White Lies

He grinned. The toothy thing trapezed across his face and took vindictive delight in making him look like a complete idiot. But he didn’t care. Today, he was grinning because she was smiling. He had made her happy.

I love you too.

Relief spread like a hot blush across her cheeks as she heard the words. He loved her too. She unlocked her hands that had been doing some desperate twiddling over the last few minutes and reached towards him. Her fingers found the side of his face. He watched her, still grinning like an idiot.

*****************************************

He stared at the incriminating evidence of murder before him. The two goldfish floated belly up in the murky water, their ghoulish eyes screaming for revenge. He quickly disposed off the corpses, and destroyed all remaining evidence. A pair of well disguised substitutes now took the place of the deceased. It was a cunning plan.

Her face split into a bright smile when she saw the tank.

“You’ve taken such good care of them!” she said, bending over to watch the bloated orange fish that were swimming around in disinterested circles.

“How did the conference go?” he asked.

“Conference was good. Got to wear the press tag an’ all”

She fished out the orange blobs and transfered them to a bucket.”I was worried about these two.” A warm twinkle played in her eyes. “Thank you.”

He kissed her in reply.

*****************************************

“You should vote,” she said, peering over the top of the newspaper. A steaming hot cup of chai was balanced precariously on the edge of the couch.

“Don’t want to,” he mumbled, trying to shake away the strands of sleep that still stuck in his hair.

“Don’t vote, don’t get to gripe about the nation.” Her voice was annoyingly perky.

“Don’t care,” he said, despondently sipping at his coffee.

His eyes wandered over the pile of bills left neatly on the table. Next to it was a neat balance sheet of their accounts for the month.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Yep. Split it according to how we decided.”

He did a double take seeing the neat total highlighted in black ink. The recent lay off had left him in a bad place and their living expenses in Bombay seemed to be expanding from month to month.

“Looks like your stocks fell a couple of points,” she said, hidden behind the headlines. “I can cover you for the next month if you want me too.” Her voice reeked of smugness.

“I can take care of it,” he snapped.

Sometimes he wished that she would slip on her own moral superiority and break her neck; in a tragic accident of course.

*****************************************

It was the morning of their wedding. He glanced out of the window, and onto the skyline of his hometown. It shone, like a patchwork quilt made from the childhood of his grandparents and the dreams of a generation that had wandered all over the world, only to come back home. Palm trees like small hypocrisies waved from in between freshly scrubbed red faced terraces.

The groom’s room was a modern tower of babel with family members yelling contradictory instructions at the top of their voices.

His cellphone beeped. “Are you ready?”

He could almost hear her voice through the din – businesslike, pushing him towards the next dead line. As he texted back, he noticed that he had very little nail left. He had chewed off most of it during the previous night.

“Yes.”

He looked out of the window again. He hoped she knew what she was doing, because he sure didn’t.

*****************************************

He stared hard at the black and white scan before him, trying to spot some anomaly.

“Do you see it?”

He laughed nervously. “Yes, yes. That little thing over there-” He pointed vaguely.

“Really?” She was clearly enjoying his discomfiture.

“Yes, That spot over there, I’m sure -”

She giggled. He glared at her.

“Idiot. It’s over here,” she said taking hold of his finger, and placing it over the dark shape in the scan.

He stared at the lump in the image.

“That?” he asked incredulously.

She smiled. “That.”

*****************************************

He opened the door softly and crept into the hospital room. Her grief slapped him across the face.

“The doctors want to know whether you want to carry him.”

She didn’t answer.

He drew up a chair, and sat by her bed.

“You made the right choice.” His voice cracked.

“I killed my baby.”

“You did the right thing,” he repeated.

She turned to face him. Those were not her eyes – they were a stranger’s – and abyss in which guilt, anger and sadness churned in a vicious circle.

The words struggled and died in his throat. His tired body tried to pump out more tears to heal their wound, but he didn’t have any more. He buried his head in the white sheets of her bed. “Its going to be alright.” He repeated it over and over again, hoping that if he said it enough, he would believe it.

He reached for her hand and squeezed as hard as he could. It’s going to be alright.

