SMOKE AND MIRRORS

The feel of the wind as it whips through my hair,

Raindrops on my face.

“Pull down your visor,” he says,

“The dust will get in your eyes.”

I smell the smoke,

Hear the blaring horns

Of the city streets.

He aims for a pothole –

The biggest in sight!

I shriek,

Clutching him

Tighter around the waist.

I only wish I could see the grin that

Lights up his face…

 

And now we do the same commute,

Sitting sedately side by side.

Your eyes on the road,

You turn up the volume of your favourite show; I

Pull down the visor,

Look in the vanity mirror, and

Apply fresh makeup,

To hide my scars.

 

 

Gold Chains and Mesh Undershirts

There I was, walking down the streets of Pettah at 10.30 pm, all alone on a Thursday night. Pettah, as some of you may know, is the Sri Lankan equivalent of the “inner city area,” and despite its many charms, is not the most suitable place for a young woman to be wandering around by herself in the dead of night.

Many would already be shaking their heads, questioning my sanity. Intrepid traveller though I am, I too was beginning to curse myself for such poor logistical arrangements that left me stranded virtually in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by potential rapists, murderers, prostitutes and druggies.

I did not have much time however, to be mulling over these thoughts. I had a bus to catch! The question was, how do I get to the bus stop? At any other time of day, I would have undertaken the one kilometre walk without the least hesitation. Under the circumstances, it was out of the question. Yet, I seemed to have no alternative. There was no cab, no trishaw in sight. 

Inaction frightens me more than anything else. I started walking. As I turned the corner, I saw –

A lone trishaw!!

Now this might look like salvation to those of you unfamiliar with the territory, yet the sheer statistical indications of crimes committed by trishaw drivers would be enough to make the bravest human a little wary.

Needless to say, I was a little wary. But I still felt it was the lesser of the two evils. Walking up to the vehicle however, my heart sank.

The driver stood next to it.

He was dressed in a sarong and mesh undershirt, considered normal attire among certain segments of society. He had thick chains of gold around his neck and wrists, several large rings, tattoos covering his biceps and an overgrown beard. He put out his cigarette as I approached, but the smell of tobacco seemed to emanate from all over his person as he towered above me like some Neanderthal being.

Definitely for me, a nightmare come to life. I make it a point to avoid such drivers during the day; what hope did I have at night? It was not like I was spoilt for choice though, and the sooner I got to the bus stop, the better.

“Where to? Get in Miss,” he addressed me in Sinhala.

“Near the SLT building,” I replied, deliberately being as vague as possible (I am paranoid that one day one of these drivers would discover my home, and begin stalking me, or worse).

“Head office?” he inquired.

“No, no, their office near the Kottan tree” (yes, that wild almond tree is a famous landmark in the city).

“Oh miss ,you want to catch the bus? To go where?”

Now he was just being smart, and I didn’t like it in the least.

“Kadawata,” I replied reluctantly.

“Miss, going to the Kottan tree bus stop at this time is not safe. The place is deserted, and you might have to wait for God knows how long for a bus to come…

“Let me drop you at the station, the bus passes that way, and there are more people there.”

So now he was trying to take me further in his vehicle. Which gave him more time to...

What?? My head was giving…screaming, rather – all the wrong signals, but like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter, I nodded my assent.

Five minutes later (what seemed like an eternity) we reached the station. I resumed breathing. Rs. 92, the meter said. I was just about to pay him, take my bags and get the hell away but he stopped me.

“Don’t get out of the trishaw, Miss. I will stop the next bus that passes.”

And so he stood there, outside the trishaw while I sat inside, waiting for the next bus to pass. After about ten minutes one did come, and my hero in the mesh undershirt put out his hand to stop it and then signalled me to get out of the trishaw. As I reached for my traveling bag he outdid me, waiting for me to get in to the bus before handing it in.

He stood outside until I was seated and gave me a small wave of acknowledgement. I smiled, albeit a little shakily, and then settled in and closed my eyes with a sigh of relief.

It was not till much later that I realized with a start –

Not once had he requested his fare. I still had the hundred rupee note crumpled in my hand.

 

The Bride

"Hey sis it's for you."

"Again?"

Cassie giggled, shaking her head as her cousin handed her the phone, smiling.

"Yes Rajeev, this is Cassie...and can you please tell Adrian if he calls me one more time before the wedding –

“What's wrong...?"

