UNTIL THEN

“Should you leave today?” Anwesha asked, looking at her drink.

“I have to,” Mallik replied. “You know I have to.”

“How much time have we got?” She asked, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Twenty minutes, till the taxi comes,” he answered, pushing the drink down his throat. “Before today, how long has it been since we have even said a hello, An?”

“Three years,” she smiled. “Three long years. But I don’t blame you. We had to part ways, didn’t we?”

“That question itself makes me feel guilty. But I had to go. I had a job waiting for me on the clock, that’s why I never said a goodbye. I had to go.”

“Like today,” she replied casually. “And I waited, for days and months for you to call. A single message could’ve saved me. I was willing to wait for you; but you didn’t.”

“Should we part ways like this today?” he asked, looking at her. The light of the bar lamp made her even more beautiful.

“Well, it’s better than the last time,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. Grey and cold, like a stone. “Let’s change the subject.”

“How is your husband?” he asked.

“Rich, and on tour all the time. But this time, I have a gift for him. A divorce notice.”

“You have to do what is right,” he stopped trying to find the right word.

“Remember the time we painted the walls of the stadium with our modern art? God we were wild,” she spoke up, changing the topic.

“I went to see it the other day. It’s still there,” he said, thinking of the good old days. “And the time when we bunked classes to go for a movie.”

“Each and every release. It was important to see the first show on the first day.”

“And the time when Jay and the team and we went that forest in the outskirts...” he stopped abruptly. He remember, how his friend called out for him, being forced down on the river by the forces of nature.

“Could anyone forget that?” 

Mallik noticed his taxi pull over.

“Call me when you get there,” Anwesha told him, ordering another drink.

“I will. Isn’t it too early for a beer?”

“It’s never too early. Goodbye Mallik.”

He waved his hands as he pulled away from her hands. The drink had started to taste different for her. A bit salty perhaps. Every time she saw his stone cold eyes, she got petrified. Jay had the same eyes too. Jay, the man who held her when Mallik left her under the mistletoe. Jay, her loving only brother.

“Madam, are you okay?” The bartender asked the woman in grey hair.

“I’m fine,” Anwesha replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You were talking to yourself minutes ago, and now...”

“Get back to your business,” she said with a bittersweet smile. 
Staring at the drink, she started to conversation with Mallik; the man she let go off her hands twenty eight years ago.

"DEVELOPED INDIA"

From steam engines to monorail; from parchments to E-mails, We have witnessed some of the finest inventions ever made by mankind. Civilisation has taken us to peaks of development. We live in a country where the flag holds three colours and a centre that holds the whole culture. Known for the birth of finest scientists like Aaryabhatta, India is also known for the efforts that has been put forward to make what is now by such personalities. 

“Developed India” is an unsung dream of all Indians. In a land where procrastination and imagination go hand in hand, people are united over few topics; one amongst them is ‘development.’ One of the milestones of development in India was when Green Revolution was achieved. We have come a long way now since then. The literacy rate has tremendously increased and most of the reputed positions in Multi National Companies are occupied by Indians. Turning the knob of the radio to get the right frequency in early morning are now just stories. The media and communication sector of India has jumped hoops, making ninety percent of it digitalised and controlled by satellites. The farmers are protected now more than ever by the government, and India has been rated as one of the most important tourist places. Famous for one of the seven wonders ‘Taj Mahal,’ our country is also rich with great infrastructure and tourist spots. 

India has also made herself self-sufficient with food grains by attaining Green Revolution. It has also been declared to stop the import of machinery to be used in space craft as a plan has been proposed to manufacture them in India itself. The Information Technology sector is one of the major pillars of Indian economy.  Being rich in energy resources and power plants, our country is capable of growing to greater heights. 

Another highlight of our country is the down to earth people that provide services as well as assistance while being in high positions. It is a well known story of how Smriti Irani, one of the most reputed ministers, helped native people living abroad when they were stuck in lack of transportation facilities. Many such personalities bring a glow to the country’s status, making every citizen to say that they belong to one such nation. 

A golden feather for our country’s development is that we have an airport that runs completely on solar panels in the heart of Kochi, Kerala. With a woman leading the project, a fully solar powered airport is one of a kind, saving a large scale of electricity by using natural resources. 
While there are many things to rave about, there are certain factors that are still hushed down but the stark truth. While our country is growing in infrastructure and information technology, basic utilities such as hygiene and good mean of transport is still a dream to be fulfilled. In a three minute long video showing different restrooms around the world, a video that went viral; India’s condition was one of the worst. Six million children die before they reach five in a year, and Eighty percent of the cause is unhygienic conditions. No proper restroom facilities are available in India though there were many built but they seem to be of least concern in the eyes of Government. 

While we have railway facilities and has celebrated its anniversaries and claiming we have one of the best in the world, the darker side of it is never taken much into consideration. The tracks are always littered, the restrooms reek almost all the time, no proper doors are seen and the seats are as old as our country’s independence. 

Another downside is the road conditions. In rural areas, there are not even proper roads, and in the city areas, pits and improper curves take life. Over one million people die per year due to road accidents, and some of the cases even go unreported. While other countries have underground drainage system to avoid leak and diseases, our country’s drainage system is still on the road, often leaking and spreading diseases. Plans were brought to fix the system, which has only messed up the system more. 

Though we have plenty of water supply, it is a lesser known fact that majority of it is hard water, which is not good for bathing and washing. In Karnataka, more than fifty percent of water is hard water, making people to depend upon mineral water for taking showers. Proper rain water catchment system is absent, and purification of water is not taken care of well. 

India also faces a large deal of ‘Power cuts’ as part of electricity conservation. The power lines are exposed, which can be damaged in a rain or in a lightning. Rather than providing an underground power line system which is far safer and reliable, we keep on craving for exposed power line system. In the case of electricity too, many of the villages are facing darkness in the midst of the night. Proper electricity transmission is failed here. 

Hunger and poverty still persists in some part of India, mainly villages and small towns. Mid-day meal programme put forward by the government used to be efficient until people started to loot healthy grains and replace it with spoilt ones. 

