Just a Woman, Not a Superwoman

It was a narrow alley behind the infamous slums of Mumbai. Four men surrounded a woman, blocking her path, after striking her male accomplice down with a steel rod. The young woman, who was a reporter in a leading news channel, was covering a story in the slums when she and her friend were falsely led by the four men into the alley.

The woman was shivering with fear but struggled to keep her wits around.

“I have my wallet with me, there’s money and my credit cards in it. Please take that and leave me.”, she said in a brave voice that belied the horror her heart felt.

“What do you think we are? We are not beggars after your money. See, that’s the problem with girls these days. They earn much more than men, so they think they are superior. Wearing short skirts and tight shirts”, said one of the men, spitting on the ground and showing his disapproval.

Two men had pinned the young lady’s hands and legs to the wall, the third man snaked up his arms around the lady’s shirt. The fourth was keeping a lookout on the entrances of the alley. It was this fourth man who felt the presence of a pair of baleful eyes on them. He turned his head to the left and saw someone in a cloak standing about twenty feet away. The figure had a black hood over its head and under the cloak, he could make out a red suit that fitted the body like second skin.

The curves underneath the cloak made the man realize that the figure was a woman, perhaps dressed for a fancy dress.  He was about to sneer and announce the presence of another woman to the remaining men, when suddenly a flash of pain seared through his guts and he fell backwards.

Source: istockphotos

The three ruffians were startled but before they could respond they felt a foot cracking their jaws. In a matter of seconds all the four men were down, injured. The reporter could only stare at the hooded figure in amazement.

“Who are you?” she asked still staring at the cloak and the red suit underneath.

“I’m just a woman, like you. But I’m also a woman who refuses to stand aside and see any wrong happening to another person. The important thing is that you are safe now. There’s a taxi in the next lane. Please take your friend and move from here.” The red suited woman replied in a voice that exuded command and power.

With a last look at the woman who had saved her life, the reporter lifted her friend using her shoulder for support and limped across to the waiting taxi.

One of the thugs, who had recovered slightly, fished out a knife from his pocket and swung at the hooded woman. But he had not accounted for the super powers of the woman. Every minute action of the man were amplified in her senses and even before the knife could come down, she had jumped over the opposite wall, did a complete turn and kicked the man in his groin.

The man fell down with a thud.

The woman then jumped over the building, easily scaling the tall sky scrapers in the still night.

She noticed that the man’s knife had caught her cloak and suit and torn it apart. She sighed imagining the mending work that would have to be done on her outfit. It was not easy being a superwoman. Apart from saving the world from danger and bashing up the bad boys, she also had to ensure that her identity remained undisclosed.

It had not been an easy night, the only solace being, the secret remained. She decided to retire for the night at the crack of dawn.

***

The next day when Ravi entered his house in the evening he saw his wife, Vinita, preparing dinner, washing the utensils and trying to teach their son the multiplication tables. He wondered for the umpteenth time how his wife managed to handle multiple tasks and still remained cool as a cucumber.

He circled his arms around her waist. “You truly are a superwoman”.

Upon hearing this Vinita could only wink and grin like a Cheshire cat!

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

The Silent Night After The Storm

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 45; the forty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

 

Inspector Vikram Sinha rubbed his weary eyes and sighed as he sat down in his chair inside his tiny cubicle. It was his first moment of respite in the last 20 hours of pure madness and chaos. He remembered that he had been in bed, sleeping peacefully with his arms around his beautiful wife, when he had received the dreaded phone call at 4 AM. His wife had cursed loudly before turning her back at him and going back to sleep.

After talking on the phone for 5 mins, he got dressed hurriedly and rushed to his jeep. He drove through the silent streets towards Vasanth Vihar area, which was one of the top elite residential localities in Delhi. But as he reached closer to his destination he saw the throng of people jostling each other, trying to get their video cameras beyond the police barriers. Media! 

He checked his rear view mirror. Sure enough! There were at least half a dozen cars tailgating him with the word “PRESS” written on their front windshield. He raced them to the front gate of Goel Villa and quickly entered the massive oak doors at the entrance. The media tried to push their mikes in front of his face demanding to know the situation but he remained tight lipped. 

He met Ajay, his colleague and best friend, in the hall of the grand three storey house. Mrs. Rina Goel obviously had a very good taste since the house was done up very elegantly and artistically. 

