Category: Morbid

Page 23

“If you want to place this article here, you better hope the number of dead is much higher than what you’ve reported.

Her pen keeps hitting the wooden table, as if to silently disagree with her.

“Death has become cheap these days. You should know how much of it sells when.

Behind her are stacks of pleasantly folded newspapers, tied together with nylon ropes; on the table is the only embellishment- a framed photo of two people in love, hands over each other’s shoulders, smiling at the cameraperson as if it were their first photo together.

“Excuse me! I’m talking to you, here. I hope you’ve been listening.

“Good. Now that I have you attention, would you please go back to your fucking desk and make the necessary changes?! I’m running a newspaper, not an editing module in high school.

I walk out, 20% perplexed, 40% embarrassed.

“And hey! What are you doing today evening?

“Why are you looking at me like that for? I’m just asking you. You can always say no.

“Great. It’s a date then; tell me when you’re about to leave office.”

Unlike her desk, mine resembles an average 20year olds’; there are pens lying all over-chewed upon and out of ink; papers with doodles are slid between unevenly colored folders; the computer is on sleep mode, and the mouse is lost within all the mayhem inside my head.

The draft is in my hand, the ink smearing its love over my stiffened palms, forgotten by my brain that’s trying very hard to recognise the people from the photo on her table.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Didi! Oye didi!

My body jerks out of control and I leap to my feet, rushing to open the door.

“I have been calling out to you since the last ten minutes! What are you upto?

“What?
She laughs so hard, I forget that I had never earlier seen her even smile.

“Who sleeps-

“Who sleeps in the washroom?!

Her laugh makes me happy so I simply smile and fold the ends of my pants down.

“Didi. Is possible for you to increase my salary by a few hundreds…

“Oh, it’s okay.  It’s just that my husband died last evening, and you know how Komal is about to start school in a few months.

“No, no, didi, please don’t apologise. I’ll find more work somewhere. The maid at the South Indian aunty’s home downstairs fled away with their money a few days back na, maybe I can find some work- what?

Him? Oh, he came under a truck; he was too drunk to see where he was walking!

Komal. Komal.
The words are confined to my ears.
Komal. He came under
a truck
Kom
truck
Okay
it’s okay
don’t apologise
Komal
okay
it’s okay

Fuck.
Oh fuck, the water hits my skin too intensely; I wipe it off on the sleeves of my T shirt and look at the mirror.

Two eyes and a large nose stare back at me, blandly.

Fuck.
Truck
he came under
a truck
it’s okay
I need
money
Komal Komal

The words are overflowing into my thoughts

Fuck.

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“The ‘Thugee system’ has always been an integral part of Indian culture. For the thugs, death was much beyond destruction, it was a process. Not a religious or a cultural process, mind you, but a process to balance the world. They believed in

His pen keeps hitting the wooden table, as if to silently disagree with him.

“You must understand that this system crumbled because of the British colonialism. They systematically wiped off this artwork.

He suddenly drops his pen and looks out of the window.

“Oh, now what?! Another accident? They need to do something about these potholes, you know.

Outside, there’s a mob of students, some screaming, most staring at each other.

“You suppose we should go and check it out?
yeah, we should. You never know, it might just be an acquaintance of yours.

His walk is swift and engineered to perfection like that of a charming man, deceptive of the muchness inside. He stops at the door and motions for me to come over.

“Of all the people there, how many do you recognise?

“None? Are you sure? Look carefully.

His lips curl up mischievously.

“I know no one too. But somehow…
the idea that someone somewhere might be hurt pulls us to them.
Now, imagine if we gathered like this every time someone was hurting mentally.
It’d be such a wonderful society.”

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( will be continued soon)

draft 4

His mannerisms-fuck, his mannerisms matched yours so impeccably, it was nothing short of tragic poetry.

The way he stared
my eyes could not keep off his face
You were there- throughout.
There- waiting desperately for me to treat you like a fading silver lining

Endings are never fun
but we never ended, you had reassured

we were beginning
beginning to understand each other’s presence

and you were there
There- pulling away the only index finger I had ever held onto

“Mom, when will dad come back?” I was made to ask

and you were there- throughout.
There- chalking out another demise.