Siren

It was a dream, of course. That much I knew long before the dash through the theater, long before leaving the party, long before things went from strange and interesting to all-out screamathon. It was a good-ol' fashioned dream... Except it was also one of those things that pop into your head and then refuse to leave - like an unbidden guest standing at your doorstep one fine midsummer morning, all set on gracing you with his presence until Diwali at least.

There were two ways to deal with it - either let it pick at the insides of my skull until it dissolved (which would take an inordinate amount of time, given the complexity of the factors involved), or get it down on paper so I could mutilate it into gibberish and give up on it.

I chose the latter.
So this is the story of my dream.


It began on the stairwell of a multi-storey. I was fifteen again, going for tuitions to the home of an old lady who would smell like cabbage and jasmines on the edge of decay, and offer to turn us over to our parents at the slightest indiscretion. I knew all this from the chattering crowd of children walking around me; in the real world I hadn't been to any tuition classes till I turned eighteen.

I happen to be tall, but those kids barely reached my elbow. I would've thought they were much younger if it weren't for the identical sky-blue mathematics textbook we were all carrying.

I scanned the crowds for familiar faces. There weren't any. To make matters worse the kids all insisted on pushing me to the front; I found myself at the door of a house on the seventh floor, a crowd of tiny kids behind me, the whole tableau uncannily similar to the Pied Piper coming home after a long day at work.
I pressed the door bell.

A deep bass note reverberated through the floor. The kids stopped chattering and were still. I looked back and saw them all gazing up at me, tiny eyes reddish in the late evening.
The first pang of unease hit me then.
I tried to cut back through them but the door opened and a pair of hands dragged me in.


The lighting inside was no better than outside - strobe patterns lit up the walls at random intervals. I barely had a moment to wonder how they'd fitted a discotheque inside a 3BHK on the wrong side of the Yamuna - then the door banged shut behind me, and the bassline enveloped me completely.

The hands on my shoulders let off the pressure but did not let go. I waited for my eyes to adjust and then hazarded a look.

It was a girl.
The second pang of unease hit when my brain did a complete critical appraisal of her (the sort that I wouldn't dare try in daylight because I'd inevitably end up getting slapped) and still couldn't decide whether she was good-looking or not. She had pixie hair that actually reached her shoulders but looked much shorter. Her neck was long and slender, her height considerably more than that of the pipsqueaks who'd pushed me into the flat. She was wearing a little blue dress, and her features seemed vaguely familiar.

-Who are you? I mouthed the words but wasn't sure she'd heard.
-Does it matter? Her own voice was no more prominent. I was pleasantly surprised to discover I could read lips as well. She had a nice mouth.
-Where is this place?
She shrugged. One hand remained on my shoulder, the grip firm but comfortable. She motioned for me to follow her deeper into the house.

-I'm dreaming, aren't I?
I had just seen a couch set up in front of a flat screen with half a dozen guys crammed on top of each other, watching some sporting event or the other.
The entire party (along with assorted paraphernalia) was situated inside a single shower cubicle.

She grinned. It was a nice grin, but slightly wide. She made me a little nervous.
Her expression didn't change as she started to say something funny, but then her face suddenly went blank.

-What is it?
-We have to leave. Now.
-What? Why?
-Siren, she mouthed. I felt a slight chill. Not at the word, but the doomed expression that flitted across her face.
-Excuse me?
-Listen. Can't you hear it?
I stared at her for a moment and then realized I could. There was a faint wailing somewhere in the background.
-We have to leave, she repeated. Now.
-But we aren't exactly felons, are we?

In reply she gestured into the next bedroom down the line.
I peeked in.
A bunch of kids were sitting around an empty flower-vase, uttering weird incantations and making even weirder gestures. Just before I could burst out laughing, however, the vase... Glowed.

I continued to stare as a thin tendril of green fume emanated from the mouth of the vase and burrowed its way into the nose of the nearest kid. He fell back as if physically pushed; his eyes rolled up into his head.

The other kids continued their incantations; the vase was filled with green fumes now. I imagined I saw a spark of electricity somewhere in its depths.

-I don't want to be anywhere near them when the cops arrive, I admitted.
-Thought so. Come with me.
-Where are we going?

She came to a door that was, by my reckoning, the other bathroom.
-I'm not a big fan of sports!
-Shut up and get in.

She opened the door and pushed me


the smell of freshly cut grass
-What the hell was that?
-What?
-With the door and... Wait, where the hell are we?
-Could you stop emphasizing random words? It sounds kinda weird.

-Sorry.
We were on the streets of Connaught Place. It was long past midnight by the looks of it - the roads were all deserted, the stalls shut, not even a single smackhead dozing on the pavement. I looked down Janpath and noted how much it appeared like the setting for some post-apocalyptic movie.

-How did we get here?
-That's a good question.
-So are we safe here?
-Not really.
The sound of a car alarm from the other side of the circle. Red and blue lights reflected upon the pockmarked white pillars.

-Let's go.
She picked up a half-brick and hefted it through the glass shopfront of the nearest sportswear showroom.
Klaxons went off almost immediately.
-Wow. So you have a mad impulse and you Just Do It, huh?
-Save your product placements for the real world.

