“You don't like this, bestselling author. But you have seen nothing yet. Let me remind you how the story ended,” Nandini laughed out loudly, making the structure shudder with the dripping force evil.
Abhijit's heart gave a terrified lurch as the climax of his last work came back to his mind where Akash had broken into Nandini's bedroom, tied her up, tortured her with cigarette burns, raped her in the dead of the night before murdering and dumping her body six feet beneath the earth.
“I wake up and nothing's much different. Everything's gone sepia, a dirty bourbon glass by the bed, you're
still dead.
I could stumble
to the shower;
scrub the luck of breath off my skin but it's futile.
The killer always wins. It's just a matter
of time.
And I have
time. I have grief and liquor to
fill it. Tonight, the liquor and I are
talking to you. The liquor says, 'remember'
and I fill in the rest, your hands, your smile.
All those times. Remember.”
—Daphne Gottlieb
The Lady In The Pub
It was the last day of the month of Ramadan, the time I was waiting for was getting closer. For thirty days, I had been fasting, praying and abstaining from all kind of sins that I would normally indulge in. Ammi never allowed me to skip fasts even if I faked an illness and Abba would never fail to drag me to the mosque during the thirty days.
Being a fresh unemployed graduate was not much of a help either as I had to hog their taunts in addition to their orders. Frankly speaking, I couldn't stay hungry for long. When Ammi was not around, I would stuff my mouth with sweets that were reserved for the evening iftaar and wolf them down with gulps of cold water from the refrigerator. When she would come back to check on me, I would pretend to act like the pot-bellied, malnourished kids from Africa they showed on NatGeo.
“At least, fast with conviction. Have faith in Allah, Salim. Don't fret and complain. Ramadan comes once in a year. We should ask for pardon and pray that Allah gives us the strength to walk on the path of righteousness,” Ammi would say, heralding the onslaught of a long lecture.
“It's time for prayers, Salim. Get up from the bed, freshen up and join me now. See there goes the azaan…” Abba would shout the same thing five times every day.
But with the thirty days coming to an end, I could just about manage to put my life back on track again. I was counting down the seconds as my family sat down overlooking Eid preparations for the next day when my cell phone rang.
“Chand Mubarak, Salim,” my best friend, Jigar greeted. “Yeah, thanks. What's up?” I managed.
“We're on our way to Running Water, the new pub in the
suburbs. It is said to be one of the hippiest places to be on a weekend. Want to join?” he asked.
“Nah, I can't. One more night to go,” I said in a resigned voice.
“Oh, alright. Let's make it tomorrow. The weekend will be on,” he replied. I know he wouldn't go to a new place without me.
“I can hardly wait. Heard it is flaunted by the hottest chicks in town and the whacky DJ plays some fundoo tracks,” I said imagining the ambience that I had been missing for the past one month.
“You bet, dude. See you around tomorrow night,” Jigar said and disconnected.
Sleep eluded me that night as I dreamt with open eyes of the life I was about to experience again from the next day.
The occasion of Eid is a major affair in Muslim households. Nothing can beat the taste of mother's hand-cooked biryani and the aroma of delicious sheerkurma prepared in milk and laced with vermicelli and dry-fruits.
“Ammi, I am going out. Will come back late,” I informed as soon as the invited uncles and their families left for their respective homes after savoring multiple helpings of the biryani for dinner.
The Other Side
123 “Salim, Ramadhan just got over and you're back to your old habits,” Ammi admonished.
“Whatever, Ammi! See you tomorrow,” I waved, grabbing my jacket and the bike keys. By the time I came back, I knew they would be asleep. When I had started going out for the night in my college days, there had been a huge uproar in my house. I had a tough time convincing my parents that the world was changing and it was only normal for people to hang out in 'cool places.'
Their only perception of such places was of young people smoking joints and boozing till they dropped on pavements or banged someone with their vehicles on the road. They had a nagging suspicion that I might be into such habits as well. Not that their fears were misplaced but I usually managed to keep it away from them. On nights, when I would be too tight to drive, I would drop in at Jigar's place. He stayed alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his house was a haven for boozing and making out with the chicks we would pick up at night clubs. And I surely hoped tonight was going to be THE night.