What’s in Grandma’s Suitcase? (Part 2 of 2)

Read the first part of this story here.

No one spoke with no one in my house after that. I rarely saw Eddie, and whenever I saw him, he was too drunk to see me. And mother lost all her beauty in that one day. She sat forlorn and sad, up in her room, hardly ever moving out of it.

No one had ever visited our house much anyway. The front door rarely opened, except for Eddie going in and out as he pleased. There wasn’t any food prepared in the house either. When I felt hungry, and asked mother about it, she would not respond. On the third day, when my stomach began to growl with hunger, I walked up to the kitchen myself and tried to get whatever I could.

I hoped and prayed to Jesus to make everything all right. All these things, despite all those Sunday Masses… was this because we were all living in sin in some way? But Jesus is all-forgiving, isn’t He? Yes. Hadn’t Father Jacob said at Mass that Jesus knows all and forgives all?

Would he forgive my father? Or my mother?

I do not know. I would not have forgiven them even if I were Jesus. But I wanted their forgiveness. It was the only thing that would make things better in the house.

The loneliness began to eat me up. Being undesired is one thing; being unwanted is entirely another. I would probably understand one day why my mother had not desired me before my birth, but how could she not want me after I was here? How could she shun my very presence when I was here, in front of her, in flesh and blood?

I think all her silent brooding was repentance for her evil thoughts.

Finally, the day arrived when I knew I could not stay in that house any longer. What would you do in a house where no one spoke a word to you, much less prepare food for you, or involve you in anything they did? Of what use are their tears and silence? Grandma had left the home, and then I suddenly realized—no one had ever taken my name in the house except her.

In the darkness of that night, I made an important decision.

I decided to run away from the house.

I knew exactly what to do. So, when both of them slept that night, I walked up to the door, opened it as silently as I could, walked out in the same clothes I had been wearing since the past three days, and closed the door behind me.

The night was dark, but I hadn’t expected anything else. I had chosen the night for I did not want to bump into anyone my parents knew, for there would be uncomfortable questions I did not have answers to. Thus, I stole away, my hands in my pockets, braving the cold and the horrors, and walked along the single road, which was all my village had. I hoped I was going in the right direction.

And I knew in the morning that I was right.

When the first light of dawn broke in the sky, I saw the thatched hut where the village seemed to come to an end. And the moment I saw it, I whooped with joy.

***

I had seen this hut only once before. That was when I was four, I guess, the time when my mother had come to this house—Grandma Grace’s house—to fetch her to her house. I remember she had desisted back then, but my mother had insisted and had prevailed.

What was the use of that?

My Grandma Grace was once again in that same house. Nothing had changed.

I looked around for her, and found her quite easily. She was sitting in her garden, and digging up something. I knew how much Grandma Grace loved her gardens. She had a green thumb for sure, for she knew exactly what needed to be done with her plants. As I moved ahead, I saw her digging up something in the soil, probably preparing her farm to bear fruit once again.

I did not want to disturb her. And so I sat for a long time in silence, at a little distance from her, watching her work.

Then, when the day started turning to noon, I could take it no longer and softly spoke to her.

Her ears immediately pricked up. She looked in my direction, without seeing me, and said, “W’at’s dat noise? Dang dese eyes. Can never see as I used to.”

I walked up to Grandma Grace. All I wanted to do is to hug her and let her ruffle my hair. I surrendered myself into her arms, but she was stiff. Still as a statue. Why did she not respond?

Then I got my answer.

“My Immanuel! My dear Immanuel! Look at w’at t’ey did to you. ’ow will I ever get back de Immanuel I loved?”

I looked up at her, “Do you mean you do not love me now?”

There was no answer to that. Instead, her eyes filled with fresh tears and she looked away.

I walked into the hut and saw something that surprised me.

It was that suitcase. It was still packed and placed on the bed. It was evident that she hadn’t opened it yet, and that nagged me. “What has she brought in that suitcase that’s so precious?” I wondered.

But then Grandma came inside the room and I fell silent. Soon, absolute sleep came over me and I moved on from one world to another.

The next morning when I woke up, I again found Grandma Grace in her garden. She was doing something with twigs and digging up weeds, or whatever it is that she did in the farms. I went and sat next to her, hoping that she would talk to me at least today.

But another day passed in almost silence. Was she angry with me? I really would not want to think so. The tears in her eyes gave evidence that it was not anger that deterred her from speaking with me.

Even the slightest provocation moved her. I asked her, “What are you doing, Grandma?”

And just that much brought a fresh flood of tears in her eyes.

***

Then that afternoon was the last time I saw my Grandma Grace.

It happened all so suddenly, but had been a long time coming.

It must have been lunchtime—I do not know for sure because we did not eat anything, nor did she prepare anything—when she got up from her garden and walked into the room.

She came up to that suitcase of hers and took it off the bed. That relieved me, and I told her as much, for finally we would have a proper place to sleep. The bag seemed to be more difficult to carry now, or probably it was because she was burdened with something else now.

With a thud-thud-thud, she lumbered the suitcase through the house and brought it out of the door.

What was in it that she wanted to use in the garden? Was she trying to hide her gold and jewels in the soil like she had told me once? I wouldn’t disbelieve it if that was indeed what she was doing.

“Grandma, what’s in that bag?” I asked.

But she did not answer.

All she did was take the bag out into the open, and pull it all the way to her favorite place in the garden where she had been working.

Then she placed the suitcase next to the new patch, and even as I stood behind her, I saw her opening the lock on the suitcase.

What was inside the suitcase? Now I wanted to know it all the more.

And then I saw it.

***

When Eddie had fired the shot that night, it had been a thunderously deafening noise and nothing more. But I should have felt more. After all, the bullet had been shot right at me, right in the heart. It was an accident, everyone would like to believe, but since when has death been partial to accidents?

And I had not felt anything because death had accorded me with its infinite mercy—the mercy of painlessness. When you are dead, pain is the first thing that you stop feeling.

And that’s what Grandma Grace had rushed to fight for—to make them know that they had killed me. But when she saw that no one cared for me, perhaps she knew she had to take me with her.

That suitcase. The perfect size for my little body.

“Is mine! Is mine!” I laugh at it now. That’s not what she was saying. She was saying, “He’s mine! He’s mine!” with her dropped ‘h’s, the way she always spoke.

That is why she wouldn’t talk to me. Can she even see me?

When I came back from the reverie, my gaze fell upon the little cross she had made out of the twigs she had been sizing up all morning.

On those twigs, in her handwriting, were etched the words:

My Dear Immanuel

R.I.P. with Jesus

(2006 – 2016)

I wanted to hug her, tell her that I was there with her, but it wasn’t to be. The cross was a sign that it was time for me to leave. And as I left, I saw two things. One—the dear, dear face of my Grandma Grace, the only person who truly loved me; and—two—my own decaying face as she opened her brown suitcase.

