cabinet to pull out a few bottles of Phenergan. Along came a snake’s shed skin, frightening me out of my wits. ‘Cobra Didi’s molting,’ that’s the first thought that popped into my addled brain. ‘Phoolvati’s second skin,’ was the second one. Flicking the chiffony thingummy off the bottle, I slugged down almost a flagon of the cough syrup. ‘Oh, it’s just a shiny black stocking,’ I was glad to note.
In retrospect, drinking it proved to be a good decision as this is what gave me clear direction; got the adrenaline kicking thus encouraging me to pick up the reins of my destiny. It was obvious I was in the woods, and I needed to machete my way out of it. “Man up and do it,” my mind told me. “Make every moment count—you’re seconds away from tipping the scales in your favour. Your ripped conscience can go patch itself later. It might sound trite but in crisis, ultimately it is every man for himself.” Now how can anyone argue with such a strong plea?
I fell to my knees in supplication.
A barrel of Kerosene, lit up by a seemingly innocent
matchstick and Bob was my Uncle. The heat was on, pun intended. RIP, baby. I staggered back, reeling from the heat and the shock. Noise and pain devoured me, every nerve-end exposed, swelled up, terrified of puncture. “I’m burning, I’m burning,” I shouted, slapping the flames on my body.
The very articulate Miss Holier-than-thou whispered softly in my ear, “No, you’re not. He is,” and then went on to recite a poem in my head,
‘Goosey, goosey gander
Where shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met a man,
Who wouldn’t say his prayers.
I took him by the left leg,
And threw him down the stairs.’
Was I a killer? Had I thrown someone down the stairs? Or, oh my God… what was that smell… burnt someone? God, I can’t look… are the flames going to burn themselves out or do I have to douse them? Tana, Tana, you didn’t think it through. There’s no going back. Yash and Maya are orphans now.’ Thank God for small mercies though—at least he was not in any pain. That was my forte: Pain management, being in this field and all. Flames, flames … it’s a shame. I knew not what to do. But mind you, nobody got what they wanted the easy way. Common enough phrase—No pain, no gain. Who was the one in pain? Him? Me? Miss Holier-than-thou? I made a quick to-do list:
Put down the fire once you are sure he has … um … to
put it kindly … GONE.
Do away with the remnants of the handcuffs.
Dispose of the syringe and the Propofol.
Write a suicide note—
Diary, how I wish for a comforting glance.
[I lift my pen to close the Diary so that I can see her
face. “Thanks. Makes me feel a lot better. That beatific smile … offering your commiseration.” I put my pen to paper again.]
So, my dear confidante, no sooner did I jot down ‘Write a
suicide note’ than I heard the peal of a bell. Life has its ways of throwing a curveball at you when you least expect it. You can’t really google 7 fool proof ways to murder ’cause if you end up being on the suspect list, your digital footprints can harm you. Frolicking in cyber waves can rock your boat. Also, there is no handbook or guide for murder. Maybe, one day I’ll write a self-help book titled, ‘How to get rid of stressful relatives’. An autobiography is another option though far riskier. But I might add it’s a calculated risk ’cause no one I know reads books. Pri, Yash, Maya all have their noses almost always buried into their phones.
[“Hey, no need to flinch.” I stroke her pink face. “I’m not
stupid—I’ll use a pseudonym. Writing’s therapeutic for me as
you are well aware.”]
So, three things came up while I was in the middle of murder. Number one: the flames shot up to the ceiling; I could get torched too if the house caught fire. Number two: the doorbell rang. And Number three: something else, damned if I can remember, happened.
I felt dizzy as though I had inhaled fumes reducing the flow of oxygen inside me. The earth shifted beneath my feet. Get a grip, Tana. Remember, Tana means ‘stem’. Go on, dig your roots deeper into the earth, I tried to boost my morale.