Though we pretend to see the unjust practices of the government, we all know that corruption is a major factor that is affecting our country’s growth. Instead of investing in infrastructure, education, basic needs and much more, a hefty amount goes into the pocket of ministers and government workers. Officers also bribe people for providing them with facilities.

To negate this takes effort, but that effort could bring us glory, by changing our country’s title “developing” to “developed.”Government can play a crucial role in all the forth mentioned cases by taking strict actions and providing necessary facilities. By spending time on focusing on what is not there than what is there is the important thing. Most of the people living in rural areas are not aware of what is good and what is not. Proper awareness can bring them to light and to the present. In the case of educational system, children should be introduced to the present technology, as it can provide information more than a person can. The basic needs of people should be provided first and foremost, and providing clean restrooms should be taken care of. Electric supply and water supply should be more prompt and should be upgraded to the latest technology. There is no corruption-free country, but we can make our country less corrupted than any other. 

Though there are milestones to be achieved and millions of miles to travel, we can surely say that the pace of development is getting closer to success. With the investment of young minds and their pure talent and by taking in the deserved ones, India can manage to make even the impossible possible. It is only a matter of time, effort and economy; and of all three India is well equipped. It is said to be better late than never. But it should also be taken to note that ‘late’ doesn’t seem to be in infinity.

DEAR DIARY
 

It is said that when one dies, their precious memories flashes just before their eyes. Then my death would take about an hour, for the memories longing in my head to come out in front of my cold body is more. Then one day, I saw them. It was not me that was dying.

I can see him on the ventilator, struggling between existence and after life. His face, full of scars and blood. I used to tell him all the time his face was flawless. He would punch me in my arm and say “I got your genes mommy!” Will he ever say that to me again? My precious child?

I always knew my genes were flawed. Rage, rage. Rage flew in my veins, not blood. My thoughts, built on rage, a thirst to fight against injustice. My son, have my flawed genes taken you to where you are now?

It was as though yesterday your little arm wrapped around my little finger, not letting go. I have cut my nails that day just for you. Until then, I used to bite them off. I didn’t want my unhygienic lifestyle to take away your precious life. I changed my routine for you; waking up at noon was just a memory from that day onward. Your cry for my love became my alarm; your little laughs became my fuel for the next day. Your giggles and your actions became my favourite sitcom. And now, you are lying here on that bed reeking of medicines. Is this a horror movie for me? Or are you just trying to scare me, my beloved?

Remember the time you introduced me to the coolest band ever? You danced to the beat while I stayed on the corner, figuring out the lyrics. Your favourite band. And for that birthday I got you their posters. I wanted to get you tickets for their live show, but beloved, my card was running low for I spent them to run our little family.

Our little happy outrageous family. Remember Daddy? The man with stubbed beard and three piece suit? He used to play with you every evening, running behind you with a little soccer ball, trying to introduce you to his field of work. You kicked the ball so high, it broke the kitchen window and knocked down our dinner. You and daddy laughed so hard that my anger flew away in that second. Now here we are, years later, holding hands as though we have just met, praying for your survival.

I remember your first swim. We were in that little resort down your favourite beach. We had seen the sunrise that day! How old were you? Seven? You wore that t-shirt with Mr.Bean’s teddy on it. You loved that t-shirt; you even pointed it whenever the show came on. You forced me down to the beach that day while Daddy went to his business meet. And when we came back, he was by the poolside, with a swimsuit ready for you. You jumped in with daddy, and he helped you swim. Daddy changed your hairstyle that day, remember? You wore your hair that way for years to school, until I cut it off. You were mad at me for a week, but it grew out to be even cooler. Your hair looks like how it was before I cut it off now. Beloved, wake up and see for yourself. I am not lying.

I remember the time you broke down when that girl you loved so much said ‘yes’ to some other guy. You locked yourself up, while I peeked in through the window. You didn’t see me that day, but I stayed by the window all night long, waiting for you to stop crying. You eventually fell asleep. I walked in silently, kissed your forehead and scuffled your hair. Your face was still wet, and I was mad, not at you, but at that girl, for leaving such a perfect boy. My son. You secretly went out at night to the places where you and she talked, and I followed you silently to make sure you were fine. You never knew that, did you? Daddy came along with me sometime, and he cried with me sometimes. We love you son. You are perfect to us. Wake up now.

Do I see a dip in your heart rate? Why am I hearing loud noises from the machine? Why is your face turning blue son?! Are you giving up on us? Remember the day when we all went to the park and threw the ball! Remember the time we drove away, just us two, when Daddy went for his work! Remember the day we flew to Paris and tasted wine though it was illegal! Wake up son!

Why did they beat you up?! My precious boy, what did you do? We know you are innocent, but do we worry for what you have done? Everyone says it isn’t your fault. It was theirs, the monsters that beat you up for trying to save a girl. A girl of your same age; a girl you never knew.

I knew my flawed genes were dangerous. I should have cut them off. Did I bring this wretched fate to you? Am I your murderer? Son, I am breaking down. Come, hold me.

I see doctors running in to see you. They are looking at their watch and mouthing words to each other. One nurse is holding your hand. Is everything okay son? Son, are you listening to my thoughts?

I see the doctor coming out now. They are saying they have done everything, but they couldn’t succeed. I see the nurse that held your hand now look at me with pity. Should I slap her? My outrageous genes, stop eating me up! My son is gone. And he has taken a part of me with him. And now I know that he is listening to my thoughts. Son, I love you. Son, Goodnight and God bless. 

Today is a normal day like any other, but exactly one year ago, I summoned up the courage to click 'create blog,' and name it 'Fearless Sinister.' It's been a year since we have embarked upon such a journey, a journey that has been both glorious and treacherous. Each moment has been precious, and to add more, today is the day F.S. has hit 2015 page views. Thanks to all the art lovers who helped this happen and thanks to the team behind F.S, especially Sanjana Sarma (Editor), Achyuth C. Sekhar, Ganesh V.P, A.G. Parvathy (Well-Wishers) and many others whose effort has been with us throughout. We expect this love and support for the coming years too, for this blog is meant to live on forever as it is the main purpose. We hope you have enjoyed all the written works.
Love,
F.S. 