END

 

For more psychological thrillers and horror stories from Neil D’Silva, check out Right Behind You, a collection of 13 stories that will make you sit up and read them a second time.

 

 

What’s in Grandma’s Suitcase? (Part 1 of 2)

My earliest memory of Grandma Grace is of her holding me as an infant in her arms; my tiny head nestled in her palm, and her slightly myopic eyes smiling down at me. She must have surely told me something then, something like, “W’at a wonderful boy ’e is! Let’s name him Immanuel.” It sounds about right, with that dropped ‘h’ thing she does, but I do not remember exactly now. You must forgive me these little lapses, for I am all of ten years old, and ten years is a long time to remember all these details.

But one thing is for sure—the first touch I ever had in this world and the first words I ever heard belonged to my Grandma. I know that for sure because she herself has told me this several times, and Grandma Grace can be many things but she can never be wrong.

My mother did not want me to happen. I can understand these things now, and Grandma has told me, on one of those long dreary nights when the wild dogs come out, that my mother had decided not to have me. Give me back to Jesus, as she puts it. But Grandma convinced her, and here I am. And good things did happen. My birth probably caused the change in my father’s heart that made him marry my mother. So, in a way, my entire family is because of Grandma Grace—the woman who cannot see what is right in front of her, but can see years into the future with the accuracy of an eagle swooping upon its prey.

Yes, Grandma Grace is a strange woman. I have seen her in so many forms that I am sure her true form is buried somewhere in that clump of cashew trees that’s in our backyard. That’s where we buried Timothy, my Labrador, who used to protect our house. That was when I saw Grandma at her saddest. As she dug up the little grave and buried Old Tim, she mumbled a prayer too, and told me to put a handful of dust on his fallen body. Later, she told me she was sad because I was sad, and that made me want to forget Old Tim.

I have seen her angry too, especially when she is standing up to Eddie, my dad. I don’t like it either, when Eddie comes home drunk and tries to act funny with me. One night, when his breath stank of cheap liquor, he hoisted me on his shoulders and danced in the middle of the room. I protested and screamed, but he continued dancing to Ya Ya Mayaya, till he moved too close to the wall and banged my head on it. I couldn’t stop bawling throughout that night, but even that could not drown the angry tirade that Grandma Grace had unleashed on him.

I have seen her brave. Whether it is stomping cockroaches that enter our bathroom almost every evening to chopping off the heads of chickens for our Sunday meals, she does not as much as flinch. There are tales of her husband having died in the middle of the night long ago of some sickness. Back then, she lived in a little hut outside our village. In that desolate area, there was no one she could contact or nowhere she could go to. Without any alternative, Grandma stayed in the hut with his dead body till the morning, even sleeping on the same bed as him. That’s how she is, my Grandma Grace.

I have seen her sick. Oh, that I have seen a lot! She keeps growing sicker nowadays. When I asked her once, she told me her age is eighty-one and I suddenly realized that day that her hair had all gone grey. And what happened to her teeth, the ones that formed the first ever smile I saw in this world? She does not know her ailment though. My parents do not bother to take her to the doctor much. I called Dr. Fernandes once, and he said it was old age and nothing could be done about it. After he left, Grandma Grace took me close to her and told me not to miss her if she went away. She’d go to Jesus and be with Old Tim. She’d be fine.

And I have seen her frightened—stark, white with fear.

That happened three days ago.

***

When Alberto came into our little Goan village of Antolina and joined the choir of our St. Benedict Church, there was something for everyone to talk about. Alberto with his Hawaiian shirts and flannel pants was unmistakable at Sunday Mass. Soon enough, the attendance at Mass shot up. Whether he sang Here I Am, Lord or In His Time, people exulted with him and felt God had come into their hearts. The priest’s sermon had little meaning or effect over Alberto’s singing, and it was no surprise that the Mass itself became one huge Alberto performance rather than a celebration of the Holy Eucharist.

It was no surprise that among the attendees, the women outnumbered the men. And among those women was my mother, Betty. Even I could not mistake the transformation in her. Over the weeks, her ‘Sunday best’ became better and better—she bought clothes from Panjim and ornaments from Anjuna and shoes from Mapusa. She changed the place she sat at for Mass, coming ahead a pew or two every subsequent Sunday, till she was finally on the very first pew for a complete ringside view of Alberto’s performance.

It did not take long for Alberto to take notice of her. Between his highly musical renditions of Alleluia, their eyes met, and locked.

How do I know all of this? Because I sat right next to my mother, week after week, and it did not take me long to understand what was going on. I am a ten-year-old, but a very intelligent ten-year-old. I have no illusions about that.

That was when the fights began.

When Eddie came to know of the real reason why my mother had turned a Mass regular, he fumed. He opened his bottles right inside the house, and yelled all over the place, especially at my mother.

“You two-penny whore!” he shouted seven days ago. “You think I do not know what’s going on between that pansy-ass and you? You have made a laughingstock of me in the village. Where I go, people laugh behind my back. That halkat, that Rodrigues, he tells me to stay more at home. Who gives that lowly bartender to speak to me like that? You! That’s who.”

My mother said nothing. She tried to go back into the room.

“Stop here this instant!” Eddie shouted at her. “What do you think? Going away is going to solve this? Tell me, what are you doing with him? Are you sleeping with him?”

I was hiding behind the door, my one eye barely able to see what was going on in there. But even from that position, I could see the expressions on my mother’s face change. It was like some veneer had peeled off and the ugly interior was exposed.

“Yes, I am. So?”

It was a horrid voice. An ugly horrid voice. I did not like my mother like that.

“You bitch! You—” Eddie could not control himself now. He stumbled against the squat coffee-table and his Royal Stag quarter bottle fell down, the whiskey inside it gushing to the floor. “What do you not get from me, you whore? You want more? Come inside, and I will give it to you.”

“Learn to control yourself first, you pig-ass!” said my mother.

I had heard it often, the way these two called each other names. Even the names were standard by now. I knew them all, but every time a new one came up.

“I will kill that bewarshi!” Eddie screamed at the top of his lungs. “And then I will kill you. And then I will kill that little bastard you have hung around my neck.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as I heard that. It wasn’t unexpected though. I figured in all their arguments nowadays. If his shirts weren’t ironed, I was a bastard. If the fish curry had less tamarind, I was a bastard.

At that moment, I heard Grandma Grace coming down the stairs behind me. The noise might have dragged her out of bed. She whispered to me to move away, but I wanted to hear more. I pushed her back.

“You dare talk about Immanuel?” said my mother. I could only see her back now but I could perfectly picture the expressions on her face. “You think I hung him around your neck? You fucker, it is you. It is you who stuck him around my neck like a… like a grinding stone.”

