Death by Scrabble or Tile M for Murder

I

It's a hot day and I hate my wife.

We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.

I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.

My letters are crap.

I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points.

I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something.

She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.

If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.

I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.

As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now. I'll finish her off.

My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn.

The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they're not bees. My cousin Harold swallowed a bee when he was nine, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat.

She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now.

I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.

II

She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more.

She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to fill the kettle and turn on the air conditioning.

It's the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock off the air conditioning unit. I find this remarkably satisfying.

She sits back down with a heavy sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again.

The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I'm sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. The kettle starts whistling. As the whistle builds it makes me feel hotter.

She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points, then goes to pour herself a cup of tea. No I do not want one.

I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look. She sits back down with her cup of tea, making a cup-ring on the table, as I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I'm beating her now.

She asks me if I cheated.

I really, really hate her.

She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me.

The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP.

My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbours had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a Teletubby Lala doll with all the stuffing coming out. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.

III
If only there was some way for me to get rid of her.

I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That'll show her.

As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails.

My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don't believe it - but it can't be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened - the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is - JINXED.

My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points.

I have to test this.

I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B.

I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly.

Stupid. I open my eyes, and there's a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway.

I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final. Something terminal. Something murderous.

My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points.

My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY.

Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word.

I play QUAKE for 19 points.

I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny.

My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake.

I gasp with surprise and vindication - and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face goes red, then blue. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax.

I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching.

By Charlie Fish

Legends...

"We’ll be legends man...!” he beamed.
Seated beside the window, I looked out into the setting sun. Frankly, I was scared to the bone. Being his boisterous self, he began to sing loudly.

This wasn’t the time for lunacy.

“Dude, you can pipe it down…” I told him coldly. Surprisingly, he looked at me and stopped singing; unlike other times, when he would abuse my apparent “girliness”. It seemed to me that we all were afraid.

As usual, I was in my dilemma, my innately “confusion-gifted” mind. On one hand, this was an opportunity to restore that lost glory we rightfully deserved. However, on the other, it meant perpetual danger of facing dire consequences of going against the law. We could be banished from the institution.

But it was a necessary risk.

The rich had lived their lives of vanity while the rest, exploited and underpaid burnt the midnight oil just to make their ends meet; and so were their children. It was blatant discrimination, at least at school. While this businessmen class of self proclaimed dudes, who were but basically losers, had everything to show off, we had to toil and excel in our studies, sports and extra-curriculars consistently for 365 days, so that we could get a barely decent gift on our forthcoming birthday. It was misery, a shame. Thus, it was incumbent on us that equality had to be brought in either by hook or by crook and exploitation would not be entertained. Somebody had to stand up against this injustice. And for us after all it meant fame, glory and recognition. Thus, the three of us decided to stand up and show them that everything that glitters isn’t gold.

I opened the small neatly folded piece of paper from the pages of my notebook. It said “Justice Guild”, with the logo of a hand drawn green magician hat. Sam had coined the name, Justice Guild .Yeah; it was substantially inspired by the Justice League. He had designed the logo too. Below it, I had scribbled down, “There are no perfect men in the world; only perfect intentions…” the famous Morgan Freeman dialogue from the movie Robin Hood: The Prince of thieves. Of course, I was incapable of igniting my creative cells and hence adapted the entire dialogue.

Robin Hood was my hero, our hero. Dreams of the wild, brazenly bunch of men dressed in green with their self devised calls, bows and arrows in wild forests of England haunted me every night. I had devoured all text that I could have found in books, publicly or secretly taken from my sister, cousins and friends. Those sacrifices and risks that he and his men took just to help the exploited poor class of the medieval Scottish kingdom were a source of awe and inspiration. The rich elite class armed with the power of money, using their insolent tongues to fling abuses at the common man and pointing their grimy cosmetic fingers at the working class heroes, had become an everyday event in movies and TV serials. It seemed to me that people who couldn’t be at the top could never live respectfully. And the bequest of this wanton flaunt had been passed on to the “dudes” in our class. For me, life then had become suffocating.

It was then, the eight standard. I needed a few good men who would be my blood brothers in this rebellion.

Luckily, I found my brothers-in-arms inside the very class. Hari and Sandeep (Sandy) belonged to the intellectual second benchers of the class. The first benchers were typically genre less. Mathematical heroes, working each problem through a matrix of variables, relational mapping and possible solutions, they became my unlikely trustworthy aides. Driven by frustration and with the motive of finding a way to voice out, we worked meticulously on the plan, the Indian version of Robin Hood. The second benchers became the last benchers, working out each and every possible plan that we could execute. Discussions in school buses on the way to school and on the way back and in classes, scribbling on the desks, in the back of subject notebooks, on the rough sheets of workbooks lest run the danger of being caught, we created our blue prints. Our pseudo names – the foxes!