As part of one year anniversary, here is a poem, dedicated to all of you. 

ON THE ROCKS.

You and me, two perfect strangers

Separated by land and sea. 

Until the night dawned upon us

And the stars stared with a yell.

A crowded bar, two empty seats

We sat across, raising our hands

Two whiskey on the rocks with a twist 

And the conversation began.

We danced around the streets 

Under the signal lights and stars

Hopping down on water

With memories embracing us.

You and me we were meant to be

Not perfect strangers, but a duo

Two whiskey on the rocks with a twist

And the strangeness disappeared. 

ON AIR. 

Packing up the bags, her eyes constantly glanced at the clock, making sure she wasn't late. The traffic was like the politics. Unstable, unpredictable and always lagging. Her phone charge showed her a 100%, making a smile wrap around her lips.
"Have you taken your passport and ticket," her mother asked for the hundredth time.
"Yes ma, I've got them," she said as she locked the bag.
"You sure it is your passport?"
Slowly losing her temper, she pulled out her hand bag and took out a small black book. "See," Sunita Nair Dhwani. I think I am Dhwani. What do you think ma?" 
"That's you," her mother laughed. "I don't want you to get lost or confused when you are in that airport."
"Ma!" She cried out. "I am 23. Not 3. And this is not my first time really, so quit bothering me." Her eyes darted to the clock again. "Few more minutes left."
"Why don't you leave now?" Sunita asked. "You dont want to get stuck in the traffic."
"I wont get stuck in the traffic. I'll go in few minutes."
"Sweetheart, you cant trust anything here. The road is madness. So why not leave now rather than be a victim?"
"If you want me to leave, fine, I'll go," she said, rolling her suitcase to the verandah.
"It's not that..." Sunita began. 
"It is definitley what it is. You want me out of your hair!" Dhwani yelled out. Without saying a goodbye, she walked to the taxi stand.

"It's a good thing you are early madam," the driver said. "There will be a parade now soon by the NCC kids. You would have missed your flight."
"But there was nothing in the newspaper," she replied. "Where is the fun in letting everything know," he answered back with a wink. 

"This is flight B737-900ER and we are ready to take off," the captain announced. Enjoying the view outside the window, she rested her head on the headrest, listening to old malayalam songs her mother suggested before. She took out her phone and messaged her mother that she would soon be in air. 
As the flight took off, she felt her body heavy for a while. 'Laws of motion,' she told herself with a giggle. The city appeared smaller to her and soon, the great Travancore was just a small dot. 
"Angels come from the clouds," her mother had told her when she was seven. like any innocent child, she believed her. Every night, she would look up at the grey clouds in the black sky with white spots. Shades of black, her father would tell her. Now, being on air for not the first or the fifth time, she still looked out the window, looking for the angels. 
"Veg or non-veg mam?" The air hostess broke her moment with her past.
"Non-veg," she replied as she pulled down the tray. 
The packet had raw rice and chicken that looked funny. She missed her ma's home made pulav and butter chicken. In that moment, she fell homesick. Her eyes fell on a mother feeding her child, and then she realised how hard it was for her mother to raise her, especially with all the travelling. If only I could call her... she wondered.

"Have a nice day," the hostess told her as she stepped out of the plane. Her sim wouldn't work here, she knew for sure. Hell, it didnt work properly even in her country. Checking out with he baggage, she ran for the telephone booth. 
"Hello?" Her mother's eager voice roared in the speaker. 
"I love you ma," Dhwani said with a smile. And then, the pennies kept on falling into the phonebox.

LOVE. DREAM. DARE.

A moment of love, a minute to dream, the courage to shed tears. Have we done this lately? Have you done this lately? I haven't, which makes me want to write this note.

All day long, we procrastinate, at least I do. And the outcome is nothing. Nothing but a feeling of emptiness deep inside within me.

When was the last time you said 'I love you' from your heart? When was the last time you dreamed about what you want to be or who you want to be? My answers scare me, which makes me wonder 'What am I doing?'

I sit in front of a computer screen all day, with MS word open, waiting for words to come to me while the cursor stare blankly at me. At certain times, I feel the cursor talk to me. Then something makes me want to write and the next second, I am procrastinating.

In the midst of this fast moving world with smart phones and not so smart people, we waste a lot of time and yet make excuses saying we don't have time. Maybe its time to stop and take a step back. Embrace everything around you. Look into the eyes of the one you love. Find something that inspire you. Don't hold yourself back because you might regret it someday.

Take a moment to love. Your parents, your friends, your mentor, your pet, the neighbour who ruined your childhood... whatever it maybe. Take a minute to dream. From making sandcastles to finding a new proof. And lastly, have the courage to shed some tears. Let it all go. If your heart is full, then how can you make memories that'll make you smile someday?

WHEN THE LUCKY RED SEED TELL 

STORIES. 

(Malayalam: 

Manjadikuru Kadha Parayumbol.)