“Good morning Viks! Isn’t it an awesome way to start the day, huh?” Ajay quipped brightly.

Vikram gave him a withering look before marching into the bedroom “Ok, what’s the situation?”

Ajay briefed Vikram quickly as they both grimaced looking at the bloody scene. Mrs. Goel lay spread-eagled on the bed, completely naked, with blood all around her. Her body looked ashen probably because the blood in the body had drained out. There were several slashes on her arms and torso that looked like they were inflicted by a boning knife used in kitchens for slicing meat. But her face had taken most of the brunt of rage. Vikram found it almost impossible to believe that the beautiful woman with the delicate features, whose large portrait he had seen in the hall, was the same woman whose grotesque body now lay on the blood-stained bed for everyone’s viewing. 

 

“She was raped before she was killed and her private parts were viciously lacerated. A kitchen knife was found at the scene when we arrived. The husband, Ankur Goel, was found in a semi-comatose state. His clothes were all blood stained but he was not harmed physically. There were no other servants in the house. They all live in the outhouse which is towards the back of the house.” 

“Who called the police?” Vikram bent low to examine the body, although he had to control himself from gagging. 

“One of the servants heard Ankur Goel howling loudly and crying out for help. But by the time he rushed here, his master had collapsed. Ankur is being treated in the hospital. The doctor informed that he’s fine. Maybe it was just the shock”, Ajay had something else to tell but he remained silent until he had Vikram’s full attention.

“Ok, so here’s the clincher. When the police arrived here, Ankur was in a delirious state, mumbling incoherently. But one of the officers thought that he was muttering over and over again “I’m sorry Rina, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it!” 

Vikram raised his left eyebrow and Ajay knew that this was Vikram’s way of stating that he was not impressed by this little piece of information. He pulled Vikram to the side, away from the group of people from the forensics team who were all over the body, minutely examining for any clues.

“It’s a well-known fact that 7 years ago, the beautiful and stunning model Rina Malhotra married the owner of the multibillion company, FastTrack Communications, Ankur Goel, for money, status and prestige. It was a marriage of convenience. Ankur wanted a beautiful trophy wife who could further his social stature and Rina wanted a man who could provide her the material comforts. The gossip mills were running wild with stories around this couple; one of the strongest rumors was that Ankur couldn’t physically satisfy his wife.” Ajay paused here as Vikram looked at him incredulously.

“You know, he couldn’t play in bed, he couldn’t get it up.”

“I know what you mean, Ajay. Go on.”, countered Vikram.

“Ok, so while Ankur held important meetings with some high profile men in the business world, Rina used to have clandestine meetings with other men. Of course it was all under wraps and people would only hear about it but could never prove it. Like those urban legend stories.”

“Where do you get your information?”, Vikram asked amazed by Ajay’s in-depth knowledge.

“Uh, my wife loves reading Society Magazine. But it’s all true!” Ajay turned a shade crimson as Vikram shook his head, sighed and turned to finish his examination of the crime scene.

***

By noon, the police had a break in the case. The knife that was found in the crime scene had Ankur’s fingerprints all over.  Traces of his semen were found in Rina’s private parts. Ankur was brought in for questioning and Vikram was itching to have a go at Ankur. But his seniors were treading delicately over this case because it had fragile written all over it. Ankur Goel was one of the richest, influential businessmen in India and arresting him for the murder of his wife was scandalous.  

Finally late in the night Vikram got the green light from his seniors for the interrogation.

Vikram was bone-tired but he knew that it was going to be a long night. It was the night after the storm, carrying ominous menace in its pregnant silent winds that blew gently.

As Vikram stood outside the cramped interrogation room, he saw Ankur Goel with his shoulders hunched forward, sitting in a desolated manner.  Ankur was short and stout and he appeared mild-natured. The kind of man you would see in the parks, playing ball with his children and smiling gently at his wife. He didn’t look like a murderer. But Vikram had sufficient experience with murderers to understand that appearances could be deceptive.

As he walked in, Ankur got up to shake hands with him. 

“Hi, sit down. Are you comfortable? “, Vikram asked, keeping a close eye on Ankur’s expressions.

“Yeah, thank you for everything that you guys have done although I know the facts are all against me. But believe me I didn’t do it. Why would I kill my wife? God, I loved her so much. Did you know that I met her when we were 15 years old? She’ll always be my first and last love.” Ankur seemed to be distressed and continued rambling.

