The Turning Point

by Nikita Singh

  I gave her a shove. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  ‘So, you’re not even seduced by the scent of my blood?’ She was finally upset. ‘You mean you’ve not been sitting there this whole time just fighting the urge to devour me whole?’

  I couldn’t believe what I witnessing. She was actually feeling rejected! I wondered what they had been feeding these women on TV. And believe it or not, I felt like I owed her an explanation. I was beginning to feel sorry for her. ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I said.

  ‘Well, enlighten me.’ She was trying to be stoic, but I could tell nothing could make up for the fact that I didn’t want to drain her of every drop of blood in her body.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘We are predators. We enjoy the hunt more than the kill. And you seem to have taken it upon yourself to strip me of my hunting urges by baby-talking me. Congratulations! My vampire erection has completely gone down.’

  ‘Awwwwww!’ That awful sound again. ‘You see what’s happening here?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You’re fighting against your nature when you’re around me! That’s true love right there!’

  ‘I am not fighting against my nature, I am turned off !’

  I clarified.

  ‘Exactly! You can’t kill when you’re around me! That’s love! You don’t want to kill me!’

  ‘Oh, I want to kill you, believe me.’

  ‘Awwww! You’re like a combination of both the Salvatore brothers.’

  ‘Who the hell are the Salvatore brothers?’

  ‘Never mind. But you know what, I’m even more convinced now that we’re in a story.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, taking one last giant swig of her Cosmopolitan, ‘it’s the perfect new beginning. A fresh meet-cute. I mean the whole vampire-meets-girl-fallsirrevocably-in-love-and-fights-the-urge-to-stay-awayfrom-her-but-can’t thing is done to death already. So if anyone is writing vampire fiction now, it has to be the girl pursuing the vampire.’ I was chilled to my undead bones as I took that in. It made sense.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I said. ‘That almost makes sense.’

  ‘Yep!’ she said, grinning away.

  ‘My point is, why are they even writing vampire romance? Why have they done this to us?’

  ‘Because, fiction has to keep surprising people. Everyone’s done with the Dracula variety. How can you keep vampires alive in fiction if they’re going to keep popping out of the same old dusty coffins, wearing those ridiculous capes and living with bats? So we surprise them. We make them wear leather jackets, put them in high school, make them fall in love, sparkle in the sun…and boom!’

  I was all out of arguments. I had completely bought in to this theory. I was just angry now. This whole night had felt like quicksand.

  ‘That is not surprising!’ I said. ‘The word you’re looking for is something on the lines of appalling, misleading, absurd, ludicrous!’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, as if she was being the patient, enduring one in this equation. ‘Like I said, you’re more like the Salvatore brothers. Except, I’m the one coming after you. Which makes you the chosen one and me, the brooding, tormented lover.’

  ‘Alright, that’s it,’ I got up to leave. ‘This has been fun, but I have to go. I have people to kill and cities to terrorise.’ ‘See, you keep saying that, but...’

  ‘Oh, I will totally do it. Just don’t want to give you the pleasure of being my prey. I will go out there tonight and terrorise everyone in this neighbourhood till you take back your crap theories about vampires and your delusions about being in a TV show.’ I couldn’t believe what I had become. The kind of vampire that had to be challenged to a kill. But this wasn’t over yet, of course.

  ‘You think anyone’s going to be scared of you out there?’

  she snorted. Snorted! ‘Trust me, no girl is going to give you the pleasure of hunting her. We are all already primed to think you are the soul mate we’ve been destined to meet. Also, like I said, we don’t even get to decide this. We just do as the writer says.’ She leaned in, her face just an inch from mine. ‘And you can run all you want, but if you’re the chosen one and I’m your epic love, then I am coming after you and you are falling in love with me.’ It had been years since I’d experienced fear of any kind, but I tell you, just right then, I was afraid.

