by H. K Oby
He opened his eyes. The moon filled his vision. In a daze, he stared.
He took in the stars, twinkling brighter than he had ever seen them. He took in the clouds, arrayed below him rather than above. He breathed in the sweet, sweet night air, half-convinced that this was just a hallucination.
Then, his stomach sank as old man gravity took effect and pulled him down, eliciting a scream swallowed by the wind as he plunged to the earth below.
CHAPTER TWO
AMIN FELL THROUGH the air, mind flipping between panic and disbelief.
For the space of a few seconds, all he could do was stare about, comprehending nothing while trying to keep his robe from flying away, like his fake beard and wig that were already long gone. It was odd how the mind fixated on unnecessary things when nothing else made sense. Only after tying it securely did he fully understand that he was in the middle of the sky, a realm that he had once dreamed of traveling when it was within his means.
In a plane.
Everything he knew about hallucinations told him that the chances of this being one were disastrously low, but there was no other way to explain how he was suddenly up in the air instead of down in that car, drawing his last breath. His memory was always something he had relied on, but even though it told him that the surprise he now remembered momentarily glimpsing on the faces of those who had been about to end him had been genuine, he found himself doubting it, wondering whether it was just another fever dream.
One thing did not escape him, though, despite the impossible situation he was in.
From up here, everything seems small. Distant. Unimportant.
Each second of flailing his limbs and searching for any indication that everything he was seeing and feeling wasn’t in his head felt like an hour. The effect of such a high altitude on his mind compounded with the gruesome state of his body was intent on pulling him down under, on dragging him away from the world of consciousness, but he held on. He fought to stay awake with every ounce of willpower left in his body, even though a part of himself just screamed that it was pointless.
I didn’t give up when the police starved me for two days. I didn’t give up when that rival gang stabbed me twice and left me to die. I didn’t even give up when I woke up with my mother’s arm around my neck, strangling me. Why should I give up now?
Deliriously, he screamed that last part out, forcing his eyes open as wide as they could go while biting his lower lip as hard as he could. As even more blood filled his mouth, a burst of clarity enabled him to search for something, anything that might save him.
There was no time to try and rationalize what had happened, so he only focused on what he could do to survive the fall. Searching through his mind, he dredged up the memory of a video he had seen long back that detailed what someone should do when their parachute wouldn’t open, but at that time, skydiving had seemed a rich man’s activity that he would never find himself engaging in.
I really should have kept my eyes on that phone instead of wondering how much I would have been able to sell it for after pickpocketing it…
Cursing himself, he still tried to recall the details. His near-photographic memory came to the rescue, allowing him to barely remember that he was supposed to search for someplace soft where he could land.
Only the concrete jungle of New Delhi greeted him as he looked down, looming ever nearer, signaling with its twinkling lights that he would just be another of the many street urchins who died every day, bleeding to satiate its ever-hungry appetite for the lives of the weak and the downtrodden.
Well, at least I’ll present a puzzle to the police force. They’ll never be able to figure out how I managed to throw myself off a plane. It sucks that I’ll never find out the answer, myself. Was I being carried to heaven, perhaps, but the gods stopped halfway and threw me back down when they realized that hell’s list had my name at the very top?
Finally resigning himself to his fate, he laughed at his own joke. The weakness he had been holding at bay with sheer determination slammed into him, making his eyes swim again while he began to lose sensation from the rest of his body.
Understanding that there wasn’t much time left, Amin resolved to enjoy this final, incomprehensible gift from the heartless villain that had been his life. The thought that doing so would be like spitting in its face give him strength, but all he could do with that last puddle of might was blink fiercely to clear his wet eyes and enjoy the incredible sights around him.
He succeeded, but only partially. He caught glimpses of the glorious night sky, the buildings below that were growing alarmingly bigger, and the land around the city that was dotted with villages. He imbibed each image in his mind, putting in more effort than anyone else might ever have had to to enjoy something.
Slowly, he began to notice something odd. In each image, at some or the other corner of his vision, there was a glowing man-shaped form that looked like it was made of pure light. Initially, he dismissed it, chalking it up to the rigors of intense blood loss. Yet, the way it moved was way too odd, and in one of his glimpses, he could swear that there was a grinning face at the spot where the head of the figure would be if it were a human.
That makes no sense whatsoever. If it was the face of that guy who orchestrated the doublecross, it could be that I’m imagining him plunging to his death with me, but I’ve never seen those features before. What—
“I’ve seen a lot of people teetering on the edge of death. I’ve seen them cry, scream, and even defecate in their pants. I’ve seen some break down and laugh uncontrollably, losing their grip on sanity in the last moments of their life. But you! You laugh as if someone has told you a joke. What is it, may I ask? I find myself being inordinately interested in the answer.”
Amin only heard the deep gravelly voice in fits and bursts, yet he understood the gist perfectly.