Grandma was now horrified. Even I was, from whatever I could understand of it. She placed a hand on my shoulder and tried to drag me away, but I stayed put.

Eddie laughed his evil stinking laugh. “Look at this mother, people of the world! A mother who thinks her son is a grinding stone! She thinks he is a burden, and why not? How can she sleep around so freely with him around?” And then the color of his face changed again. “I don’t give a fuck about your son. But you bitch, you slut, you go behind my back with that man? You want to divorce me so that you can shame me? No! That is not going to happen. I will put an end to this. Right here, right now—”

What happened next took only a moment but it seemed like time had stopped. Three pairs of horrified eyes looked as Eddie stumbled to the mantelpiece and pulled out his hunting rifle.

He hadn’t touched that rifle since years, but I remember him having told me once long ago, in a much happier time, that it still had one bullet left in it.

And that was when I saw my Grandma Grace the most horrified. There was pure terror on her face, like her world was going to collapse around her. I just could not take that look anymore and I looked back into the room.

Eddie’s finger was on the trigger, and my mother seemed frozen to the ground. Before any of us could make a move, he had pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out.

And I became deaf.

A few seconds later, after the smoke cleared, I saw the hazy figure of my mother now trying to wrest the infernal rifle from my father’s hands. There were words—angry thoughtless words—but she was unhurt. That was all that mattered.

I felt Grandma’s voice falling on my back. “My boy! I ’ave nothing left ’ere anymore. I cry for you. I cry.”

Then something came over her. She ran into the room and stood right in between the two angrily fighting people. I moved a few steps ahead, but desisted. I knew Grandma would put a stop to this.

“Stop, you fools!” she said. “Stop!”

But her very presence seemed to turn Eddie wild. “Come, come, you come too, mother of the bitch! See what your daughter says! Am I a fool to give food and shelter to all of you? This woman who does not respect me one bit—why should I take care of you?”

“Go away, mai!” said my mother. “Why do you come between us?”

This stunned Grandma. She could suffer violence, but words! For a woman who had lived her life with fearlessness and pride, insulting words were more hurtful than violence.

“I will go,” said my Grandma. “T’is very moment, I will go. I ’ave my ’usband’s ’ouse. I will go dere.”

“Go wherever you want, bitch,” said Eddie. “Who cares?”

Grandma Grace turned and left the room. She crossed me in the corridor and then went back up the stairs. I followed her and saw her getting her large worn-out brown suitcase, the one that she had come to this house in. Then I saw something that made me numb, number than I was then—tears. In all my days with her, I had never seen Grandma tearing up. And it was too much to take.

Little did I know then that Grandma’s tears weren’t going to go away anytime soon.

The next memory I have is of Grandma lugging that suitcase down the stairs and hobbling out of the house. There were no goodbyes, no turning back, just the soft thudding sounds made by the suitcase as it dragged along the floor.

Then there was a sound. From my father. “Hey woman! What are you taking away from my house?”

Grandma kept walking without turning back. But the man, drunk with liquor and his power over the weaker people in the house, lunged forward and tried to pry open her fingers that held the handle of the suitcase.

“Is mine! Is mine! All mine!” she shouted and protested, and those words seared into my memory. Her words were all a garble now, a spouting of emotions rather than any comprehensible expression of language. This was the beginning of the end of my Grandma. Only, I did not know it then.

“Let her go!” my mother hollered. “At least let her go!” And then slumped by the wall of the house and wept in a loud hollow voice.

Perhaps the sudden burst of emotions unnerved Eddie. He retreated, and I saw Grandma’s hunchbacked figure—when had she become a hunchback?—stealing away into the darkness of the dog-infested night.

Continue to Part 2 of this story.

Suicide Point (Part 2 of 2) | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

 

Suicide Point | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Part 2

(This is a two-part story. Read the first part here.)

“How can you promise that?” she asked.

“I know,” said Sahil. He sat down next to her. “I have a wife whom I love dearly. More than anything else in this world. One year ago, we found out that we cannot have kids. There’s something wrong with her uterus. It shattered her. I have never told her, but it shattered me too. I cannot tell her that, can I? I have to be the strong one. But becoming a father would have meant so much to me. Anyway, we are fine now. We thought there was nothing left in our existence, but here we are, each day finding new meaning in our lives. It’s her birthday today, by the way.”

“I see,” said the woman. “A happy birthday to her. She’s a lucky one indeed! What’s her name?”

“Mala,” said Sahil. He was sharing personal details with a strange woman on a strange night, but if the conversation could veer her out of her suicidal thoughts, it could be his good deed for the day.

“Why aren’t you with her on her birthday then?” asked Sumanlata. “Is she in the car?”

“No,” said Sahil. “I am going to her. I hope I can make it in time.”

“Then you must go. Don’t wait out with me.”

“I cannot leave you like this,” said Sahil. “I cannot leave a woman to end her life this way. I won’t ever find peace if I did that. It would be like having blood on my hands.”

“Oh!” said the woman. “Don’t say it like that. I don’t want my decision to affect your plans. You seem to be a nice man. You carry on.”

“Does that mean you are going back home too?”

“No,” she said. “There is nowhere I’d like to go to at the moment. I’d better wait out here for a while.”

Sahil looked at his watch. “Okay,” he decided. “I’ll hang around for a few minutes more. Let’s see if I can talk you into going home. Where do you live, by the way?”

“In the city. About half an hour from here.”

“How did you come here? Is there a car?”

She pointed towards the bushes. “It’s parked in there. Your car is a nice one, you know.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s Mala’s choice. She wanted the more expensive one.” He smiled.

“I see,” she said. “Does Mala work?”

“No.”

“How did you two meet? I’d like to hear the tale,” she said, “that is, if you really intend to sit here.”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s one of my favorite tales, you know. I was this geeky nerdy person in college, oiled hair and buttoned-down shirts and all, totally into studies, and I bumped into this girl in the canteen. Quite literally, you know, I dropped her books like it happens in the movies. There was a moment, but then I reminded myself I was in my final year of engineering. I could not afford distractions. It was she who took the lead though. She chased me till I fell for her—not literally this time, fell in love I mean.”

“Interesting!” she said. “Did you complete your engineering?”

Sahil laughed. “No! That never happened. That was the year I discovered what love meant. We got married and here we are.”

“So, what do you work as?”

“I tried to start a business with digital electronics.”

“Oh, a brainy one! I like to meet a brainy one. What happened to the business?”

“It didn’t work. Now between things.”

“Why did it not work?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was too depressed. Who knows?”

“Because of the news of your wife?”

Sahil looked at her.

“The uterus, I mean?”

“Yeah, could be,” said Sahil.