Wound like a top, I did my best to shake myself out of the stupor. Slipping off my sandals, I crept to a window which gave me a view of the front porch. Thank heavens: Just the security guard keeping the evening post by the door. I hastened to run the errands on the list. Mummy would have been so proud of me. Didn’t she always say, ‘It’s good to be meticulous, to pay attention to little details.’ Vikram will thank me too—he’s gonna be with his wife. I knew he missed her sorely. Plus, he could kick back and let loose in heaven without the Boa-Constrictor-Didi squeezing the life out of him. Personally, I was convinced heaven’s where he was headed.
Thanks, dear Diary for being my sounding board and my go-to-person for retrieving my memories, the keeper of my
memories. I’ll put you back in the bedside drawer before soaking in the tub. I can think of what to do next after I bathe.
Forever your friend,
Tana Sharma
Twenty
JACK AND JILL
DEAR DIARY
TODAY WAS MY first anniversary. Sadly, I do not have a spouse to celebrate it with. It is past one o’clock in the night, and I write from our bed in 39-Lutyens Bungalow.
Ten hours ago, late in the afternoon, I jolted awake to a ringing noise. Whoa! I was in the bathtub with bloodstained wrists. As I stared vacuously at them, in that moment, I couldn’t remember the events leading to the unspeakably horrible state of being I was in—had I blacked out before coming to? Had I called someone for help?
Dear Diary, those are the questions that sloshed around in my grey-matter.
I shut my eyes tight, and half-opened one to assess the damage to my wrists. I was relieved to note that the cut had missed hitting the blue soldier. Still, I felt lost, and in a bid to find out more, I banged my head against the tiled wall.
Memories jolted loose. It was our first wedding anniversary.
A year and ten-kilograms-heavier-me ago I had married Vikram a few weeks after his first wife’s death. Alzheimer’s had eaten away at the poor dear’s sorry life leading to an all too early exit from this world. A particularly horrendous incident that haunts me to date. Those last couple of days when the hapless woman constantly retched and drooled, smelling of coagulated weeks old spring-rolls…
Memories were trickling back in bits and pieces but I needed more. So, I hit my head with a fist. Another memory broke free—this time around a recent one. I had cut-up myself in a fit of anger. I couldn’t remember the cause of this anger—though some anger it must have been considering how I am around blood. And yes, I had called up Priyanka in panic before blacking out. After that, I had lost the time.
An unknown number of seconds, minutes or hours later, I had woken up from my partial coma by a ringing noise. Now, once again, something rang, making me flail my head much like a calf which has been put into a yoke for the first time. Were these death bells tolling? A thick maroon stream cascaded into the pink-tinged water making my head stop in its tracks. Mesmerised, I stared at it. Surely, this could push me to the edge of a fainting spell again. The bell continued to chime ominously. Something droned on the tub. Zombie-like, I turned toward the noise. It was my cell phone. That’s what had been ringing all along—not death bells, and it was FaceTime. I needed that like I needed a fourth tit. Or was it the third? How many does a woman have? My eyes darted down at first down my naked body and then every which way. The door was locked. Someone inside my grey matter thundered at me: Pick up the phone, you do need FaceTime. You need help. I pressed the green button.
“You called. And then I … this is my fifth call in an hour. I was worried sic—” Priyanka’s eyes widened, her head lurched forward hitting the steering wheel. “Just hang in there. I am seconds away—”
&nb
sp; “Vikram and I … we …” My body twitched involuntarily like that of a headless chicken.
“Hang on, I’ll come make you tea.” She switched the
ignition off.
What? That’s your answer for everything? Tea?
Literally seconds later, someone banged on the bathroom door. “Open up. Get out,” Priyanka’s voice quivered.
I stumbled to the door to unlock it.
Priyanka rushed inside a bit madly, searching for someone.
“Where is that sorry son of a bitch?” She shook her head like an aroused milch cow.
“Who?” I frowned trying hard to figure out the connotations
of her words.
“Oh Tana, Tana, what have you done? What am I gonna do
with you?” She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me and sat me onto the bed. What’s that?” She pointed at the crystal
gravel on the floor.