Her hand upon my forearm this time. Propelling me after her into the shop.
-Hey! There's glass and stuff here!
-Crybaby.
The door of a changing room with some actress in a sports-bra on it
-Do you think we could go to her place and
-Shut up!

The slightly stale smell of room freshener


-What the hell is that stench?
-We're in a public restroom.
-Ugh! And where exactly is
-See for yourself.

And I did.
We were at the one place in the city I'd sworn to never visit again. The river Yamuna flowed a few dozen yards down, oily with ghee and incense and practically carpeted by rotting flower petals. And in the marginal distance of a few dozen yards, five funeral pyres at different stages in the process of incineration.

-Nigambodh Ghaat.
-It's the last place they'd look for you.
-Who are they anyway?
-You'll probably find out soon enough.

The heat from the fires bathed my face. I found myself perilously close to a flashback that I desperately wanted to avoid. Except-
-Yep, they're aware of reverse psychology.

I hadn't seen or heard the sirens but I knew she wasn't lying. We ran down to the doors of the electric crematorium, which she kicked twice or thrice before the lock began to give way.
-Right now I'm actually kinda glad that my mind is blacking out the actual period of transit.
-Is that right?
-Yeah. I don't want to see the insides of this place. Can we please go somewhere a little less... Uninhabited?

-Are you sure?
The door finally fell open.
-I think so. I mean, what could possibly go


the inside of a theater blood red carpet pounding underfoot something black and white on the gigantic screen to our left and everybody to the right lit up by reflected blue light her hand warm but rough in mine pulling me to the side trying to block out the audience but too late to begin with
much too late

reptiles
all of them reptiles

lizards and snakes and iguanas somehow bundled into human clothing tongues lapping black in the semi darkness screeching and hissing and baring stained fangs and the stench of decay and offal in the air

-Over here, her voice right next to my ear the fear in it genuine but somehow disconnected from her person, and then a towering neon EXIT sign glowing red red red flicker red
only spot of colour in the room

the sound of her hands fumbling with the doorknob
one last look back into the theater
and the reptiles all of the slithery slimy reptiles wearing human clothes rising up in their seats
plastic toys and bleached balloons and windup animals in their hands
(claws not hands reptiles don't have hands)
shiny in the dim lighting somehow emitting light on their own and then

at the same moment as the door falling open

a hungry despicable babble of voices unruly chorus saying different words but the same thing all the same thing
-come here boy we have candy
-let me show you a magic trick
-ice cream trucks do you want ice cream jangling bells
-come a little closer and we can make this pencil disappear would you like that boy would you

and then out through the door with the neon EXIT sign and complete silence like unplugging a radio


-How long will this go on?
She looked like she hadn't heard. Then she cut me off halfway through asking again.
-Until we can outrun the sirens.
I strained my ears. She was right - there was still a mechanical screaming somewhere in the distance behind her. We were standing at a busy intersection five minutes from my own doorstep. I had no idea how we'd gotten here from the theater.

-We have to cross.
I took her hand, unbidden. She smiled a tight smile. Trucks blared past before us, burning rubber in both directions, glowing acid green and fire red in the sodium lighting. Her complexion looked orange. It suited her, somehow. The dress from the discotheque had been replaced by a plain shirt and skirt combination.

I let her lead me to the divider. I pretty much trusted her blindly by now. There was a paanwalla on the other side of the intersection. The roof of his stall smoldered, unseen and unnoticed. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of tobacco.

We crossed again. We were stepping past the tobacconist when the screaming in the distance turned into a continuous wail. Blue and red lights reappeared in the distance, a sense of inevitability embedded in the ruckus they were kicking up.

-Run, she said.
So we ran again - off the open road, into the half a mile stretch of barren fields and muddy paths that separated my locality from the nearest metro station.
I somehow knew we would never make it to the station.

Halfway down the empty stretch she suddenly turned right, towards the gate of a tiny enclosure marking off some faceless man's miserable holdings from the rest of the wasteland.

-Why are we
But I needn't have bothered
A gate is another type of door, after all


one of the narrow by-lanes on campus. Once again within walking distance of my college but on slightly unfamiliar territory.
-I am starting to detect a pattern here, I said.
She said nothing for the moment. Her breathing was becoming slightly ragged.
-We can stop for a bit, I suggested, although I knew we couldn't. I could hear a chorus of wails from the main road. We hadn't got a headstart.

There were doors all around us but they looked like they'd been bolted for decades.
-We're headed towards a
-Yes. Yes, I know.
Right on cue we turned the corner and came upon the brick wall we both knew about.

-Now what?
She said nothing. The catch in her breathing was more prominent.
The sirens came closer and closer. In a moment they'd turn the corner and light up the dead-end street.
She thrust something into my hand in the semi-dark.

-What is this? She didn't answer. It was too late.
The blue and red lights turned the corner. They threw her features into sharp relief. I realized with a jolt that she really was beautiful. All she'd needed to do was tie back her hair and change into a salwar-kameez.

A car door clanged open behind me. Somebody stepped out.
I didn't really care. I continued staring at her.
Something fluttered in my hand. I looked down.

It was a single black feather, the sort you'd see on a crow or a raven.
I looked back at her and saw that she was crying.

