Cold Turkey

His boss, handing him an unmarked envelope, said, "Here's some money. Use it when I issue a Cold Turkey. Abort assignment. Disappear. Don't even tell me where you're going." This wasn't an instruction he'd heard before. Yet, he responded in his usual manner - with an expressionless nod.
***

He spent his days watching her. He'd wake up fifteen minutes before her, at exactly six-twenty, and position himself at his bedroom window. She would wake up and appear at her bedroom window. He'd look from behind his curtain, peeking from the side. Her house had no curtains. She'd then disappear into the bathroom. He had planted a camera for that. He'd watch her brush and bathe. He'd then walk to his kitchen. She would appear by the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee. She'd read a newspaper for a while in the drawing room, where he had another little camera. Then, she would take the car to work.

Following her was difficult at first. But soon, he mastered it. He never took his car. He depended on autos and buses. Sometimes, he ran through narrow shortcuts. Jump over a sewer, skip along a slum. Every ten minutes, he'd find her car negotiating a traffic light or a roundabout. Then, she would reach her office - an insurance company. She was fairly high up in the company. Travelled around the city often.

There was this man who came back to her place quite often.

He didn't understand why she was being followed. But it wasn't his job to know. He just followed her and reported every movement to his boss.
***

Love, he always thought, was an unpredictable emotion. He preferred lust. It was consistent, it was always there. Especially in these times when he lacked all human contact. He lived in a city, amidst people, but knew no one. His job wouldn't take lightly to his talking to anyone. The only emotion that reminded him of his humanness was lust. He wanted every woman he saw - on the road, in the supermarket, at the bus-stand. The lady who sold apples at the corner. The lady who sat at the reception of her office. His landlady who lived downstairs.

Then, there was the woman he was following. What he had for her was beyond lust. Was it love? He wasn't sure. Watching her was more than a mission. But obsession was too strong a word. He wanted her. There was no question about that. He wanted to twirl her curly locks of hair in his fingers. He wanted to hold her bare body in his arms, hold it tight and never let go. He heard her voice on the phone he tapped. Each evening, she spoke to her mother. It was everyday conversation about her work, her life. He recorded these conversations and re-listened to them when she was asleep.

Is this love? He asks himself. But larger questions bother him. About why she was being followed. What harm would come to her? What harm would she cause?

The mission takes over his life. He is as diligent as ever. But the diligence is fuelled by his need to keep looking at her. By his need to remain sane, remain alive.
***

The off-white sheet of four-inch-by-four-inch paper has "COLD TURKEY" written on it with a black marker pen. He looks out of his window and into hers. She appears, as usual, by the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee in her hand. Her curly mop of hair falls carelessly on her shapely, bare shoulders. It is time for drastic action.
***

He parks her car by the lake a thousand kilometres from where he started. The forest is dense. Humans are few. He opens the boot, puts her body on his lap, holds her and strokes her hair. He is just where he wants to be.
***

An old short story has appeared (link)in the DNA Bangalore edition today with a black and white photograph. Do check out if you live in this vicinity.

House Cleaning

The last time I was alone with a girl was when an old friend came to my one-bedroom apartment. She said, "The state of one's mind is reflected in the state of one's house."
I laughed, "Yeah. Lots of unwashed clothes in my head."
"Dirty linen," she said, wryly.

In the year that passed since that conversation, more unwashed clothes adorned floor, along with newspapers, shoes, bedsheets, mattresses, dirty pillows, CDs, cigarette butts.
***

It was New Years' Eve. I sipped on my hot filter coffee, lazily placed it on the side table and fetched some rum from amidst old newspapers. I didn't know how long it had been lying there. It surely had absorbed most of the old stories. It had become a part of them. I poured it into my coffee. The mixture was noxious, but I needed the fortification for the conversation I was going to have.

