Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 50

“Look for the pattern, there is always a pattern.” The professor of criminology had drilled the maxim into my head and yet in this case I could see no pattern. It started with the disappearance of a young girl, aged 19, no body found as yet, please note. Then the psychiatrist who was treating her, aged 41, male, again no body found. A week later, another patient of the same psychiatrist, aged 52, male, no trace of a body. It was two months and we were at eight disappearances and counting. The obvious pattern was someone who knew the Psychiatrist and his patients but then the motive kicked in or the lack of it, in this case. Every disappearance was preceded by a type written message in the form of a rhyme. I looked at the rhyme that had  just come in, “All tired of being second best, had to give their misery a rest. The second will second recognize, common sense will get you your prize!” And then it struck me! I laughed out aloud. Every serial killer, at the end, wants to reveal himself!

-Arsee.

Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 49

Everybody is somebody’s fool. I was his. Loved him when he did not care. Loved him when he laughed at my tears. Loved him when I was the butt of his jokes. Loved him when he slept with other women. Loved him when he humiliated me. Loved him when he beat me. Loved him when he threw me out of his life. Loved him when I when I roamed the streets like a vagabond. Loved him when I had to do drugs to forget him. Loved him when the doctor gave up on me. I begged him to meet me once, just once. He met me. I looked my best for him. Like he liked. He slept with me. In the morning I did not want to wake him so I wrote on his mirror with my lipstick. “Love you too much to die alone. Welcome to the world of positive HIV, asshole.”

-Arsee.

Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 48

As the hour grew late and the last of the revelers departed, only two sanyasis remained. Meera’s temple in Chittorgarh glowed in the light of several oil lamps, ethereal. One Sanyasi placed a beautiful necklace of exquisite gems at Meera’s feet and she smiled, “You shouldn’t have Jahapanah!” “You recognized me?” Emperor Akbar was shocked. Meera nodded, “You and Mia Tansen, as well.” The two men looked at each other, speechless. “Why do you come so far from Fatepur?” Meera inquired softly. “To Listen to your music.” Akbar replied smilingly. “When you have the world’s best, Mia Tansen at your court?” she chided. Tansen spoke with his eyes cast down, “I will be remembered, my music will not. Yet, your bhajans will live long after you. I have the love of music. You have the music of love.”

-Arsee.

Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 47

He was rich enough to afford it and heartbroken enough to try it. It was two years since she was dead and everyday the regret only kept growing. He should have told her he loved her. Yet, he did not. She kept waiting, pining and then one fine day, crash and it was all over. He had to tell her and there was only one way! He would get the doctors to kill him and the resuscitate him! They said when you die the people who loved you came to receive you, she would come and then he would tell her he loved her! And he would keep at it till she came! The doctors told him it was crazy but he did not care! They had killed him and brought him back five times but he had yet to see her. This was his sixth time.

He died…  He came back.

And when he came around he began to cry. The Doctor asked him if he saw her and he whispered, “I met God instead. And he said, when you let love go even I can’t bring it back.”

-Arsee.

Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 46

Outside the hospital window he could see the clouds, grey and low, refusing to part with rain. How much like her situation, he thought, looking at his wife riddled with tubes and wires on the hospital bed. Three months in a coma with no explanation that the doctors could give, they were still probing and testing. His cell phone buzzed and he checked the number. It was the same one, had been troubling him all week.  Some crank breathing into the phone. He switched his phone off, no patience with nonsense, wanting to stay with his thoughts. And then it rang again! Probably did not switch the phone off? He had! How the hell was it ringing? A software malfunction perhaps? He took the Sim card out of its tray to reboot completely when the phone rang again. The temperature in the room fell, was suddenly icy and there was a strange stench. He felt a chill in his spine. The phone kept ringing. He answered. There was a deep breathing sound and then a voice whispered, “Est apud nos, et non revertitur.” Three weeks later, the Exorcist told him it was Latin for “She is with us, she is not coming back.”

-Arsee.

Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 45

The blood has dried on the side of my face. The flies don’t buzz around it. My throat is sore from screaming and my side hurts from being kicked. I don’t know how many days it has been since he grabbed me from the car park late that night. Ten, maybe fifteen. The cops won’t find me. They would if they could. But it will end today. I feel the weapon in my hand. Took me one thousand and eight nine repetitions of Lenon’s Imagine to fashion it out of an aluminum spoon. The problem was the blinding daylight when he opened the trapdoor. But I have studied the trajectory. Can’t miss. Won’t miss. I hear him. The trapdoor is opening. I hold the spoon tight. The light blinds me. I spring towards him and jab the spoon into his throat. When I get used to the light I see a man in a khakhee uniform lying at my feet, a spoon sticking out his neck, I hear him laughing, a blur against the brightness.

-Arsee.

Fiction · Krishna · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 44

The captain of the guards announced that Mother Kunti was there to see him. He had been afraid this would happen. He had been hoping this would happen. The morning light shone on her stately form and her greying hair looked platinum. He touched her feet. She caressed his hair. “So you have come to see me?” he questioned, his voice choked. She nodded, unable to speak. “And you want to ask something of me?” Kunti nodded again. “Can I ask something of you first?” he managed a slight smile. “Yes,” she replied. “Can I put my head on your lap?” he requested, almost child-like. Kunti took a deep breath and sat down. He put his head on her lap. For a moment, nothing. Some more moments… She could not help bending down and kissing his forehead. And then they both cried. Kunti for the son she could not call her own. Karna for the mother he never had. Torn apart by fate, brought together for a moment by a terrible war. Both knew they would never meet again.

-Arsee.