“For what?”
“For butchering her.” I point at the ribbons of paper
swirling in the soft breeze.
Suddenly, to my great horror, they begin to perform a
ghastly mid-air romp, choreographed by a bodyless head that
comes along rolling in a cloud of ash. Batons sticking out its
ears orchestrated the movements. And the papers sashayed this way and that! Gloppy bone marrow drips down, completely saturating them. Seconds later, the grisly pieces drop to the ground on to a structural frame. Aghast, I try to get a better look, only to clutch at my heart: The cast was Mummy’s skeleton. A partially burnt chimney billows large spirals of smoky fumes to dry out the gluey gel.
Who is that? I can’t shake the feeling it represents
someone I know. Jerking my head away, I shield my eyes with the backs of my hands. However, the flue pirouettes out of the black smoke before skipping forward and whirling around like a ballerina right in front of my eyes. ‘That’s freaking Vikram.’ Before I can catch my staggered breath or process the straight-out-of-hell scene, the whole hideous mess morphs into a gigantic, bleeding papier-mâché death mask. A big gust of wind blows it up in the air before it thuds onto my chest, splattering bloodstained pieces every which way.
The ash-cloaked-head hops on to a buffalo’s (around whose neck hung a basket full of neatly folded clothes) back but not before showing me its sunken-eyed face capped by a
powdered judge’s wig and screaming at me.
“Murderer!”
It’s the drill-sergeant: Chief Justice Papa rising out of the
ashes in the urn. Papa, you should be the last person hurling
accusations since you’re the one who has the blood of
thousands on your hands. Is that a mere statistic for you? Guess what—it’s not. I call it the tragic murder of strapping young soldiers. I, for one, was delivering justice. That isn’t murder.
My mind reels. Another thought clobbers me. Sitting up straight, I scan the stratosphere for the Late Emperor-Ashoka-the-Great and the Late Mrs. Patel. Have they too crawled out of their graves to haunt me?
“We have lost her.” A paramedic shakes his head at Pri’s lifeless body. “Get me the bag. We have to pack her.”
“Way to go. Yes, stuff her in the teabag.” I punch the air
with balled fists. “And while you’re at it, dip her in a boiling
cauldron. The witch killed Miss Rosé.” Die! Double die, witch!”
“It’s the shock. She is delirious,” states the paramedic.
The fool! What does he know?
A sudden thought puzzles me. I have to ask, “Who was that buffalo? Shobha Didi? Was that her way of saying sorry? She
brought me neatly folded clothes.” My head spins as I eddy
about a whirlpool filled with bath-salts and corpses. I begin to sing:
“Hey diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The buffalo
jumped over the moon…”
“Shh, close your eyes.” José gently cups them. “You are
broken. Ó! Senhorita, your skin’s burning.”
“Is it?” I ask rather uninterestedly. So, I did snort flakka;
spikes in body temperature are a definite symptom of an
overdose.
“Miss Rosé’s howling!” I exclaim and let out an anguished wail in reply.
José’s hand falls away.
Once again, I howl—my cry more prolonged than before
and directed at the moon.
A strip of paper gyrates above me like a hooker before
landing on my lap; the words, ‘Not broken but bent’ on it.
“Got you,” I laugh hysterically, as my lover falls into my
arms. Hopping off the lounger, I bend on a knee, “Will you
marry me, Miss Rosé?” I ask, feeling suddenly shy. “We’ve
had a long enough courtship.”
AFTERWORD
Readers, beginning about a decade ago, both my real findings as well as my imagined suppositions about Tana, the fungus-plagued stem, took root in my brain, sending down aerial roots, and shooting up multiple trunks that entangled and seized my cerebrum in their tight grip. To ease the pressure, I have now unknotted them, spilling the sap out on to paper, taking a leaf out of Tana’s Diary, Miss Rosé. Root Out Sin! Yea! though admittedly, at a high cost; the cost being my very existence in this world. Who does that? Only a mad person or a martyr who aspires to fall on a guillotine. I am no martyr, for sure. That means, I must be mad; sadly, I can tell—there’s no other explanation.
So, I, as the mad author of this book and as one of the characters in it, choose to let you into Tana’s bedroom and workplace and introduced you to the demons swirling in her mind. In doing that, I may have corroded at least a few folks’ belief that people are knowable, besides giving them a hair-raising experience. They deserve a good hot cuppa to bury their messed-up emotions in. Even I should get a prize or something for having plodded through this macabre maze to reach my vile destination. In Tana’s words, “Ugh! Double Ugh!”
However, it is far more likely that the police come beating down my door than an award-giving academy. Overall, I assume I have dropped anchor in a relatively safe harbor. In Tana’s words, “Assume away!” God, I cannot keep her out of my mind. Anyway, in this moment, I am going to sit down to a strong cup of tea. I think I have earned it.
Of course, there will always be this sword hanging over my head—the possibility of Tana stumbling upon my account of her insidious misdemeanors. Having said that, to the best of my knowledge, the chance of that happening is quite slight. She’s a writer, yes; a reader, no. Regardless, shit happens; perils of being a living being. So, if she reads this, I have no doubt, the evil wind that she is will whip me up and send me crashing on to the rocks whence I came from.
We have all heard about the innocent butterfly flapping its wings in one part of the world and causing a typhoon in another. No one anchored in high winds sleeps well. Be that as it may. May the forces be with me if and when I need them. Tell you what though, I better shtum up—it’s time to leave you, clever readers, to your thoughts.
P.S. For kindred spirits—who are just as taken in by curiosity as I am—there is a clue to my identity in the afterword. If you crack the code, text me at 9814020188.
Thank you for reading my book, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Won’t you please consider leaving a review? Even just a few reviews would help others decide if the book is right for them.
Best regards and thank you in advance.
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 18
