Beneath The Dark Glass...

With my heavy suitcase in hand, I jumped two steps at a time down the escalator. The red light was blinking already and the beeps were sounding. I just managed to scrape in, as the doors of the MRT closed in behind me.

Instantly, I was engulfed by a stream of cool air and I felt a sudden exhilaration. It put a smile on my face and I looked around. There was some space near the opposite door. A familiar-looking man stood against that door, facing away from me. I moved over to his side and smiled at him.

It was then that I realized that there was a woman crushed between him and the glass door. My gaze averted instantly but fell upon a grumpy old woman nearby, who glowered at me with a disgusted expression. My smile vanished.

Once a few people alighted at the next station, I got a seat. On one side of me sat the grumpy woman and on the other side, a young man dozed with white earphones plugged into his ears.

Since the objects on either side were not of much interest, I stared straight ahead. It was then that my eyes met with the sight of the pink pram.

There was a lady who sat in the row opposite mine. Beside her sat a man with black, cooling glasses and an impish smile. And it was in front of these two people, that the pink pram lay parked. From the bright smiles that the people in the opposite row gave in the direction of the pram, I deduced that in it must be a very pretty baby. I could not see its face though.

The man was in a cheerful mood and was making smiling faces at the baby. The lady was not smiling though, which puzzled me.

I watched as I had nothing else on mind. The man began making signs to the baby. Signs of numbers. One, two, three, four. He was showing his fingers close to the baby’s face and smiling all the time. With his cooling glasses and his smile, he seemed almost a Hollywood hero.

But something seemed to be troubling the woman, who sat beside him. She smiled occasionally whenever the man looked at her. But the rest of the time, she stared at the baby in a worried mood or stared away.

Soon, the man got bored of making gestures with his hands. He began to make different faces. Then he pulled out a key chain from his bag on the floor and swung it in front of the baby. It had a cute little teddy bear dangling at its end. Soon, he snatched some other toy-like thing from within his bag and started displaying it happily to the baby.

Thus, I spent around ten minutes looking at the sight of a father cajoling his young son.

Yes. That was what I thought. I had imagined that the man and the woman were husband and wife and that the baby was their child.

But when the MRT reached the next station, the mother stood up, smiled at the man and said, “I am getting down here sir.”

The man immediately smiled back and nodded.

The mother wheeled the pram around and pushed it towards the door. The man waved goodbye to the baby.

Just as the lady pushed the pram out through the open door, I caught a glimpse of the baby. It was quite fair and dressed in a neat, little blue clothe. Its right thumb was stuck in its mouth. But that was not what held my attention. It was the eyes. The baby’s eyes were closed peacefully in sleep. A small cap that it wore was pulled half-way over its eyes.

I was confused. Was it to this sleeping baby that the man was making all his gestures? Couldn't the man see that the baby had been asleep? He should have unless...

I looked back at the man. He was sitting erect with that same smile fixed on his face. He had now placed his bag on his lap and sat hugging it. He was looking around casually as he hummed some tune to himself. His right hand still clutched at the toy-like thing which I now realized to be a white, foldable walking stick.

It was the kind of stick that the blind used to feel their way around.

I looked at the stick and then at his black glasses. They were too dark and completely veiled his eyes.

The beeps sounded and the red light began to flash. A fat woman walked in hurriedly just as the doors closed softly. She rushed towards the seat where the mother had sat earlier. As she took her seat, she accidentally stepped over the man’s foot. The foot of the man with the black cooling glasses.

“Oops… Sorry sir. I was in a hurry”, she said in an apologetic tone, staring down at his feet.

“I could see that”, replied the man, looking at the fat woman with a mystic smile and continued his humming. His other hand placed the folded-up stick within his bag and zipped it close.

The MRT moved on…

The Boy Who Wanted To Die

Yes. He wanted to die. There seemed to be no other way out. Only death could cease all his troubles. The more he stared at the small picture in front of his eyes, the greater was his impulse to hang from a rope. In a sudden fit of rage, he banged the compass that he held in his hand onto the table. The table groaned.

Just a few hours ago, on the morning of that day, that very same compass had been carving out the four letters of his name on his school desk.

A-B-H-I

The maths teacher walked in and he stood up involuntarily along with the rest of the class.

“Namaste. Sit down, children.”

Benches groaned for a second.

“Have you all done the assignment?”

“Yes, maam”, echoed the class and Abhi joined in, while trying to make the letter ‘A’ on the desk a bit more curved. A snide grin played on his face.

“All neatly written in A4 sheets and properly stapled?” would be the next question, he mused.

He was right.

“Yes, maam!” echoed the class.

“Now she’ll say ‘Very good,children’ and continue giving sums from RD Sharma”, Abhi thought to himself and bent down to take his notebook from his school-bag.

“Very good, children. Akash, go around and collect the assignments.”

Abhi froze with his hand inside the bag.

Forty minutes later, he walked out of the principal’s office – totally devastated. For the first time, he dearly wished he had never passed the ninth standard annual exam. Tenth was too much of a hurdle to cross.

He got back to the class and sat down in his bench without looking around. He heard a few chuckles and knew it was Sriram and co. He just continued poking his compass into the desk until he heard a gruff voice.

“I want one of you now to explain the digestive system of the grasshopper. Abhishek get up.”

Abhi looked up in a sort of dazed manner. His science sir smiled back at him. He had not even noticed that the maths class was over.

“Abhishek I am talking to you. Stand up I say…”

He stood up confused. “Yes, sir?”

