The Visitation of a Lifetime

This was weird!

By any standard of archaic Indian culture and tradition, this was not only weird; it was in direct violation of how things should be.

I had carefully combed and again tousled my hair which made it about the fifth time I had done so in the past 15 minutes. Around six shirts lay in a heap on my bed and three pairs of trousers were strewn in a menagerie of disarray, creating a cloth road from the bathroom door to the kitchen where I gone to check up on the stuffed turkey in the oven and chocolate cheesecake in the fridge.

It had to be perfect; every aspect of it.

They were coming to see me, asses me, see if I was fit to be married into their family. And for that, I would have to work hard, very hard. You see, inter-religious marriage still isn’t a very big thing where I come from.

I had invited them over to dinner and they had accepted. My parents would not make it today, their flight delayed by incessant rains, but these people hadn’t cancelled. They wanted to see me what for I was, without having to make small talk with my parents.

I just hoped my apartment, my cooking skills, my education and most importantly, that I was up to their expectations. I wouldn’t want to disappoint my love.

I had prepared a slightly burnt vegetable starter, tomato soup, a stuffed turkey and a hopefully delicious cheesecake for dessert. Ping! The turkey was done. The taste was delectable. They will love it, I assure myself.

As I start folding the rest of my discarded clothes and arrange my truckload of novels neatly on the living room shelf, the doorbell rings. I panic, hastening my chores and shouting, “one minute” in the general direction of the doorway.

“Don’t bother, it’s just me. Open up,” I hear the voice of the one who makes my heart flutter and skip a beat. “Coming,” I yell and open the door.

“I knew you wouldn’t be done, so I came to help out.”

“Thank you darling, you’re the best.”

As we joined forces to put the rest of my apartment into some semblance of a habitable environment, “What’s that weird smell?”

“What?” I ask.

“You don’t smell it? Really?”

And then it hit me. The acrid sting of rain-soaked clothes mingling with a hint of turkey and a waft of chocolate hit me just as I was about to retort with extreme prejudice. The metaphorical glass of illusion had shattered. And suddenly, I was panicking again.

“Damn, that’s strong.”

“Exactly!” came the even more stinging reply.

I ran to the bedroom to get my can of deodorant and proceeded to soak the house from balcony to verandah till I ran out of it. I sat down, a triumphant smile on my face. Done… and done.

And then there it was again, emerging from the thick barrier of deodorant, to assault me once more. Damn! Why wouldn’t it go away?

“Looks like your master plan’s a dud, huh?” sarcasm in the face of an emergency. Like that was going to help.

My partner ran down to the car and rushed back holding a can of Ambi Pur Air Effects Spring Air Freshener. “Try this maybe?”

I didn’t need to be told twice. And just as I finished gently dabbing the apartment with it, the doorbell rang. It was time. And I was ready; the apartment, smelling like the 1^st of July, was too.

My love went to the door just as I finished straightening my clothes. Opening it wide, she said,

“Here is the man I want to marry!”

I am blogging for #SmellyToSmileyactivity at Blogadda.com in association with Ambi Pur.

The Tale of the Yellow Assassin

He was the patriarch of the family. He had all the makings of a leader. Well-built and intimidating, he sent everyone scurrying the moment he let his piercing gaze fall upon them. His yellow-tinted skin appalling and yet evoking respect from a distance. He was one best avoided, given his space for he didn’t take kindly to an invasion of his territory. As distant as he was to his own, he was even crueler to those who managed to fly into his trap. Cold and calculating, he was the ultimate assassin.

But his time was waning.

Image Courtesy: Google Images.

Now there was a new baddie in town, in His town. They called him the Flyboy. He struck hard and fast, before anyone could see him coming. He struck from the shadows and went straight into the light. He had made a name for himself and carved a niche right into His back yard before His lieutenants even realized that he was a threat. The Assassin was not happy… at all.

But he waited as he always did. Calculating the odds and sizing up his opponent before deciding to strike for that was his hallmark and the reason that he still had the city in his control.

The Flyboy was a new-age gangster who liked to do things fast. He didn’t completely understand the intricacies of it all but relied on brute force to claim what he wanted. He was reckless and violent and a pain for everyone who came into contact with him. The city was getting restless.

And the Assassin still waited.

As was bound to happen, the Flyboy spread his wings too wide and the Police Commissioner snapped. He ordered the immediate cleanup of all organized crime in the city. He gave a free reign to every officer and issued everyone the ‘license to kill’. He wanted the city free of these thugs who thought they could do whatever they pleased. Well not in his town!

The ensuing rampage saw the brutal mopping up of everyone on the other side of the law, irrespective of rank. The Flyboy was riddled by bullets inside his own apartment after a firefight that lasted half an hour.

