Restaurant & Bar. The space had been converted into a waiting hall for the thirty-six ladies who had applied for the vacancy of Front Desk Supervisor. Everyone knew that the name of Bluefinger could be a worthy addition to their résumés even if it turned out to be only a brief tryst.

When the lanky woman in her short red miniskirt walked in, there was a collective snigger that rippled through the audience despite their nervousness.

But Kiran walked in confidently. She went right up to the desk where the receptionist sat, announced her name, waited for her to look it up, and then took her seat. She took a magazine and began to flip through the pages. Soon she was immersed in the perfect abs of the male models in the deodorant ads, so much so that she became completely oblivious to the muted laughter of mockery all around her.

“Er… Miss Kiran Jaiswal?” the receptionist announced.

The mention of her name made her look up.

“You may go in now,” the receptionist said.

“Oh,” Kiran said and got up, hastily straightening her dress and hair. “Thank you,” she muttered and walked in with her trademark stride.

She hadn’t expected the interviewer to be so young.

He had a French beard and spectacles, but none of them hid the handsomeness that lay beneath.

“May I come in, sir?” she asked.

The man looked up at her and was speechless for a moment. Then he said, “Oh, come in, please.”

When she had seated herself, he said, “I am Kishore Das, and you are Miss… er… Kiran Jaiswal.” He looked at her up and down as he said that.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’ll be interviewing you today,” he said. “I am an HR manager with the Bluefinger Hospitality Group.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Kiran.

“Equally charmed,” he said. “Please walk me through your résumé.”

Kiran was prepared for this part. She knew submitting the résumé was merely a formality. She knew every interviewer made their applicants speak as much as possible. It was their way of gauging how confident a person is. When she was done, Kiran was sure she had done a good job, which was mostly because the man was nodding in appreciation.

“I like that you have the confidence to speak,” he said. “And this is your first job interview?”

“Yes,” she said. She wanted to ask him how he knew.

But perhaps he heard her thoughts because he said, “I am doing this since three years now. I can spot a rookie from a mile away.”

Kiran smiled.

“We usually don’t waste our candidates’ time,” said Kishore. “So we tell them what we think at the first meeting itself.”

“That’s nice,” said Kiran but the smile had vanished now.

“And, Miss Jaiswal,” he said in calculated words, “I have to regrettably tell you that you cannot get this job.”

“Oh!” said Kiran. Another question loomed on her lips, but she held it back.

“I’m sorry but this is just your first attempt. Keep trying,” he said.

Kiran knew it was over. She knew this was the cue for her to get up and leave but something held her back. Maybe it was the fact that he was still looking at her résumé with interest.

She had to ask. It was now or never. “Why can I not get the job? It is because—”

“It is because of the educational qualifications, Miss Jaiswal,” said Kishore with absolute politeness, even perhaps concern. “We are looking for a higher educated person. It was mentioned in the brief.”

“And is that the only reason?”

“Absolutely.”

She got up now, feeling a little lighter. In fact, by the time she reached the door, her smile was back on her lips. She was almost outside the door, but she poked her head in and said, “Thank you!”

It was the loudest and the most heartfelt ‘Thank you!’ she had said in a while. The HR manager looked at her with puzzlement written across his bearded face.

***

By the time she reached her colony again, it was near eight in the evening. It was evening time and the park in the colony compound was buzzing with children playing their usual games. In one corner was a row of benches where a host of senior people sat, chatting about the most recent headlines. The watchmen sat at the gate.

As she entered, every head turned to look at her in her itty-bitty dress. Even the children stopped playing, but she walked on.

She was about to press the button for the elevator when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw the face of a friend.

“Sushil,” she said.

“And how you have changed!” said Sushil.

“Don’t ask!” said Kiran.

“So, did you get the job?”

“No,” she smiled.

“You didn’t get it and still you smile? You know, you are a queer one.”

Kiran looked at him in mock anger. “I should take offense at that word, shouldn’t I?” she asked.

He ducked to protect himself from the handbag she swerved at him and said, “Sorry!”

“Forgiven!”

“Okay, so how was the rest of the day?” he asked and then added, “You do look strange in all that warpaint! I only know the person behind this subterfuge.”