*****************************************

She deposited a handful of salt and a dried chili in his hand.

“Take dhristhi for me,” she commanded.

He kindly obliged. He stuck the salt under her nose. “Spit.” He carefully carried away the destroyed remains of evil eyes.

On the way to the back door to throw away the salt, he asked her about her sudden obsession for superstition.

“I’m not doing anything wrong this time.”

The salt dropped to the floor. “You didn’t do anything wrong the last time.”

“I must’ve done something wrong.” She said, scooping up the salt with her hands.

“It was not your fault.”

She picked up the salt and pushed past him.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Her bones jangled. He wanted to scream it into her ears over and over again until she turned deaf. He wanted to shake her until time stopped. Until it all went back, until it was all different.

He shook her until the anger slowly faded out from her eyes.

“You really mean it?”

“Yes.”

*****************************************

She wrestled the howling baby down with one arm and was trying to push food into its mouth with the other.

“Swearing in your baby’s presence is not appropriate behavior,” he smirked, dropping down beside her.

“A little help would be nice,” she said through gritted teeth.

He wagged smug forefinger before her. “Uh-uh-uh. We made a deal. You’re the one who said I looked ridiculous.”

“Please?” Her hair waved about like the tentacles of some wispy sea creature. He felt sorry of her.

“You know the strategy right? I’ll do the song, and you shove in the food when her jaw drops.” He stood up, dusted his clothes and cleared his throat professionally.

“I believe I can fly… I believe I can touch the sky…”

The shrieky voice reverberated through the room. His wife winced. His daughter giggled.

She looked at him with relief, hastily shoveling food into the baby’s mouth. “It’s working! It’s working!”

“Of course its working,” he said, straightening his shirt. “I am a professional.”

He scooped up his food splattered dribbling daughter and held her close. “You are beautiful,” he whispered into her ear.

*****************************************

The Principal looked down her bespectacled nose at the three of them.

“So…you want to join your daughter in this school…”

They nodded vigorously.

She hummed and hawed over the application form in front of her. She fixed a beady eye on the little girl seated between them.

“Will you make this school proud?”

She stared back at the beady eye. But before she could start saying anything, her dad hastily interrupted, “She’s a very good girl. Studies hard, will listen to her teachers. All the teachers in her last school loved her. She was the ideal student.” His daughter bobbed her head helpfully and batted her eyelids.

The Principal seemed satisfied with this polite fiction and signed on the dotted line. “You can pay your fees at the counter.”

He looked down at her as they trotted out the room. “What were you about to say?”

She grinned at him. “The truth.”

“Just like your mother,” he sighed.

*****************************************

On weekend nights, they would order out, linger in the dining room and catch up on each other’s lives. They had been increasingly ordering pizza after their daughter proved its nutritional superiority. She was perched on the table, and this night she demanded a re-run of their Story.

Her brows were knitted; she was working her way through a plot twist she had not heard before.

“So why did you say you loved her in the first place?”

“Dunno. Thought it would make her happy.”

She considered him with serious eyes.

“So you lied to make her happy?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yes, yes, I did.”

*****************************************

Plastic Christmas Tree

Why do I put up the Christmas tree even if I don’t believe in Christmas? A fake one with its bright lights and fake snow? Plastic branches heavy with old decorations – those clumsy things you made from glitter and glue when you were just a child. The kind that you can’t be bothered to make any more. Now, all I get is a little peck on the cheek as you walk in through the door like a stranger. There is no one to decorate the tree but me now. But every year I still do it, and every year I’ll put it up just a little earlier… And every Christmas day you’ll admire how neatly it’s been done, and we’ll laugh at one of your childish cardboard snowmen and in the afternoon you’ll wave to me from the car as you drive away to another party. A reunion. An office. I don’t know where you go. I’ve never asked. And then I’ll switch off the pretty lights and turn on the telly and just watch. And laugh at some moronic lovable character. I laugh so hard there are tears in my eyes. And then I suddenly realize that the tears are not of laughter, but of desperation. The next one liner pops, and I’m laughing again.