Another bully! Damn, I must really be heading to hell…
Spite wormed through him like a snake. At the edge of sanity, there was no room for logic. He didn’t want to ask who this figure was or consider whether there was a chance that he might be saved. He didn’t pause to reflect that the chances of this being a hallucination were low as something fantastical had already just happened to him. All he wanted to do was reply in kind, so the first snarky thing that came to his mind spewed out of his mouth as quickly as it formed.
“Oh, nothing…I was just glad that I was at least born handsome. If I looked like you, I would have started to pray for death since the day I looked at myself in the mirror.”
For a second, all was still except for the roaring of the air rushing past that filled his ears.
So it was nothing, after all. Did I just insult myself-
A fist barreled into his stomach, causing such a mammoth flash of pain that he blanked out entirely for a moment, forgetting where and even who he was. It felt as a moving car had crashed into him. With a gasp, he coughed out a torrent of blood. The strength behind the punch was so vast that his trajectory changed, causing him to enter an arc instead of going straight down like he had been.
He barely registered this. Whatever had been enabling him to cling on exhausted itself, leaving him sinking into the depths of oblivion. He still fought or, at least, tried to fight to live, but it was all too much.
He perceived only flashes of images accompanied by bursts of agony. As darkness drew in, one image remained in his mind, some corner of him giving it importance due to the illogical thing it contained.
It was the image of a being bedecked in gold jewelry, wearing only a garment covering the lower half of his body. It flared out with the air that filled it, and suddenly, he recognized it to be the same dhoti he had chosen for his impersonation of a Hindu Saint, albeit worn differently to cover the legs, too.
The figure’s wide-browed face was malevolent. Its large eyes blazed with fury, and a sick smile stretched its lips until they almost split its face in half.
With one last, fleeting thought, his mind shut down.
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Huh…at least I was right about the ‘ugly’ part.
…
Amin floated in the land of dreams.
It had never been a pleasant place, often enthralling him with all of the events of his life he wished he could forget. Now, its repertoire had a new addition, one that kept popping up and irritating him to no end while he tried to enjoy the sensation of not hurting anymore.
He could vaguely sense consciousness flowing back into him, but he was too preoccupied with fighting against the visual tirade of his subconscious to realize that he was somehow still miraculously alive. A part of him didn’t even want to go back. This part seemed intent on making him forget that there was even a world outside that of his mind, but suddenly, a sharp prodding sensation shocked him awake, making him yelp and sit up.
A short, bitten-off high-pitched scream and the sound of some object falling to the ground reached his ears. Then, memories flooded into his brain, and for a moment, he fully expected to find that strange being nearby, ready to deliver another punch to welcome him to what was undoubtedly the hell he had been granted admission to.
Instead, all that filled his vision was a wall made of wood, blank except for black, mildewed spots where moisture had crept through from the outside.
There was a hard surface beneath him. Looking down, Amin saw that it was a wooden bed with a faded mattress that had more lumps than he could count.
The stiffness in his neck indicated the absence of the pillow before he spotted the same. Taking in a breath, he smelled sawdust. Then, as the surreal feeling that had accompanied the flood of memory passed, he realized something unbelievable.
He had been healed. Completely.
His eyes went as wide as they could go. His mouth fell open as he ran his hands over his stomach, finding nothing but smooth skin.
Even as his hands started checking the place where his pockets should be—a reflex that belonged to anyone who had been knocked out one too many times— he marveled at how badly injured he had been, especially after that speeding truck of a fist had smacked the life out of him. Finding nothing made him feel a brief flash of alarm before he looked down and realized that the dhoti was still intact, albeit so bloodstained that it looked more crimson than saffron.
So I didn’t imagine that part. Was the rest real, too, then? How the hell am I alive? Where am I? And whose scream is still ringing in my ears?
Stirring from his reverie, he looked around, searching for the source of that shriek. He needed answers, and at the moment, the little kid who must have made that sound seemed to be the only option.
There was a closed door to his right. For a moment, he wondered whether he had scared away the one who had awakened him so rudely, but these thoughts went still when he spotted the hair and toe of a person hiding behind wooden crates stacked in one corner of the room.
It looked like a third individual had been present while he was unconscious. Either way, it was someone he could finally talk to, so he opened his mouth…then paused, wondering what the hell he could even ask in such a bizarre situation.
His mind worked quickly, but the conclusions he could reach were few. Assuming that everything that had happened after the gunshot wound had not been a fever dream, there was only one that seemed reasonable. Taking a deep breath and getting a whiff of the rotting wood, he shouted, “Hey! You there! Where am I? What happened to me? What year is it?”
The hair quivered, then retreated further towards the corner, trying and failing to hide spectacularly; even more of it was visible now due to the angle. His question hung in the air, unanswered. It felt good to hear his voice again; for some reason, it felt as if ages had passed since he had said anything.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, his companion in the room heaved a sigh, apparently finally accepting that his cover had been blown. A black-haired man with downcast eyes, a sharp nose, brown skin, a cut on his lip, and a wooden plank in his hands rose, threateningly holding his weapon aloft as if it was a gun and not just a rotting floorboard.