“Grow up, buddy,” said Kiran. “You are going to see a lot more of this face this way. Do you have a problem with that?”

“’Course not!” said Sushil. “You are my friend, come what may.”

“Glad to hear that,” she said and shook hands with him. It was a firm handshake, the kind that’s only shared between people who have faced several things together. “And the rest of the day was nice too,” she added.

“Do tell.”

“Okay, so it started with my father calling me beta, which angered me, but it’s okay. I know he will take him a while to get used to the idea that I am his daughter now.”

Sushil laughed.

“And then someone actually eve-teased me!” she said. “Couldn’t have imagined that a year ago when I was Karan Jaiswal. But he did, and the poor sod got a solid thapaak on his lousy chin. Little did he know that though the body is of a woman now, the bones inside are still of a man.”

“Great! Poor chap,” said Sushil.

“And then at the interview, when I was fired, I found out that it was because my qualifications didn’t match their requirements. Can you understand what a relief that was? He saw my birth certificate, I tell you, and he knew for sure I was born a boy. But he didn’t say a thing. Not a thing.”

“So it was indeed a good day.”

“Yes. It was my true test of freedom today. For twenty-five years I was trapped in a man’s body. The reassignment surgery was just the biological transformation, but the true transformation occurred today. Yes, I was accepted. Not for what I was, but for what I am. I not only experienced the joys but also the troubles of being a woman.”

Sushil held her hand, and she tightened her hold on his.

“And then there’s you. You who have seen me in every form. And you have loved me regardless. Thank you!”

“Sure,” said Sushil. “Now run along home and free yourself of that cosmetic dust.”

As Kiran walked homewards, she knew she had won a battle. She had attained her true freedom today — her odd little jigsaw piece had found its place in the puzzle.

END

This story was originally published in the first issue of the emagazine UnBound. Get a free copy of the emagazine here.

Forever, My Valentine

Every house tells umpteen tales; we only need to have the right ears to hear them. If we are able to cut through the cacophony of the noise that surrounds us, we can hear these stories — stories of ecstasy and distress, stories of pride and humiliation, stories of inflicting and suffering pain. Houses also live with the people who live in them; if we could only hear them…

February 13, 11:00 p.m.

Mercy Gleeson went through her motions before she could tuck herself into bed. Her house was silent on this day, which was quite different from the previous year. For then, her house was filled with enthusiastic sounds — those of hers and her boyfriend Jake’s — and they had lent a different atmosphere to the house.

But now the atmosphere was somber. There was an ambiance of reticence and defeat all around. The musty air and dust balls didn’t help. Even the furniture seemed to creak with agony at odd hours of the night.

She had nothing planned for the next day. This wasn’t the right time to do anything. Jake had planned to make the big move on Valentine’s Day the previous year. There was no secret about it, and she knew she would have said ‘yes’ had he gone down on one knee before her.

However, that was a life that could have been. The reality she faced now was entirely different.

One accident was all it had taken to turn her life upside down.

That was the only scene that had played in her mind, in some kind of a bizarre loop, all through the last twelve months. Their rollicking adventure in the cottage in the woods, unknown to the world outside, the lying in each other’s arms unhindered and uninhibited, the drifting away to sleep, and then the fire…

Her instinct had helped her back then. She got up and ran, moving out in the nick of time. But before doing so, she woke him. He sprang out of the bed, and he ran out for his dear life too.

That was the last she had seen of him.

For long moments, she stood outside looking at the house burning down, praying at every instant that he would emerge from the fire. She didn’t have the courage to go in herself. All she could do was scream her lungs out for help, but no one came.

Valentine’s Day had begun for the rest of the world. People everywhere would be celebrating with their loves, but Mercy’s world had just collapsed around her.


She finished preening herself in the bathroom. The mirror showed her a haggard reflection of herself, but she didn’t care. The cold water helped her relax and, switching the lights off, she proceeded to her bed.

Her eyes had been closed for scarcely a minute when she heard the doorbell.

At first she thought it was a trick of her mind as it was drifting away into sleep, but then it rang a second time.

She got up now, put her feet into her slippers, and tiptoed to the door. Her meticulousness for silence was needless; there was no one in her house that she could disturb anyway.