A fat red drop gathered at the corner of her eye and trickled down, leaving a shiny trail that was too bright and viscous to be anything but blood.
I let go of the feather. I turned to face the coppers
(pigs they call 'em pigs)
the front grills of the cars suspiciously like chrome-plated jaws
(they steal eggs and suck goats dry)
and then, at long last, a chance to look at my tormentors proper


I awoke screaming.

"Baby! What is it?"
I turned to the right. She lay in the bed beside me, on the soft downy mattress that was the most comfortable surface I'd ever slept on (even though I seemed to have nightmares with a sickly regularity whenever I slept on it).
My parents' old bedroom. My parents' old bed.

The only light came from a dim green zero-watt nightbulb, but I could see the silhouette of her nightgown, the way her hair was falling across her forehead.
I knew her, in this light. It seemed impossible not to. My struggle to identify her in the dreamworld felt strangely disconcerting now - this was the woman I loved.

I spoke her name out loud.
She said mine, the pronunciation flawless but slightly muffled. I ran my fingers though her hair, tucking rogue strands behind her ear.
She pulled me closer.

I didn't need to tell her what was wrong. She didn't really care. Her sole interest was getting my breathing back in check, to calm me down so we could go back to sleep. I felt the smoothness of her skin against mine, slightly cool compared to my own feverish pallor, and on an impulse I reached out and kissed her.

She was motionless for a moment before she reciprocated. Her mouth opened, soft and pliant.
I finally knew why she'd been having difficulties pronouncing my name.
She had the wrong number of teeth.

Too many, in fact. Too many teeth to fit into a human mouth. Fifty, a hundred, two thousand, serrated needles
(hypodermic)
crammed into that impossibly lovely mouth. She gave me a moment to explore, her tongue thin and scaly against mine, and then the teeth clenched shut on my tongue.

There was no pain. Some sort of toxin in the venom, I guessed.
Besides, she'd only done it so she could establish her grip proper. She wouldn't hurt me unneccessarily.

Things finally made sense. The word siren had multiple connotations, didn't it?
She pinned me upon the bed, her mouth now grey and elongated upon mine, and the zero-watt bulb was hidden as she finally stretched her wings, the ones she'd been hiding all along.
They were the jet black wings of a raven.

Feathers flew away in torrents around her. She raised her hands and I saw her nails, long and luminous and sharp enough for the tips to taper off into nothing.
The glow vanished as she plunged both her hands into my chest - and this time there was pain, tremendous and horrible and unimaginable. I tried to scream before remembering my mouth was otherwise occupied.

Her rough cheeks squirmed against mine. I realized she was smiling. There was a wrenching as her mouth left mine, and I could finally feel the inside of my head again.
Whatever was left of it, anyway.

She spat something fleshy and rubbery off the bed. Then the hands widened the gap between each other, like an excited kid opening a window on the first day of his holidays, and she cackled in triumph as she saw what she wanted.

There was another wrenching but this one was too big to respond to.
My senses began to fade away, and the last thing I saw was the creature sitting on my chest, wingspan almost as big as the width of the room, holding my heart up so it could be the last thing I saw.


I woke up for real and counted to ten to keep from screaming. I needn't have bothered - the urge was too halfhearted to be a problem. I'd already had my chance to test my lungs. And I'd taken it.

After the counting I lay back, the sole occupant of my own bed - slightly harder than the floor and (hitherto) nightmare-free.
There were earphone wires wrapped around my head and neck like some geek's bondage fetish. I untangled them and tossed them onto the table across the room.

I felt fine. Slightly shaken by the bizarre sequence of dreams, yes (the details were fading but the sense of unreality persisted). I couldn't recall the occupants of the police-car, or the face of the siren. I had a feeling she'd look like nobody I knew; the note of recognition in  the last dream had been the only false note in an otherwise-flawless night of terror.

The clock on my phone said it was barely past 3AM.
I cursed myself for turning in at midnight.

Then I lay back down to wait for sleep - pausing only to fall out of bed when a firetruck passed on the road outside.

Last Call

“Get fucked,” the bartender said in an even monotone.

I turned 90 in a fluid motion and continued telling my story to whoever was sitting there now.

“It’s not like I’m inventive or anything,” I said reasonably. “I know I’m not. I don’t got what it takes to const- constric- create narratives. It’s just that I can read beginnings and predict endings.”

What do you mean, I waited for the man with the mousy blonde hair to ask; but he continued to stare miserably into his glass. 

"I had to give up on Agatha Christie when I was ten," I confided. "It was a total buzzkill. The basic sort of crap people can't get. And don't even get me started on serialized novels."

The mousy-haired man's lady friend finally came back from the restroom. I could tell by the way she put her hand on his shoulder that they'd end up marrying each other in a couple of months. I also knew that it would be a desperately unhappy marriage - although he wouldn't realize that until just before her untimely death, seven years from now. He'd be convicted. I decided I had to warn him.

"Get away from her, good buddy," I warned him. "Shizz-shisss-she's-"

"Get fucked," the blonde man's lady friend suggested. She slammed a wad of notes on the bar and dragged him away in her wake.

"-not a keeper," I finished my sentence. Then I finished my drink.