  ‘Then what happens? In the, umm, story?’ I asked. You see, I’m a control freak. I’m more at ease when I know what’s coming even if I can do nothing to stop it. So if I’m going to be eaten by a shark (or seduced by an airhead, same thing), I prefer to know it before it happens. That way, I can be mentally prepared.

  ‘Then we fall in love and decide to be together,’ she said, completely enjoying the role reversal. ‘But in the last episode of season 1, something scary happens. It’s usually a third character who is brought in to cause conflict between us. Your hot brother or my bitchy friend. Or, oh, your archenemy, the werewolf falls in love with me.’

  I groaned. In part pain and part disgust. ‘Yuck. This is like One Tree Hill with supernatural creatures! I won’t have it! I won’t!’

  ‘Except, it’s so much more exciting than that, because in our story, people die!’

  I sighed in relief. At least I was still a vampire, still a blood hound. ‘Oh, thank God,’ I said. ‘So I’m still a killer.’

  ‘Oh no, not you, love! You become the good vampire. Meaning, you only feed on squirrels and bunnies. The killers are the bad ones whom you have to protect me from.’ I spoke too fast. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t see it panning out that way. That if another vampire wanted to take her down, I’d gladly help. But I found myself not wanting to hurt her feelings. I mean, she was clearly into me. Crap, I was changing already. Since when did I care about human emotions?

  ‘This is bullshit!’ I said, slamming my fists on the table and standing up dramatically. ‘I am not going to be in any story that turns me into some pansy-ass lover! And that’s not negotiable!’

  ‘Aww, I’m sorry, love. But that’s not your decision to make! You’re already in the story. And everything you do, like it or not, will only fulfil it.’

  ‘Fine, then,’ I said, about to leave. ‘We’ll see how this story ends.’

  ‘Wait! Here’s my number!’ she scribbled something on a paper napkin to hand out to me.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure fate will find a way if it’s meant to be,’ I said and walked away without looking back..

  I sat down, spent. Dr Quack kept watching me like there was more.

  ‘That’s it. I’m done.’ I said.

  ‘Okay, so what do you think?’ he said.

  ‘What do I think?’ I’m paying you what I’m paying, to find out what I think?’

  ‘Correction, I’m paying you. And no complaints, you’re extremely entertaining. Have you considered writing a novel?’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ By now, I was very low on patience, as you can imagine. The whole point of telling him the story and reliving the most emotionally scarring experience of my life was to get some sort of valid insight into my psyche from this genius. And yet here he was, telling me to write a novel with that smug face of his. I was left with little choice. I had to show him who I was.

  I let out my Scary Predatory sound and teamed it with my Scary Predator face for a 360 degree experience. But before the fangs could come out, he had pressed some sort of panic button and before I knew it, they were injecting me with all kinds of crap and I was chained and restrained and put in this cuckoo’s nest for God knows how long.

  It feels like a week or two. And in this time, something peculiar has taken place. It all started with me turning the TV on and tuning into a random channel where I happened to hear the word vampire. The introduction was funny enough coming from a suitably intense and broody voice:

  For over a century, I have lived in secret. Hiding in the shadows, alone in the world. Until now. I am a vampire and this is my story.

  I
laughed my way through seasons 1 and 2. I mean, there were vampires in high school, doppelgangers, werewolves and vampires indulging in all kinds of promiscuity and oh, a vampire and werewolf hybrid. And just in case, you weren’t completely sold on the supernatural world of it all, there were also witches and warlocks and dead people walking in and out of the real world. I particularly enjoyed this episode where this human cheated on his witch girlfriend with the ghost of his vampire ex girlfriend. I mean, that’s imagination.

  But I’m on season 5 now. And there’s no looking back. I’m too far gone. I’m willing to give it all up, sell my soul or whatever for the answer to one burning question—will Damon and Elena ever be able to live happily ever after?

  SUMMER SHOWERS

  HARSH SNEHANSHU

  ‘That is the most special thing you’ve ever said to me,’ I said on the phone. It was a mid-July afternoon, the year was 2008 and summer was at its peak. Delhi was searing in its grip. I had, for the first time in my life, a female friend to talk to. Twenty kilometres away, she lived and studied in North Delhi, whereas I was in the South.