Though spoken in a low voice, the other women in the room looked up simultaneously at the tension in the last words of the conversation.

"A-Adrian...? For God's sake! Tell me, where is he?" Cassie shouted.

The others stared as her whole body seemed to shudder for a moment, and then she went still. "Which one?" She nodded. "I'll be there now."

Turning to face her cousin, Cassie spoke in that same voice of deadly calm. "Adrian is dead. I must go to the police station."

*     *     *

Inspector Ranil of the Slave Island Police Station looked up in surprise at the woman who had just entered. Although he had known that the deceased was a groom on the way to his wedding he hadn't quite expected to see the bride standing in front of him like this, dressed in her wedding gown, her veil pinned on a little crooked. Then again, what could he have expected? That she would change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before coming to the police station? Actually he hadn't known what to expect anyway, the situation was unnerving enough. It was only natural for the poor little girl to run in crying, lifting her voluminous skirts as she ran, tears forming furrows of mascara down her rosy cheeks.

But the bride looked calm enough. The inspector took in her dry eyes in some admiration, as well as a little fear...was this how he would have liked his wife to react in the same situation, he wondered... But he could see that behind her façade she was struggling inwards – her hands were clutched tightly around a lace glove to keep them from trembling, and her lips quivered slightly as she spoke.     

Inspector Ranil inhaled deeply. He was not enjoying himself. "Your – your...fiancé...has been unfortunately killed in an accident." He paused momentarily before the word fiancé, because he had nearly used the word husband before recalling that it was not the case. "On Union Place." On the way to the church, he thought unhappily.

"The car was hit by an oncoming lorry. The driver has been arrested and –

“And he has been found to have been under the influence..." he finished somewhat lamely. How to justify a death by claiming it was unintentional?

The girl showed almost no emotion. At that moment a young man rushed in, shirt half unbuttoned and tie loosened. He glanced at Cassie and made as if to hug her, but on seeing her composed look his expression softened, and he sat beside her.

The inspector was feeling increasingly awkward, and the entry of a third party seemed to relieve him. He gave the best man an inquiring look, and Rajeev replied, "Yes Sir, Adrian's parents will be here shortly."

Cassie turned towards Rajeev, a look in her eyes. "I am so sorry," he said softly, "when we arrived it was too late..." Cassie nodded quickly. Then she turned back towards the inspector.

"Sir, it was not an accident. My fiancé was murdered."

The inspector gave a start. “Cassie! What are you saying? Come, we should go now," Rajeev said.

Cassie’s eyes filled with tears. “Don't you see? Every one of you was blind. So totally blind, just like him."

Inspector Ranil had been watching the interchange with some interest. "Ma'am is there anyone you suspect?" he asked, looking intently at her expression.

"Yes. Suranjith Wijesuriya."

She spoke softly but firmly.

Rajeev stared at her. "Are you crazy? Sir she's under so much stress that –”  

"I know perfectly well what I am saying. He killed him, just like he said he would." She was trembling again, but Inspector Ranil noticed that this time, it was not just sorrow or even fear.

"I need to know, ma'am," he asked her, "Who is this Suranjith? Had he threatened to kill Adrian Fernandez? Why?"

"Suranjith is my ex-boyfriend. I broke up with him more than two years ago but ever since then he never left me alone...he kept telling me to get back with him...He – he said he loved me so much that he couldn't live without me, that I would never find  a man who could love me as much as he did..."

It was only a very rare woman, the inspector thought, with whom it was possible for a man to fall so passionately in love with that it became an obsession, a craze. He had come across so many crimes of the sort – each a case of unrequited love where a man was driven to kill – stabbings, stranglings, poisonings, suicides...

None of the women involved in these tragedies were particularly beautiful, angelic or extraordinary in any way. They were not the type of woman one would expect a man to die for. And yet, he thought, the irony was that men always did, time and time again.

He looked at her again. The sophistication of the grown woman, the maturity and control of the adult, yet at the same time an almost childlike simplicity and sincerity in the eyes that looked at him, appealing, vulnerable, but also fierce, hard and unyielding. And he now knew what had unsettled him earlier, when she had first walked in.

"When Suranjith saw me with Adrian at a party he assaulted him. It was only because his friends were restraining him that a fight was avoided. But I saw his eyes that day," she went on, "up until then I had felt pity for him, but that day I felt nothing but disgust. And now – I hate him!"