The horror tales of single women being attacked and raped in their houses ran through her mind. Just two weeks ago, a woman had been ravaged by the security man of her own society. Standing at the peephole, she craned her neck to peer through. The lights in the corridor weren’t intense enough, and her eyes were half-groggy, but after she focused them for a few moments, she gasped.

There was no mistaking what she had seen.

Out in the corridor, stood Jake — the Jake she had not seen after the fire — dressed in a black tuxedo, holding a bouquet of white orchids in his hand. He was dressed for Valentine’s Day, just like the previous year.

“Who is it?” Mercy said in disbelief, with fear dripping through her every word.

“Open and find out.” The sound was distinct, clear, just as she had heard him always.

Since their first meeting, Mercy hadn’t stopped loving Jake for a minute. There was nothing she wanted better than to see him again, knowing that he had somehow escaped the fire. But now, really seeing him out there in such an abrupt manner made her goosepimply all over.

“I cannot wait here the whole night.” His voice brought back the memories. It was as though he had always been by her side.

Slowly, she moved her fingers over the latch and unfastened it. Lingering on for a minute more, she undid the lock.

“Oh!” he said, his voice dripping with dejection. “I thought you would like seeing me like this.”

The merriness in his voice goaded courage back into her. She felt her own voice returning.

“What? How?”

“Shh!” he moved in and handed the bouquet to her. “You need to calm down first. Do you still keep drinks in your house?”

She pointed a finger towards a cabinet. Jake opened it. “Ah! Scotch!” he exclaimed. “Great medicine for frayed nerves.” He poured the liquid into two glasses, neat, and handed one over to her. “Won’t you close the door and come in?”

Almost mechanically, Mercy kept the bouquet on a table and closed the door behind her. Then she went and sat next to Jake on the couch, maintaining a safe distance from him.

“All right, let me explain,” he said. “First of all, sorry for giving you such a fright. I had forgotten what a sissy-pants you are. And, I also apologize for not being in touch.”

“Where have you been?” Her composure was slowly returning.

“Healing.”

She gasped.

“I did escape the fire,” he said, “and I also saw you leave, but I was a bit too late in escaping. Got a few burns here and there. It took a while for those to heal and mend.”

“Was it bad?”

“Not much pain, surprisingly. And it healed well. Look.” He took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. “Nothing now. I am clean.”

Without meaning to, she found her hand moving towards his chest. It was perhaps the touch with his skin that did it, but something snapped inside her and she felt no fear anymore.

“The flowers?” she said. “What are those for?”

“Why?” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t Valentine’s Day start in an hour? Are you reneging on your promise?”

It came back to her. A few years ago, in the prelude to Valentine’s Day, they had promised each other that they would be each other’s Valentines forever.

“This is so all of a sudden!” she said. “What if I were seeing someone else?”

“But, why would you?”

“Because I didn’t hear from you.”

“So? Oh, I see. Did you think I was dead?”

There was silence in the room. It couldn’t be heard, but it could almost be seen.

“I couldn’t fault you for that,” he said, now sounding like a schoolboy who has been reprimanded. “I never thought… I was healing too; so, maybe I wasn’t in a position to face you. Yes, I think it’s that. That’s the reason I didn’t contact you earlier.”

“I understand.”

“So,” he said, getting up, “will you be my Valentine…” He checked his watch. “…eleven minutes from now?”

She got up, her eyes flooding with tears of joy.

“Yes,” she said.

The embrace they had following that was one of the longest they had ever had.

“Let me just go and put on something presentable,” she said, getting out of the hug. “And you tell me later what your big plan is.”

February 14, 0:00

Mercy put herself into the red dress she was saving for an occasion, without really knowing what that occasion would be. And now, that the occasion had arrived, she found it was the best it could be.

Thus dressed, she came out into the room where he was still sitting on the couch.

“That’s amazing!” he said. “You are looking younger than you did last year.”

She nodded and sat down next to him. “Now tell me what your plan is.”

“I have come to take you with me.”

“Where to?”

“Don’t know for sure. But, let’s start by going back to the cottage.”

That made a shudder run through her spine. The mention of the cottage took away the composure she had gained, causing her to breathe heavily once again.