“What ‘yes saar, no saar’? Do you know the answer or not?”

Abhi blinked for a moment.

“Sir…what question… sir?”

That was it. If ever there was anything in this world that the science sir hated other than teaching biology, it was a student who did not pay attention. The sir glowered at Abhi who stared down at his desk.

“What are you seeing there, you dirty buffalo? Look at your teacher”, spoke the sir in Tamil.

He then got ready to further abuse him in Tamil when suddenly a female teacher crossed their classroom corridor. All students noted the sir’s gaze shift toward the corridor for a moment and immediately his language shifted to a wonderful English accent.

“Please children. Be attentive in the class I say… We all teachers want good for you…anytime I want bad for you? There in the assembly principal is asking for 200% ‘perfuction’…”

Abhi just could not hold himself back and burst out chuckling. The sir now lost control over his senses and screamed at the top of his voice. However, anger forced his words to topple out in his original English accent.

“GRASSGOPPER DIAGRAAM TON TIMES YOU WILL DRAW WITH PHHULL EXPALANASION!”

The same voice echoed through his head as Abhi sat staring at the damned diagram in his science textbook and contemplated suicide. Ten times? That too this dumb diagram showing how a grasshopper shitted? He would rather die.

He shut the book with irritation and looked around the house. It was empty. Mom and Dad were off at work. Bro was away at college. Granny was busy reading a Tamil magazine sitting outside the house at the doorsteps.

The coast was clear. What next, he thought.

Poison. Where could he get it? With a very faint hope he went over to the fridge, and opened it. The little jar was still there in the tray below the freezer. He remembered that day when he had asked his father what it was and he had said “Poison! Don’t touch it!”

He took out that jar and brought it to the hall. His heart began beating fast. He had never touched poison before. He visualized himself eating it and quivering in pain. He wondered why this bottle did not have that white label with the word ‘Poison’ written on it in bold. Like the poison bottles in films. Perhaps the manufacturers for this poison bottle were from a different company.

“With globalization a lot of companies have come into the market, you see”, he told himself and felt proud that he remembered social science.

Unconsciously his mind started reciting the definition of globalization and its positive effects on the Indian economy, as he walked towards the table to place the jar on it. And as usual his answer stopped at the third point. He just could not remember the starting phrase of that point again. He opened his textbook and checked it and continued his chanting.

Once he was done, he then remembered the task at hand. Suicide. Yes. What next?

A letter, of course. That was the normal procedure. A letter announcing to the world why he was going to commit suicide. He took up the blank A4 size paper that he had kept aside for his Maths assignment. Picking up the ball pen on the table, he started thinking.

“First thing you need to decide before writing any letter is whether its format should be formal or informal”, his English teacher’s voice echoed in his mind.

He was confused now. In what format should a suicide letter be?

After considering it for five minutes, he decided it should be informal since it was addressed to his parents. Then, he began penning it down. After a few consultations with the sheet of formats that his teacher had sold to him for ten rupees, he successfully completed the letter and signed it.

“Don’t put your name below the sign. In informal letter only the signature”, whispered his English teacher in his ear.

He then read through the letter once to ensure correct grammar and punctuation. He imagined how proud his mother would be when she would read this letter. She would tell their neighbours that her son knew the informal letter format by heart.

But would she be sad once he died?

Hmmm… Perhaps not. She always adored the boy next door who got first rank in all exams. She would always ask Abhi to study like him. So maybe once Abhi died she would adopt that boy and bring him up.

“But my clothes won’t fit him. They will probably throw them all away”, he thought.

Thinking thus, he folded the letter and placed it below the pile of books on the table. The wall clock let out a melodious chime as the time turned five.

“Federer’s match would be in another five minutes. Wimbledon finals…Oh shit! I am going to miss seeing the master at play”, he thought.

“You can’t see everything in one life, you know.” This time it was his Granny’s voice that sounded in his mind.

Abhi nodded to himself. True.

He then began to think if all things were in order before he died. That is when he felt the need to visit the toilet.

“You never know if there will be toilets on the way to heaven…So it’s always better…” he told himself as he dashed to the washroom and released.

He came back to the table happily humming a cinema tune. No more school. Wow, he had never imagined such a thing even in his dreams.

“Okay let me say a prayer before I end my life.”

Telling himself thus, he sat down at the table and began chanting one of the Sanskrit slokas that his sir had taught him with utmost concentration.

And then, he gripped the jar of poison and loosened its lid.

***********************************************

Abhi’s mother walked into the house at eight o’clock. Granny was still at the doorsteps reading by the yellow light of the bulb glowing outside the door.

“Why don’t you go inside and read in the brightness of the tubelite Ma?” shouted Abhi’s mother near Granny’s ear.

“Aanh?” she asked in return.

Not possessing the energy to shout again, Abhi’s mother motioned to her saying “Nothing. Continue.”

She then walked into the hall. Abhi was lying face down on the table, amidst a scattered pile of books. He did not move on hearing his mother enter the house.

“Wow. It’s going to rain tonight. Abhishek is sitting at the table with books ah?”

A moment of silence.

“Ai… sleeping only right?” she asked with a disbelieving smirk.

“No I am not”, replied Abhi with his face still down. His voice sounded broken and quivering. His mother walked over and lifted his head up. There were tears streaming down his eyes.

“Why are you looking sad? What happened, Abhi? Is anything the problem?”

“Maaa….”

“Yeah, tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Federer lost the finals maa…”