“Mr. Goel, can you explain the sequence of events that happened yesterday night?”

“Please call me Ankur. We had a few clients from Japan visiting us and there was a conference and then a late night dinner party that was arranged for them. It was almost quarter past 12 when I finally reached home. I have a key to the house so that I don’t disturb Rina when I come home late. But when I entered the hall I was surprised to see the lights on the hall were on and I could hear some sounds from our bedroom.  I had a fright thinking that maybe a burglar had broken in. I rushed into our bedroom and then my memory fails me.”

“What do you mean? You can’t remember anything?” Vikram asked a little astonished.

“I remember feeling a little dizzy, maybe I got hit on the head, but I’m not completely sure about it. When I came to, I saw that Rina was on the bed and there was blood all around me. I ran to her and tried to see if she was still breathing but the carnage she had been subjected to, shocked me. I screamed and I think I fainted. The next time I woke up I was in the hospital bed”

“Can you tell a bit on how you and Mrs. Goel met?”

A sad smile spread on Ankur’s face as he reminisced. “We were neighbors in Jaipur where my parents used to live before. I first saw her in college and I fell in love with her instantly. You know she is that kind of a person. I mean she was.” 

Vikram saw that Ankur was trying very hard to control his tears but he continued.

“She was a very warm, kind and an honest lady. Although I was a topper in college, I didn’t have many friends. But Rina always had time to spend with me. She was a stunner, extremely beautiful and most of the guys wanted to talk with her, but she maintained her dignity. She remained friends with everyone but declined all proposals from men. She was clear that she would marry the guy her parents would choose for her. She had a traditional upbringing and I respected her for her mature decisions. 

Our family business flourished and from a small business in Jaipur we became a multibillion company. Upon my request, my family sent Rina’s parents a proposal for her and they accepted. I was on cloud nine the day Rina became my wife. For years I had dreamt of living a life with her, to be able to wake up each day looking at her lovely face, to be able to hold her hands and walk beside her. And all my dreams were coming true.

 We had a wonderful married life, in fact we were inseparable. Whenever I went abroad for my business, Rina would be depressed and I had to promise to make it up to her by shopping for her. You know, she loved nail colors. She loved collecting them and whenever I went abroad, I would shop for nail polish in all brands for her. God, how will I ever live without her? I just can’t believe that my Rina is no more.

Tears were now flowing copiously down Ankur’s cheeks. It was obvious to Vikram that Ankur had loved his wife dearly. Was he really capable of butchering his dear wife? Vikram decided that either Ankur was innocent or he was a very good actor.

“Tell me Ankur, how was your personal relation with your wife. I heard there were some rumors about…”, Vikram decided to probe further.

“Oh you know the gossip mills! They can never see a happy couple. Rina was a very loyal wife. We loved each other deeply.” Vikram was staring at a nervous twitch around Ankur’s mouth as he spoke.

“As they say there’s never a smoke without a fire. I mean you were on a lot of business trips. How did you know that your wife remained faithful?” Vikram was now aware that Ankur was getting agitated. His eyes were beady and shifting rapidly.

“What do you think? I would spy on my own wife? Never! I loved her more than my life. I cared for her. I would have died for her”, Ankur now closed his eyes as tears formed a wet trail on his cheeks.

“Then why did you kill her? Why did you butcher your own wife? Why Ankur? Tell me!” Vikram shouted at Ankur.

When Ankur opened his eyes, Vikram felt his blood run cold. His heart missed a beat. Gone was the calm, pleasant demeanor of the mild mannered man. The person who sat before him now, with his feet up on the table with a swagger, was a different person altogether.

“Why are you asking that fucker?  If you should talk to any person then it’s me. I’ll answer all your questions. You want to know who killed that bitch. It’s me, I killed her. I carved her body using a knife, with my own hands. “

“Who are you?” Vikram asked maintaining a stoic face when his heart was drumming inside his ribcage. 

“I’m Karan. The man inside this fucker’s body. Of course he isn’t man enough to handle his own wife. Every time she slept with another male, the only fucking thing he did was to weep.”

““Boo Hoo, Rina doesn’t love me. Rina cheats on me.” Every day he wept like a girl and he didn’t do anything about it. He was scared that she would leave him if he confronted her. I say fuck that bitch! So that’s what I did!”