The Assassin’s house was blown up with all his lieutenants inside. All his safe houses were busted and his gang was sent to sleep with the fishes. The Assassin himself was killed while trying to flee the city.

He had waited for too long this time.

Cast

The Assassin: A Spider

The Flyboy: A Bumblebee

The Police Commissioner: The Author

Setting

Author’s Bathroom

Something in the Aer of Westeros

Note: This is a work of fiction and dedicated to perhaps the best television series on court politics produced in the last decade.

In the immortal lyrics of Eminem, “I smell something in the air that’s making me HIGH!” These are the words that came into my mind as soon as I entered there; the place where the raw fragrance of the Gods dwelled. It was almost like I had transcended the mortal world and been transported to a higher level of being. I imagine that is how it must feel to be on Mount Olympus or Mount Kailash or Mount Sinai whichever way you lean.

Image Courtesy: Google Images.

It was summer in Upper Westeros, the season that isn't quite apparent there. The city of Winterfell doesn’t have summer at all but that year something was different. The sun shone with such brilliance as it hadn’t in a very, very long time. It was only in legends that I had heard of the sun melting the eternal snow that covered our land. But that year was not only memorable for its summer but also remembered for the bloodshed it caused because of the sun.

It was the year that Danerys Targaryean, Mother of Dragons had reclaimed the Iron Throne of Westeros, the seat of her forefathers; as the rightful Queen of her people. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had finally been crushed and every last remaining person who bore the arms of the Lion had been put to the sword. It was a glorious day indeed when the Queen ascended her throne with her three fearsome dragons that she had herself hatched in the fire of the husband’s funeral pyre.

Now, allow me to introduce myself. I am Jon Snow, the bastard of Lord Ned Stark of Winterfell. I am now the Hand of my half-brother Bran Stark, the King in the North. I’m writing this record not to capture the history of what happened in the days to come after the Queen took her throne, there are official records for that sort of thing. I am writing this down so that future generations may bear in mind that although ‘Winter is Coming’, it is not as bad as when Summer rears its head upon us.

It was indeed destined that Summer should come on the day that the banner of the Dragon unfurled over the Iron Throne. What happened next was not the peace and calm we all thought would follow the return of the Queen. A sudden summer ensured that the Northern Wall, erected by my ancestor to keep out the Wildlings and White Walkers started to melt and grow weak around the castles that had stood watch upon it for six millennia.

A beautiful, mysterious and rare summer had been born that would ultimately come to be known as the Red Summer by those who managed to survive it with the onslaught of those beyond the wall who saw the perfect time to attack Westeros and seized the opportunity. When the snow melted off the earth below us, it also melted off the only barrier which protected the civilized world from the barbarians and with that came the crippling blow in the form of the massive savage attack which tore apart the kingdom.

I was outside the capital reassessing our strength against our foes who would attack any day now and then I chanced upon a fragrance that was unlike I had ever had the chance to smell before. It was tantalizing, just touching my nostrils and withdrawing. It was pulling me it seemed towards a hill and like the hand of a seductress; it grasped me and led me to the top of the world. I felt weak at the knees and it was as if my legs had turned to stone from the overdose of the scent that permeated my being. I closed my eyes and lied down in the long grass to savour that which was already holding me captive without chains.

I have since named that plant the lemongrass. It has a strong flavour of lemon but also a tangy under-taste that belies attempts to compare it to lemon. Upon study, I discovered that the plant had no flower or fruit but only leaves from which it emanated this powerful fragrance that held me in my world of bliss in a time when it was a scarce commodity and especially for a soldier like myself.

It is said that I was awakened by the Queensguard who had been stationed to patrol the castle grounds. They had noticed my armour gleaming in the morning sun and had come to investigate. They realized that although I was lying like one who had passed on to the other world, I still had a pulse and had carried me into the castle. When I awoke, they said that I had been missing for three days. I had been so lost in the fragrance that I hadn’t even noticed that I had lain next to the rotten and smelly bodies of three Wildling scouts who had died lost in the world of the lemongrass.

If I had not been carried out of that field, I would have met the same fate as those poor creatures but fortunately the Queensguard had encountered the plant before and had decided to get it planted all around the castle walls except the main gate so that trespassers would meet the same fate as those scouts.

It was by sheer luck that the guards had seen my armour in the long grass and had come to investigate. They had been able to carry me to safety without endangering themselves to the enamouring fragrance of the lemongrass only because they had covered their faces with pieces of cloth. They had already experienced the power of the lemongrass over the senses and although they longed for it, they respected it enough not to evoke their power of smell, lest they get lost within its fragrance and forget their duty to their Queen.