“But that does not matter, does it? So what if you could not complete your education or become a rich man. You still have your wife, don’t you?”

“Don’t say it like that,” said Sahil. “I have no regrets at all. She’s the best thing to happen to me. Money isn’t everything, you know?”

“Of course, it isn’t. Love is. Look at me; I am still looking for love.”

“Are you okay now?” Sahil asked. “I hope your mind is easier.”

“I’m feeling better, that’s for sure,” said the woman. “You are such a wonderful storyteller. I can almost see Mala. So, how is she? Long hair or short?”

“Short. She’s almost a boy,” Sahil laughed.

“What kind of clothes does she like?”

“She likes casual. Oh, she wouldn’t want to be caught dead in a saree.”

“Why? Sarees are nice,” the woman said. “I love sarees. See this white one I’m wearing.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit strange. Aren’t white sarees usually worn by—”

“—widows,” she completed. “Yes, say it. I don’t mind. I am a widow already, isn’t it? He’s gone.” A teardrop formed again in her almost dried up eye.

“I’m sorry I said that,” Sahil said.

“Forget it,” she said. “You should be going now. Mala will miss you.”

“Yes, she will, but it is all right,” he said. “I can tell her I was held up.”

“You will lie to her? Why?”

“She’d be upset if I told her the real thing.”

“Why?” the woman asked. “Are we doing anything that’s bad?”

“You don’t understand,” said Sahil. “We are in a situation that’s easy to misinterpret. Anyone would.”

“Then go.”

“I don’t know,” said Sahil. “I am enjoying this conversation actually. I have never spoken about these things with anyone. You are helping me see the light.”

“Am I?” she said. “About Mala, she seems to have you on a tight leash.”

Sahil looked at the woman. The tears had again gone, and there was a genuinely curious look on her face. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said the woman. “You are rushing to catch her on her birthday. Isn’t it because you are worried she’d be angry at you? Driving at this hour means you couldn’t get out of your work the whole day. Now you tell me you need to lie to her. All this, despite the fact that she chased you into marriage and not you?”

He shot an ugly look at the woman. He should have got up at that moment and stormed out of the conversation but a part of him wanted more of this self-analysis. Such things had crossed his mind earlier, but he hadn’t dared to think about them further.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “Mala is a bossy one. She did send me a letter in blood when she was, you know, pursuing me.”

“That’s horrid!”

“It was. I was repulsed actually.”

“Why doesn’t she work? It might be difficult for you, right?”

“She’s not the working type,” said Sahil.

“How does she spend her day then?”

“Watching television mostly. Sometimes she goes to her friends’ houses and has parties.”

“Funny how one person has to do all the work,” said the woman. “I mean, it’s expensive, isn’t it? A house in the city is terribly expensive. Do you have your own house?”

“Yes. It’s on installments.”

“Good Lord! How many years more?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s an age!” she said. “Do you earn enough?”

“Most times, yes,” said Sahil. “But there’s little else I can do. Like I cannot get her the gifts she wants or take her to the places she wants to go to.” He buried his head in his hands. “The installment decision was horrible. It has fucked up my life. There is this constant fear that I won’t be able to pay and will land in jail. Am I a bad husband?”

“Of course you are not!” she said. “But you have to set a few things in order. You need to make sure you earn more. Ask your wife to contribute too. As it is, you won’t have children to look after.”

“Oh God!” Sahil let out a big breath at the reminder. “I’m in such a miserable condition. I am working my ass off to retain this house, this life, and what for? There is no one to leave this to. One day, the fuse will blow and that’s it. I am gone. What is the use of all this?”

“It will work out fine,” she said, holding his hand. “There’s a solution to everything.”

“There isn’t for this,” said Sahil. “What have I put myself into? Everywhere I see I am trapped. This loan, this loneliness, this marriage…”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I am not trapped in my marriage. Am I?”

She passed her fingers through his hair.

“Am I?” he repeated.

“Once you are in, you are in,” she said. “You know what? I think we are sailing in the same boat. The only difference is that you are married. I am not. You are trapped and so am I. Once my belly starts showing, people will want to know whose child it is. What do I tell them?”

“There’s no way out,” he said. “Not for me, at least.”

“Now you understand why I am here?” she said. “There is something in this—ending your life. You are free from all these problems. What’s the meaning of this existence anyway? What are you going to get out of it? I don’t want to bring this child into the world either because all he or she is going to face is ridicule.”

Sahil had tears in his eyes now. How had the night suddenly become darker? Gloomier? “And to think I bought a diamond bracelet for her. I spent my three months’ earnings on that fucking thing.”

“It could be the last you spend on her,” said the woman.

“What do you mean?”

The woman got up and took Sahil’s hand. He got up too, and she led him into the thicket behind them. There it was—the gnarled banyan tree that was the terminal point of a dozen and a half disappointed lives so far.

“If you are brave, we can end it all,” she said.

He looked at her aghast at first, and then slowly mellowed down into an expression of understanding.

“I have done the research,” she said. “The noose is already put up. I was sitting there crying because I had a weak moment, but now I am sure. I am going to end it.”

He did not say anything. He noticed the midnight hour had passed.

“Do you want to do it together? You can use the noose. I will tie my saree on the other branch and hang myself from there,” she said.

Sahil’s life passed in front of his eyes. The mask had been taken off. So far, he had deluded himself into thinking he led an ideal urban existence, but he now saw the muck that lay beneath the glossy exterior. The reality of his life stared at him now, and there was no mistaking the termite-ridden ruination of it.

“Yes,” he said. “It will put me out of all problems.”

She went behind the tree and took off her saree. “I’ll put this up too,” she said. She climbed up the twisted branch and hung the makeshift noose from a low-hanging branch. Then she came down and placed a log under the two nooses.

“We climb up this log,” she said, “put the noose around our necks and then kick the log away. As it will roll away, our lives will be gone too. It is easy and the most painless way out, believe me. You go up first.”

Sahil put his foot on the log. The log rolled and he fell. Then she held it with her foot and asked him to try again. He balanced himself more carefully now, and took small steps until he reached the noose. She started coming up too.

“Look ahead and put the noose around your neck,” she said. “I am doing the same.”

With trembling fingers, Sahil placed the noose around his neck.

“At the count of three, okay?” she said. Sahil stretched his hand to hold hers, but he could reach her.

“Okay,” he said.

“Here goes then… one… two… three!”

The log rolled instantly. The noose, which was until now a loose coil around his neck, suddenly tightened with all its merciless brutality, and bit into the flesh of Sahil’s neck. His neck choked, completely shutting off his windpipe. His nostrils took in a huge amount of air but there was no way for it to reach his lungs.

He heard a bone in his throat snap.

And just as life was going out of him, he saw the woman standing right in front of him, laughing with a menacing expression in her bloodshot eyes.