How long has it been? Five years or more? Even the roads have changed, and I have got taller and tanned. Yet, the turning to an infamous junction didn’t change. It has always been a sight to see the green of the tree spread above the road giving a shade. Only the trickiest of the rays made their way through and to the windshield. On the way, I saw the house where I spent most of my vacation in, fighting with cousins, playing with whatever that could be found and being the hero of the house.
The wings of the hero was sometimes held down for good by an old man who was the head of the house. His sound still hung around in the air. Only his throne was empty. The children were running around, handing the card telling his departure. The youngest one clung onto his father, pulling his hair and taking money out of his pocket. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, though their welcoming smiles were persisting.
The ones with the receding hairline stood in one corner, whereas the ones with white strands of hair sat on a side. The children’s voice grew louder. As I sat with my mother, my other half and some other relatives, the time started to slow down.
“Imagine what Kochachan would do if he was here,” my mother’s cousin duly noted.
“He would probably yell at them and ask them to go inside,” my mother said with a laugh, remembering the old times. Turning to us, she began. “What you see here is nothing. When we were young, everyone would come here during the vacation. There were like twenty of us, running around making noise, sitting by the lake and throwing stones and commenting everyone as they went on. We were famous back then. Whenever he saw us sitting by the lake, he would run to us and yell, ‘Get back home you little pests!’ That voice itself scared us, though we would sneak back after some time. And grandpa used to drink his tea in a huge cup. We twenty would stand in a row, waiting to see who he would pick to give the leftover tea. Then at night, we all slept on a huge blanket, making noises to scare the ones that were afraid of the ghosts.”
“But the most memorable time where when grandpa died,” he added. “I still remember the sight of him being carried to the house. We all were young back then and most of us had no idea. Everyone else were laughing, while we ran around picking the lucky red seeds and playing with clay. We would fight to give drinks to the guests, though we always snuck a cup or two and had it for ourselves. Now all there is just these four little ones,” he said, pointing at his nephews.
All I could remember was the time when a grandfather of mine passed away in Cochin. There were six or seven of us children, and we ran around in that house, having no idea of what was going on. But none of us sat by the lake or ran around making such big mess and sound. Compared to them, we were professional ninjas.
Thinking about the long lost childhood, I leaned back on the chair, thinking about the time in Cochin. Stories went on about uncle’s experience in dealing with the prisoners, for he worked in the Jail department.
Time filed by soon enough. The needle of the clock chased to time, not knowing it was its controller. One became two, and two became three.
“Shouldn’t we be going now?” I asked, noticing the weight on my eyelids. One of my teacher always used to say with her sweetest voice, “Are swings being built on your eye-lids, for they are weighing down?”
On the way out, standing by the field, I noticed the lucky red seeds scattered around. Picking them up, I knew they too had some stories to tell. Wrapping them up in a tissue paper, I forced it down on my pocket, so that I could decode whatever they had to tell. Waving good bye to everyone, I waited for a day to come back, to get to know more stories about the forgotten childhood and the lucky red seeds.

CONNECTION LOST

As she turned her steering wheel along the curvature, listening to nothing but the whisper of the wind and the roar of the engine, she couldn’t help but feel comfortable. She had been a bit annoyed at Tom when she discovered that there was no signal in the address. But now, she sat on the driving seat, feeling the nature, being thankful to him for he was the one who suggested taking the road less travelled.

“For how long have you been working here?” he asked, annoyed by the silence.
“Few years,” she replied. “I came here as an intern, but for my brains, the internship was too low. So they promoted me.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” he noted the tone of her voice.
“To be honest, I hate this profession. Always did. I wanted to be a free-thinker, a writer and a traveller. This profession doesn’t leave room for any of this. And the only travelling opportunity I get is for conferences,” she replied with a touch of disappointment in her voice.
“Your Indian accent is starting to grow on me,” he said with a laugh. “Then why did you go for this?”

“Family’s peer pressure. They believe only in engineering and medicine, and before I knew, I was trapped.”

“I love mine,” he started. “My profession I mean. Besides, I’m your intern. Does that mean I’m trapped too?”
“Not really,” she laughed. “But you’ll be stuck with a lot of paperwork.”
“Dr. Maya Banerjee,” he stated. “Such a nice name with an evil personality.”

They both grinned as they rode to the hospital. Maya tried to recall when she had such a normal life the last time. Pushing the thought, she began. “Cardio is fun. You get to work with a lot of prototypes and instruments. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll get to do a transplant soon.”
“We can do one now!” he yelled with excitement. “I have almost all the materials in my bag, except a heart and a victim. The authorities insist that the interns carry supplies all the time in case of an emergency. Kind of annoying though, carrying all this weight.”
“They’re being practical, that’s all,” she said.

As the wind played around Tom’s hair, a speck of dust made its way to his eye, making him dart his vision. When his vision cleared, his eyes fell upon a cloud of smoke not too far away. “Is it just me or is something going on there?” he asked Maya, pointing at the scene.
“There must be some accident,” she answered as she increased the vehicle’s speed. “Try to reach 911.”
“But there is no signal,” he hesitated, raising the phone for bars.
“Wait here, I’ll check the scene; and page Dr. Warner,” she said as she pulled over.

Getting out of the driver’s seat, she saw two cars crumbled to pieces with a stream of blood pouring out of the one which wasn’t smoking. She caught the sight of a hand trying to move the metal pieces to get out. Without her knowing, Tom snuck out, reaching for the supplies.

“Are you okay in there sir?” she asked, peeking through the rumble. Her eyes to a man who was stuck in the driver’s seat. His scarred face resembled to that of a treacherous man, but his voice signalled her that he was not a dangerous creature.

“I could use a little help,” he said, coughing up more blood.

“Is there anyone else inside the vehicle?”

“Just me,” he said after a loud scream. “My leg, it hurts!”

“We’ll get you out of there sir. I’m Dr. Maya Banarjee and I have Dr. Tom Sanders with me calling for help. Meanwhile, please try to not panic. What’s your name?”

“Easy for you to say, I am the one stuck here in this hell hole!” he yelled out. “The name is Aaron Stone. Please don’t change that to ‘The Late Aaron Stone’.”

“Well sir you have a great sense of humour,” Maya replied, trying to calm the scene. “Are you able to get out?”

“I would’ve if I was able to,” he said after a moment of struggle with the metals.

“Sanders!” she yelled out. “Can you get any bars?”

“No, the tower is too far,” he replied. “I paged Dr. Warner, but so far there is no reply.”

“Not that bar! Iron bar, I need to get this man out before he bleed himself to heaven,” she said, pressing his chest with gauze to stop him from bleeding.

“That’s a nice thing for you to say, I mean, me going to heaven and all,” the man said, managing a smile. Tom searched the trunk and came up with an iron rod and a bag full of supplies.

“Hold the rod to the door and push it out,” Maya ordered as she applied more gauze. With a swift motion, Aaron Stone was able to move a little bit. “Good, now move to some other place and try to get some help.”