Christmas is like a disease – with all its cloying sentiment of love and hope and all that. It seems to have infected everyone. Even the folks at the TV station. They seem so much more annoyingly chirpy than usual. But there seems to be nothing else that I can do. Recently, I have developed a new addiction – so called intellectual forums on the internet that discuss religion, thermodynamics and literature. There will always be one idiot to take out my frustration on. I read… sometimes. But my mind refuses to stay on one track – it always wanders, and it enjoys sliding downhill. It’s been three years now since I gave up writing. It feels like I’ve run out of meaningful things to say.

Sometimes I bake – and the smell of chocolate fills the entire apartment, and I turn on the music and for a while I’m happy. I’ll hear the kids who live upstairs go on their routine thump-thump-thump up the stairs, and there’ll be a small pause, and then they’ll go thump-thump-thump up the next fleet of stairs. Every time they do that, I think I should invite them in for a piece. They are good kids. Instead I just take out the cling film and a big enough box and pack it and send it to you. You always dutifully called back to say how wonderful it was. Its a rehearsed script that both of us have become very good at.

On lonely nights like this one, I remember that night – the night you said you wanted to start afresh – a different course, a different college, maybe even a different name. And we all just laughed. I didn’t believe you, none of us did. We snickered when you screamed “THERE IS AWAYS A CHOICE,” at the top of your high pitched adolescent voice and ran out and slammed the front door. We snickered when you came back. But we didn’t laugh when we saw the new application forms in your hand. I saw you re-build yourself, block by block. We fought you at every step along the way. I saw you change before my eyes. Something broke that night – something very fragile. That was a long time ago, but on lonely nights like this one, I wish I had your strength.

I can see you before me now – the new you, with that pointed eyebrow cocked high. You roll your eyes. Maybe you are right. Maybe I have become that crazy old woman, staring at the plastic tree, two months before Christmas. Maybe even envious of her own daughter. Your sharp eyes admonish me. You expect the world to have the same strength as you. No, you say, vehemently shaking your head. There is always a choice.

The sun is beating down on the city outside; the fumes are pouring in through the cracks in the windows. The kids are running up and down the stairs again. I listen for the second thump-thump-thump. Instead, I hear some very robust, albeit off-tune, carol singing. The kids had decided that since I wasn’t offering any cake, they may as well devise subtle ways of asking. But I didn’t open the door. Instead, I picked up the phone. I knew your number by heart, though I had never dialed it before.

Murders and Marriages

Waidaminute here! This is the Author speaking! Do you have taste for over used Gothic nonsense? You do? Excellent! Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.

She turned with a smile playing around the corner of her lips, “The apocalypse is coming.”

His eyes drifted over to meet hers, they lingered there for a moment, till a non-committal sound emanated from his throat.

Her attention was once again engaged with the dull gray shadows flashing outside her window.

He shut his eyes and flowed down the seat till his head was positioned comfortably against the cushions. He needed to think. Only, his mind was rather preoccupied with the touch of cold flesh on his leg every time the vehicle jolted over what he hoped was a stone in the dark.

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt. The horses neighed impatiently and stamped their hooves.

The Count languidly glanced at the foot man who stood ready by the door.

“We’ve arrived m’ lady,” he said, as he slouched out the door, shuddering empathetically, once way from the groping touch of the dead hand.

“You really should treat our dear brother with greater compassion” said the melodious voice, as the Lady descended from the carriage with the support of her brother’s arm.

“Graveworth” she breathed softly, looking up at the imposing gray stone structure that towered before them.

“What should we do with him you suppose?” said the Count, eying his brother distastefully.

“Do whatever you please, Kain” replied the Lady distractedly. “No wait,” she added, remembering a small detail, “he will want proof. Take some trifle as souvenir, will you?” she said, eyes still fixed on the soaring battlements.

Her brother looked at her queasily, “A souvenir?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, a souvenir,” said Lady Diane impatiently, “the ring should be good enough.”

“Oh, that kind of souvenir.” Count Mort said, affected with a trifle more haste than his usual manner.

Once the ring had been wrestled away from the rigid finger, Kain dismissed the coach with a small gesture of his hand. The footmen stared at him blankly for a moment, before opting prudence and the coach plunged way in the half-light.