“Surprised?” she said as his eyes closed. “Don’t be. Things like death cannot kill me.”

The next morning’s newspapers bore a headline:

Nineteenth suicide at Suicide Point.

END

 

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Suicide Point (Part 1) | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Suicide Point | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Part 1

Sahil put the phone down and resumed driving, a smile dancing on his lips. It was past 10:00 p.m. now; he hoped he could make it in time to wish his wife on her birthday. He had cut his tour short by a day to be with her. It would be a shame if he didn’t reach her in person before the day got over.

The call had been to her. She had told him not to hurry; it was all right if he reached late. He had to drive carefully; that was all she needed. However, those words made him feel guiltier. Here he was, a failed college dropout and a flopped businessman who had somehow landed with this wonderful woman. A woman who never needed anything, never asked for anything, was always with him through any situation. And, most importantly, a woman who loved him.

He hoped he could wish her on her birthday.

He looked at the seat next to him. A shiny rectangular box with a label—To Mala with love, From Sahil—lay on it at the moment. How he hoped she had been sitting next to him on this long drive… But that box was a symbol of her too. It was his gift; a diamond bracelet. He had spent a tidy sum on that trinket, but he didn’t mind. She was more precious than anything he could hope to have.

The highway narrowed down now. Surrounded by jungle on either side, he needed to keep his eyes alert. He saw a sign that told him to beware of deer and foxes that could suddenly spring in his path. He didn’t care though, nor did any of the other drivers on the thinly trafficked route.

It crossed his mind that the box was too shiny to have on such display during a lone night ride. It bore the name of one of the priciest jewelers in town. He reached out and grabbed a newspaper that lay on the seat behind him, and placed it on the box, hoping that the camouflage would be enough.

It was that morning’s paper, which he hadn’t found time to read yet. But now, a headline caught his eye:

18 Suicides on Suicide Point.

And then he realized—this was Suicide Point! He had read about it in the papers a few days ago. In fact, Mala had read it out to him. He recalled snatches of the article—a gnarled banyan tree from where people hung themselves to death, their bodies found in the mornings, on this very same route that he was on.

It sent a shiver along his body. Eighteen suicides meant eighteen unhappy spirits. He wasn’t squeamish or superstitious, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach all the same. How he wished there’d be some more light on the road…

***

There was a bend up ahead, snaking into an unknown territory that he knew he must take. He held his steering wheel tightly, and braced himself to maneuver the curve. There was about an hour and half left to midnight; and if he drove at this speed, he’d be home soon. Keeping his eyes on the road and slowing down his car, he turned.

It was when he was turning that he saw a sight that made him place his foot on the brake.

There was a woman sitting by the roadside. She was dressed in white, definitely a bad choice for a night out in the jungle, and she had primly positioned herself on one of those stone fences that are built on the sharp turns along highways.

Sahil should have ignored her and gone ahead. He had every reason to disregard this woman and move on. Apart from the fact that he had absolutely no time to spare, there was also the fact that everything about this woman seemed wrong. He was reminded of the horror movies in which witches cruised along highways in such white attire and feasted on the bodies of the unfortunate people who stopped to hear their tale. She could have very well been a spirit of one of those hapless eighteen that had taken this route as a shortcut to hell.

Every shred of wise counsel in him told him to carry on driving. He even stepped on the accelerator and, as the road straightened, prepared to give his engine a boost of energy.

However, at that moment, he committed a mistake.

He looked into the rear view mirror.

Now that he saw her clearly, he saw her crying. He could not see the face, but her moving shoulders left no doubt as to the agony she experienced sitting there on that cold night.

He just couldn’t go on after that sight. Always known as the one to help others in need, he couldn’t let this one pass. And there was nothing such as spirits anyway. No ghosts, no ghouls. He wasn’t going to leave a woman in distress just because of some silly folk tales.

Slowly, he took his foot off the accelerator and pressed the brake again.

***

Sahil parked his car carefully and walked up to the lady. He put his hands in his pockets for it was a cold night. His steps were brisk. He intended to find out where she stayed and call up her folks or the police.

“Is there a problem, miss?” he asked when he was so close he could smell the jasmine in her hair.

She looked up and he saw her face. One look at that face and all his apprehensions were put to rest. The face was innocent, almost like a child who has lost a favorite toy. There was nothing insidious about it.

“Please tell me, miss,” he repeated, “why are you crying?”

“Sumanlata,” she said.

“Yes?”

“That’s my name. You may call me by name.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I am Sahil. But why are you here on the roadside? Haven’t you heard about this place?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you know it isn’t a good place to hang out, right? I don’t intend to be nosy, but please… what are you doing here?”

“This is Suicide Point, I know,” she said distantly.

He nodded, and then it dawned upon him. His eyes grew wide in alarm. “Oh no! Don’t tell me! Are you here to… to… sorry if I am wrong… end your life?”

She let out a feeble smile. “He married another.” Her voice was more distant now.

“Who?”

“I gave up everything for him, you know? I was learning to be a nurse, gave that up midway. There’s nothing in being a nurse, he said. All you have to do is clean people’s vomit and poop and piss. I gave it up. Did what he wanted. Went with him wherever he went. Stayed with him in hotels. And he gave me this.” She passed her hand on her belly.

Sahil did not know what to say. There was an urge in him to somehow wrangle out of this conversation and head back to his car, but that would be so mean.

“What am I to do with this?” Her hand was still on her belly. “He’s going ahead and marrying that other woman. That slut. Who is she? What has she given up for him?” She again broke out into a cry.

“Listen…” stammered Sahil. “Listen, miss… Suman… Sumanlata. I don’t know who you are talking about but I understand your pain. He has been cruel to you. A very bad thing has happened. However, that doesn’t mean you should end your life.”

The crying didn’t stop.

“Crap!” mumbled Sahil. “I absolutely suck at this stuff. But, hear me out, Sumanlata—give up your crying and return home. Tomorrow will be a better day; you shall see.”

Continue reading Suicide Point. Part 2 of 2.

 

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Different Shades of Success

Different Shades of Success

Different Shades of Success

This play was written for a school play. It was enacted on stage and won the first prize for the school’s Best House Play competition.

Scene 1

The boys’ house

 

Naveen, a 12-year-old boy, walks into the house with a football in his hand. His mother immediately comes out of the kitchen on hearing him.

MOTHER:

Naveen, how many times have I told you not to play ball in the house? And how long have you been gone? You went at 9. It is five hours now.

NAVEEN:

Ma, it’s okay. There was a practice for our tournament this week.

MOTHER:

Tournament? And what about your exam? You have your Units coming up on Monday, don’t you? Have you finished studying?

Naveen’s brother, Kishore, 15-year-old, walks in from his room. He has a bag slung over his shoulders.