  ‘I’d just said that you are the person I trust the most—how could that be counted as special? Are you so elated because you’re being trusted for the first time?’ she retorted.

  ‘The sheer fact that you are telling me that means a lot to me. I can’t express how happy I am!’

  ‘See, I am so good—at flattery,’ she said. Witty digs, no pretence. This was her way with words. This was what made me fond of her.

  ‘But you’re much better at being mean.’

  ‘I know… Let me ask you something—do you trust me?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. I trust your flattery, 100 per cent. That is the only thing that gives me a better opinion of myself.’

  ‘Oh, poor child! You know what? You’re gifted at seeking sympathy. No matter what I say, you find a way to turn my flattery into genuine appreciation. Like now, see? Nobody else could do that. I am actually a mean woman. But you, sir, are different. Perhaps that’s why I like you, that’s why I trust you and that’s why I love you,’ she said.

  An awkward silence followed; for I was confused. She didn’t say anything either. The ease with which she had said the last three words gave me a series of goosebumps. I could not believe that she could throw it at me just like that. We had been more of phone friends, having met just thrice. Nothing spectacular had transpired during these three meetings, though we had explored common interests and together, moved beyond being acquaintances.

  She was a friend of a friend. It was during the friend’s birthday party that I had first met her. While the rest of the attendees were busy dancing to the DJ’s tunes, she was standing at the balcony, looking at the stars. Being a terrible dancer, I thought it was better to go look at the stars than make a fool of myself in front of over a hundred people. She didn’t acknowledge my presence for a long time, busy discerning faint stars in Delhi’s polluted night sky.

  ‘Can you spot Orion?’ she had asked without even looking at me. I looked around, to ensure if what she had said was directed at me. It was. There was no one else in the balcony.

  ‘Umm,’ I said and swayed my vision across. I could locate three collinear stars—the Belt of Orion, the Hunter. ‘Yes,’ I pointed out, ‘there it is—see the belt above that bunch of stars.’

  ‘Were you ogling below Orion’s belt? Shame shame, very bad. The poor fellow is not even dressed,’ she said. I grinned.

  ‘Okay, try finding Big Dipper,’ she had asked. This one was easier. I indicated it instantly.

  ‘Locate the Pole star,’ I asked.

  She smirked, as if I’d asked a trivial question, and directed towards it. ‘Have you ever noticed how all these constellations are named?’

  ‘No.’ I hadn’t, but I wanted to know. ‘How?’

  ‘There are subliminal meanings behind them. Note the names—Big, Pole, Orion’s Belt, don’t you see?’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Strange. All these astronomers, it looks to me, are perverts.’

  I was being self-righteous, playing on my prudish self to cast a good impression. But she didn’t seem impressed.

  ‘So are we. What’s wrong in being a pervert? Perversion is just a bad word for curiosity.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘See, I’ll show you. Look at that bunch of stars, the ones which form a circle. Don’t they look like a nipple?’

  ‘What?’ I was not sure whether she had said what I heard.

  ‘Nipple. What’s so scandalous about it?’

  ‘No, nothing. Yes, they do,’ I said, trying to fit myself into the situation. How could someone be so comfortable with a stranger? She seemed different from most girls I’d met before. There was no air of superiority around her.

  ‘Look at you. Your face is flushed red. It’s okay. It’s just a nipple I’m talking about. I wonder what you would have done if I had shown you a constellation that looks like a phallus?’ She’d followed her statement with an endearing wink—a wink that signified a rapport, despite us not having exchanged our names with each other.

  With her directness, she had made me question conventional definitions of right and wrong, and good and bad that I had been spoon-fed since childhood. Coming from a small-town, I didn’t know that things that the society tries to conceal could be seen and talked about with such openness, without judgment. My prudishness and formality took some time, but eventually vanished in her candid company.