“Bath salts,” I told her, my voice wobbly. That’s my uber-expensive-hard-to-get-flakka. The rest are easy to get—all I
have to do is forge Varun’s writing on the slips I help myself to
from his prescription pad.
“You won’t say anything. It’s all my fault. Just promise
me,” I begged desperately. “If Mummy hears, she will die.” ‘You only die once, though.’
“Good God, Tana! Are you mental?”
“I remember now. Are you looking for Vikram? Where is
he? We have to find him ASAP. I have a bad fee—”
“Let him go to hell. You are coming with me,” her words
muscled in sharply.
“One last chance.” I grasped the towel, my knuckles white,
“I like him.” Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m saying this but I have developed a liking for him.
“On one condition; you will call up Auntie. And she will
stay with you.” She tucked wet strands of my black hair behind
my ears.
Too late for that. That horse has already bolted. “I told you, she’s abandoned me. Off to Goa for all we know. I haven’t heard from her for almost a year now,” I sniffled.
Priyanka’s face fell. “Yeah, you did tell me you’ve looked everywhere for her. Strange! Ghosting your own daughter. You need tea.”
“Listen,” I said, my voice small, “I need bandages, I think.” I held up my wrists.
Her black eyes blazed, “Are you happy now? Stay with
Merchant of Venice for all I care.” She picked up her phone
and made a call. “Varun, it’s Tana.”
I flailed my injured arms like a windmill, mouthing
silently, “Don’t tell him.”
“She’s cut her wrists,” said Priyanka, “slashed them. Oh,
my God. Hurry.”
Not very long afterward, Varun came and the two of them
hovered like helicopters pushing spoons of God-knows-what
into my trembling mouth.
“Where is he?” asked Varun, his voice gruff as he examined
my head, “and what’s that smell. Kerosene?”
“I can’t remember,” I told him truthfully. Really, Diary,
believe me, that was the truth. You do know the Flakka or maybe the DMT messes up with my mind and makes me lose time and the most recent memories. I rained blows on my pulsating hippocampus. Again, a morbid memory stared me in the face.
“Stop it.” Varun caught hold of my wounded wrists and
naturally I screamed with pain. “Sorry,” he let go of me.
“I’ll go make her strong tea. With cloves and cinnamon.”
“There’s not enough tea in the world to fix her. Not today at
least—she needs something stronger than the strongest drink.”
He opened his portable medical bag. Dropping his voice an
octave he said to Pri, “Her injuries are commensurate with
repeated blows to the head.”
I opened my bedside drawer. Relief flooded my veins as I
saw you, my Diary. Now, I’ll know. For a moment I dithered.
In case I’d done something illegal, losing my memory could help me pass any polygraph test if things came to that. A coin-toss moment. The moment passed. I had to know. Not knowing is crippling. I unlocked you with shaky hands and quickly read my last entry.
What?
Die! Double die, Tana/Ipecacuanha/Iguana!Marijuana! Gnarly Tana. You think you exude the sap of wisdom? It’s the sap of death; poisons those who dare touch your gnarly bark. What did you do? When did you lose yourself to the dark side? The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. This was a crazy drug-induced deranged act! Just when I had begun to like him. I think. And crazy piece of writing too—thoughtless, arrogant. Certainly not my finest work. ‘Mummy would be proud?’ I wrote that? As of yesterday, I need to be in a de-addiction centre. No, No! I think I should be in an asylum in a straightjacket. Or better still, I should hang for this. I gave my entry a title? As though it were a chapter in a book? Fire, Feud, Fury—how sick was that? And the gory, detailed, and remorseless description? The unintelligent talk about writing an autobiography? Saying that in retrospect it was a good decision? Bob’s my Uncle? What? Drugs, this one’s on you. I should be behind bars. Someone lock me up and throw away the key. Mental note to self: Give up drugs. Quit. Move to Mexico.
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Who
writes like this? A lunatic if I were to guess right. Completely
spooked out, I tossed the Diary on to the floor.