"What exactly are we doing here?"

"See that man standing in the corner?"

"The one who is indescribably handsome and yet extrudes an air of silent melancholy?"

"No, to the right."

"The self-assured shark with the silver hair chatting up a sultry woman half his age?"

"No, you idiot. The one next to the pinball machine."

"What, that tall, slouchy man in the crumpled suit who's facing the wrong way?"

"Yeah, that one."

"What the hell is he doing?"

What the hell was I doing?

That was a good question. I had a lot of good questions.
Who introduces new cast members in the second episode instead of the season premiere?
Why insert your writerly persona into a novel when the narrator himself is already a thinly-veiled analogy of you?
When do you realize there is a hole in the lining of the inner pocket of your coat, out of which your little blue pill has fallen fifteen minutes ago, thus rendering your pursuit of the sultry woman half your age redundant?

And while we were at it, where were the Snowdens of yesteryear?
I realized I was on a roll.
I also realized I was slightly drunk.

What I was doing was this:
I was standing next to the pinball table, facing the wrong way. I would stand there until the next contestant came up, shoved a quarter in, and started his game. I would stand in the same position, not looking at the person or the table, listening to the sound effects and nursing a drink. As soon as the last ball fell through (which seldom took long - most people who stepped up to the pinball table at twelve fifteen on a weekday night were too drunk to tell the difference between the fruit machine and a urinal), I would finish whatever was left of my drink and announce their exact score without turning around. Then the loser would pay for the winner's next drink.

I hadn't lost even once. People assumed I was winning by listening to the sound effects and calculating. If they found out the scores were popping unbidden into my head there would probably be a riot.

"Nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty-four," I called out.
The man with the silver hair was led out by the sultry woman half his age.
My glass was magically refilled.


"Why not use your ability to fry some bigger fish?"

"Excuse me?" I looked up. I hadn't realized anyone was actually listening. I'd been ranting on about how I missed the simple joys - how it was hard even to laugh at newspaper comics, knowing that half of them would be cancelled midway through important arcs (in one memorable instance due to the cartoonist faking his death to move to Bucharest).

"I mean at some high stakes poker game or something. The races." It was the sultry woman who'd been led out by the dysfunctional man earlier tonight. Or was it some other night? "I mean, you could be rich!"

I grinned. It was about as funny as cancer.
"I don't actually see the exact endings of things, miss," my head was starting to swim but I tipped my glass at the bartender again. He rolled his eyes. "I just have a knack for guessing possible outcomes. Pinball games are the only exception. Even if I go down to a race and think really hard, all I'll get is a brainwave that says some horse will win." I stared moodily into my empty glass. "Even my disease has a sense of humour."

"Don't be ridiculous!" She laid a warm hand on my arm. I looked at it. Then I looked at her. She smiled. "Have you ever thought about why you have this gift?"

"It isn't really a gift," I said. "I don't even think it's all that special. The thing is, everything that begins at a fixed point already has its conclusion nestled away inside. Nothing ever changes. If you really want to know how something ends, you just have to read the beginning closely enough."

"Sure." She hadn't moved her hand.
She wasn't all that pretty - she'd dressed carelessly and the nightlong barhopping had taken its toll - but she had great eyes. I was a sucker for those eyes.
The smile didn't hurt, either.

"I'm going to die around twenty years from now," I said evenly. "It will be sudden and violent. I won't feel any pain. I will die solvent but not rich. Happy but not satisfied. And I will be alone. There is no greatness to hang around for."

"I don't really believe in worrying about the future," she lied. "Plus my place is nearby. Do you wanna continue our little conversation there?"

I nodded. Her smile widened. Her teeth were bright and her hair fell rather fetchingly over her ears. I adjusted for prettiness accordingly.

It was all a sham, of course - she'd been staking me out for over a week. She - and her employers, who I couldn't get a glimpse of yet - were very interested in my ability. I swirled around the last drink I'd be consuming at this particular bar, and then drained it in one gulp.

The thing was, I hadn't started my story a week ago, when she first bumped into me (accidentally, as she assured me then) on my way out. I had realized then how that particular story would go.
No, this was a story spanning the breadth of just one night.
Because I was getting tired and needed somewhere to begin.

I paid for my drink and followed her into the ending I'd been working towards.

Apophenia

Mildred listened to George's breathing slow down and finally even out in the other room.
There had been a brief moment when the inhale-exhale had snagged, somewhere between 3:34 and 3:35 on the digital clock in front of her. She knew it was because George slid his arm, elbow onward, into the space where it would lie upon her if she was lying beside him.
George and Mildred had been married for thirty-five years.

"And right now I can feel every second of it," Mildred said out loud, to no-one in particular. Her voice - generally clear and rhythmic (though nothing like the 'sonorous warble' her husband told guests about at dinner parties) - sounded rusty and disused to her. She hadn't said a word to George all week. It was her idea of giving things one more chance.

She got up to get her glasses from the dining table. She'd placed them within easy reach of the armchair before she went to bed, but George continued to arrange them at the exact center of the table every godforsaken morning.
The morning tableaux were another thing Mildred could do without - her husband smiling at her over the paper, mottled chin moist like some godforsaken retriever, straining his eyes for the slightest sign of approval.
"Too hard," she said, and it was true. He was straining too hard. Missing other things which should have been obvious a long time ago.