“You are Indian, aren’t you,” Aaron asked trying to push himself out of the pile.

“I thought you got that from my name, but yeah, I’m Indian,” she said, trying to stop the bleeding.

“An Indian saving an American, well let this be a beginning, and I mean, in a good way,” he said with a laugh, which resulted in more blood pouring out.

“You are having a pleural effusion,” Maya blurted out, looking through the supplies.

“Is it as scary as it sounds?” he asked, trying to wipe the blood away from his face.

“I need to insert a tube inside your chest to get some fluid out so that you won’t die. But the problem is I have a chest tube here but if I insert it in, I should be able to close you up too, which I can’t do here in the unsterile condition. So...” As she went on, more blood came out from his mouth, making him feel one step closer to heaven.  “Chest tube it is,” she told herself.

She rummaged through the supplies and found a small knife, which would help her make the incision. She held onto the gauze and the tube. Without thinking for a second, calling up all the textbooks she used to learn from, she made a small incision and inserted the tube, letting the fluid spread out onto the road less travelled. With the fluid came out his harsh loud voice in a bellow, feeling the pain he never ever had in his entire life of adventure.

“911 will be here soon!” Tom yelled out as he ran towards the scene of life and death. “Wow, did you just insert a chest tube into a man on the road?”

“It was necessary,” she replied, wiping the sweat off her brow. “ETA?”

“Three minutes,” he replied, checking his watch again. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He will, if they get here soon enough,” she replied. Three minutes of long silence awaited them, and in that moment she was happy that she was able to save a man’s life. In that moment, she lost the sense of having regret for taking up the job she had now. She held onto the man’s hand, feeling his pulse every now and then. His eyes closed down, and she knew the end was near, when out of the blue the silence was broken down by a loud siren.

“There they are!” Tom yelled out. He ran to the ambulance to help them with the gurney. Maya stared at her blood stained hands for a moment, and moved closer to Aaron.

“We’ll take it from here,” the EMT informed her, taking him over. As the ambulance moved away with the siren again, she leaned on her car and let it all sink in.

“Told you that supplies would come in handy,” Tom said with a smile. “The coffee in your car must have gone cold. Shall we hit a cafe?”

Hearing the siren come to an end, she nodded with a smile, holding onto the knife she used to cut open a man’s chest to save his life. “You’re lucky that you’re off the hook from all the paperwork this month.”

“Maybe I should travel more often with you,” he winked.

“These things don’t happen every day,” she replied with a smile that showed her sense of relief. “But if you stick around, I could show you more crazy stuffs.”

“Crazier than this?” he chuckled. “I guess I’ll be holding onto your tail, Dr. Banarjee.”

“The way of you calling my name is also growing into me Tom.”

                                                ***

She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. It was a medal for her, to save a man from death. Although now she realised that she hadn’t looked for the man in the other vehicle. The EMT confirmed his time of death, but she still felt a pang of guilt for not trying.

“The man in the other car was already dead,” Tom stated, reading her mind. “I checked when you went near Aaron.”

“Well, may his soul Rest In Peace. And I should say, we should take the road less travelled more often,” she replied, taking a sip from her cup of joe.

“And you were mad at me for not finding radio signals,” he managed a laugh. “So, you were saying about literature?”

“Literature... that is still in my heart,” she said. “Who knows, maybe I’ll write a memoir one day, and this day sure will be in it.”

“Looking forward for that,” he replied, raising his glass. “To more blissful days.”

“To more blissful days,” she said after him, having a toast. As they exchanged their stories, their pagers beeped, drawing them back to reality. “Time to save more lives,” she said, looking at the blood stained knife.

THE SILENT STALKER

Tears of Earth down the rain
Lonely man in the drizzle.
Streets so bright in the light
He looks for his own mind.

The silent traveller, the secret stalker
Walks beneath the man
He looks down the road
To see the old soul,
The rugged lean dark shadow.

Alone no more, smile ever more
He glides down the rain with a howl
The night sky closes, the blanket approaches
To hide the smile of the moon.

The shadows bids a goodbye
As he joined with the sky
‘See you soon, my other half
For we’re a treacherous duo.’

...WAIT FOR ME TO COME HOME

Title from the lyrics of Ed Sheeran's song : Photograph. 

As she set her foot on the entrance, her heart trembled. For the last six years, she called it her home, though there were days when she entered with a curse. But that morning, a warm Wednesday morning, her heart wept with her as she set her foot on the entrance.

Tracing the path to the main building, she could feel the memories rush back to her. The walks to the store to get chocolates for her classmates, though she would secretly hide one so that she could enjoy it on her way back home.

She checked her watch; ten minutes past twelve. Ten more minutes and the bell would ring for lunch break. She walked to the room where her master, the one who lit her way to the new school, keeping the light of the old one still alive, sat on.

Twenty minutes past twelve. Her heart quickened, and then she heaved a sigh. Would they remember me? She wondered as she climbed the steps. On seeing the happy bunch, she withdrew the thought. She held her hand tight to her friend’s who she hadn't seen in a while. One by one, they came to her, had a chat, gave a hug and a smile and returned. Few of them dragged her to their classes, and at that moment, she felt that she was home again. In all these moments, she never let go of her friend’s hand. They resembled of a Siamese twins, bonded to each other with hands. Her masters gleamed at her with surprise and gave her the fuel she wanted; their blessings. She heard the bell ring again, announcing the end of time. On her way, she encountered her friend who invited her to come on that day without any shy. The footsteps became short as they talked and walked. “When will we meet again?” The question hung in the air. Being not prepared to shed tears in a beautiful day, she let her smile answer that, and headed her way out. Looking back, she saw her past life, where she was the queen and others her kingdom.

She watched her home getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror as the car drove away. A sad tune played in her mind, making the moment nothing but a perfect movie scene. The realisation of the song not being on the mind but on the radio drew her back to reality, and she saw her home no more in the mirror.

