A Dog's Tale

Excesses

2019-07-28T21:58:00.000+05:30

Somewhere I wondered where it had all vanished in the midst of all the chaos that ensued. I was witnessing the death of everything that was ever stood for.

In the very first week, the nightmares had started, the never ending nightmares that gave me a cold sweat every now and then. I was a victim of the mockery that was made by society. I had to give in to the system which was more savage on the inside than on the outside. It felt like irrespective of the periodic change in seasons, I was going to rot here.

Ryan had mentioned about it once on one of our treks. It was an unbearable sunny day when we decided to make a climb on one of the grim peaks about a 100 miles from the city. Why did I have to digress right there I wonder. Why did I have to bring Ryan into this. Would it be safe to assume that one thing lead to the other and I subsequently did what ended up being unfortunately done? These thoughts are going to stay with me forever.

I do not remember if I was told by someone or I read it somewhere that excesses are going to harm me someday. That is sometimes how you ponder upon axioms, you do not really remember from where they got stuck to you & with the current predicament that I seem to be in, it seems apt.

I was snoring on the wheel the moment I rammed my car. I could hear myself snoring the moment I heard the thud made from the car and the scream from Ryan. I had taken one drink too many that night on the eve of my Birthday. I could neither fathom the gravity of the condition that I was in nor could I do anything post the impact. If I had just been a little thoughtful about Ryan travelling with me that night, I would not have been where I am. I still count days and they seem too many. I have let down everyone. I am sorry Ryan, it did not have to end this way. My birthday did not have to be the day you stopped breathing.

I breathe the air in cell 1412 today. I miss life & everything associated with it

The Escape

2010-02-07T13:44:00.003+05:30

Writing has been one of my passions since time immemorial, which helped fuel my fascination for the written word. Unfortunately, the skill lay dormant in my quest to achieve superiority over the bitch- Goddess named Success. But, now that I have a job that pays me a fat salary, its time to comfortably recline on my chair with a cup of coffee on an early Sunday morning and give the wings of words to my thoughts. In the midst of this philosophical deluge, my twisted mind decided to experiment with a more mature story. The one that might not be for the ‘popcorn’ lot. That’s what I think. I have tried my best to come up with something which might surprise people. Enough of the boring introduction, I present to you “The Escape”.

I opened the door with relief and anticipation. It had been a long day. It had been lasting, in some ways, for about 10 years. All I really wanted right then was to escape to his self-made sanctuary, shutting out the signs of the mundane world and relax, popping down a beer or two…or ten.

John was gone for the night. Though I loved my son, I was often glad for the respite that solitude gave me. Teenage boys can be a handful, after all. Yes, I knew that while John did have a lot of common sense, I also knew that often, as a parent, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe it was just plain optimism; maybe it was simply trust. In any case, this night I was glad to just be alone.

Closing the door behind me, I entered the lobby and dropped my keys on the table in the hallway. It felt good to be home. Sanctuary? Yes, but that feeling was slipping away over the last two years since… my escape. Now, more and more, it seemed like my place… my domain.

God, had it been two years already? Yes, I told himself, it had, but it seemed like so much less than that. Maybe that’s because time, a wonderfully fickle thing, loved to play with your mind. How can hours or days pass seeming like only an instant, while the same period of time can plod along so slow, laborious? Yes, time was weird. It could rob you… if you let it.

The 18 years with my ex, Martha, were a blur, punctuated with blazing images. Some good. Most bad. There’s that weird tapestry of time again. Smears the memory. They say time heals. Did it? I guess so.

I fumbled in my shirt for a cigarette, walking into the living room. ”Gonna have to quit this someday” the little voice in my head chided, for the umpteen- thousandth time. As I approached the couch, I stopped suddenly. A cold ripple of ice slithered down the back of his neck. Little voice is speaking again, but this warning was much more eerie.

“What”? I thought.

Silence.