The joints in her knees popped like gunshots, and Mildred felt rather than heard the sound. She held her breath for a few seconds, but George's breathing continued along the same lines.
The glasses were kept over the telephone bills from the previous week. She picked up the limp envelope by force of habit, and it took her a concerted effort of will not to place it on the mantelpiece among the bric-a-brac that comprised the padding of their little household.

She put it back on the table, put on her glasses, and spared a brief glance at the picture of her son in his football jersey, the bright yellow and green stripes and number 15
(I don't want kids not now not ever just to roam the world live at my own pace you know)
of the fullback. He'd made her proud; very proud indeed. But her husband's reaction
(of course dear I understand I totally do it's not like I wanted one that bad)
had put Mildred to shame; the incessant preening and proud exclamations and those godforsaken awestruck whispers about strong jawlines and his mother's eyes.

The clock hit 3:47 and Mildred quickly sat back down; the time had been the one thing she had been particular about. Sure enough, there was the muffled thump of padded footsteps and then a brief ratcheting as the lock on the front door was overcome.

Four men in black overalls and balaclavas entered the house. They were greeted by the sight of an old woman seated alone by the dining table, her glasses opaque reflectors in the green glow of the digital clock.
"Listen to me closely," she said in even tones. "We have an agreement and you're going to keep it. Your payment is in the bedside cabinet. Touch anything else and I scream for help right now. Improvise and I call the cops. Try to get any funny ideas about taking orders from old ladies and a dead man's switch lands you in jail. You know about dead man's switches, don't you?"

The men nodded, hesitantly. They'd probably taken her for a senile old windbag when she first approached them at the bar; but this was unquestionably a voice of authority.
They would have to obey her.
"Good," Mildred smiled. It had been a hobby of hers to collect obscure lexicology, and it made her happy to see it come back. George had all but cured her of that particular affliction. "Now get to it."

The men marched into the other room. There was a brief spell of silence as they readied themselves.

Mildred closed her eyes.

She heard her husband's gasp as he was yanked awake by the lapel of his dressing gown. She also heard the first blow land in the middle of his garbled protest. Judging by the sound he'd been struck across the face, which meant the loud crack was the bridge of his nose breaking open.

After that the sounds resolved themselves into a more regular rhythm, and she let it flow over her like the intro to some plodding march. The only false note came when George (in a desperate bid to escape) tried to squeeze between two of his assailants; he ended up losing his footing and falling facedown off the bed, breaking his maxillary central incisors (one of which had been chipped during a skating accident on their honeymoon). To give them due credit, the men instantly improvised by tossing him against the wall, after which the earlier rhythm was miraculously regained.

Five minutes later (the digital clock said 3:53) the men strode out of the room, overalls stained with sweat and large quantities of AB negative. The man in the front held a thick wad of cash, which he waved at Mildred as they passed her.
"Don't let me see you again," she said. The men nodded, hastened their steps, and were soon part of the night.

Mildred took off her glasses and placed them back where she'd found them.

The only sound that came from the bedroom was the occasional broken sob. She walked back inside, where she found George lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. The bedsheet lay pulled on the floor around him, stained with blood and sweat and tears and snot.
"Baby," George said as he saw her. "Baby Ruth."
It was an endearment that she'd actually liked (and, perhaps consequently, hadn't heard more than half a dozen times in the past few years); so Mildred wasn't really surprised to feel tears pricking her own eyelids.
"Are you okay, Baby Ruth?"
"I've been better," She said. She wanted to stroke his hair but there was a leaky hole on top of his head. "What happened here, George?"
"I didn't see you when they... When I woke up," George said. A sense of unreality was settling on the whole conversation. "I didn't know how long they'd been here. I'd hoped you were in the bathroom."
"Of course." She looked the other way; her husband was moments away from his demise and yet this close to descending into the same banality that he'd embodied throughout his life.
"Why, Baby Ruth?" She turned back sharply, but it was merely the delirious rant of a dying man. "Why? Why? Why?"

Mildred sat and stared at her husband. It had been a perfectly planned operation - from the hired thugs to the depersonalization of George (a proper noun) into her husband (a common noun). It had been a cold and calculated act of hatred, the sort meticulous people commit when pushed beyond the edge. But what edge? He'd always been faithful. He'd loved her dearly. How was she supposed to explain to him the idea of loving someone too dearly? Of finding patterns and sequences where there weren't any? He'd blown a casual summer fling into a lifelong romance, a slightly-crazy girl who sought freedom into a godforsaken ice princess, to be cherished and adored and held captive in a steel cage of material comfort.

How was she to explain to her husband that the past thirty-five years of his life (of her life, of their life) had been a lie?

Instead she ran her fingers through his hair. "Apophenia, George," she said. "The word is apophenia."
George didn't hear her because George was already gone.
Mildred sat there for a few more seconds. Then she got up, pulled her husband's mobile from the dresser drawer, and called 911.