She realised that some things were meant to be. She believed that scars had healed and she had moved on. But on seeing her home again, feeling the love and laughter, she realised the scars had only deepened, and tears in red were being shed. Some things were meant to be. To love and to be loved, she was lucky. To feel it again, she had to wait. And so she did, darting her eyes from the mirror to the road, the road that she used to travel almost every day. 

THE DARK SIDE

He could hear the sound of the wind howling. The rattling of the leaves tickled him, leaving him smiling without any apparent reason. The howling grew louder and he knew what awaited him; the rain. The summer has passed, everyone was awaiting the winter. But he wanted the droplets of heaven to touch his face and slither down his skin. With a thunder, the raining started.

The howling died soon enough. Droplets slithered down his 

smooth hair and his dark skin. Inside his eyes, everyone could see a light. But for him, all he saw was darkness. Standing by a road side tea shop, he rested his chin and hand on his walking stick, sitting down on one of the benches, letting the smooth nature embrace him.

He could hear the sound of the tea hitting the bottom of the 

silver mug, the sound of paper against the snack taking in all the oil, the chewing of the tobacco leaves in the mouth of the ones that waited for the tea to arrive. He enjoyed the strange noise of everything and it suited well for his scene: darkness.

Something wet nestled on his leg. The cold at the end of the body made him realise that it was a dog’s nose, and for a dog to wander around the rain would be a stray dog. The dog pawed on his legs and his footwear for some time, and then rested against his legs and the wooden cane.

The rain stopped, the howling never came back, and the shops closed down. The dog left him a few moments later in search of food. Sitting on a bench beside the highway, he could hear loud music from the heavy vehicles carrying goods and families on vacation. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting in more darkness. Taking in a large breath, he waited for the patterns in the darkness to arrive. Soon, between his closed eyes, he saw the patterns dance in front of him, changing every now and then, and never coming back.

The swoosh of a car woke him up, leaving him alone to ponder in the darkness, thinking how he came here. He felt like it has been forever, although he had been there only for a few years. The grey in his hair spread like a forest fire, and his jaw line tightened day after day. His wrinkled pale hands rested on the cane with his chin. The world was developing every day, and for him, each day meant one step closer to the crossroad of hell and heaven. It would all be in the hands of the one behind The Chair, he believed.

Beside the highway resided his small beautiful house few

years ago, the one with a white fence, yellow and red flowers, and a small wooden cabin with climbers climbing upon the roof, making it look like a haywire. Then, out of the blue, the development began. He signed the papers for his new home, and moved out the day when the machines came in a brought down his haven to ashes. Then, the masters behind the treacherous game never came for him with the money they owed him. Widowed old blind man with rusted up books and an ‘arakka petti.’ That’s how the masters had branded him before they left in their luxurious ride. Each day after that, he sat on the wooden chair of the tea shop, waiting for them to come for him, for one of the masters was his son.

The howling began again and the dog came back to nestle against his warm leg. The howling grew louder and he knew what awaited him the next. One, two, five... the droplets falling on his face increased, so did the speed of the wipers on the car. He wrapped the towel into a cover, so that he could dry himself up later. Under the night sky where the moon hid behind the monstrous clouds, he rested on his cane, hidden under an unjust world. 

We have all been reading a story since January 1 of this year. And that journey ends next week. Due to some copyright issues and other considerations, the rest of the novel will not be posted from next week onwards. I apologise for this inconvenience. If this story ever gets published, you will all be a part of it. This story is dedicated to you all, me fellow Sinister. Don't forget to tune in next week to read the final part of the story. Happy Weekend! Enjoy this poem.  

BULLET AND BLOOD

Raised from the ashes
We were born fighters
Fighting off the evil
For the goodness of the people.

Songs of birds
So rare for us
For we hear the ballad of bullets
Rushing towards us.

We shed tears
Tears in red
Not from our eyes
But from our wounds.

Then comes a day
A day of glory
Where our coffin isn't black
But of the colour of our flag.

Marching band begins
Shots are fired
Announcing our departure
Signals of arrival.

Hope you all remember the pitiful destiny of Anjana's in Before the Summer. Introducing the second and the final part, here goes. Enjoy. 

THEN CAME THE WINTER

The brushes in Danyal’s room remained still with dried paint sticking onto it. It hasn’t felt its master’s hands for almost four months. ‘Take me,’ it had told him many times silently. But all it saw was his master sitting on his bed, going through a red diary, day in and day out. It knew the diary belonged to Anjana Krishnan, the woman who had caressed the brush just as Danyal did. After observing him for months, the brush came to a conclusion that something bad had happened to Anjana for him to stop painting.

The phone vibrated by the bedpost. Danyal looked at the screen for a moment, and then left it there. It was David, trying to reach him third time the day. He knew what would happen next. Soon, the phone will vibrate continuously for minutes, with Ag, Neha and Rob each trying to hear his voice. Then they would all show up by his room, knock on it for minutes and then pound on it. Later on they’ll enter the room some way and will try to cheer him up and leave, except for David and Ag who would stay with him all night, trying to talk to him.

‘Clumsy handwriting,’ Danyal said to himself, smiling at the lines on the diary. Each word was etched into his heart but he still was looking for something, a missing piece perhaps.

“Open the door Danny,” David’s voice said from the door. “Otherwise I’ll have to knock it down.” Danyal unlocked it and returned to the bed, where the diary rested everyday with him.

“It’s just me and Ag for the day,” David said as he sat down on one of the chair. Ag moved towards the closet where his paintings hung, hoping to see a new one. She shook her head at David, saying that it was all the same.

“So what’s new,” Ag asked.

“Nothing really,” Danyal said, stacking the diary back to Anjana’s backpack. “Just me and the diary and the paints all day.”

“Except the paints are untouched,” Danyal said, pointing at the bottles with dried up paint. “Anjana meant a lot to us too, and she meant a hell lot to you too, I know it. She knows it too. Don’t you think it’s time for you to get up and go out? It’s been four bloody months.”

“Four bloody months since she hung herself onto a tree branch and left me a note?” Danyal asked, his voice void of life.

“Have you read the note?” Ag asked, trying to change his mood. “Maybe what you are looking for is in it.”