In the war that did start eventually when the wall fell, many of our men and women fell to the blades of those wild ones from beyond the wall, but many more of the enemy died unawares by giving in to their senses in the fields of lemongrass and dropping their weapons in ecstasy as the feeling of pure joy overtook them.

Queen Danerys finally led us to victory but at great cost and she had no other option but to grant Bran Stark Independence in the North as recompense for his valuable contribution in holding out on the northern front as long as was necessary for her to organize all her other vassals into the sizable army that won her the war. King Bran lost Winterfell to the marauding armies but won back the pride and honour of our family by being crowned King of the North.

And that is why I’m glad that Winter is Coming…

This post has been written for the Godrej ‘Inspire a Fragrance’ contest.

A Christmas Realization

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way”, I can hear the choir sing as they move from one street to the next, spreading the joy of Christmas.

I go to the window of my first floor apartment and gaze upon the myriad of colours that stare back at me from the multitude of lights upon the neighbour’s giant Christmas tree. The silver bells, the little drummer boy, Frosty the snowman and Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer hang there in oblivious calm and apparent joy at the birth of the saviour.

It is no longer a silent night. Noisy crowds jostling through the lanes; trying to get home for Christmas, attempting to buy last minute items, getting last minute gifts and renting out Santa costumes.

Image Courtesy: Google Images.

This winter wonderland hardly gives me any peace, so far away from home am I. In a different city, a big town. No mangers here, no real life plays of the birth, no family, just the loneliness of this room and the desolation of a lost Christmas in work.

Mother had called me, she had been crying. She said, “Please come home for Christmas” but I said I couldn't. Not if I wanted to keep my job. I needed the job, badly so. She cried some more then. I couldn't bear it and slammed the phone. Cruel, but necessary nonetheless.

It is starting to snow now. A White Christmas had been predicted but had seemed unlikely. This was a problem. How was I to go now? Yes, I’d decided to go the moment I put down the telephone. To hell with the job and to hell with this city. I could be a farming man once more, like my old man.  I’d called mama right back and told her, “I’ll be home for Christmas.”

Living in this strange city I've realized that there’s no place like home. My bags are packed, I’m ready to go. Oh little town of Bethlehem, I’m coming home.

And as for the weather, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…

Note: This is a work of fiction. It is integrated with a collage of Christmas carols in the spirit of the season. Have a very merry Christmas and a fruitful New year!

The Mystery of the Disappearing Blogger

The following story is my first attempt at fiction. I submitted it to the Coffee Beans Competition and won. My very first Story-writing Award! Here is the story for your kind perusal!

The Mystery of the Disappearing Blogger

By Brendan-Anton R. Dabhi

I had been summoned to the police station at two on Monday morning. Two cops came over and hauled my ass to the waiting jeep. I tried asking them what the problem was but they just cryptically answered me saying that their senior officer wanted to have a little chat with me.

They sat me down in one of the offices and brought me a glass of water to clear my head. I gulped it down. “Can I get some more?” I asked. 

“In a moment, um… Bendaam.” he said, stuttering, trying to pronounce my name with a kind of swagger that was supposed to impress me but which rather gained him a sigh and a withering look. I didn't care to correct him at two in the morning. I’m not exactly a morning person.

“What am I here for, sir?” I asked.

“A woman has gone missing in Mumbai and you were the last person to contact her before she went off the radar.”

I was immediately apprehensive and the first thought was for my cousin who I’d messaged on Whatsapp just two days prior to this interrogation. I, however, kept my thoughts to myself. “Well, who is it?” I ventured, dreading the very thought of someone I knew, being lost.

Officer Pundit, the officer interrogating me, said, “Do you know a lady by the name of Namrota Mazumdar?”

I was shocked! Namrota? Missing? How was that possible? I had sent her a mail just… And then I realized that I had sent her a mail over the weekend and had got no reply.

“Oye? Boy?” officer Pundit snapped his fingers in my face as I escaped my reverie. “Yes, yes I know her. What happened?” I asked; the nervousness clearly evident in my shaky voice.

Completely ignoring my question, he asked, “When did you last contact her?”

“Umm… I don’t know, may be yesterday or the day before that.”

“I need a better answer than maybe, kid.” He growled, evidently not very happy to be jogging my memory so early in the morning. “Yesterday or the day before that? Come on, answer me.” He demanded.

I took a guess and told him that it was the day before that I had sent Namrota a mail regarding a blogging competition. He looked at the paper in his hand and nodded approvingly. He then asked me if I had noticed any change in her writing style or if she seemed stressed the last time she’d contacted me. I replied in the negative, but the fact was that I really didn’t know. Our mails to each other were just really short one-liners.