I stood there, frozen, trying to make out the words, but they weren’t there. I hadn’t really heard in words. It was more of a feeling. I listened, straining against the silence of the house that at times was deafening.

Did I hear something? What was the alarm that went off in my semi consciousness? I looked around the room, eyes and ears searching.

Same old secondhand furniture. TV in the same place, a week’s worth of newspapers stuffed behind the easy chair. The afternoon shadows stealing across the carpet, same as ever. Outside, I could hear the muffled drone of a lawn mower of my neighbour. Nope… nothing wrong here.

‘Jesus’, I said to himself, plopping into the couch. “I thought you were over that”. I should be, shouldn’t I? It’s been two years for Christ sake. Yeah… right… but maybe it takes longer than that to erase what you’ve been through.

“Damn”, I thought, as the smoke exhaled through his nostrils. “Get a hold of yourself”.

I had reason to be nervous though. My journey through the kaleidoscope of marriage with Martha had certainly taken its toll. It wasn’t just the alcoholism. Nor was it her lying, or her ruining me financially. It wasn’t even the countless episodes of screaming, fighting, (under the guise of “let’s talk”). Year after year I told myself, I would get through this… make it better. Get through somehow. Not even my son’s suspicions of abuse toward Martha were enough to make me give up. Of course, I told himself, good ol’ Dave, ever the optimist, had turned a blind eye.

The last three years were the worst. Paranoia and delusion had taken her over. I mused, once again, as I had so often back then, that if it were simply a matter of marital conflict… misunderstanding, or atoning for words or actions born of inconsideration, there might have been a chance. But how in God’s name can you respond… much less defend yourself… much less succeed… when there is no reality? When the demon sitting in front of you isn’t the real problem at all, but the demons that drove her mind?

No. You couldn’t. I had long since lost my self-respect. Sacrificing my family, my goals, my dreams, “for the good of the marriage”, I felt ashamed. But there was one thing he just could not, would not, sacrifice. And that she insisted on having… and devouring. They say that the basic animal instinct for self-survival is the strongest there is. Well, that certainly must be true. For in the end, it was that which enabled me to say, “No more”, and escape the clutches of the hell my life had become.

Not that it was easy. I knew that he was dealing with a brittle, unpredictable mind the first time she spit in my face. This was reconfirmed when this graduated to me hitting her. Bad as that was, I never felt truly afraid until the night I ’d had to wrestle the gun from her.

“The only way this marriage will end is in death”! She’d screamed.

I was overcome with fear then. Oh, yes, indeed. So much so, I didn’t dare ask whose death… hers, or mine, she meant. From that moment on, I ’d taken her very seriously. And for the first time, my life of depression and despair had become one of fear and terror.

But that had been two years ago. But she was safely locked up in prison. She wasn’t going anywhere, all comfy behind steel doors and drugged with God knows what.

“Geez, cool it, man”, I thought to himself. “You’re just tired, and on edge from a long week”. Still, something “pinged” in his mind. Something I could not quite put his finger on.

I snubbed the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and kicked off my shoes. Yes, everything is all right. You’ve got your life back. Things are coming together pretty damn good. I was laughing more, drinking less, had started to carve out a good life. Maybe even the really pretty female I saw at Wal-Mart would eventually give him a chance.

I smiled at that. Yeah, she was a head-turner all right. Something told me that we were bound to have a good time..

“Yes, maybe I could have a regular life again”, I sighed.

Just then my reverie was snapped shut with a cold metallic clang. The icy feel in the back of my neck returned. What the hell was going on?

Fumbling for the remote, I brought the TV to life, surfing the channels as I always did. Arsenal losing (again).Indo - Pak peace talks failed (again). Reality show altercations (again).. Then I stopped, with the local news. The anchorwoman was giving the late breaking story.

… “has escaped. Authorities are not giving details, but at least one person is dead and a massive manhunt is in progress”.