  ‘Is there really one?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. But don’t worry, I’m not going to make you feel more uncomfortable.’

  ‘No, no. Show me.’

  ‘Haha. Haven’t you seen it enough times to be bored of it already?’ she asked. I broke into cheeky laughter. After much persuasion, she showed me the phallic constellation, along with constellations that had even weirder shapes. There was a distorted snout, and to beat them all, a gigantic bum. She shared how the habit of sky gazing was inculcated in her by her grandfather, who used to have a small telescope which he passed on to her. Every time she would visit him at the family house in the small town of Charkhi Dadri, a hundred kilometres away from Delhi, she would watch the clear night sky from the roof of her ancestral house.

  ‘There is no pollution there in the countryside—you can almost see the Milky Way, a faint cloudy stretch of white in the sky,’ she had said.

  ‘O! O! Milky, the word. Did you notice the subliminal meaning hidden there?’

  ‘Well, somebody is fast,’ she said, and added, ‘and perverted,’ with a wink.

  In those fifty minutes of sky gazing, I had gotten so enchanted with her that I wanted to meet her again. It was only while leaving that we’d exchanged our names. On the pretext of inviting her to my upcoming college festival, I asked for her number. She passed it on without hesitating, without any fuss.

  A week later, I invited her to the college festival, which turned out to be rather interesting. There was a salsa workshop where my terrible dancing was complemented by her exquisite moves, hand in hand, leg in leg, moving from the zone of awkwardness to a realm of comfort. I was surprised to find that unlike what I had thought, she was actually a brilliant dancer. It was the loud music that she despised, that had brought her out to the balcony last time.

  On our third meet, she had wanted to catch up with me because she happened to be in South Delhi. We had a decent conversation over coffee about books and authors. Both of us loved reading. While she liked classics, authors like Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde—the man behind her nimble wit; I was more into contemporary fiction, fond of Jhumpa Lahiri, Khalid Hosseini and Julian Barnes—all of them serious fiction writers, with little room for wit. Little did I know that the conversation that began with constellations would continue for over three months, moving on to books, authors, dance, music, puzzles, family, aspirations and emotions.

  ‘What? What did you say just now? Did you mean it or was it
just flattery?’ I asked. Amidst fear and anticipation, I both wanted and didn’t want the answer.

  ‘What? I meant whatever I said.’

  ‘You mean...you mean you love me?’

  ‘Yes! I love you...as a very good friend of mine.’

  ‘I joked earlier that you are mean, but now I mean it. You are the meanest person I know,’ I said, irritated.

  ‘What is this, silly? You get angry when things don’t go according to your wishes. I told you that I love you, isn’t that enough? Why are you bombarding me with yet another bag full of your tantrums—seeking needless sympathy?’

  ‘Don’t change the topic,’ I said.

  ‘You should know that you sound adorable when you’re irritated,’ she said.

  ‘Stop kidding! This is serious. Now that things have gone down this track, let me tell you something. I like you. I like you in a different way than how I would like a friend.’

  ‘Like a brother likes his sister?’

  ‘Shut up. I’m serious, for God’s sake. Don’t give me a reason to hate you now.’

  ‘Sorry, go on. I am not used to appreciation. Being liked makes me feel like a Facebook post, you see.’

  ‘You are impossible,’ I sighed.

  ‘Get to the point. You were saying that you like me in a way different than how you would like a friend. Elaborate,’ she demanded. It felt good to know that she bothered to remember what I was saying, because I’d forgotten what I’d said by now.

  ‘What if I told you that I love you? In a way that makes me want to be there with you all the time—in times when you need somebody by your side, and in times when you’re bored.’

  ‘You contradicted your own statement, silly. I won’t need you when I am bored because I am sure you’ll be the one responsible for it.’

  ‘Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it? Can’t you see how much courage I had to muster to say what I’d said? I have never said that to anybody else. Let alone say it, I have never ever felt this way about anyone else before. I want to be more than just a friend to you. Will you let me?’