MOTHER:

Look at your brother, Naveen! He just returned from school and now he is ready to leave for his classes. While you wasted away half your day, he was studying throughout. Why don’t you learn from him?

NAVEEN:

But I love football! I am good at it.

MOTHER:

Football? Will it pay you in future? Why don’t you say something, Kishore’s father?

The boys’ father is sitting on the sofa looking at something on his cellphone. He looks up at the sudden mention.

FATHER:

Yes, Naveen, football doesn’t pay you. You must listen to your mother.

NAVEEN:

But, father… I…

FATHER:

Keep it as a hobby. But if you don’t learn, what’s the use of it? You will be kicking balls on the street. See how that neighbor’s son studies. Excellent in every subject. And your own brother Kishore? Why don’t you take some inspiration from them?

MOTHER:

Now go and change. And leave for your tuition class in five minutes. We are not paying for nothing.

FATHER:

Yes, yes… listen to your mother.

 

Scene 2

The boys’ house

Mother and father are in the room. Father is watching a match on TV and mother is on the phone. She disconnects the phone and looks at Father.

MOTHER:

You see that? I have been telling you hundreds of times to take some time out and teach your son. Now his tuition teacher had called.

FATHER:

Tuition teacher? Whose, Kishore’s?

MOTHER:

Why will Kishore’s teacher call? He has never scored less than 90 percent in any exam. It was about your wayward son, Naveen. He has again failed in all subjects at school. He hasn’t told at home yet, but she found out from his friends.

FATHER:

Failed in all subjects? That’s bad.

MOTHER:

Yes. And do something about it.

FATHER:

I will. I mean, I should. By the way, you remember that Ramesh is coming home tonight, don’t you?

MOTHER:

Yes. I’ll make the preparations for him right away.

 

 

Scene 3

The boys’ house — evening at the dinner table

 

There is a guest, Ramesh. He is the boys’ uncle.

RAMESH:

Brother, why is Naveen not at the table with us? By the way, the food was wonderful!

FATHER:

What do I tell you, Ramesh! That boy is wasting away his life. He is in the Grade 8 now, and he is getting bad remarks everywhere. Just today we found out that he has failed in all the subjects at his Units. He needs to be punished so that he understands.

RAMESH:

But, brother, we all know that he has other talents. He is more into sports rather than studies. Is that a bad thing? Look at Sachin Tendulkar or Saina Nehwal…

FATHER:

They are one in a million, Ramesh. It doesn’t happen with everyone. Anyway, he needs to learn a lesson. Let him go hungry for a couple of nights and he will understand. I am embarrassed every time I come across Dr. Rudransh in the lift. He always tells me about his son’s great achievements, and I have nothing to speak about Naveen. Of course, Kishore here is a wonderful boy, but the doctor knows where it hurts. He asks me specifically about Naveen.

MOTHER:

He’s lazy, that’s what. It’s not that he cannot study. Both of us were good students at school. Kishore is too. Then what’s the problem with him?

RAMESH:

I understand everything that you say, and it does seem to be a problem. Do you mind if I go and talk to Naveen for a bit? Is he in his room?

FATHER:

Yes. Go, if you please. But he’s not having dinner till his marks improve, and that’s final.

 

 

Scene 4

The boys’ house a few days later — morning

 

Mother is frantic. Just then, Naveen enters the house.

MOTHER:

NAVEEN! Where have you been? I called up at the tuition teacher’s house and she says you haven’t been attending for a month! But you go regularly. Tell me, where do you go?

NAVEEN:

(mumbles something)

MOTHER:

(comes closer to Naveen and boxes his ears) Where have you been going? Tell me, you boy! Why are you doing this? Do you want me to fall sick?

FATHER:

(comes forward and frees Naveen) Have you fallen into some bad company, Naveen?

KISHORE:

Father, I saw him one day. He was walking ahead on the street and going into the garden.

FATHER:

Garden? Really?

KISHORE:

Yes, father. There were other boys there, all his friends. I am sure he goes there to play. They have all the things. He does not need to take anything from home.

MOTHER:

Is that what you have been doing? Do you know how much the tuition costs? Have you been playing around?

NAVEEN:

It’s not what you think.

MOTHER:

Then what is it? (she holds her head with her hand and slumps on the sofa). Oh my God! What will this boy do? Tomorrow his terminal exam starts. What will he do? He’s just going to fail again.

FATHER:

Calm down, Lakshmi. It will be all right.

MOTHER:

No, it won’t. This boy will kill me one day.

With great anger, Naveen huffs away into his room. We hear his door close with a bang.

 

Scene 5

The principal’s cabin

 

Father and mother are sitting outside.

MOTHER:

Why has the principal called us? I don’t see any other parents here. Has Naveen done so badly in the terminal? Are they suspending him? Or… oh my God! Expelling him?

FATHER:

Keep quiet, Lakshmi. Don’t get hysterical.

They are called inside. They walk in and are directed by the principal to sit on the chairs.

PRINCIPAL:

This is unbelievable, really!

FATHER:

What is it, sir?

PRINCIPAL:

About your son, Naveen. I just cannot believe it.

FATHER:

Please tell us, sir. We cannot take the suspense any longer.

PRINCIPAL:

Naveen has ranked third in his division. How is that even possible?

MOTHER:

What! Are you sure it is the same Naveen?

PRINCIPAL:

You can rest assured it is, madam. Everyone at school knows Naveen well. Look at his result here. A grade in every subject, and even A+ in two. Did you change his tuition teacher or something?

MOTHER:

No. (she looks at the result disbelievingly). But how is this… I mean, we were so angry with him all these weeks that we didn’t even teach him this time. And he only spent his time playing away.

PRINCIPAL:

No, he hasn’t cheated or anything if you suspect that. Our supervisors are very strict. This has really happened. Your boy is indeed bright. But there’s something more.

FATHER:

(cannot control his happiness) What, sir? What?

PRINCIPAL:

Naveen has been selected by the State Football Association for special training. We will need your permission, of course. Once you permit, we can send him for this special training camp in the city for seven days. They are giving him a sports scholarship.

FATHER:

Really?

PRINCIPAL:

Yes. And national level champions will coach him. Everyone who goes there has a bright future. Think about it, and reply soon.

FATHER:

There’s nothing to think, sir! Let him go, of course.

PRINCIPAL:

All right, then. And now I am sure, there will be celebrations at home.

 

Scene 6

The boys’ home — evening

Ramesh is present. They are all at the dinner table.

FATHER:

I just cannot believe how this happened.

RAMESH:

You underestimate a lot of things, brother.

FATHER:

What do you mean?