But it wasn’t those words which froze me where I sat. It wasn’t even the superimposed picture behind Ms. TV Anchor lady. It was that damned smell. The smell I had known only too well.

The TV sound faded away in my mind, but the smell lingered, making the superimposed picture on the TV cruelly more vivid. The picture of Martha, in one of her more hideous moments, when she’d been arrested. It was the smell. How many days/nights/years has that horrible aroma entered my nostrils? The smell of cheap gardenia perfume, which was the only stuff that woman would wear. If it had sickened me then, it positively revolted me now. Yes, it had been that smell, unnoticed, which had sent the silent alarm.

“Oh my God! It can’t be…!”

With great effort, I found my legs enough to stand. Slowly, agonizingly, afraid, yet afraid not too, I turned toward the kitchen. Life, like time, can be funny. Sometimes, when something is so impossible… so unlikely… that when actually confronted with it there’s no surprise. This was one of those times.

There she was. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Her dark eyes ablaze with a vacant, mad determination.

All the fear, the revulsion I had tried to the first live with, then suppress, engulfed me like a wave of hot dirty water from a ruptured sewer line.

“What… How”? I could only mumble a soft unbelieving whisper.

She made no response. She just stood there, framed in the doorway. She was like a snake, with cold unseeing eyes that knows it will soon dispense with its prey.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her right hand, which held the gun. I was only dimly aware of it. My mind was reeling with a myriad of sights and sounds.

The neighbour’s lawnmower droning outside. The TV had moved on to advertisements. That god awful gardenia smell that would forever be associated with Martha.

And then I noticed, unwilling to see, the curl of her lip as she began a half-smile. Yellow teeth glared in the late afternoon shadows, and for a moment, I thought he could actually see blood dripping from her lips. God! Surely not!

I didn’t really hear the shots, either of them. My mind racing, feverishly, trying to comprehend. Nor did I feel it when his body was ruthlessly thrown back, knocking me to the floor, overturning the coffee table.

The sound around me faded. I looked down to my hands clutching my chest. They were filled with blood. My blood. This was the last thing I saw as my vision began to blur.

Jack meets Henry

2008-03-05T16:46:00.000+05:30

This is my first attempt at writing a short story.Don't ask me why I am writing it because i don't seem to have the answer myself.Anyway here it goes....Hope you like it

Henry felt sticky all over. Where in the heck am I? He asked himself. He managed to stand up and walk over to the sink. He was in a bathroom. He started to wash his hands when he looked into the mirror.

Oh my God! He screamed. Henry had blood all over his body! He turned on the shower, tested the water with his hand, then deciding it was hot enough, he took his clothes off, and started to climb into the shower. He grabbed hold of the shower curtain, and let out a scream!

There, lying in the shower was his Landlady, Mrs. Burrton! Henry panicked! He didn’t know what he should do! As he realized where he was, in Mrs. Burrton’s apartment, it all came back to him.

Yesterday was like any other. He had left for work, he remembered stopping at the local hotel to get his supper.

When he got to Mrs. Burrton’s apartment, to pay his rent, she asked him in so she could write him a receipt.

Henry remembered now! He had started imagining ways to kill her, and even craved the desire of murder that was stirring in his soul. He got up, and picked up the knife that was on the counter, and just started stabbing her! Then, as quickly as he killed her, exhaustion overcame him. He guessed now that was how he had been asleep in her bathroom.

Henry could not believe it! He ran downstairs to his apartment, and got in his shower. While he was scrubbing the blood off of himself, he started thinking of ways to get rid of the body.

There was a knock at his door. He panicked! When he opened it, two police officers were standing there. Oh God, they know! Was all that was running threw his mind.

“Uh, Officers, can I help you?” Henry asked nervously.

“Yes, did you hear any strange noises last night?”

“Uh, no, I don’t recall, but then again, I sleep really sound. Why?” Henry asked.