“What did you do to her?”

“Ha! She was in bed with another man when the loser entered his house yesterday. Of course he couldn’t handle it! He’s a dickhead! And I had to jump in to save his ass. The moment the bitch’s lover realized that they had company he ran to save his hide. Good thinking I would say, otherwise I had to handle two bloody bodies.

I showed her that I could give what she wanted. I tied her and raped her but that bitch wasn’t satisfied. I got the knife from the kitchen and cut her part by part. I had so much fun when I slashed her face. The bitch was so proud of her mug. She thought she was some fucking Miss World, you know! She deserved it. She married him only for his money and that bastard believed that she had loved him. Have you seen him? His own mother wouldn’t have loved him. He’s so fucking ugly! Sometimes I do feel pity on that son of a bitch”

Ankur then laughed maniacally but after few seconds the laugh turned into howls of desperation.

Vikram was stunned by what he had seen. In front of his own eyes he saw another transformation in Ankur as his face turned calmer and his eyes cleared. He became more composed, with his shoulders hunched forward anxiously. He lost his swagger but his hands shook as he spoke.

“Did anything happen Inspector? I.. I.. think I blanked out again. I feel so confused and dizzy. D..D..Did I do something? Why are you staring at me?”

Ankur continued to look around him vaguely as Vikram quietly left the room.

***

A week later the initial reports were at Vikram’s desk. Ankur Goel was diagnosed to be suffering from split personality disorder or dissociative personality disorder. It was an extremely rare case of mental disorder where in the patient’s behavior was controlled by two distinct personalities residing in the same human body. After several sessions of hypnosis and therapy, it was concluded that Ankur had loved his wife so much that her continuous adultery and her scorn towards him for his lack of ability to sexually satisfy her had driven him over the edge. His inability to face the stressful situation had created another person inside him who was completely unlike him. Karan was confident, brash, vulgar and never let anyone hurt him.

It was an open and shut case. Ankur had escaped prison because of his mental trauma and was put under special care in the psychiatry ward of hospital.

Vikram leaned back in his chair and wondered for the umpteenth time if Ankur was really a victim of mental disorder or if he was just a damn good actor. It was something he would never know!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 07

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Return Home

I was tending to the garden at my home in Mumbai. I had been away for couple of months to my Mausi’s house in Kerala and when I reached back yesterday, I was aghast looking at the appalling state of my once lovely garden. So today morning, as I soon as I had my cup of morning tea, I changed into my old clothes and started watering and clearing the dead plants. I was bent over the plants when I heard a voice behind the wall, that separated our house from the Singh’s.

“Hey, you must be Shruti”. A guy in a sweat soaked T-shirt and track pants sat on the wall, with a pair of headphones dangling on his shoulders. He looked as if he had come back from a strenuous workout.

“Yes, and you are?”

“I am Neeraj, your neighbor and your childhood sweetheart.” He smiled and my heart gave a leap for some unknown reason.

“Neeraj? You are Meera aunty’s son?” I tried to look busy digging the earth and pulling out the weeds. Neeraj was Mr. and Mrs. Singh’s son and also my childhood friend. We always played together when we were kids. In fact we were inseparable, leaving each other only when our parents threatened with dire consequences if we didn’t return to our respective homes and finish off our homework. I remembered in my pretend games, I always used to make him my husband, and prepare imaginary dishes and serve with great relish.

I felt my face going crimson as I blushed stupidly.

“Hello, are you there? You seem awfully quiet”, he was about to jump and come beside me when I heard my mother calling me.

I rushed past him muttering an “Excuse me”. There was something about him that flustered my otherwise composed self.

I saw Neeraj again at the breakfast table when, uninvited, he sat to eat my mother’s hot ghee laden parathas. My mother being the quintessential Indian mother heaped the parathas on his plate, much to my amusement.

“So apart from gardening, what do you do?” Neeraj asked me.

“Well, I was working as an accountant in a firm but I quit after my accident. I took a break for few months and went to my aunt’s place in Kerala”. I replied a little hesitatingly. I was still guarded when I talked about my accident.

“Oh, an accident? What happened?”

I looked down at my plate but my father replied.

“She was crossing the road, when a car hit her and she was injured badly. She had to be hospitalized.”

There was an awkward pause before Neeraj continued.