The inspector looked up in amazement at the intensity in her voice, and saw such passionate hatred in her eyes as he had never thought possible in such a woman.

"I was at that party too", Rajeev said. "Several times afterwards he threatened both Adrian for hitting on his girl and me for supporting it."

"Adrian never saw it as a threat. He kept telling me that Suranjith would grow out of it one day, that he would find himself another girl and move on with his life..." She smiled tenderly. "Adrian was the kind of person who thought that just because he had a large heart, so did everyone else. He did not understand that people could be vengeful, dangerous...that they could hate.

"But I knew Suranjith. And I was scared. That is why I begged all our friends to keep our relationship a secret, and why we hid it from him that we were getting married..."

"In that case, ma'am –”

"But he found out. And he told me that he would kill Adrian rather than let him marry me, because I didn't deserve a loser like that." Cassie shivered. Rajeev put his hand over hers.

Inspector Ranil cleared his throat. "Ma'am I think you should leave now. We will put in some inquiries regarding the whereabouts of this fellow and do the needful. We might need you again tomorrow to make a formal statement. And before you go, ma'am," he added respectfully, "the – err...the body is in the police mortuary until the investigations are completed..."       

Cassie stood up. "Thank you," she said. How many women in this position would think to thank him, he wondered. "I do not wish to see it. To the rest of the world Adrian maybe dead...but to me he is not." She put her hand over her heart. "This love, this laughter, this joy inside of me...it is all him.” She looked towards the door to the mortuary. "That is not Adrian. He is with me, as always.” And as she smiled her face looked beautiful, angelic almost.

In spite of himself, Inspector Ranil felt a little queasy. He looked in the direction that Cassie's eyes were turned, where suddenly, a ray of mid-morning light came in through the grimy window, a bar of golden dust...a spotlight illuminating – what?

And in that moment Rajeev caught the gleam in those angelic eyes... And ever so slightly, they smiled at each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wind, Fire and Salt

Six o'clock.

The wind, cold and strong, lashed at her body tearing her apart as he had done, ripping her into a thousand pieces. Yet her soul was burning, burning with shame and hatred. The shame that she had borne, and would continue to bear forever. Hatred towards the man she had loved and loved still, hatred towards the woman she had become for his sake.

But it was not the shame, not the hatred that consumed her and made her want to run, far, far away where she could live, and breathe, and exist. She could bear that. It was the pain that she couldn't bear, the pain that attacked her, like a knife being driven, slowly, mercilessly, through her gut and beyond piercing her heart and the blood filled her lungs and she couldn't breathe or scream or cry and all she was conscious of was pain pain pain and her life ebbed away even as the sun died in a pool of bleeding sky.

She gazed at the horizon until it seemed that the fire in her eyes and in her heart could only be quenched by the memories it brought.

Memories.

 

There had been a time when it all meant just...him. Her love for him was not the fairytale romance of high school stories. It was passion, wildly tumultuous and deeply tender, fulfilling and destructive. She was overwhelmed by how everything else ceased to exist when she was with him, how he made her laugh and cry and love and hate.

She was alive.

And now she was dead. Or as good as dead, except that the pain kept reminding her she was alive. She remembered the day he came to her apartment, tired, and when she tried to comfort him he had pushed her away, roughly at first, and then pulled her towards him and sobbed.

She loved him more when he was angry. Because that was when he needed her the most. He was almost always angry. Angry at life- or rather, the futility of it. He would curse her, curse himself and the world in general, and she would watch silently, knowing that it helped him release his frustration in a society that didn't understand him or his work.

Doctors must be saints, he kept saying. Doctors must be patient and comforting. Doctors must play God. Didn't they realize it was the doctor who needed comforting the most, the doctor who spent his lifetime looking at death and destruction and the meaninglessness of it all; where pain and suffering was a way of life? How could he be patient, knowing that every second could mean the difference between life and death; how could he play God when sometimes all they could do was watch, praying for death to take away the pain they were helpless to ease?

He was a great doctor, they said. He was invited to speak at all the important functions, and his research articles were published every month without fail in the most prestigious journals. The entire country applauded him for his selflessness, his consideration for his patients, his tireless contributions to the field of medical science. They didn't see him as he saw himself- exhausted, imperfect, vulnerable, struggling with questions to which he was unable to find the answers.

