The party

Good Golly, Miss Molly

She stood there, the pistol smoking with remnants of a recent discharge. The mirror above her dressing-table shone back untidy black curls, smudged lip-stick and eye-liner run away with her tears. The lights above the mirror were bright, and the pistol glinted much the same way as the diamond ring on her left hand.

The pistol fell on the Turkish towel that lay spread out on the bed; the satin covers were badly stained, but they are easily replaceable.

It had been a difficult life alright, one that was filled with virtues and a need for self-preservation and respect for mankind. But there is a limit, you know…to respect, that is.

So the first man she dated was married, and the second one married someone else. So what now? She used to clean floors at the restaurant during college days, and suffered unkind remarks from overly-rich and underly-worked folks from those up-town places. But it was enough to pay the rent while the scholarship took care of the rest.

It’s amazing how far education cannot take you. But then, music and beauty always go hand in hand; in an unkind world, you have to hit back with all you got. If you don’t have anything, sing about it. If you can’t sing well, sing really loud. Then you’re a rock star.

So it was with her. A series of roller-coaster rides and relationships later, she found herself deeply in debt, deeply sought after, and deeply into various addictions. It was a vicious cycle as one fed the other. But one could wake up to see tomorrow.

Let’s see now; the first job didn’t go too badly. Her boss was shifted to another department before the end-of-the-year. That left her with pretty much nobody to explain to her why she was redundant.

The next job didn’t go too badly either; when you’ve been dumped, it’s expected that you will work twice as hard to earn half as much. And you shouldn’t ask for a bonus either. That would be terrible, if you did.

But then, everything clicked and fell into place. Then it got a little hazy.

But now, the lights were dimming and the view from across the balcony of her twentieth-floor flat spanned a series of twinkling lights that were of varying heights in the far distance, but married each other to form a perfect arc that highlighted the haze enveloping the city in a comfortable, choking clasp.

She fell back.

Some minutes later, the police barged into the room; the pretty lady was found lying on bed with a bullet-hole through her left temple.

The satin was a real mess.

*****

Doors of Perception

It was a perfectly balanced life; he often alternated between regret and sin. And often alternated between the men’s room and the bar. In front of the live music. Just like it was some minutes back. Except that news of the gun-shot had spread pretty fast. And then it came back, haunting him like an old tune.

The police were circling around the apartment complex. The lights were twirling and the police had arrived to close another chapter.

But tonight, there was another story. He was far too drunk to figure how best to tell the story.

He pulled himself out of the pub and stood outside, trying to catch the sea-breeze, breathing through his mouth. A few hours later, he would be ok. Except that the police were around.

Death is a real eye-opener, he thought to himself. Apparently, awareness to environment heightens on news of death. He remembered being part of a funeral procession some years back; the flowers growing near the drainage system looked beautiful then. Tonight, he was trying to catch his breath. Idiot.

So he approached the police cars slowly. One of them looked at him with disgust.
“This is no place for you, sir. There has been a shooting.”
“I know. You’ll never catch the killer, though.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the killer is also dead”
“What?”
“Suicide...it's the latest flavour of the month”
“How would you know that, sir?”
At this point, the drunk started laughing.
“I think its better that you go home, sir. You’re in no condition to walk. Besides, this is not a good time to be chatting with the police.”

The police officer was visibly irritated by this fool. Spending hard-earned money on alcohol too expensive to waste by getting drunk, and all he has to show for it is caked stains on his shirt.
“Sir…..please leave.”

And the drunk turned around, and staggered on his left foot. His state was worsened by the fact that he was flat-footed.

There must be a taxi at that time; what time was it anyways? He looked at his left hand. Men who wear watches on their right hand are strange, he was told during his school-days. Not much valuable insights to be gained in school. It’s funny, what startling revelations are to be had when death and alcohol surround you.

There was a taxi-driver sleeping, but the meter was up, indicating that even at this god-forsaken hour, the taxi was ready for business. The city never sleeps.

He entered the taxi and passed out just before telling the driver where he wanted to go. He was pretty sure that the driver would wake him up about ten minutes before he got home.

Next morning, he expected that the death would be all over the papers. Not really; page 3 was very sympathetic to the plight of a socialite who used to sing at parties and was associated with many famous industrialists.

What a sad ending to a life that blossomed with joy and radiated happiness to one and all.

Page 3 got her name wrong. When you die, then you’re really famous.

*****

Life in the Fast Lane

The waitress was collecting enough change by flirting with one man and pitting him against another man she had flirted with some minutes back. A real labour of love.

It was four in the afternoon but inside the bar, there was no sense of time. The holes in the wall that overlooked the street seemed to radiate the darkness outside.

Outside, the cobbler sat underneath the shade offered by the tarpaulin covering the paan-walah's 2 by 2. Business was slow today, and he slowly chewed on the betel-nut, focusing on the chewing and the spitting in an effort to forget the heat. The storm clouds had been teasing people, and the occasional shower whispered relief, only for the sun to return with a vengeance.

There were some rumbling noises coming from inside the bar; chairs being pushed behind only to be followed by some shouting and laughing and some educated shrieking.

The two policemen sitting outside drinking their half-cuppa tea cursed loudly in the direction of the bar. The shouting subsided, but the laughter continued. The rubber sheets covering the row of slum-houses reeked of the smell that rubber makes when unable to cope with heat. The stench, combined with the banging noises that came from the various mechanics' outlets led to a bad headache. Stripping licence plates was a good business.

The policemen proceeded to abuse, with the occasional slang questioning the validity of their origins and passing references to their mothers and sisters. On this street, life was as bad as it could get.

Which made it an unusual locale to discuss the previous night's suicide.

The cobbler's distant cousin was a hand at the apartment where the death took place. His cousin often referred to a violent life that the four walls of that apartment had played a mute witness to. Of strange looking pills that would be consumed with golden liquors in fine glasses, and the cigarette smoke often smelt very sweet.

The cobbler adjusted his dhoti and stretched his legs. He spat in the direction of a drain. This weather simply took no prisoners!

"These filmi people have more money and less brains", said the first policeman to noone in particular.
"Yes, so much blood", replied the second.
"And what of that fool, with his city ways? He was disturbing us at four in the morning!"
"But how did he know it was a suicide? It was less than twenty minutes when we came, and he was too drunk to walk"
"These filmi people are always like that", confirmed the first one.

The cobbler continued to overhear the conversation.
"She did some good work though ... on those TV serials", said the second one, rising to the defence of the defenseless dead."My sister always enjoyed her serials. She played the role of nurses, and forever spent free time in hospitals. She did some good......"
"Arrey, so what? Do you know how many men have been in her life? And my job is to help clean up the blood and collect evidence. For what? Her men should have been there cleaning up the blood. Why do I need the stress?"
"Ya, we should have called the drunk fool with us. Wonder where he went...we should have taken him for questioning."
"What for? He seemed another filmi types..fool. No use to us."

Thank God for stereotypes, it resolves the need for thought. This was the lesson for the day for the cobbler. He would learn another from his cousin.

*****