“Well, it seems that Mrs. Burton was brutally murdered in her home, and we know who did it, and we were hoping you had seen or heard something.” The Officer replied.

“I’m sorry I can’t help, but I didn’t hear anything. Now, did I hear you right, Officer? You said you know who did this?”

“Yea, his name’s Jack. We’ve been trying to catch him for years.” The Officer explained. “He’s a nut on the loose. He escaped about four years ago, from the State Mental Asylum and seems to always be one-step ahead of us. If you see any men hanging around that shouldn’t be here, you call us, you hear?”

“Sure thing, Officer, thank you.”

As Henry closed the door, he could not help but smile. Jack, huh? He said to himself. He went to the bathroom, to clean up, and stopped to look in the mirror. “Yes, Henry, meet Jack. “.

Cant possibly think of a title for this

2008-01-08T11:07:00.001+05:30

There comes a time in every writer's life(writer here refers to me) when the words just don't flow like they used to, choosing instead, to indulge in constipation of the mind. At times like these, the writer must retire and travel to The Himalayas to attain spiritual sanctity & freedom from worldly desires
Unfortunately for you, this is not one of those times. So you'll just have to sit your ass down and read the following (mostly) true story.

The story takes place in a land far far away, where baby boys with names like Edson Arantes Do Nascimento Pele grow up to challenge Sri Lankan cricketers in an 'Oh Baby Say My Name!' contest (Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas tilts the balance in favour of the Lankans). The place I'm talking about of course, is Brazil, also known as the land of topless women, although for the sake of finishing this article on time, we shall not think about that now. And by 'we', I mean 'I'.

So, back to our Brazilian story. A man here has done what most guys around the world can only dream of achieving. For legal reasons, the man cannot be named, so let's call him Mr.X

(Digression:
X has got to be the coolest letter you can put in a name. In fact, I think 'Xerxes' is one of the most kickass names around. Just look at it! It should be the name of one of the X-Men. He'd be a lean, mean killing machine who'd kick Wolverine's ass without batting an eyelid.

Although in reality, most boys named Xerxes are rosy-cheeked, soft-spoken Bawas who're capable of killing only one thing - the Hindi language.
Digression ends.)

Mr.X was a beer taster at a brewery called Ambev. His job involved drinking an average of 1.5 litres of beer everyday. He used his refined senses to come up with important feedback for the brewers, such as 'Burrrp!' and 'Mmm..beeeer.' He also received a bottle of beer at the end of each shift (their version of homework, I'm guessing).

Now comes the twist in the tale. After ten years of faithful beer drinking, Mr.X did what some term as 'unimaginable'. He filed a lawsuit against the company, claiming that the job had turned him into an alcoholic. Mr.X said that the company had taken no measures to ensure that he wouldn't turn into an alcoholic. The news reports say:

"...the employee's alcohol dependency had worsened in recent years and that even on vacation, the employee felt like drinking the same amount of beer he drank at work."
- Source: Associated Press
Mr. X gives a whole new meaning to the term 'workoholic', doesn't he?
The company defended itself by claiming that Mr.X was an alcoholic even before they took him on. Solid strategy, I say. Apparently not, for the judge ordered Ambev to pay Mr.X a compensation of 100,000 reals (US $49,400). Let me sum it up for those of you with short attention spans.

Man gets paid to drink beer. Man quits. Man says beer made him alcoholic. Man gets paid some more.
Now I know what you're thinking. " Why am I struggling here with all these stupid books, professors and exams, when I could just go to Brazil and become a beer taster? My parents can even tell the neighbours 'Mera beta foreign gaya hai, kuch chemical research ke liye'".

I don't blame you of course. But think of it this way - India is shining right now. There are jobs opening up in every sector, and companies are loosening up their purse strings. Money is pouring in, and employees are empowered like never before. So instead of using deceit and taking advantage of a flawed judiciary in Brazil, why not do the same in India?.In case you haven't still figured out what i really mean, i meant make the most what your country has to offer!