As the slightly-accented voice of the operative answered, it finally hit Mildred that George - her husband of thirty-five years - had just passed away in her arms. And despite his flaws, despite his eccentricities, despite his madness, she'd always loved her Musketeer (the one who called her Baby Ruth, dear God). So the tears that began to flow were real.
"A b-bunch of armed thugs just broke into our house and killed my husband," she said in one gasping breath, and then she was crying, sobbing over her George's body, too broken even to put two words together, beyond inconsolable. It took the operator over a minute just to get her address right.

After the call she dropped the phone and sat gently rocking the corpse of her husband. And that was how the paramedics found her, seven minutes later.

Orpheus & Friends

Orpheus at Home

Orpheus takes off one sneaker and then the other. He tosses one northwards, across the room.

He tosses the other one southwards, across the room.

He trudges shamefacedly to the toilet to retrieve his second sneaker from inside the bowl.

Then Orpheus sits down on his bed and watches the fan revolve in a counterclockwise motion.

After a few minutes Orpheus types Hi on his phone and sends it to his ex.

After a few more minutes Orpheus types in Help I'm Slipping Again and sends it to his three or four best friends.

Orpheus is about to give up and go fix himself a sandwich when the phone vibrates upon his thigh.

The next half an hour is broken down into long intervals of tortured waiting followed by frantic text messages typed and sent in less than thirty seconds.

The first of his friends replies to his text after half an hour but by then Orpheus has already convinced his ex to let him call her.

The beginning of the text is read (Worst Idea Ever, Buttface) and peremptorily discarded.

His ex picks up the phone with the sole intention of setting the record straight but Orpheus cuts her off.

Listen, Orpheus says.

He strikes up the first chords to a mournful melody on his synthesizer.

It is self-composed, Orpheus offers by way of explanation.

Orpheus segues into the melody proper and clears his throat.

The universe cocks its ear in anticipation.

First Drunken Interlude

Worst idea ever, man

Oh, come on it's not like you've never acted on instinct yourself

Yeah, instinct of self-preservation maybe

You stay out of this you can't even keep track of your footwear

Worst idea ever, man

Come on, dude you could show some enthusiasm for once

Yaay our friend just committed ritual disempowerment on his lovelife

I think you mean disembowelment

Worst idea ever, man

Orpheus in High School

... The fifth and final event of the academic calendar was the Ad Lib competition, conducted in the first week of September (2/9/11). Four teams of four people each put together an advertisement in the given timespan.

The first prize was awarded to the Argon team, who performed a short skit promoting an energy drink. A protest was lodged by the other teams since only three members of Argon acted in the skit - the fourth member, Orpheus, remained on stage strumming a guitar and singing. The judges, however, lauded this as a 'groundbreaking display of innovation'. The Argon team was the only one to receive a standing ovation from the crowds - the noise of which was later blotted out by Orpheus hitting his crescendo.

The second and third places went to Krypton and Xenon, who presented advertisements for a shaving gel and omniscient pen, respectively...

Second Drunken Interlude

Just outta curiosity what song did you sing her

I am betting it was something gay

Began with an original melody followed by Nobody Home

Like something by the Backstreet Boys

Seriously, Floyd to a girl you're trying to get back

I wasn't trying to get her back I just wanted to sing it to her once

Before they tried to clean up their act with Never Gone I mean

But you did get her back

Yes yes as a matter of fact I did

Was it As Long As You Love Me

Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn

Orpheus in Happier Times

This just feels right, Orpheus says to his girl. Doesn't it feel just right?

Don't push your luck, she retorts.

They lapse back into silence. Orpheus takes her fingers in his hand and she lets him. Orpheus correctly interprets this to be a good sign.

You need to stay away from the tall grass, Orpheus cautions his girl.

Why?

Because there could be snakes? Orpheus wonders why he is compelled to lameness from time to time. He hurries a little to catch up.

The Hauz Khas monument is ethereal in the encroaching evening. Orpheus stares up at its mottled walls and jagged silhouette and feels a million strings vibrate inside him.

This is one of the few times when he feels completely at peace with himself.

Orpheus cannot find his girl anywhere. He follows her into the tall grass, peering into the dusk like a cormorant in pursuit of some eel.

He turns a corner and finally comes upon her sitting in the grass. She has taken her shoes off and is probably enjoying the sensation of coolness beneath her feet.

Orpheus sees her smile and comes forward, wanting to share the moment with her.

She sees him.

He sees the phone in her hand.

One minute, she mouths, and Orpheus nods. He waits in the grass for a while and then wanders off to lean against the mottled wall of the monument.

A pleasant scent of moisture emanates from the wall behind him.

Her clear, sonorous laugh fills his head with a phantom music that leaves him vaguely dissatisfied.

Orpheus puts on his earphones.

He begins to rummage through his playlist for the right song to play.

Final Drunken Interlude

So was it unconditional

What

Guys I'm hallucinating

Somebody shut him up

Your return or her return or whatever this is

As in

Guys seriously I'm seeing things here

We're trying to have a conversation dude shut up

As in did she lay down any conditions because it got ugly last time

Guys the frigging walls are on fire

Just the one dude get your hands off me

But the walls are on fire

What was it

I had to promise I'd never

Guys I don't wanna die here

Oh for fuck's sake shut up now tell me what

I'd never

Looking Back

Orpheus doesn't go all the way.