“I’m sorry. But glad that you have recovered completely. You should put it behind you…”

“Stop. Who are you to give advice? What do you know about me? You just met me like an hour before and now you are here, poking your nose into our matters. You are a neighbor, so behave like a neighbor.”

My sudden outburst had shocked my parents and Neeraj. I got up and went to my room. I don’t know why I had lost my temper. Yes, it was true I had barely survived the accident, I had multiple surgeries and then I was kept in the ICU. By the time I regained consciousness, a month had passed since the accident. I had felt disconcerted and unstable for the next few days drifting in and around sleep and consciousness. I remembered a silhouette, someone standing beside me every time I opened my eyes, tears in eyes and sometimes the cool teardrops falling on my face. It felt like a dream but that dream kept returning back to me often, haunting me. I felt that I was missing a link somewhere, a sinking feeling of forgetting something but when I thought about it, I felt dizzy and nauseous.

Was I being insane? I didn’t know, but somehow I felt that I had changed after my accident. That I left behind a part of me, a very significant and vital part of me, in my life before the accident.

I knew that I was silly to shout at Neeraj who had innocently tried to perk me up.

The next day I headed to Neeraj’s house to apologize.

He was watching the television with a concentrated gaze on the television. I stood near the door studying him. He had worn a tight fitting shirt that showed off his toned muscles. There was tattoo of a star and a heart on his upper left arm with some wordings. I inched closer to read what was written.

You’re the star that shines bright in my heart.

'I had seen that tattoo before! If only I could remember where’ I pondered. I must have done a sound because Neeraj turned suddenly towards me.

“Hey, I’m sorry for yesterday. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I am not very comfortable talking about my accident. But still it wasn’t your fault.” I muttered even as my heart beat wildly.

Neeraj was smiling at me. There was something about him that quickened my pulse, that made my heart beat like wild tribal drums.

“I will forget about it if you come to watch a movie with me today”.

“A movie?”

“Yes, don’t sound incredulous. It’s just a movie. I’m dying to watch this movie and I have no company”.

I agreed and we both had a wonderful time together. The movie was horrible with bad dialogues and even worse acting but, Neeraj’ s jokes and his company kept me cheerful for those couple of hours. He made sure that I was comfortable, bringing me coke, popcorn and ice-creams. As I reached back home, I realized that I was happier than I had ever been in the past couple of months. In fact I couldn’t remember when I had laughed so much.

The next day when I saw Neeraj at our breakfast table, I was pleased and happy. Neeraj was a cheerful person, someone fun and pleasant to be with, someone who could bring a smile on my lips even on a gloomy day. Every day he used to pick me up in the evening and we would go around the city in his car, listening to music, chatting, cracking jokes and reminiscing about our school days. Some days we would have dinner in a restaurant that Neeraj praised to have exceptional culinary delights.

Those few hours I spent with Neeraj were the highlight of my life. When I was with him, I felt happy, I felt alive. I was on a high, talking and arguing with him. I laughed, I cracked witty comebacks at his jokes, I was a different person altogether. And more importantly, I didn’t think of my life before the accident.

I didn’t know if I was falling in love with Neeraj but I enjoyed his company and I basked in all the attention that he showered on me. A few times I caught Neeraj looking at me longingly, but when I met his gaze he averted his eyes quickly. I didn’t know what to make of our relationship.

One evening when we were returning back from dinner in Neeraj’s car, I was gazing out of the window silently.

“Hey pretty lady, why are you so silent? Do you want to hear one of my funny jokes? Neeraj said hoping to snap me out of my pensive.

“Sure”, I replied.

“Well, once there was a murder and the police brought in a potato for interrogation. They tortured him for hours subjecting him to third degree torture. And when the potato could not take it anymore, he broke down shouting,

‘Main batata hoon, main batata hoon’”

I giggled and slowly the giggles turned into guffaws. I doubled over with laughter clutching my stomach as Neeraj, sitting next to me, looked at me in amusement.

But as laughter ended I howled with sorrow and grief. The tears ran down unabashedly down my cheeks. I wailed loudly folding my hands into a fist and banging them on my head.

Neeraj had stopped the car to the side and held me until my sobs died down.