He seemed to relax visibly. He leaned back in his chair, arranged his papers, put them back in the folder and got up. I got up too. He looked at me and gave me a smile. I was bewildered. Where was the rock-hard piece of stone that was questioning me? Why is he smiling? Is this interrogation over? All these questions were running through my still sleep-addled brain at the sudden change in expression of Officer Pundit.

“Come on” he urged, putting out one hand towards me and pointing at the door with the other. “Let’s sit in my office” as he waited outside the holding cell till I exited it too and then closed it behind me.

We had to cross the main doorway of the police station to reach his office and I noticed a number of policemen lounging about, poring over files and talking to people. My eyes also managed to wander over to the big wall clock above the doorway which proclaimed that it was just a quarter to three in the morning. How was that possible? I thought to myself. The interrogation felt like it had continued for over an hour or two.

When we reached his cabin, we asked me to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk as he took a seat behind it and regarded me in quiet contemplation for a while, making me even more uncomfortable and nervous than I actually was. He then gave another of his beatific smiles and said, “Don’t worry, Brendaam. It’s over. Now you can relax. No need to be scared. You’ve been cleared.”

“What?” I asked, in a voice that came out about a pitch higher than I’d anticipated. “I was a suspect? You thought I had something to do with Namrota’s disappearance?”

“Well, yes. We have to regard everyone as a suspect until proven otherwise. Don’t you watch CID?” he asked, chuckling at his own little joke. “But now it’s OK, I know you’re not involved in any way.”

At that moment, a constable came in carrying a file. He showed it to his superior who approved of whatever he saw and then sent him off. As he was leaving, Officer Pundit shouted after him, “Order two cups of tea, Balwant.”

“Yes, OK sir.” He shouted back, already halfway across the building.

“Now Brendan”, he said, “I need you to tell me what you know about this lady and what do you think happened to her.”

My elation over him pronouncing my name right was dampened by my apprehension over Namrota’s disappearance.  “I don’t know sir. But we are fellow bloggers. I follow her blog regularly and I've noticed something strange there.”

“Do go on”, he urged, placing before me a cup of steaming hot tea that had just been brought in by the Kitliwala.

“Well, her last post was an advertisement about some product or another. It seemed very unlike Namrota. I don’t think she had ever done anything like that before; using her blog to advertise something. I don’t remember what it was exactly but I think I know why I remember it; it was because the post had a kind of forced quality. It was as if she had been forced to write that particular post.”

“Uh huh? You think so?” he looked perplexed.

“Yeah, it was as if she was coerced into writing that post. Do you think she might have been blackmailed or be kidnapped by those people, sir?” I argued feebly.

“It is possible, we cannot rule out any possibilities…” he trailed off, looking into the distance and sipping his tea. The silence of those few minutes was so intense that I could hear the gears in his head turn and creak as he sought to make sense of the information I’d just piled onto him. “Very well, we’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.” He stood up and shook my hand. I took that as a cue that I was being dismissed. “Balwant will drop you home, alright?” he asked.

“Yes sir, thank you. Could you please inform me when you do find her?” I asked hopefully.

“Sure boy”, he replied absently as he picked up his phone to make a call.

I was driven to my apartment by the constable and as I sat down at the dining table, the shock hit me. I suddenly realized the enormity of what had happened. One of my blogger friends was missing, in another city, possibly without a trace. I was stunned, unable to move. When I finally came out of this trance, I groped at my box of cigarettes and struggled to light one with my shuddering hands.

I know not how I lived through those four days in the constant fear of my phone - the fear of bad news.

However, on the fifth day, just as I was about to leave for office, my phone rang. It was Officer Pundit and he informed me that my hunch was right. Namrota had indeed been kidnapped by the company whose advertisement had appeared on her blog. She was being held against her wish by those people because they wanted her to keep writing for them. Both the accused, the owners of the company had been apprehended and were being held in police custody. I thanked the officer for the good news and breathed a sigh of relief. Namrota was safe.

I reached office and got online only to see that I had a mail by no other than my lost-and-found friend. It was a letter of thanks and heartfelt gratitude for my help in solving the case. She said that she hadn't been mistreated and that she was unhurt. I was very glad to hear that.

Later that month, I heard on the news that the two guys responsible for her disappearance had been declared unfit to stand trial because of their mental instability. They had been admitted into an asylum for the criminally insane.

Later that day, I sent Namrota a one-line E-mail that went:

“Wow! What a Week!”

Note: This story is a work of fiction and any/all characters bearing resemblance to real people are mere coincidences.