Mathew

At 16, I thought I was cool. I was the tallest in class, the best athlete, the most eloquent and also the best-looking kid in town. Hmmm… OK… I’ll admit it was a small town. I had a girlfriend too, one with actual boobs rather than raised nipples and hopefully would be able to go all the way with. The condoms were in the wallet, ever-ready to seal the deal.

I was a star. I was a saint too. Went to church, never was involved in a fight and a hit with a parent-folk too. For a town in Kerala, dominated by Christian families, this was enough.

My baptism into the religion of drinking was on the day before Christmas that year. The priests presiding over the ritual were Arun and John, belonging to ’the rebel’ clique in school. Yes, they loved me too.

I remember being animated that morning as I was waiting for the call to come- John’s call. He was given the esteemed job of procuring the booze. Arun’s usual supplier, his uncle, who would have given away his entire estate granted that he was asked nicely and he was beyond his fifth peg, was out of town. John would have to bribe his Rubber-Tapper to get it from the ‘civil supplies’.

The house was filling up with my extended family members as it was decided that our family would host the Christmas party.  The driveway was quickly filling up with cars and disgruntled drivers. My mouth was already hurting from keeping that smile in place. The questions, oh, the questions, they just keep on coming. Booze was yet to be introduced into the group as my Dad was waiting for the quorum to be filled. Once, that’s done, the questions get another life altogether.

The call came at last. I got on my Honda Activa and zoomed towards the rendezvous point- Arun’s place. His family was out to visit relatives and as he didn’t perform ‘well’ in the exams he was forced to stay at home to study for a retest after the holidays. I was given the job for getting the Pepsi and ‘touchings’. On the way, I stopped at a bakery, bought a bottle of Pepsi and a ‘mixture packet’. To the sly smile of the bakery owner, I replied that Dad’s gang had arrived. He gave me two ‘Pan Pasand’ candies as change. Not to look suspicious I took it and left.

Arun and John were ready with the glasses and the nudie magazines. The stuff-was the much revered McDowells Celebrations Rum, a brand which I still ardently follow. They gave me the low down on how you never have a hangover and how college students swear by it.

My dad and my uncles were all whisky people, so rum was a revelation to me. Arun deftly gave a tap on the cap, an elbow butt at the bottom and with a swift twist of the hand the cap was open, which seemed awesome then. Three glasses were poured to equal amounts of what was described as 90s. Pepsi was poured in next and the mixture packet opened out in a heap in the middle.

A quick swig after the ceremonial cheers gave me the first taste of the lovable poison. The anticipation I had seemed a bit trifle after that. We settled down into a rhythm, drinking slowly, feeling the drink take over the body and making life more bearable. I tried the cigarette that John gave me. I loved it and kept half of it for later. Tongues were loosened and secrets were exchanged and my narration of the escapades with the school babe took the sheen away from the nudie magazines. After the third 90, I was done.

With the help of my friends, my favourite friends, I reached home. I could manage myself as I knew all of them in there would be too drunk to notice but I was afraid of the dreaded smell. I dug into my pockets and got out the Pan Pasand, I thanked god and popped one in.

This somehow was a bad move, the sugar or I think the hideous taste triggered some reactions in me. I staggered into the veranda and I missed a step and fell down face first on to red-oxided floor. I threw up immediately making yellow puddle with the Pan Pasand as a cherry on top of it. I felt limp; my attempts at getting up were quite futile. Hearing the commotion, the entire family came out see me wading in my own vomit. My elder brother and dad took in charge and dragged me in to the bathroom. My dad emptied my pockets and found my wallet which had a picture of my girlfriend, an unused condom, a half-smoked cigarette which suspiciously looked like it had marijuana in it and a Pan Pasand. I was no longer a saint.

I still think that was the best day of my life.

PS- I got laid that weekend, as the rebel tag was too much for her to handle

Steve

Steve was a designer, an automotive component designer to be exact and an exemplary one at that too. He took pride in his designs; his work was everywhere-in Jaguars, Bentleys, Aston Martins, the lot.

He designed speedometers, usually only bits of it; the bits which you wouldn’t even notice unless somebody pointed out the marvelous flow of design, much like his life.

Steve woke that morning with a start. It was the 8th of September. He hated the room he woke up in, to him it was no more than a pigsty, the garish colors and the ill-matching furniture just made him feel more nauseated than the aftertaste of the rum-induced night-in-town he had. He looked at the girl lying next him wondering why he had to do that to her. The wounds on her arms from the ropes were still ripe.

The image of his friend Mike saying “Money gives you access to all kinds of shit” in a lousy diner next to his workplace came to his mind. His thoughts wandered to think why were all diners lousy. He looked at her again and noticed that she was indeed very pretty for a $50 hooker, rather young too. He considered himself lucky this time, usually it’s the disgusting ones that he ends up with. His wondered why his blackout episodes were more prominent these days. His psychiatrist blamed the alcohol for them. He thought of him as a twat.

He curled up to her and touched her face, it felt unusually cold. He noticed that she wasn’t breathing. Panic set in. He pulled off the sheets and saw the cuts, the bruises from the lashes. Like in the millions of movies he had seen growing up he checked for her pulse- there was none. His head started spinning. He gathered his clothes and ran. He ran half naked through the streets trying to make sense of it all, never realizing his nakedness.

The rains broke-out, drenching Steve and the streets. He welcomed the feel of the acid-diluted rain on his body, it felt as if it though it cleansed him from his sins.

The episodes started over a year ago, when Prozac and alcohol was a way of life for him. He had just designed a meter for Jaguar, so went out to celebrate his work, by himself as usual. He drowned his misery in a bottle of rum. Nobody saw his work as he could. He saw the intricacies, the form, the flow of his design- the ingrates at his workplace definitely did not. He remembers the next day waking up in a seedy place like the one he woke up in today with the just the memory of leaving the park. The episodes of bondage came much later, almost 4 months after the first episode. Every time he woke up from an episode he felt refreshed, the world seemed more hospitable to him. He craved for it.