“You remember the first day you had asked me about my accident. The reason why I was upset was, I had lost my memory in the accident. I cannot remember anything that happened in my life in the past 3 years. Nothing. And I know that something important happened to me in that period. I just know it. I have dreams of someone holding me, begging me to return back. But I cannot recall anything, no matter how hard I try. It’s so frustrating. Every day I try to remember and when I can’t, I try to forget the wispy memories. It’s a war out there in my mind. Every day, every moment.”

Neeraj was looking straight out of the window. Silently, he started the car and drove till he reached an isolated house in the outskirts. It was a small house but with a large, spacious garden at the front, that seemed well looked after. There were flowers of all colors blooming and their fragrance wafted alluringly in the cold night air.

Neeraj took my hand and led me inside the house.

The living room was warm and cozy with flames burning in the fireplace.

“Where are we? Whose house is this?” I asked Neeraj.

He showed me the mantle above the fireplace where a dozen or so photos were kept.

The first photo showed Neeraj kneeling below me with a ring in his hand and I was beaming with happy tears. In the next photo, I was wearing a red bridal sari looking gorgeous, the next photo was of Neeraj’ s, in a groom’s dress complete with a turban and atop a horse, the next photo showed Neeraj and I dancing with the bharatis. There were rows and rows of photos, on the wall, as picture frames, all displaying the blessed and loved life that we had led as a couple.

“After the accident, the doctors warned us not to force you into remembering anything. You would get your memory back and we only had to give you time, to recover slowly, to recall as years passed. But I couldn’t stay away from you, Shruti. It was torture for me to see you but, not be able to hold you, to see you cry, to see you depressed but not be able to help you remember those wonderful moments we had spent together. Every day I hoped that you would remember something, some moments of us and I prayed that you would regain your memory.”

I sat down as the memories flashed in my mind, like the photos taken lovingly and placed all over the house. Those loving years Neeraj and I had spent as husband and wife in this house. Neeraj stood over me and his tears fell on my face. I knew now the person beside me all those months when I was in the hospital, the person holding my hands and praying, and talking to me although I could hardly hear him.

I knew I had returned, I knew I had come home.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

The One Last Hug

I had forgotten my cell phone on my office desk before I went in for a meeting with my staff and when I came back, I saw that there were 38 missed calls in 10 mins. I wondered what was going on. All the calls were from my mom. I called her back thinking that it was an emergency.

“Ma, are you alright? Has something happened?”

“No Jenny, it’s just that I missed you. I felt like speaking to you.” Mom’s hoarse voice came over the phone.

“Gosh Ma, I thought something bad happened. You gave so many miss calls. I have a job and I’m busy throughout the day Ma. You should at least think of others before disturbing them during the day.” I ranted as my assistant came to inform me that I had a client call pending in 5 mins.

“Jenny, I felt like speaking to you. I don’t know why I’m feeling sad and depressed from few days. I wanted to speak to you desperately. I understand you are busy.”

My assistant kept waving her arms frantically trying to indicate that the clients were waiting and getting impatient.

“Look Ma, I’ll call you later. Right now I’m busy.” I cut the call before my mother had a chance to speak again.

The entire day I was busy in meetings and drafting proposals. I was the editor and co-owner of a leading women’s magazine. It had been just a year since we started publication, but things were rolling quickly for us. I was proud of my magazine which I believed helped many women across our country. But of course it had a downside. I was so busy that I never had any time left for a personal life.

At 11 o’clock that night as I headed home, weary and tired I remembered my mother’s phone call but I was too bushed to even make polite conversation. I decided I would call her the first thing tomorrow. I realized that Ma would be feeling lonely in her retirement home and I felt a pang of guilt. But I quickly reassured myself that at least there, she would have had company. If I had kept her with me, she would be bored.

As soon as I reached home I wearily climbed to my bedroom and fell asleep promptly. But I was woken up after an hour by the door bell ringing incessantly. I panicked. It was 1 o’clock in the night, who would come to my house at this late hour?

I cautiously approached the door and opened it a little to peak at the visitor. My mother stood outside covered in a threadbare coat and shivering in the night chill.

“Ma, what are you doing here?” I quickly pulled her inside the house before she caught a cold.

“Jenny I missed you so much. I had to see you. I don’t know why but I couldn’t rest until I saw you. Did I disturb you?”

“Ma, how can you be so irresponsible. You traveled alone at this late hour just to see me. What’s come over you?” I couldn’t believe that my mother could be so silly.