Without even realizing it, Amin frowned. On an average day, out on the streets of Delhi, this man had a target painted on his back, one that Amin would have taken advantage of merrily. With neatly manicured nails, branded clothes, and skin that was so healthy it practically glowed, it was apparent even from where he sat that this was someone who had never seen even the most minor portion of the difficulties Amin had had to go through in life. Amin was sure he was no older than him, but the ordeals he had struggled through made him feel and look like someone closer to their 30s. Now that the disguise was gone, he knew exactly what the other person was seeing: a lean, almost six-feet tall man with a face tanned so severely that no one could guess the original color, black hair cut close to the skull, a small scar right in the middle of his right eyebrow, angling down and lips whose ends looked like they twitched upwards cockily or mischievously so often that they had gotten affixed in that position.
Not a pretty picture at the best of times, and a downright scary one whenever violence was called for.
He tried to put aside his animosity for the moment as there were more important things at hand and succeeded with little effort as he had done it countless times before. Seeing the man walk forward as gingerly as if he was stepping on lava, though, Amin’s frown deepened, but for a different reason- a couple of details that hadn’t been visible before now jumped out to him as if lit by a bright red light.
The beige Louis Vuitton shirt had three holes right below the chest. The edges of the grey pants of the same brand were frayed as if the one wearing them had been running away from something while tripping over multiple times.
A crazy idea came to him, yet on examination, it seemed too absurd to speak out loud. Crazy ideas had been his key to success often, but right now, it felt more important to make some headway into getting information before taking risks and potentially being branded a madman.
Forcefully arranging his face to look much more patient than he felt, he waited for the man to speak, hoping to find out for himself whether the answer that was forming in his mind was true.
Reaching a spot a few feet away from the bed, the man stopped and swallowed. His face was set with grim determination, but the faint twitching of his lips and the trembling of his tone gave away what he was really feeling.
“Stay where you are! I’ll be the one asking the questions! I have the weapon, and I’m not bedridden, so…EEK!”
There it is again. Ah, so this was the ‘little kid’ from before. Can’t say I’m that surprised.
The moment after Mr. Rich Kid had said that he wasn’t confined to a bed, Amin had jumped to his feet on impulse, mouth falling open at how absolutely normal he felt. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he could have convinced himself that he had just woken up from a long, fret-free night of sleep.
Hearing the same squeaky voice again, there was no mistaking it. Feeling his brows furrow, Amin knew what was coming. On the streets, a temper could save one’s life as often as it put them in situations where death was the only escape. The only way to survive was to know when to control it and when to give it free rein, when to use that extra ferocity to save oneself, or turn the odds in their favor. Some managed to keep it smoldering, always, but Amin had never been of that sort. Although he had learned to keep himself in check as of late, he felt that control slipping, so he asked the one question he had promised himself he would answer before doing something he might regret: ‘Is this a life-or-death situation?’
Not really. But what if…ah, screw it. Time to speed things up.
“What are you doing? Stay there!”
Seeing him move, the trust fund baby screamed and raised the floorboard, but Amin was too fast for him. Jumping forward on one foot, he caught it halfway between its edge and his opponent’s hand, using just enough force to twist and make the guy yelp and let go. Its edges weren’t that sharp, but he had estimated the pain tolerance of the spoiled brat correctly. Chuckling, he po
inted the same plank at the door and said, “Have you been out there? Where are we? Answer quickly, or that won’t be the only spot that’ll be hurting a minute from now.”
He had discovered long ago that when in control of a situation, a calm voice was much more effective than one filled with malice and violence. Sure enough, the rich kid gulped and replied, “No! When I woke up, I was lying on the same bed. I got up and started searching around, but the wind blew the door open before I got very far. I blinked, and you were on the bed! It scared the crap out of me. I –“
Amin had leaned forward, intent on finally having some of his questions answered. The target of his gaze had begun answering while looking down, the words spilling out of his mouth, but the moment he looked up and saw the interest in Amin’s expression, he forcefully clamped his hands to his mouth as if that was the fastest way to stop himself from talking.
Pursing his lips, Amin raised the floorboard, knowing that he could break the kid as easily as if he was breaking the half-rotted plank in half. Hell, many times, he had even seen such cowards break before the pain even arrived, so with only the slightest bit of force, he swung the stick.
Before it could touch him, the man moaned and moved back. Standing at a distance where the stick couldn’t reach him, he looked at Amin with an expression that wasn’t unfamiliar to him at all.
Determination? From this guy? I would never have expected it. Well, time to bring the pain…
Just as he was about to stab with the plank as if it was a sword, though, a tiny voice, an echo, more accurately, bubbled up from somewhere deep within him.
I want to be free! I want to fly!
Amin froze. For a moment, he was transported back to that time, that desperate juncture where he had realized what his one true wish was. It only lasted for a second, but it left him reeling, eyes staring into nothingness while he struggled to comprehend what was happening.
What…just happened? Why did I remember that? It has no relation with what I’m doing!