“No, I haven’t. Maybe you’re right,” Danyal replied. “I’ll get my head around it sometime.”

“Wanna go for a ride?” David asked, shaking the keys. “It’s a beautiful day after all.”

“Not feeling like it. Where are the others?”

“Jamming,” Ag replied. “They’re working on a new song. We escaped during the break.”

“You two should get back,” Danyal said, throwing his motorcycle’s keys to David. “And take her out for a spin. She’s been in the garage forever.”

“Sure,” David said, catching the keys. “If the track gets completed, I’ll send you the copy tonight. Come on Ag, let’s go.”

                                                            ****

The room fell silent again, except for the regular sound of pages turning. Danyal slowly took the note Anjana had left for the gang before she bid farewell. It had been in the backpack the day he swore never to stop loving her. ‘Paint the world with true spirits and show your rage, love and anger through it.’ His eyes stuck onto that line. ‘Should I begin again?’ he asked himself. The paintbrush cried out in frustration to his master to take him and show him his love, the colours in the bottle. Only Danyal chose not to hear them.

He heard the sound of his motorcycle’s engine come to an end after a few seconds. David’s heavy footsteps could reach his ears even from a distance, along with the clinking of the keys with the keychain.

“She’s fine,” David said, placing the key on the table. “Needed some fuel, and some air check. All done, although she needs to be taken out every now and then. What say Dan?”

“I’ll get my head around that thought,” Danyal smiled.

“Oh, we completed the track. The producer is going crazy about my idea to send it to you, so I copied it to a CD without him knowing,” he said, placing a CD in a cover beside the key. “Give it a try. Anjana wrote the words for it.” Danyal’s eyes beamed on hearing her name. He got up from the bed and moved to his computer.

“I should get going,” David continued. “My eyes are begging me to get some sleep.”

Danyal followed David to the door. Hearing his footsteps disappear into the night, he locked himself in his room. The CD looked fresh and neat. In a few seconds the track started playing in his computer, with the words piercing into his ears through his earphones.

Maybe, it’s time to go on
To hit the high note
To be somewhere fresh and new.

I know, that it’s hard to forget
The ones I loved are here
In this locked up world.

Maybe they’ll hear these words someday
Maybe they’ll follow me to my home
Where there are no rules to follow
Where they are all on their own.

If you want this world
Maybe make it yourself
In this locked up world.

I’m sure I’ll know
For I’m watching you all
From this new home of mine

From this new home of mine
I send out my love to you
I hope you’re hearing me out
For I’m talking to you.

All along the song, the guitar, the piano, the occasional cry of violin, the once in a while beat of the drums for the acoustic track didn’t matter to Danyal. All he heard was Ag’s voice saying the words written by Anjana, the words she was trying to tell him. From the living room, he could hear his father shouting at his mother for not making the curry spicy and for leaving the TV on while she was on the phone. He could hear his little brother trying to separate them off, but instead getting beaten up by the man who was a part of him. Danyal wanted to escape this world and make one of his own.

His thoughts picked him up and took him to his inner self that he didn’t even notice the track playing on a loop. I need to get out of here, he told himself. He didn’t know the destination, but he sure knew the purpose. Make the world Anjana wanted for him and her to live in with their life. He dived into his gallery and rolled up few canvases. A dusted duffel bag soon got cleaned up and was stuffed in by canvases and paint brushes. The old ones were dried up, yet he took them for they were there when he needed them the most. The paint in the shelf, as quiet as a dead mouse, yearned to be with those brushes. Soon, their dreams became true.

“Where are you off to in the middle of the night?” Hameed, the ruthless monster who claimed to be the king of his own world, asked his son.

“Some place where I can find a little bit of peace,” Danyal answered.

“You are not going anywhere,” Hameed set his glass of whiskey down. “You will join me in my business tomorrow. It’s a good thing your lady friend died. You’ve been quiet and minding your own business and not with those wretched painting of yours.”

A moment of silence filled in the hall, followed by the sound of Danyal’s palm resting on his father’s cheek, imprinting his fingers that were once held by Anjana and embraced by the dried up paint. “God made a mistake of taking her away. It should’ve been you,” Danyal muttered, seeing his father’s eyes bloodshot.

“How dare you touch me you piece of meat!” Hameed raised his hand. Instead of touching his son, it fell on the face of the woman who had taken all the other beatings.

“Don’t you dare touch my son,” Nadiya yelled at Hameed. “If he wants to leave, let him. At least he won’t become his father.” Nadiya grabbed his son by his arm and led him to the door. “Go,” she whispered. “I know you’ll come back to us. Just call me once in a while to let me know that you’re safe.”  Danyal hugged his mother, close to his heart, to let her know that it was beating only for her. Kissing her son’s forehead with love, she returned back to the man who was a monster in disguise.

Danyal climbed on his Harley, stacking up the camp supplies and his backpack in the second seat. He remembered how Anjana used to sit there, telling him stories as they went on from one place to another. He now wished for the supplies and himself to have a story when they got back. The engine fired to life, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

Danyal rode on for miles on the wet road embraced by nature. With him, he had neither a map nor a destination. The single lined road stretched on forever as lonely as a fly in a bottle. The moon slowly started to sink in the sea and the sun rose up, trying to hide behind the waves. In Danyal’s ears went on the song the band just played, reminding his purpose every now and then. The trees let in a very little sunshine to the road that was surrounded by little tea shops and children running in their torn up dresses, playing skipping stones and crossing roads without any caution. Something told him he had to stop here for breakfast, for there would be fewer things to look forward to.

                                                        **

David climbed up the stairs to Danyal’s room and knocked on the door, and then started pounding. Ag stayed downstairs, waiting for Nadiya to show up. After a few minutes, Nadiya emerged from the kitchen, wearing an apron with flora print.

“Where is Danny?” David asked.

“He left,” Nadiya smiled.

“To?” Ag asked in confusion.

“I wish I knew,” she continued. “He’ll be back, I am sure. Maybe he has found his way after all.”