The carriage bounded away with the remains of the late Count Mort, (who had been cousin seven times removed to his predecessor, but had gradually worked his way up the family hierarchy- only to meet an untimely death a month after the lawyers had conjured up the necessary documents) beloved brother and wealthy owner of the Cravenhall Estates.

“We part ways here, my sister,” the Count began, steadfastly ignoring his sister’s faintly raised eyebrow.

“Surely you would stay for dinner…Count?” inquired a pleasant voice from the doorway. The last word dropped into place after the slightest of pauses.

“Lord Gravesworth” Lady Diane said smoothly, dropping her head by a few degrees.

“M’ Lady” he replied, his pleasant eyes fixed on the Count.

Lord Graveworth soon lost interest in the visage of the Count, and instead, he ogled the fast-disappearing coach through his ornate eye piece.

“So it is done?” he remarked.

“My late brother presented you with his best wishes” said the new Count, and tossing the ring to Graveworth who snatched it neatly in the air.

The reflection of the ring glinted in Graveworth’s eye. “I’m honored,” he said, sweetly.

He glanced up, finally, and his eyes fell on the Lady Diane. He eyed her, with his head cocked slightly to one side, casually stripping her layers in his mind.

He slowly strolled down the steps, and sunk into one knee in front her.

“And will you do me the honor m’lady?” he drawled, insult underscored into every syllable.

The Lady Diane replied with a curt nod. The Lord slid the heavy signet onto her slight finger, an expression of mild amusement on his face, seeing the hunger in his bride’s eyes.

“The Cravenhall-Graveworth names are alliances at last.”

The Lord looked towards the Count Mort with the same expression of amusement – “I believe a celebration is in order then,” he said, waving the siblings into the cold hall with a flourish of his hand.

A long drawn out scream pierced the air – the last howl of a dying animal, only it had not been the voice of an animal at all.

“It is only a servant girl who became ill, and we had to lock her up in the upper bedchamber,” said Gravesworth casually tossing over his shoulder as he padded down the marble floor. After a pause he added, “She will not be bothering us any longer.”

The door echoed with a dull thud that seemed to echo for several long moments in the empty hall.

The Flower Pit

The coals glowed red, pulsing in unison to the rhythm of the frenzied drums. The mob was an entity of its own, a mass of condensed humanity, swaying to the same beats, hearts beating to the same pulse, and all breathing the same smell of stale sweat and wet earth. Hariharan stood separate from that sweaty ocean of humanity – It had been fifteen years since he had last come here. He looked towards the temple, as the harsh Indian summer sun’s rays crept over its towers, and saw the old stone structure glisten, as though it had been scrubbed clean by the early morning shower. When he was a boy, he would imagine each of the demons sculpted into the stone walls spring to life as the rays crept over them, but now, all he noticed was that the plaster was crumbling, and that the new paint was garishly colored.

The drums were faster now, louder. He could feel the electricity in the air, and it filled him with a nameless feeling of dread. The smell of sweat and smoke was almost something tangible now, something that he could taste, and it made him gag as it went down his throat. He took a deep breath, and looked upwards, towards the sky, trying to shake off the feeling of claustrophobia. His vision blurred out of focus, and old memories that he had suppressed for far too long started to surface. A forgotten smile crept to his lips as he remembered the very last time he had been here –

It was on that day that his life had taken another of the several turns that lead away from the small village he had used to call ‘home,’ and towards the life he lead now – an anonymous urban citizen, lost in the state capital. The details now felt hazy, fifteen years were a long time, but he remembered that feeling – it had been a wild cocktail of intense emotions, insomnia and a strange condition of the human mind called, ‘Love.’ When he had stood there with her, in a world of their own- shoulder to shoulder, watching the dawn break over the temple, he had felt himself swept away by a sudden wave of unadulterated happiness and Harinharan in one of the few instances of his life was left grinning like a complete idiot. And in that moment, she had turned, her eyes laughing as much as his did – and they understood.