“I know my dear that I have acted irresponsibly, but I had this unexplainable urge to see you one last time. “ She explained in a small voice.

“What do you mean one last time?” I thought my mother had gone a little off, but I made her sit at the dining table and prepared a hot cup of tea for her.

She didn’t touch it. She looked at me intently. “You look tired. Have you been working round the clock? You should take better care of yourself dear.”

I looked at her as she kept talking about her life in the retirement home. She had aged so much, the happy lines around her lips that formed whenever she smiled were gone and there were deep wrinkles around her eyes. ‘When did she age so much’, I wondered.

“Yeah ma, I am busy these days. There’s so much to do, with meetings and conferences and the deadlines. How are you? Are you comfortable at the home?”

“Oh yeah, it’s absolutely wonderful. I have so many friends but I miss you a lot. I miss talking to you. I miss listening to your voice and I miss hugging you”.

My eyes were downcast as a lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t realized how much I had ignored my mother in the past year. I was all she had had, and I was so busy caught up in my work that I had forgotten to call her or visit her. When I was a child, my mother was always there for me, when I was sick she would be sitting at my bedside stroking my forehead. When I came home from school, she would be waiting for me with a little snack ready on the table. When I was depressed over my first heartbreak she was there beside me to wipe my tears and comfort me.

What had I done? I felt the hot tears stinging my cheeks. I wanted to hug my mother. To tell her that I missed her too and that she would stay with me. Yes, I would bring her back and look after her, take care of her, shower her with love as she had done to me all through her life.

My thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.  “I’ll be right back Ma, and I have some good news to tell you”, I said to my mother as I ran to the next room to receive the call.

“Hi, this is Claire from Asha Nivas old age home. I’m very sorry to let you know that your mother expired an hour back. We just came to know about it few minutes back. We called for the doctor but he confirmed that she has been dead for an hour or so. Can you please come as soon as it is convenient for you?”

“What, is this a joke? I don’t find this funny. My mother is here with me. You must be mistaken.” I almost shouted. What kind of sick person would crack such a joke?

“Miss Jenny, there’s no mistake. Your mother died due to a fatal heart attack. The doctor has examined her body and he said she went in peace. She didn’t suffer much. I know this must be tough for you…” I dropped the phone and ran back to the kitchen.

The cup of tea sat untouched but there was no one at the table. “Ma, ma where did you go?”I called out, searching my house and but she had gone. I wish that I had hugged her one last time, told her how much I had missed her and that I was sorry for what I had done. But she was gone.

 This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

The Payback

The scene outside the courtroom resembled nothing short of mayhem. At least a dozen TV channel crews with their reporters and cameraman jostled for space as they tried to get a best shot of the woman leaving the court, escorted by two lady constables. The wily reporters wriggled through the barriers created by policemen and thrust their microphones into the woman’s face. 

Arushi Sinha, the young journalist from News Now channel was excited and elated. This was her first big case and she didn’t want to bungle it. She looked confidently into the camera and spoke to the audience all over the nation watching the live news telecasted by her channel.

“As you see, Aliya Sheik is being led away from the court after the final verdict on the case against her was announced this afternoon. A year after the Aliya Sheik case was first heard, the court has finally declared Aliya as guilty for the murder of Rashid Khan. To refresh your memory a little about the case, a year ago, Aliya, wife of Sheraz Ahmed, the industrialist and the business magnate, was found at her London residence, with a gun in her hand, and the body of Rashid, by her side. Rashid was stabbed 16 times with a kitchen knife and then shot point blank in the head. Aliya surrendered herself to the police and confessed that she had killed Rashid in a fit of rage. She had admitted to having an affair with Rashid for the past 5 years. This was a huge terrible blow to the mogul of Ahmed and Co. Sheraz was married to Aliya for 15 years, in fact they were childhood sweethearts and he was completely heartbroken when he came to know that his dear wife had been cheating on him. But his love for her, never diminished by this fact. During the hearing of this case, he was always beside her, supported her and tried to get her acquitted. But alas, even the powerful Sheraz couldn’t hide the bare facts that were laid open in this case.