He promises himself he won't make his move until they reach his door. But halfway up the first flight he realizes the landlord's door is locked and his flatmate has left for Goa already.

Orpheus puts his hand on her waist and turns her around. She is surprised but receptive. They kiss as he half-walks, half-carries her up the next two flights.

This wasn't such a bad night after all, she breathes, and Orpheus grins although a jarring note has been hit. He had been under the impression that it wasn't a bad night to begin with.

They reach the front door. Orpheus has to try thrice before he manages to get the door open without letting go of her. Everything comes back in a rush and his fingers move along familiar paths, touching innocent squares of skin but still setting all synapses haywire. Her breathing becomes more laboured.

What happened, Orpheus asks as she breaks momentarily away. She snorts by way of explanation, her shoulders shrug beneath his palms, and in that one moment they are in perfect synchronicity with each other.

I mean what happened last month, Orpheus says. His own breaths are erratic now. His thoughts more and more diffused. She stiffens.

You promised, she says.

I did. But I think I have a right to know.

Orpheus can articulate again. He does not particularly enjoy the sensation.

I mean we are together now. Again. And it is only fair that we remain honest with each other. About everything.

Yes. She starts to disengage from him. Her bracelet catches on the zipper of his jacket.

Yes, she repeats. It is only fair. But it is the one thing I asked of you. The only thing I asked of you.

But I was just asking, Orpheus starts, aware the moment now lies shattered on the floor around them. He does not like the cleanness of his flat, the smoothness of its empty surfaces. He'd cleaned up the place specifically for this.

The only thing, she repeats. And you were doing so well.

The bracelet refuses to yield. She pulls. He gets a sudden vision of her walking out amidst a shower of beads.

But-

No, she says.

No, she says again. I am not doing this anymore.

She slips her hand through the bracelet, leaving it hanging on his jacket like some strange new sort of decoration.

Goodbye, she mouths. Or maybe it is a trick of the light.

Orpheus watches her trudge down the stairs. He knows he can follow her down or maybe shout entreaties at her receding back.

He also knows it would all be futile.

A few minutes later he finally notices the bracelet and cups a hand under it.

Christmas comes earlier each year, he says. The wisecrack does not help him feel any better.

Orpheus goes back inside.

He shuts the door behind him.

Paragon

After what seemed like forever the escalator began to slow down.

There was a pair of wrought iron gates somewhere in the distance above me. I gripped the rubber rails tighter. The sound of screaming had all but receded; the proverbial tunnel of light had turned into a wall and then a blanket, covering everything with a layer of whiteness that hurt the eyes to look at.

An old man stood between the last tread and the gates. He was dressed in a rough-looking bathrobe that almost reached his ankles. His beard cascaded over his chest like molten steel at some foundry. His eyes twinkled with the sort of blue warmth I'd only read about in stories.

-Vaibhav, right? he scratched his beard. He was probably speaking in a human voice-I saw his lips move and his throat work up and down in time to his words-but every syllable echoed in my head with the sound of a vast celestial choir. I found myself kneeling almost involuntarily before him.

-Excuse my attire, he said. We don't often get new arrivals here.

I blushed slightly but managed to hold his gaze. Why am I here? I asked.

-Because your actions ring true, Vaibhav. Because-

No, I get that. I mean why am I here? I am a Hindu. This isn't my idea of-

-Ah, yes. The Pearly Gates are a Western construct, right? Well, Vaibhav, you see... Virtue is rightly perceived as its own reward. The Hindu concept of the hereafter is slightly different from this, but we'll get you transferred as soon as they're done with the paperwork.

But-

-The important thing for you to remember is that the afterlife does not try to distinguish between denominations.

But-

He stepped aside, and the iron gates hardly protested as they swung apart. I had a lot of questions left unanswered but he fixedly let out a big yawn and excused himself.

I stepped forward through the Pearly Gates.

Silence bounded out of the blinding light and welcomed me as an old friend.

The ground beyond the gate was pale, cold and featureless. I briefly wondered why my feet felt benumbed before realizing I was dressed in nothing but a monogrammed bathrobe like St Peter had been. I tried to recall what I'd been wearing before but couldn't.

Is there anybody out there? I called out, but to no avail. Worse, after I walked a few hundred yards and turned around, I found both the gate and my footprints vanished. Looking too closely disoriented me so I gave up.

So what is one supposed to do in heaven? I wondered aloud. The answer came into my head, unbidden.

Meditate, said a slightly dissonant voice. Take stock of thy virtues.

That seems like a good enough plan, I said to nobody in particular. There had better be more people in the Hindu version, I added under my breath.

The ground wasn't as uncomfortable as it looked. I sat cross-legged, arms arranged in the lotus position.

I took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes.

"You're the best," Trishna was saying, "The best thing that ever happened to me."

That's not true, I replied, although I didn't really mean it. I took her hand again as we left the metro station

Now pull the switch.

"Are you sure that is how it is supposed to work?" Girish asked.

Yes, I did this when I was in tenth grade.

"Here goes nothing." Girish pulled the switch. The entire room was lit up by a network of LEDs on a cardboard base, spelling his name in letters that kept changing colour.

See?