The salt stung her eyes and she endured it, willing herself to cry. She wanted to cry until the pain subsided, until the fire within her was extinguished by the force of her tears. She didn't know what else to do. She had lost everything- her happiness, her dignity, her life.

 

And now him...

Don't trust him, they had said, he is just using you...he is a married man and you will end up hurt. She knew all that; what they didn't know was that she couldn't turn back, even if she wanted to- she was trapped, trapped by his magnetism and his sensitivity and his power, and her love. Trapped like the fly that is lured into the deadly pitcher plant, and then refuses to crawl out although it knows it is going to die.

She was different, she knew, because she gave him what no one else could, and he loved her for it, in his own strange way. Loved her for understanding his ideals and dreams, his passion for his work, his weaknesses and inadequacies, his bitterness and cynicism.

Then why didn't he divorce his wife? How could she tell them that he couldn't? Because he loved his wife, wanted to protect and provide for her as long as he lived. She was the ideal wife, subservient, willing to be dominated; and he liked to dominate. Her attitude pampered his ego; she looked up to him, like everybody else. He was a great doctor, therefore a great husband- how could a man so deeply caring for his patients not care for his own family twice as much?

He was an impulsive man, at times violent in his outbursts. Especially when he had had a hard day at the hospital. For instance the days when, despite their best efforts to win a losing battle, a particularly gallant patient would finally succumb. Occasions like these left him drained, both emotionally and physically; and just one word or gesture of comfort was enough to provoke him. Rather than confront his wife with his rage, he came to her. Somehow, she was always able to charm him out of the blackest moods- with her sharp wit and intelligence, which matched, and sometimes even surpassed his own. 

There was never the question of divorce, however, and she didn't expect it from him. He could easily have got one if he wanted to. Infertility was an accepted cause, and his wife had been childless for the past ten years, ever since marriage. But he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Although he often criticized his wife in front of her, she knew he would never allow her to do so; she knew that in his list of priorities she came third, or thereabouts- work, wife and mistress.

Mistress...

She was not a marriage wrecker, yet society painted her such. Man-eater, they called her. They didn't realize that she was like every other woman... Lost, looking for the safety of a man's protection in an uncaring world.

She watched a piece of wood bob up and down on the waves. She had been like that before he entered her life, like many others before her. It was strange, his power to transform people from being content to drift along aimlessly, to individuals with an insatiable thirst to challenge life, and win, sometimes in the face of unthinkable odds.

She was one such person. He had transformed her, given her life meaning she never knew it had...and suddenly her senses were consciously alive; the flowers smelled sweet, the grass was green and the rain felt cool as it gently caressed her body. The vibrant gold and magenta sunsets never ceased to amaze her- they were beautiful, like an abstract that captured the essence of her life.

And then one day, just as suddenly, he left.

It was one of the more difficult days, except that he didn't lash out at her like he usually did. He merely sat in his chair all night, eyes closed, brow furrowed, hands clenched together. He didn't speak or move, but as she gazed at him she observed a tiny muscle in his left cheek that never stopped twitching. She was used to his mood swings and had endured them before, except that this time it was different. He was not depressed; he was in intense concentration. Even before he spoke she sensed the distance, the barrier between them she was unable to penetrate.

When he spoke it was as though she already knew what he would say...she wanted to run, to close her ears and scream, she wanted to strangle him, but all she did was sit down beside him and place her hand on his shoulder.

Shalini is pregnant -

And then he was gone. Gone, without even looking at her. She knew she was powerless to stop him, and she knew he would never come back.

Suddenly, she was crying. The tears stung more viciously than the salt had ever done, like caustic fire-drops that increased, not deadened, the pain. This was reality.

This was life. And death. They said that life and death were opposites, like black and white, good and bad, happiness and sorrow. But it was all the same- life and death merged in a grey mist of pain that embraced her lovingly in its unforgiving arms.

She screamed again and again, yet despite the eerie stillness, nobody heard. The sky glowed in one last moment of glory, red and orange and gold and the seas turned red, redder than the sky, as red as the blood in her veins and then the sun disappeared, swallowed by the blackness of the night.

Inspired by "The Scream" by Edvard Munch

 

 

 

 

 

Amaya

I look at my sister, eyes wide open in shock.

 "She killed my husband, Inspector. Take her away!"