Today, watching the light creep over the temple walls only increased that feeling of intense longing. Hariharan brushed away the moisture from the corner of his eye self-consciously. It was tough coming back, but it was necessary. He needed to make a statement – to tell them that he was not afraid, not afraid of their judgment, not afraid of the decisions he had made so many years ago, he needed to tell them that no matter what, he did not regret.

Hariharan’s eyes once more wandered towards the fire pit. In Tamizh, the ‘Pookkuli’ literally translated meant ‘flower pit.’ But in fact, it was approximately ten meters of burning coals over which devotees would walk, run and dance across to prove their devotion to the Goddess, and the Goddess in turn would protect them from any harm. He had read several scientific explanations for how such a feat is possible, the Liedenfrost Effect and Placebo Effect, but all scientific rules have exceptions, and sometimes things do go horribly wrong.

He had seen it once, when he had been just a child and had come to the festival for the very first time, and his grandfather had made sure he had a front row seat to the fire walking ceremony. A kid no older than himself had slipped on the coals, and as Hariharan watched horrified, numbed by the sound of the screams, the next devotee picked the boy up, and carried him to safety. But one side of his body had been severely burnt, and it was later said that the child was not immediately taken to the hospital and was left with scars that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Ever since then Hariharan had had a morbid dread for the entire festival and the walking on coals ceremony. It was also then, though he never told anyone, that he had started believing in science and science alone. Where was the benign Goddess when the boy fell? If the ritual was a form of mutual testing, the Goddess had failed miserably.

Hariharan found his mind dragged back to the present as the brown ocean of sweaty bodies in front of him suddenly parted and he found himself face to face with a woman wearing the yellow sarree, a mark of a devotee. Her long hair was let loose, and a skewer was pierced through both her cheeks, yellow and green pastes smeared generously all over body, and yet, amongst the frenzy of the drums and the crowd, her eyes were calm. For a moment they stood, looking at each other, completely alone in a world of their own, and Hariharan had a surreal feeling that she could look into the very depths of his soul. As he was about to take a step back, and melt away with the crowd, a voice of sudden authority spoke.

He looked up startled. The lady walked forward, her eyes holding him in his place. He stood frozen as she approached him; it was several moments before he consciously reminded himself to breathe. He could see her lips move, he was sure she was saying something to him, but the adrenaline did not let the information come through. He saw the priests beside her gesticulating wildly, worried frowns on their faces contrasting with the respect they showed with their bodies, some speaking while prostrating themselves in front of her, but she remained resolute. Her eyes continued to bore into his.

The initial shock slowly began to wear off, and Hariharan realized what she wanted him to do. She wanted him to walk across the coals with him. His mind felt too numb even for his old fears to surface, his entire body turned into lead and he only half listened to the murmurs of the worried crowd around him.

The priests explained that the woman was ‘possessed’ by an ethereal spirit, and it was the spirit that was talking through her. He added with a fearful look that it could be the Goddess herself. He explained that the spirit assured his safety, even though he was not prepared through the ritualistic fast and bath. An awkward silence followed, a strongly emphasized ellipsis in the conversation.

Through the cacophony of the drums, Hariharan could hear the murmurs of the crowds,

“What’s happening?”

“She wants him to do the fire walk!”

“She is possessed!”

“It’s the Goddess!”

“This is not right!”

“Where’s the police?”

He looked towards the pit, pulsing red under the morning sun, and back towards those enigmatic eyes. Something in those eyes stirred something at the back of his mind, a churning of pot of memories and emotions… But no it could not be! His wife was dead! She had died three months back and he did not believe in ghosts! He is a rationalist! The voice at the back of his head bleated on, but Hariharan paid it no regard. He was no longer in the rationalist’s world; he was in a much different one; a world that only the two of them knew – a world in which hearts beat to the sound of drums. And even before he nodded, he felt a warm sense of assurance blanket over him.

Hariharan realized with a slight start that he could move his feet.

According the report of a police officer present that day, Mr. Hariharan had given his full consent to attempt to walk on the Pookkuli that day, and hence the police had not interfered in the incident. He had been dressed in yellow, and smeared with turmeric and sandalwood paste, and walked across the coals, lead by the hand of a possessed woman. He crossed the pit with no signs of any physical harm. The woman fainted a few moments after crossing the pit. According to the priests it was the spirit leaving the body.