RAMESH:

(winks at Naveen) Shall we tell them our little secret, Naveen? Okay. So, that day when you kept him away from dinner, I had a heart-to-heart talk with him. Naveen wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but then he told me how he was really hurt by your constant scolding (looks at mother) and your constant comparing him to others (looks at father). He told me how he could not study even with the tuition teacher because she neglected him for being a rotten apple. That’s when I told him to come over to my place and I would teach him. That’s what he has been doing the past month.

FATHER:

What? Really? Then why not tell us?

RAMESH:

Because you would only discourage him further. We wanted to do it and show you. And we have proved, haven’t we?

MOTHER:

(reluctantly) Yes. I think we were wrong.

RAMESH:

Parents often tend to compare between their children, like you do with Kishore and Naveen here. Kishore is bright, but Naveen is bright too. Everyone doesn’t shine in the same way; you need to polish them differently. Since the way you treated Kishore worked, you tried the same approach with Naveen, but he’s different. He needs more understanding. And don’t forget; he’s a sportsman at heart. You mustn’t forget that.

FATHER:

It’s so nice of you to have helped him, Ramesh.

RAMESH:

My pleasure! And I am sure there’s going to be no looking back for Naveen from now on.

Naveen looks into his dinner plate, avoiding everyone’s attention on him. There’s a smile on his lips.

 

END

 

 

The Evil Eye and The Charm

The Evil Eye and The Charm

The Evil Eye and The CharmThe Evil Eye and The Charm is a short-story collection. It contains three stories penned by Neil D’Silva, which are based on Indian nimboo-mirchi superstitions. The nimboo-mirchi is a contraption made with one large lemon and seven green chilies held together by a black thread and a piece of coal. This is usually found hanging from Indian homes, offices, and vehicles. The belief is that this charm can ward off the Goddess Alakshmi, the harbinger of bad luck. Interestingly, Alakshmi is considered to be the Goddess of Adversity, and she is the sister of Lakshmi, the Goddess of Prosperity.

The stories in the book raise several questions in the readers’ minds. They straddle between the contrasting aspects of rationalism and superstition, and try to explore the fine line where one ends and the other begins. Such stories have never been told before, and the creepy style in which they have been written adds to their lasting effect. No one who reads these stories can forget them for a lifetime.

These are the stories in the book.

A Grave Situation – A young couple is distressed because their baby doesn’t stop crying. An old aunt suggests the baby is possessed and uses a nimboo-mirchi charm to ward it off. Then, she sets the husband on a task that tests his courage and beliefs.

Last Juice – A disbelieving son steps on a nimboo-mirchi and thinks this is a wonderful way to test his mother’s strong beliefs in her superstitions.

Chain Reaction – A young boy gets possessed, which manifests itself as several blemishes on his skin. When medicine fails, belief in superstition takes over, which includes a trip to a crazy godman and, of course, the nimboo-mirchi.

Accolades

The Evil Eye and The Charm has been highly praised in India and abroad. Despite being a short book by conventional standards, it is praised by reviewers for quality over quantity. A US reviewer stated that this book can be used as a textbook for American students to learn more about Indian culture and traditions. This review is live on Goodreads.

The Evil Eye and The Charm hit #1 in the Amazon India (Horror) Bestsellers Rank more than thrice. It currently enjoys very high rating on both Amazon and Goodreads.

Links

The Evil Eye and The Charm can be ordered through Amazon, Amazon India, and PayHip.

Its Goodreads page is worth checking out too.

Forever, My Valentine

Every house tells umpteen tales; we only need to have the right ears to hear them. If we are able to cut through the cacophony of the noise that surrounds us, we can hear these stories — stories of ecstasy and distress, stories of pride and humiliation, stories of inflicting and suffering pain. Houses also live with the people who live in them; if we could only hear them…

February 13, 11:00 p.m.

Mercy Gleeson went through her motions before she could tuck herself into bed. Her house was silent on this day, which was quite different from the previous year. For then, her house was filled with enthusiastic sounds — those of hers and her boyfriend Jake’s — and they had lent a different atmosphere to the house.

But now the atmosphere was somber. There was an ambiance of reticence and defeat all around. The musty air and dust balls didn’t help. Even the furniture seemed to creak with agony at odd hours of the night.

She had nothing planned for the next day. This wasn’t the right time to do anything. Jake had planned to make the big move on Valentine’s Day the previous year. There was no secret about it, and she knew she would have said ‘yes’ had he gone down on one knee before her.

However, that was a life that could have been. The reality she faced now was entirely different.

One accident was all it had taken to turn her life upside down.

That was the only scene that had played in her mind, in some kind of a bizarre loop, all through the last twelve months. Their rollicking adventure in the cottage in the woods, unknown to the world outside, the lying in each other’s arms unhindered and uninhibited, the drifting away to sleep, and then the fire…

Her instinct had helped her back then. She got up and ran, moving out in the nick of time. But before doing so, she woke him. He sprang out of the bed, and he ran out for his dear life too.

That was the last she had seen of him.

For long moments, she stood outside looking at the house burning down, praying at every instant that he would emerge from the fire. She didn’t have the courage to go in herself. All she could do was scream her lungs out for help, but no one came.

Valentine’s Day had begun for the rest of the world. People everywhere would be celebrating with their loves, but Mercy’s world had just collapsed around her.


She finished preening herself in the bathroom. The mirror showed her a haggard reflection of herself, but she didn’t care. The cold water helped her relax and, switching the lights off, she proceeded to her bed.

Her eyes had been closed for scarcely a minute when she heard the doorbell.

At first she thought it was a trick of her mind as it was drifting away into sleep, but then it rang a second time.

She got up now, put her feet into her slippers, and tiptoed to the door. Her meticulousness for silence was needless; there was no one in her house that she could disturb anyway.

The horror tales of single women being attacked and raped in their houses ran through her mind. Just two weeks ago, a woman had been ravaged by the security man of her own society. Standing at the peephole, she craned her neck to peer through. The lights in the corridor weren’t intense enough, and her eyes were half-groggy, but after she focused them for a few moments, she gasped.

There was no mistaking what she had seen.

Out in the corridor, stood Jake — the Jake she had not seen after the fire — dressed in a black tuxedo, holding a bouquet of white orchids in his hand. He was dressed for Valentine’s Day, just like the previous year.

“Who is it?” Mercy said in disbelief, with fear dripping through her every word.

“Open and find out.” The sound was distinct, clear, just as she had heard him always.

Since their first meeting, Mercy hadn’t stopped loving Jake for a minute. There was nothing she wanted better than to see him again, knowing that he had somehow escaped the fire. But now, really seeing him out there in such an abrupt manner made her goosepimply all over.

“I cannot wait here the whole night.” His voice brought back the memories. It was as though he had always been by her side.

Slowly, she moved her fingers over the latch and unfastened it. Lingering on for a minute more, she undid the lock.