The policeman handcuffs me and leads me to the rickety old green monster that sits there, waiting. Greedily waiting to carry me off to my destiny.

*          *          *

Destiny- it was always Amaya who believed in an Almighty, omnipresent Force that controlled our lives; I believed I controlled my own.

My life- something alien, something foreign, something I have no say in. I laugh out loud at the ludicrous turn of events. The others stare at me silently, some in open hostility, some with a mixture of amusement and suspicion in their eyes. In a few I see pity...that distant, detached, strangely familiar emotion I first saw in my sister's eyes the day she betrayed my trust.

*          *          *

Mr. Samarasinghe is upset. He says I frustrate him. Fight, he says. Think positive. Picture the glass half-full, not half-empty. Funny expression to use when there is not a drop of water left inside the glass. I tell him as much. He looks at me for a moment, throws his hands up in the air and leaves the room.

*          *          *

...trial next week...

...most sensational scoop I've come across in a long time ...!!!

...you know, seems the Judge is getting death threats......not to worry, our police will not let go that easily...

*          *          *

The trial is tomorrow. It is ridiculous, this rigmarole over nothing. Especially when the verdict is so obvious.

*          *          *

Mr. Samarasinghe's hands are trembling so badly I can see it from the other end of the courtroom. Funny how men go to pieces when the game is up. I remember Jason...

Mr. Samarasinghe runs after the papers that are flying in all directions across the courtroom. Like Mary Poppins. Why Mary Poppins, I wonder...I picture Mr. Samarasinghe in one of her pinafores...beer-belly rolling beneath the layers, bald head hidden by a lace bonnet, twirling his parasol and skipping into the courtroom. I picture Mary Poppins in the courtroom. Your Honour, she says, I have evidence that a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down. And I have eyewitnesses to prove it.

*          *          *

Amaya looks very pretty for a mourning widow. Though it is the first time in ten years I am seeing her without make-up. She performs her role to perfection- The Virtuous Wife. The Heartbroken Widow. Driven To Fury In Passionate Quest To Avenge Husband's Killer.

She reminds me of one of those Bollywood actresses...which one was it? Kareena Kapoor? Aishwarya Rai? I can't remember...

That was all so long ago...I can't remember anything anymore...

Looks like this entire scene has been cut and pasted from some low-budget Hindi movie. No originality whatsoever. Slain hero, tearful heroine, obnoxious prosecuting attorney. Hell, even the judge, sitting beneath that pathetic little blindfolded demon holding the Scales of Justice, is sympathetic.

Only the villain seems to be missing. Or maybe –

*          *          *

Those who had nodded off during the fingerprint analyst's tedious lecture wake up with a jolt at the prosecuting attorney's punch line. Naturally, technicalities bore them. As far as they are concerned, the fingerprints found on the kitchen knife exactly match my own. Like spectators at a medieval Roman amphitheatre, they lean forward, thirsting for blood.

My blood.

But the forensic scientist is no better. He describes each wound in minute detail –

 ...only a raving lunatic who can stab someone again and again...watching the victim as he dies gradually...

As he dies drop by drop ...

The pleasure of the kill increasing in proportion to the pain inflicted...

*          *          *

I am so tired, Mama...I want to sleep...

After all that hullabaloo over capital punishment, I wouldn't have thought they would settle for life. It is, after all, a case of premeditated murder. I smile. I am impressed by His Honour's insight, by his ability to know what has been going on in my mind the days preceding the murder.

Strange that his psychic powers are unable to unravel the mystery that is Amaya...

Yet another knight in shining armour- no, rather policeman in well-worn khaki uniform- won over by a damsel in distress. Obviously, or he wouldn't have allowed her to speak to me in private. The risk that I may try to escape is too great...

I have nowhere to go, Mama...

She looks at me, tears filling her eyes. I cannot understand. Shouldn't I be the one to cry? But then again since I am not maybe she could do me the honour...

She is saying something. To me. I can see her lips move, but find it difficult to catch the words. Something-

...betrayed...

I nod vigorously, although I cannot understand. A useful tactic I learnt back in school. I nod harder. I hope I am getting it right.

...right, sis? So now you know how I felt...

I feel faint. Must be the hours I spent standing in the witness box. The policeman comes up to me and I walk away with him, ignoring the sobbing, ignoring the curses.

...how betrayed I felt when I saw you and Jason together in my room...

Ignoring the words that are gnawing at my heart.