"You're the best, bhai," he said as the lights skipped from red to blue

and I'm not going to make any more promises. Because you don't deserve promises. You deserve change. You deserve something better. And I will be better.

Steady round of applause. "Friends, as the incumbent student body president I have to defend my post. But if I were being very honest I wouldn't be able to. And that is because my friend, Vaibhav, is a paragon of virtue. He is the most tireless unselfish level-headed individual I know, and no matter how we disagree on matters of polity, I feel-"

applause rising to a crescendo

drowning him out

"You're the best," Jigyasa was saying. "The nicest person I have ever met. I love you."

I love you too, I replied, although I didn't really mean it. I took her hand again as we left the cinema hall

I stumbled to my feet. The landscape flickered a little. Meditate, the other voice repeated. It kept repeating itself.

I picked a random direction and started walking. Five minutes later I came to the man in the bathrobe making tea on a tiny stove.

-Do you want some tea?

Where are they?

-I might have a few biscuits here somewhere.

Where are they? I had set out to scream but my voice came out in the same even tone.

-What are you talking about?

My memories. The rest of my memories. All I have is good deeds.

-Haven't you led a good life?

Yes! I mean I thought so. But this doesn't make any sense! None of it is coherent!

-I wonder why. He finished making tea. He poured it into two cups. He started rummaging for sugar in the kitchenette.

Where are the rest of my memories? What happened with those girls? After the elections? How did I die?

-The one with Trishna is slightly clichéd. The old man took a sip of his tea. He made a slight face. He went back to rummaging for sugar.

Meditate.

-The one with Jigyasa, on the other hand, had a lot of juicy bits to offer. The old man grinned. It was an ugly grin.

Take stock of thy virtues.

-That has a direct correlation with how you die, you know.

I raised my cup to take a sip but found it empty.

You're not going to tell, are you?

-I don't think so.

You're not really St Peter, are you?

-Far from it, kid. Far from it.

I put my cup down on the ground. The old man, the stove and the kitchenette had all vanished again.

Meditate, repeated the other voice.

I sat down on the ground and closed my eyes.

Pridesbane

In the midst of the valley a forest.

At the heart of the forest a clearing.

He'd been living in the clearing for fifty years, now. Men and women came from the farthest reaches of the province just to hear him speak, or to offer their sorrows for his perusal. He seldom provided them with solutions, but it lessened their burdens to share with him.

"I bet you're a goddamn fraud."

He didn't bother to look up. The young man who'd spoken had been peremptorily loud as he made his way across the clearing, and the air had long been curdled by the dirty looks being cast his way.

"Are you listening to me, you phony freak?"

He finally looked up at the young man. His jaw continued to work up and down on its relentless journey of mastication.

"Look at you wallowing about in the filth." The young man seemed to be warming to his subject. "I bet you love living caked under a layer of dirt, don't you?"

The crowd in the clearing had turned into a giant circle of spectators. He was as aware of their unease as he was of the young man's discomfort. He continued to say nothing.

A couple of hours passed. The young man followed a regular pattern, like clockwork: a couple of laps of the darkening enclosure, a few insults spat at him, and then waiting around for a response that never came.

After the evening gave way to night the young man finally stopped. The clearing was completely empty - most of the spectators had given up in disgust, carving their ways out of the forest and back into their lives.

The young man was in the middle of a sentence when he lost steam. His hands fell limply to his sides, and he stood staring blankly at the older man.

"What ails you?" The ascetic finally asked him. To give him due credit the young man didn't really need to think before answering.

"Jealousy," he said. "It eats me up on the inside. It corrodes me. I see the world going about its business, uncaring of my existence, and I feel jealous."

"The whole world or just some bits in particular?"

The young man looked at him, startled. There was a wry smile beneath the hermit's beard. His jaw never stopped working.

"Your jealousy comes from a sense of being wronged," said the older man. "And that feeling of injustice, in turn, arises from false pride."

"What do you mean, false pride? I'm-"

"All pride is false pride. Why should your existence make a difference to anybody else's? You are meant to live and breathe free of obligation."

"Easy for you to say."

The hermit's smile widened slightly. "Nobody owns anyone else. It is not possible. We'd be fools to try. What we can do instead is destroy this false pride."

"And how can one do that?"

"Here." The hermit opened a knobbly fist. A bunch of spindly leaves unfolded in the moonlight. They seemed to have a purple tinge to them.

"What is this?"

"Pridesbane," said the hermit. "Help yourself."

The young man took a couple of leaves and put them in his mouth. He chewed for a moment or two. He spat them out in disgust.

"Yuck! These are bitter!"

"Yes. That is because they are meant to be."

The young man stared at the older man for a bit.

The knobbly palm never wavered.

The young man helped himself again.

This time he concentrated on the chewing.

"How long do I have to do this?" he asked with his mouth full.

"As long as it takes."

"And when can I stop?"

"When you have conquered your pride," said the hermit. "Or when the leaves stop tasting bitter. Whichever comes first."

The young man looked around for a moment.

The older man pulled a spare rug from under his own and spread it next to himself.

The young man sat down cross-legged.

The forest was silent except for the rhythmic tide of two pairs of teeth working in the darkness.

with regard to Jamie

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