Asked afterwards in an interview about what it felt like, Mr. Hariharan very simply said, “It was like walking across a bed of flowers.” Asked about his belief in God, he refused to comment.

Hariharan looked at the inanimate form on the floor that was now being surrounded by a mixture of priests and devotees. He considered staying back to at least say farewell or perhaps a thank you, but he never was one for good byes. He took a step backwards, and melted into the crowd.

Poochandi

A tree, alone, struggled against the wild winds, its branches straining against the force of the mad onrush. Its branches whipped through the air as the rain lashed away its corpse leaves, leaving the limbs bare to the cold. A solitary traveler stood gathering his strength before stepping out onto the winding path again.

Poochandi hefted the sack over one shoulder – his body bending under its weight. The sack was filled with stories conjured in darkness and with the fear that shone in bright eyes. A trail of memories lay behind him, like slime it oozed out of the sack. Some of the memories were claimed by the Earth – only to re-appear in the future when disturbed in their peaceful sleep, others just faded away… into silent forgetfulness.

As he struggled up the winding path, he drew the grey blanket around him closer. Poochandi’s eyes cast a final glance of farewell to the lonely tree and once again wandered up to his destination – a rolling wave of blackness that formed a boundary to his world. It was the boundary to all he knew and all he believed in. The Hill of Reason, they called it. Tonight, he would cross over to the other side.

As he plodded through layers of mud and mist, a single gust dancing between the tearing winds swept beneath one of the limp grey locks that hung around his shoulders and whispered in his ear. Poochandi smiled. The wind always sung in Babel – a mad mixture of so many different languages that no one can understand what the words meant. But the wise never listen to the words of the wind – they listen to the music. The small gust swept away, and only an echo of its voice remained. Don’t go.

Poochandi paused for a moment to look up at the silhouette moon that cowered behind the curtain of clouds – he forgave it. Who else but a figment of imagination be out on a night like this?

The path branched out into a spider web on both sides – so many choices, so many chances to turn back. Lost in his thoughts, through the labyrinth of the past and the future, he had not noticed the small creature that had scurried up to his shoulder.

“You’ve made up your mind haven’t you?” The voice on his shoulder squeaked.

“Yes.” Poochandi answered, recognizing his eight-footed companion by voice. He was also the only one who had come close to understanding, perhaps because their origin had been so similar. Poochandi spoke no further, he had no words to express the sensation that tugged him onwards on his journey and ate away at his core at the same time. It was as though there was a vacuum in another world that pulled him towards it, and with every step, his bond with his own home weakened.

“You do realize that what’s going to happen when you cross the Hill…” the voice of the spider trailed away, unsure.

“Yes.” Poochandi replied quietly. After a pause, he continued, “I was a traveler to begin with. I had forgotten that. It is my nature that I have to move on, if not I will cease to be what I am.”

Poochandi came to a stop in front of a rock face that rose sharply towards the heavens.

“It is time we part, my friend.” Poochandi said softly.

“Farewell.”

The spider had disappeared into the crevices before the echo had faded. Faint light began to outline the jagged outline of rock– the eerie glow before dawn. Poochandi looked back on his land – the mist was lifting slowly, and the rolling expanse spread out before his eyes. Patches of white lingered, obscuring parts, making it seem as though those parts had been neatly erased away.

He pulled himself above the last ledge and squinted in the fresh light. Poochandi walked over towards the other end of the clearing, the freshly washed earth cracking under his bare feet. The sunlight from a new day was rolling across the land – spilling into pits and leaping across the plains – like an army, invincible and unconquerable. The air felt different. Somehow, by breathing it, he had changed it.

As the warmth of the dawn hit Poochandi’s face, the grey blanket slid from his shoulders. There was a mad riot of colours, all spinning and pulsing, to a silent heartbeat.

And then – there was stillness. The light bounded over the hill and swept over the other side; painting everything it touched with colours that can only exist in the boundless imagination.

A grey blanket wafted away – to a new existence and fresh beginnings.