"I'm a medical marvel!" I said on the phone.
"What?"
"Yeah. I have the world's first case of Writers' Block in an unpublished writer."
She said nothing for a while.
"Hello? Are you there?" I tried.
There was a pause again, before she said, "January fifteenth."
"Right. Yes. Jan fifteenth. B-b-but, I was just going to ask you for an extension."
Pause. "Also, I wanted some more advance. I'm, um, s-s-struggling with my, um, my l-l-laundry."
"January fifteenth. Or no book."
There was a pause again. I didn't know how else to negotiate. "Listen, what are you doing tonight? I mean, New Year's and all that... If you're free... I mean..."
"You don't need to know what I'm doing. You are going to sit at home and finish that bloody novel."
"Slight leniency? Old times' sake. You loved me once..."
"When we were sixteen. There's none of that left now."
The conversation ended there. As I turned around, I tripped over a bag on the floor, toppled the rum bottle over the last two clean shirts that I owned. I was robbed of my fortification for the next phone call.

"Hi. Appa. I need some money. See, I lent some money to a friend... And he has cancer."
Appa didn't bother to listen to any more lies. But, as usual, there was some money in my account by the evening. I don't think it was enough to pay my laundry bill, but it would keep me going for two weeks. Until another friend gets cancer.
***

It was seven when the bell rang. I presumed it would be my landlady. I stubbed my cigarette, hid the rum under a pillow and opened the door. It wasn't the landlady, it was my publisher, my old love, and the last girl I had been alone with.

"Can we go for a walk?" she asked.

Soon, we were on the quiet beach. But, being New Years', a crowd built up slowly as midnight approached.

"My house is really dirty these days," she said, after almost an hour of silent staring at the sea. I spat out the nail I had been biting. "Life isn't very good, you know," she continued, "My marriage is ending." I sensed a certain longing in her voice - a longing for a meaningless evening. And there was nothing I wanted more. Suddenly, she asked, "Can we go somewhere quieter? Somewhere more alone?"

I fumbled for words. My apartment was there. But there would be no space for us to do anything. Unless we settled on top of all the mess. Treat the mess as a part of our lives and live above it. Treat it as in insulation from the cold, hard, floor. I hesitated before I said, "My place?"

We walked back unable to keep our hands off each other. When I opened the door, she collapsed on a heap of clothes, and I collapsed beside her. I could smell the back of her neck. Her hands went into her pocket from where she fetched a folded, oblong sheet of paper. She opened it and read out what was written. It was a poem by E E Cummings, and it ended with those immortal lines about the rain and hands. She sat up, and said, "He sent this to me last New Year's Eve. We got married a week later."

Soon, she was crying all over the clothes. She picked up a shirt and blew her nose, as if she was adding her mess to mine. She got up, and staggered out the door and down the stairs. I walked with her until the gate where she found an auto. I walked up the stairs, opened the door and scanned my room.

It was time for some serious house cleaning.
***

The Fall

I have a knack for unwanted and unusual injuries. Although today's was minor and put me in pain for hardly fifteen minutes, it must rank as being amongst my most random.

I'm walking down one of the roads in Sadashivanagar when my mind wanders, and I think of Venkatapathy Raju. Yes, the very same Venkatapathy Raju who made a profession out of lobbing the ball up in a friendly manner. So, on this road, I begin to imitate Raju's bowling action as I walk. I do it once, but get the feeling that the (imaginary) ball wouldn't have come out all that well. Then I bowl the next one. This one's much better. But a little more speed would mean that the batsman can't wait on the backfoot.

So, the third one comes. I don't know exactly what I do. But I land funnily, half-twist my waist, lose balance and fall on the road. Two boys playing football in a corner laugh heartily. I smile to myself and resume my walk with a slight limp that sorts itself out pretty soon.

But I have a feeling that the ball would have been perfect. Beaten the batsman in the flight. Go on with the arm. Hit him on the pads in front of off and middle. Appeal. The dreaded finger. LBW!