“Oh!” he said, his voice dripping with dejection. “I thought you would like seeing me like this.”

The merriness in his voice goaded courage back into her. She felt her own voice returning.

“What? How?”

“Shh!” he moved in and handed the bouquet to her. “You need to calm down first. Do you still keep drinks in your house?”

She pointed a finger towards a cabinet. Jake opened it. “Ah! Scotch!” he exclaimed. “Great medicine for frayed nerves.” He poured the liquid into two glasses, neat, and handed one over to her. “Won’t you close the door and come in?”

Almost mechanically, Mercy kept the bouquet on a table and closed the door behind her. Then she went and sat next to Jake on the couch, maintaining a safe distance from him.

“All right, let me explain,” he said. “First of all, sorry for giving you such a fright. I had forgotten what a sissy-pants you are. And, I also apologize for not being in touch.”

“Where have you been?” Her composure was slowly returning.

“Healing.”

She gasped.

“I did escape the fire,” he said, “and I also saw you leave, but I was a bit too late in escaping. Got a few burns here and there. It took a while for those to heal and mend.”

“Was it bad?”

“Not much pain, surprisingly. And it healed well. Look.” He took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. “Nothing now. I am clean.”

Without meaning to, she found her hand moving towards his chest. It was perhaps the touch with his skin that did it, but something snapped inside her and she felt no fear anymore.

“The flowers?” she said. “What are those for?”

“Why?” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t Valentine’s Day start in an hour? Are you reneging on your promise?”

It came back to her. A few years ago, in the prelude to Valentine’s Day, they had promised each other that they would be each other’s Valentines forever.

“This is so all of a sudden!” she said. “What if I were seeing someone else?”

“But, why would you?”

“Because I didn’t hear from you.”

“So? Oh, I see. Did you think I was dead?”

There was silence in the room. It couldn’t be heard, but it could almost be seen.

“I couldn’t fault you for that,” he said, now sounding like a schoolboy who has been reprimanded. “I never thought… I was healing too; so, maybe I wasn’t in a position to face you. Yes, I think it’s that. That’s the reason I didn’t contact you earlier.”

“I understand.”

“So,” he said, getting up, “will you be my Valentine…” He checked his watch. “…eleven minutes from now?”

She got up, her eyes flooding with tears of joy.

“Yes,” she said.

The embrace they had following that was one of the longest they had ever had.

“Let me just go and put on something presentable,” she said, getting out of the hug. “And you tell me later what your big plan is.”

February 14, 0:00

Mercy put herself into the red dress she was saving for an occasion, without really knowing what that occasion would be. And now, that the occasion had arrived, she found it was the best it could be.

Thus dressed, she came out into the room where he was still sitting on the couch.

“That’s amazing!” he said. “You are looking younger than you did last year.”

She nodded and sat down next to him. “Now tell me what your plan is.”

“I have come to take you with me.”

“Where to?”

“Don’t know for sure. But, let’s start by going back to the cottage.”

That made a shudder run through her spine. The mention of the cottage took away the composure she had gained, causing her to breathe heavily once again.

“Why the cottage?” she mumbled.

“Let’s make it as though this year never happened,” said Jake. “I think we should pick up from where we had left off. The same bed, the same stance. It will be like we never missed anything.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“To remove the sense of loss.”

“But the cottage won’t be there. It must have burned down.”

“It is there,” he said confidently. “I know it is.”


A few minutes later, he was driving her on the freeway. It was the same old car they had had so many passionate moments in. Nothing had changed about it, not even the tickets shoved into the glove compartment.

As they drove, they saw motels decked up with bright heart-shaped signs, shops with blinking love lights, and advertisement boards spreading the love in their own commercial way.

An hour into Valentine’s Day, they reached the cottage. Mercy skipped a few heartbeats as she saw it.

It stood just as it had on that fateful day, though the signs of the fire were evident in its burned windows.

“It is still empty,” she said.

“Yes. Let’s go and check if the bed is still intact.”

They went in, hands tightly clasped with each other. Most of the furniture had burned down to ash. However, the bed still stood in an inside room, though parts of it had been irrevocably singed.

“Is that it?” Mercy said. At that moment, a strong wind rattled the already broken window panes and made her jump. “I think we should leave now.” Her tone was insistent.

“There’s no hurry,” he said, making her sit on the bed. “I have to do something first… some unfinished business.”

She kept looking at him, her heart still thumping wildly, but now in a good way. Anticipating what was to come, she primed herself in her sitting position.

Her hope wasn’t belied. Jake went down on one knee before her, and thrust his hand into his coat pocket. She held her breath as he extracted a small square box and opened it to reveal an ornate ring.

“Here it is then,” he said, holding out the box. “Mercy Gleeson, my one and only true love, on this Valentine’s Day, I ask of you — will you be mine forever?”

The whole experience had been ethereal so far. A couple of hours ago, she had been wallowing in her misery, shunning the world as she could not face its sympathetic stares, rarely going out of her house; and now, her love was back — in such a real way, that too. In that moment, nothing else mattered to her. The past was too far gone, the future held a distant promise. It was only the present moment she wanted to live in.

He was still there, his handsome face eagerly awaiting an answer.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes!”

He put the ring clumsily onto her slender finger, and lifted her in his arms. Holding her like that, they kissed, his warm lips feeling like summer dewdrops on hers. And then he whirled her round and round, till she felt she would collapse with the happy dizziness.

It was then that the light began to appear.

She didn’t notice it at first, but when he stopped whirling her, the glow behind his head was quite apparent. He smiled, and the smile was surreal, unlike anything she had seen before. She struggled in his arms, and he kept her down.

“What’s this?” she said, referring to the halo.

But he only smiled.

“No, tell me. What is this?” she repeated.

And then, he led her by her hand.

“Come with me,” he said.

Not understanding a bit of what was happening, she let herself be led by him. He brought her out of the house, treading carefully over haphazardly placed pebbles, and took her to the gate.

“Why does your face shine?” she asked. “What is all this, Jake?”

He didn’t utter a word. He took her outside the gate, and made her stop. Then, he pointed a finger at a board placed on the fence.

“What?” she asked.

He pointed harder, and she looked.

It was a notice-board. On it was written:

Unsafe House

Fire Casualty: Stay Away

Following the accidental deaths of two young people, Jake North and Mercy Gleeson, this house has been cordoned off by the municipal authorities. The cause of fire is not yet ascertained.

By Order.

 

Now, she felt the warmth grow within her too. She looked up, and a luminescence was beginning to appear.

“You see,” he said. “We kept our promise. To be each other’s Valentines forever.”

END

 

 

More love stories with a twist await you in Neil D’Silva’s acclaimed book Bound in Love. Check out the book now!

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