“What are you doing?” Priyanka picked it up and put it back
in the drawer. “Lie down.”
It took all my willpower to drag myself out of the depths of despair I floundered in. I can’t save him but at least I can try to save myself, I thought, some sort of sense prevailing over me. Though to be honest, at that point, my heart wasn’t really into saving myself. “Wait. I remember now,” — broken-spiritedly I wrung my hands—the tears now stung my eyes bitterly. “He… he… tried to burn me—”
“What?” “Where?” “Why?” they bulldozed my voice into burial all at once.
I pointed to the kitchen.
Leaving me to my misery with something drumming inside my head, rejecting and shunning me, the two of them tiptoed out. Quick as I could, I got up, scooped up the flakka and stuffed it in my panty gusset before lying down again. “Maybe he’s still here,” I heard Varun whispering to Pri.
Little did they know the extent of the goriness they were about to stumble upon. Expectedly, I heard cries of terror and
fright. Look Phenergan what you’ve done, I thundered at myself furiously.
“MedMac? The front-desk? This is Dr. Varun Seth. Dispatch an ambulance to 39-Lutyens Bungalow Zone, Prithviraj Road. Man down,” he shouted on the phone.
“What’s going on, Pri?”
After that, I heard them whispering frantically amongst
themselves. Random scraps from their anxious murmurs
floated toward me. “Unspeakable … suicide … mad.”
Seconds later, their voices sounded nearer.
“He started out wanting to burn her, ended up drugging her and … um … burning himself? What happened? Who did this?”
“I-I’m sure they-they didn’t leave a card,” whimpered
Priyanka agitatedly. All at once she exclaimed, “Hey, Varun,
look, surprise of all surprises, there actually is a calling card—a note. Remorse pangs, I believe.”
“Probably he wasn’t quite right in the head,” I heard
Varun’s unsteady voice.
A moment afterward, the good doctor sat at my bedside,
held my hand and assured me, “Now listen closely. None of this bullshit is your fault. Do not, I repeat do not say a word. We will handle it,” —he injected something in my vein— “close your eyes and count backward. You will be fine.” Without protest I offered my limp arm, trusting him blindly; not in my me
ntal make-up to do so generally but this one time I did, being two heartbeats away from mental collapse. Admittedly, I was okay even if whatever he injected killed me.
I now knew why I had cut myself up. How I wish it had been a successful attempt.
When I came to about an hour ago, I woke up in my own
bed here with Priyanka sleeping right next to me. That’s when
I took you out.
By now dear Diary, you have come to know me well. You
understand my need to unburden myself. You are the only
one I confide in—the shoulder I cry on, the one who keeps me
sane. In short, you are THE ONE. And I keep my entries short.
I’m not Boring-Mummy who bludgeoned all stories to death by repeating them a million times. My words, “Mummy,
this is the tenth time you’re telling me this, or Mummy I’ve
heard this a thousand times,” fell on deaf years. Sorry, ears.
Yours truly,
Tana Sharma
IT IS THAT TIME OF the day again: Lullaby time.
“I’ll protect you from harm, and you’ll wake in my arms.
Sleepyhead Tana, Tani, close your eyes, for I’m right beside
you. Guardian angels are near, so sleep without fear.”
I sing till hoarse but sleep is still miles away. It is like I am Jill, who comes tumbling after Jack. What passes for others as sleep, is for me nightmares playing staccato castanets on my muddled brain. Finally, I pull out my stash from the gusset. I’ll quit tomorrow. If there’s one day when I need dope desperately, clear as day, today’s that day. Even a fool would have to agree.
For whatever it is worth, I am truly sorry. I know I fall
woefully short of a real apology but that’s how things stand at
the moment.
“Hey, go to sleep, what time is it?” groans Pri.
“Self-berating o’clock.”
PART THREE
____________
ROSÉ AND THE BENT STEM
Twenty-one
ALICE IN WONDERLAND
LUTYENS BUNGALOW ZONE
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 15