Aliya’s confession of killing Rashid in cold blood, because he turned greedy and started blackmailing her for money, was a clincher in this case. Even the best lawyer couldn’t defend Aliya and save her. As per Aliya’s written statement, she met Rashid when she was vacationing in Abu Dhabi with a couple of friends. They became close abetted by the sad fact that her marriage with Sheraz was going through a rough patch. But a year into their affair, Rashid showed his true colors when he started blackmailing her for money. Initially Aliya conceded to his demands but as his hassles increased she decided to finish him off. When police found Aliya at the murder scene, she was terrified and shaking like a leaf. She was mentally unbalanced and kept shouting that she had killed Rashid. 

The entire setup sounds like a movie but to man clearly still in love with his wife, it’s a hard reality. “

The camera panned to Sheraz who was holding Aliya’s hand and whispering in her ears before she was whisked away by the policemen into the waiting van. He covered his eyes with his hands as his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

A Week Later

The news of Aliya’s suicide inside the prison made breaking news on all TV channel and the story took the entire first page of every news paper. The case hogged the prime time slot again and there were many psychiatrists who were invited to the studios to discuss the mental state of Aliya that drove her to commit suicide. Some said that she was heartbroken over her own debauchery and the grief that she saw in her husband’s eyes. Some said that she was plain scared of spending her life in prison, after all she came from an affluent family and had lived a life surrounded by all luxuries that money could afford. The tragic love triangle of husband, wife and the playboy caught the nation’s interest and the case was analyzed and dissected all over again.

Sheraz Ahmed

I took the glass filled with scotch to my study and sat on the leather couch looking at the photograph. Aliya looked so happy, so young and vibrant in the photo. It was taken during our honeymoon in Switzerland. I remembered the gaunt, thin face just before I lit the funeral pyre. It had not belonged to Aliya. It had belonged to a devious and shrewd woman who had become embittered in life. I realized that the happy, lively woman whom I had married had died long back. 

I remembered the night, I had first viewed them both together, in my bedroom, in my bed. Entwined together, drunk in pleasure. My blood boiled when I saw my own wife, the woman with whom I had spent 2 decades of a wonderful life, in another’s arms. I would have never discovered what was happening right under my nose. But a month back, troubled by the rising number of burglaries in our neighborhood, I had installed a state of the art alarm system that came with hidden CCTV cameras all over my house, including my bedroom. Aliya had been on another of her vacations and she was completely unaware of the hidden cameras that were installed in our house. 

I found out about my wife’s adultery through sheer dumb luck and I would have let it pass. I would have confronted her, divorced her, kicked her out of my house and life. But when I heard what my wife and her lover, Rashid, were planning, my heart came to a standstill. A cold rage took over my mind. The technician had arranged the live feed from the cameras to be displayed directly on my laptop and I was in my office when I heard the conversation between the two.

 Aliya and Rashid were in a post-coital embrace and talking. One thing they didn’t know that they were being watched.

“Rashid, I don’t want to continue like this. I want to be with you, without having to keep our relationship under wraps. I want to be free. But Sheraz won’t divorce me and he would probably cut me off from his money if he came to know about our affair. You know my family is not as rich as people believe. I have had a wealthy upbringing but over the years our family business suffered and if Sheraz left me then we would be penniless. I want to be free of Sheraz and yet be rich.”

They looked at each other and Rashid spoke up.

“I have a plan.”

And in front of my own eyes, I saw my dear wife hatching a plan to kill me. And I hatched a plan of my own. I knew their schedule, when they would meet. 

So that day when Aliya and Rashid met in my house, they had a surprise visitor. I bound her with ropes and forced her to watch her lover dying a slow death of pain as I stabbed him multiple times and then shot him in the head. I then turned the gun on Aliya. She was terrified, crying and asking me to forgive her. 

Yes, I would forgive her but not without penance. She had to take the rap for Rashid’s murder. She would admit to killing him and surrender herself. I played my part of a heart-broken husband to the hilt throughout the case. It took only a few discreet phone calls to ensure that her life in prison was hell enough to push her to suicide. I knew that it was only a matter of months before Aliya broke down in prison.

The day the court had finally reached the verdict I cried when she was being taken away. I bent close to her ears and whispered.

“Enjoy in hell and be assured that I’ll make sure that each day, each moment of your life is unforgettable and by the end of it you will wish that I would have killed you along with your lover. Goodbye.”

It was getting late. I collected all of Aliya’s photos and threw them into the burning wood in the fireplace before sleeping.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. We give out creative writing topics each weekend for Indian bloggers.