David and Ag left the house and remained seated in Ag’s car. “I knew it would work,” David started smiling as he started the engine.

“What?” Ag remained confused.

“The song we worked on last night. I knew it would work on him. He’ll be back Ag. And he’ll be back for good.”

                                            **

The motorcycle couldn’t be happier. It had been on the road for three days, on smooth and metalled road. Danyal was somewhere he believed to be paradise. The population seemed to be less although it seemed to be cherished with wondrous animals who sang along with the songs someone sang long ago. The song ‘Brand New Day’ by Kodaline went on in the earphones, giving him some kind of freedom he hadn’t experienced for a long time. ‘We could write stories ‘bout the journeys that we made,’ the words went on. Danyal wished to paint those stories so that someone could understand them someday.

He killed the engines on seeing a small lodge with not much people on it. Nearby the lodge were the woods, where he could set up the camp and start his work. He could easily come to the lodge and freshen up every day as long as he needed, for he was loaded with the money he had earned while working with the group.

Danyal set up a camp in the heart of the woods, very similar to that of the one where the Casa was pinned in. Here, memories wouldn’t haunt him. He was sure of that, and even if they did, he would lash it out to the canvas that was ready to receive anything, as long as it was filled with colours. He set up his art station and stretched the rolled up canvas. He slowly pulled out the small wooden stand where he would pin the canvas. Setting the paint bottles to one side and the brushes to other, he glanced around and at the board. Looking at it, he whispered, “Anjana, talk to me. Tell me another story that I can paint.”

                                                                   

AFTER 250 DAYS

Danyal woke up with a start inside the lodge room that he had rented. Surrounded by cans of 7 up and empty paint bottles were dozens of rolled up canvases filled with colours and memories. Danyal, after coming across this lodge, which he recalled was about two hundred and fifty days ago, was in fact a tourist spot for summer and for riders who would pass the roads in their heavy machine. With the help of some local people, he was able to locate a supply store, a few miles away from the lodge. He bought all his paint supplies and canvases from there, which made him and the shop owner happy.

In the calendar, it was the month of August. 20^th of August to be precise. It was the day Anjana had written him the letter and hung herself up in the woods where they spent most of their time. Danyal reached across the table and grabbed his handset and dialled.

“I knew you would call me today,” David’s voice beamed from the other side. “When can we meet?”

“I’ll turn on the location in a minute,” Danyal smiled. “I’m staying in a lodge here.”

“Anything else?”

“Come in Ag’s car,” Danyal replied. “Bring her too. We have some stuff to pack up.”

Danyal spent the whole day, wandering about the village, talking to the people and having fun with them. The kids were jolly good and full of surprises, teaching him country songs and telling him about the famous crafts there. Before he went to check out from the lodge, he headed back to the supply store and left a hefty amount to the shop owner, thanking him for everything.

Little before midnight, a Honda City stopped in front of the lodge. Nothing could explain Danyal’s feelings, for he was given freedom from his own and was meeting the duo who had given him the space to track himself down.

“We thought you joined the military,” Ag said, opening the trunk. “Although I don’t understand why you wanted my car.”

“That’s why,” Danyal said, pointing at a pile of canvases beside his backpack. “I hope your car has good boot space.”

“You can run an exhibition back here,” Ag smiled, giving him a warm hug. “Welcome back to normalcy Danny. We missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Danyal smiled for real this time. “I heard your band is touring now?”

“Heading to Banglore next week,” David said, stacking up the paintings in the trunk. “We want you there too.”

“Sure,” Danyal replied. “Would it be hard to arrange an art exhibition after your tour?”

“Good news is, we are free after the show in Banglore,” David replied. “All set to go. You want me to take the ride?”

“She’s with me,” Danyal said, patting the motorcycle. “She’s my plucky sidekick from now on.”

The motorcycle rode behind the car. The night sky beamed above them, the moon, not afraid to show himself to the world. Somehow, that night, Danyal and the moon became one.

                                              

REMINISCENCE: ART EXHIBITION 2015. 

“Danyal,” the interviewer spoke his name to the microphone. “What inspired you to do this extravagant work and gave you the courage to show it to the world?”

“Everyone has a past,” Danyal smiled to the woman with the microphone. “Let it be colourful or haunting. And with the past comes the memories. This memories keeps us alive, it gives an essence to live. Every living thing in this world has a story to tell. Some might have happy endings, some might be tear shedding. It all comes down to how you want that memory to remain it for the rest of your life. If it is painful, we can make it colourful by expressing it in one way or another. Let it be through music, through movies, through stories, anything. It all depends on what we want it to be. I wanted my painful memories to be stories, and I painted those stories with the help of a soul that had been with me almost all my life. This event is for her, and through this event, I am not the only one telling the stories. Somewhere around those specks are her words.”

“Thank you Mr. Hameed,” the interviewer replied.

“It’s Mr. Hussain. Danyal Hussain,” Danyal said. Nadiya Hussain, his mother, smiled somewhere in the event, looking at her son’s work that his father failed to notice.

“The event is going great,” David said, checking out the sales. “Half of them are already booked and sold out.”

“That’s good news,” Danyal said, looking around. “When are you guys playing?”

“In an hour,” David said, checking the clipboard that had the details of arrangement for the band. “It’s good that you picked the place where we all played for the first time.”

“Reminiscence, that’s all it is,” Danyal said, his lips curling upward for a smile. David left him alone to reminisce the moments he had in there.

Wearing a tucked in black shirt and blue jeans, Danyal waded through the crowd to the place where the control system were set. It was the same place where he and Anjana stood, holding hands, watching their friends create history. He could hear the answer to the question he had asked her almost a year ago, the question on what her dream was. Looking at the crowd, he found the answer in them. Danyal reached out his hands to hold her. Even though she wasn’t there physically, he knew she wouldn’t miss it for anything spiritually. ‘Have your dreams come true now?’ he whispered to the air. He could feel her nodding her head, smiling at him while her head was around another story. For a minute, everything seemed to be good for him. Maybe it will be good after all, something told him.