“Why the cottage?” she mumbled.

“Let’s make it as though this year never happened,” said Jake. “I think we should pick up from where we had left off. The same bed, the same stance. It will be like we never missed anything.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“To remove the sense of loss.”

“But the cottage won’t be there. It must have burned down.”

“It is there,” he said confidently. “I know it is.”


A few minutes later, he was driving her on the freeway. It was the same old car they had had so many passionate moments in. Nothing had changed about it, not even the tickets shoved into the glove compartment.

As they drove, they saw motels decked up with bright heart-shaped signs, shops with blinking love lights, and advertisement boards spreading the love in their own commercial way.

An hour into Valentine’s Day, they reached the cottage. Mercy skipped a few heartbeats as she saw it.

It stood just as it had on that fateful day, though the signs of the fire were evident in its burned windows.

“It is still empty,” she said.

“Yes. Let’s go and check if the bed is still intact.”

They went in, hands tightly clasped with each other. Most of the furniture had burned down to ash. However, the bed still stood in an inside room, though parts of it had been irrevocably singed.

“Is that it?” Mercy said. At that moment, a strong wind rattled the already broken window panes and made her jump. “I think we should leave now.” Her tone was insistent.

“There’s no hurry,” he said, making her sit on the bed. “I have to do something first… some unfinished business.”

She kept looking at him, her heart still thumping wildly, but now in a good way. Anticipating what was to come, she primed herself in her sitting position.

Her hope wasn’t belied. Jake went down on one knee before her, and thrust his hand into his coat pocket. She held her breath as he extracted a small square box and opened it to reveal an ornate ring.

“Here it is then,” he said, holding out the box. “Mercy Gleeson, my one and only true love, on this Valentine’s Day, I ask of you — will you be mine forever?”

The whole experience had been ethereal so far. A couple of hours ago, she had been wallowing in her misery, shunning the world as she could not face its sympathetic stares, rarely going out of her house; and now, her love was back — in such a real way, that too. In that moment, nothing else mattered to her. The past was too far gone, the future held a distant promise. It was only the present moment she wanted to live in.

He was still there, his handsome face eagerly awaiting an answer.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes!”

He put the ring clumsily onto her slender finger, and lifted her in his arms. Holding her like that, they kissed, his warm lips feeling like summer dewdrops on hers. And then he whirled her round and round, till she felt she would collapse with the happy dizziness.

It was then that the light began to appear.

She didn’t notice it at first, but when he stopped whirling her, the glow behind his head was quite apparent. He smiled, and the smile was surreal, unlike anything she had seen before. She struggled in his arms, and he kept her down.

“What’s this?” she said, referring to the halo.

But he only smiled.

“No, tell me. What is this?” she repeated.

And then, he led her by her hand.

“Come with me,” he said.

Not understanding a bit of what was happening, she let herself be led by him. He brought her out of the house, treading carefully over haphazardly placed pebbles, and took her to the gate.

“Why does your face shine?” she asked. “What is all this, Jake?”

He didn’t utter a word. He took her outside the gate, and made her stop. Then, he pointed a finger at a board placed on the fence.

“What?” she asked.

He pointed harder, and she looked.

It was a notice-board. On it was written:

Unsafe House

Fire Casualty: Stay Away

Following the accidental deaths of two young people, Jake North and Mercy Gleeson, this house has been cordoned off by the municipal authorities. The cause of fire is not yet ascertained.

By Order.

 

Now, she felt the warmth grow within her too. She looked up, and a luminescence was beginning to appear.

“You see,” he said. “We kept our promise. To be each other’s Valentines forever.”

END

 

 

More love stories with a twist await you in Neil D’Silva’s acclaimed book Bound in Love. Check out the book now!

And don’t forget to leave a comment on this page. Do share the story with your friends!

Rising

This pinnacle, this pedestal, this face

Isn’t this my rightful place?

The superstar hovered above all, the crowds by his feet, the open sky above him. This was the moment he had lived for. This was for what he had endured all those difficult times of trying to make people believe in him, of trying to win the love and compassion of these people. Now, at this moment of his grand performance, he stayed silent, taking it all in.