He ran towards the park, the rain pelting down more heavily. St. Mary’s Park was always special to him; all his favorite moments were in this park. This was where his family came out for picnics before the accident. This was where his dad played catch with him, had his first kiss, his birthday parties.

He ran to the statue in the middle of the park, a ‘Pieta’. He fell down at the feet of the statue, exhausted. His mind was still numb from the image of the dead girl. He tried hard to remember what happened last night, searched his head for the slightest memory but in vain.

He cried

He was overcome with remorse; he blamed his inability to deal with the world.  He tried to escape from it and now it cost a life.  He tried to reason, that she was a hooker and her life wouldn’t amount to anything other than making a few perverts happy. He realized his life didn’t amount to anything too, the automotive world would still continue to exist without him, he had no friends, no legacy, no relatives who cared about him, nobody that loves him, nobody to cry at his deathbed. So, why live?

His faint heart tried to reason with this thought. He looked at the compassionate face of Mother Mary looking down at the lifeless body of the Christ. He begged for forgiveness kneeling into the wet grass. He felt exhaustion creeping up his body, a numbness that was inexplicable. It seemed to take his burden away, so he gave in to it.

There in the middle of the park, next to the Pieta lies Steve, the moist grass comforting him and the rain soothing him.

He woke up in his bed to the sound of the alarm ringing on his cheap cell phone. He looked at it to see that today was the 8^th of September.

Martha

The front door was locked and dead-bolted. “Very thorough”, was the first impression I had as I sat back on the chair facing my husband who was slowly bleeding to death. The bottle full of aspirin acted as an anti-coagulant which resisted nature from saving his life. It made the event more fun to watch.

Well, he deserves it. That’s the only justification I can give. We have been married for the past 4 years. He was boring, lousy in bed and a stingy bastard. He was too honest and politically correct that it became intolerable. He was a momma’s boy and a son of the church. Get this-we didn’t make love on Fridays as he thought it might hurt ‘somebody’s’ sentiments. I decided to not to have kids with him coz the last thing that the world needed were more dull people.

My Juan was just the opposite, now, that’s a man who can please his woman.  Sure, he slept around, but I was not exactly looking for anything concrete either. He was all man. We were in the middle of round three when this idiot walked in and spoilt everything. He had to die.

Look at him, bleeding.  I am thoroughly enjoying this, watching him pay for the four years that he took away for me. I had to sneak about and invite filth into my life because he couldn’t deliver. Dr. Phil would have understood what I was going through. Even that book “He’s not that into you” is on my side. You know what; I think he was cheating on me too, with that church lady Annie. That bitch!

Paul was clearly fading away, his eyes opened for a moment. His eyes filled with terror when he saw me. Ha! Didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?  Those eyes kept staring at me, the fear fading away. He smiled for the last time and took his last breath. Was love the reason for this mess?

Excerpts from Detective Philip’s notes

Triple 187 out in New Jersey

Three bodies, two in the bedroom and one in the living room.

The living room had the dead husband and was ID’ed as Paul.  His wrists were slit possibly with the knife lying on the coffee table next to the chair. A .38 calibre gun was also found on the table. Death was due to heart failure after Class IV Haemorrhage. The empty bottles of aspirin suggest it might have been used as an anti-coagulant.

The bodies in the bedroom were naked and were ID’ed as Martha, the wife and Juan, the next door neighbour. Multiple bullet wounds were found on both bodies which were consistent with the calibre of the gun found near Paul. The room was in disarray which indicated evidence of a struggle.

Probable hypothesis

Paul comes in, finds the wife with Juan. In a fit of rage, killed both of them with the gun and committed suicide by slitting his veins.

…the only thing that perplexed me is the fact that he did not use the gun to kill himself and he was sane enough to take the aspirin to make sure he succeeded in his attempt. He took the hard way out, as if though he was punishing himself…

Pain

As I stared at the woman (her facial hair however said a different story) in white, gazing down at my open mouth giving disgusted expressions, meaning either it’s that bad or she’s got gas. Anyway, being the optimist that I am, I decided it was the former and suddenly I felt like the smallest man alive. I offered a rebuttal telling her that I brush everyday- twice, floss and use a mouthwash.

Well, she couldn’t care less, instead stated that I needed a good scaling and polishing. I nodded my acceptance with the gracefulness of an idiot. It was one of those decisions that you would eventually regret taking but was thrust onto you by someone who knows better. I settled down in that dreadful chair, trying to distract myself from all those shiny instruments by imagining how wonderful that chair would be in a totally different scenario.

My fantasy came to an abrupt halt when I heard the dreaded whining of the drill. Then she came and said “This might hurt a bit” and for some apparent reason started playing some Hindi song on the LCD TV fixed right above me. What followed was absolute agony, the drill digging into my delicate gums, her pudgy fingers pushing down my jaw as I wince in pain and the jarring Hindi songs all just added to the torture, at that moment I would have confessed to anything. Where are those anaesthetics when you need them?

Finally, it was over, I relaxed my clenched muscles when she said she finished scaling. I then washed my mouth and saw a ton of blood spiralling down the drain. I quickly made up an excuse to leave and asking her to do the polishing some other time.

As I was leaving, another guy was being ushered in. I felt pity for him. I got in my car and wanted to get as far away from that godforsaken place as fast as possible.

We are always running away from our responsibilities, running away from pain, running away from relationships cause we never own up to them and cause we are scared of the pain. I realized this while I was doing 90 on a twisty bit of road and came close to ending up in a ditch.