Initially we had “soft targets”, like chocolates, tiffins, flashy ink pens, pencils and erasers. But they seemed to be just too easy, without much of a benefit. To keep everything clandestine, we used decoys like games periods and tiffin breaks and on “successful missions” distributed it among juniors and classmates of other sections. However, such trivial matters did not even raise a stir within the class. They were presumed to be losses due to misplacements.
It was then in another of the “all hands meet”, which we had, every games period that Sam suggested a disclosure; an official declaration to the class of the presence of our group, our work, our mission and a warning to all the dudes. It would be an instant hit. Hari, the boisterous prodigy agreed immediately. But I was worried. Getting caught would mean a state of no- mercy. We would be expelled right away. However, with a ratio of 2:1 against me, we decided to execute the plan. Even Robin Hood would have agreed to that!

And therein lay the plan. The theft of the golden “china-made” calculator.

This mini sized calculator although made with the intention of behaving like a calculator had additional features such as key chain, brick games and tunes. It had a golden flip front and black plastic bottom. Evidently, no one had seen anything like this beauty and thus its owner became the undisputed blue eyed boy of the class. Vindictive words, swank stationery and otiose conduct, he lead this army of dudes. He was a real bother among the rest. Malicious insults and taunts were his modes of creating the divide. And he also had a bunch of “spies” among the rest which made it difficult for us to unite and work. Thus, what could be better than obtain that calculator and give it to another! The time of chivalry was now.

Getting hold of the calculator wasn’t really difficult. As expected, it caused a ruckus within the class. Desperate bag checking and cross checking was a futile attempt. However, something unexpected happened. Someone had informed this incident to the class teacher and she was furious. She gave an ultimatum of returning the calculator within the end of the next day or else the matter would be reported to the higher authorities.

Robin Hood would never have bowed down in the face of such imminent risk, and so did nt we. We were determined to make a mark. The next day, an official letter from the Justice Guild would be issued to the blue eyed boy and that shall mark the beginning of the end. Hari voluntarily took up the task of delivery. The letter would be circulated in the first period; the English lecture and the declaration would cause a panic among all the class mates. Of course, all of us agreed not to disclose our identities. Thus the delivery of the letter had to be in secret.

Tonight would be a sleepless night, I thought pensively as I reached my stop. The other foxes had already got down.

It was the English lecture. She was scolding the class, threatening us with dire consequences if the calculator was not returned by the end of the day. The blue eyed boy agonized by his apparent loss was sitting at the left hand side of the middle row. Hari was on the corner in the next row near the wall two benches after the blue eyed boy. Sandy and I were two benches after him on the same row. Thus it was impossible to pass any letter right now, without by passing any of the other benchers. It was equally impossible to warn him too in the middle of the lecture. Tensed, I was sitting with my fingers crossed fervently hoping that Hari wouldn’t write any letter during the lecture.

However martyrdom was in our destiny. Hari wrote the letter and gave it to his benchmate, who screamed aloud and gave it to the teacher. She read,

“Dear XYZ,

We are the foxes with the sole mission to protect the underprivileged. With all due respect, we have taken your calculator. This is for everyone’s benefit.

Signed
Justice Guild
There are no perfect men in the world; only perfect intentions…”

“With all due respect, I request the leader of this fox gang to stand up, or else….” she quietly said.

“Today is a good day to die…” I remembered Robin Hood again and stood up as the entire class looked back at me. I am sure even Robin Hood would have acknowledged our efforts.

Legends, were we? Well, I don’t know!
Game Over.

Conscience....

"Ahhh....Oh God.. My head hurts...need to puke..fast...."
Hurried steps to the bathroom and the door shuts with a slam. Sounds of vomit and then heavy panting. Silence.

Sound of running water. A prolonged silence. Muffled sounds of the shower.

I felt terribly dizzy. Everything seemed to be happening super fast today. As if the earth had doubled its speed taking the entire human race with its swing.

I took a swig of water from the bottle by the bed. Unable to hold it anymore, I ran over to the balcony and retched it out. I was dreadfully sick. "This is the worst hangover..." I sat down on the couch like an effete self professed innocent person; it was the weakness which made me hold on to my sitting position for a long time.

Another silence. The sound of the shower still continues in the background.

"Not really .. It always happens like this.." I retorted my psyche.

But it was nt that, which i dreaded. Something really awful had happened last night, something which never should have happened. It stuck me like a thump in my throat, my face began to become really hot, so much that i could feel my eyes burning. A tear drop falls on my palm, I quickly close my eyes and rub my hand against the sofa cover.

A question mark dangled over me like a sword.

"How do i answer myself..., give me an answer, God.." I thumped my fist against the sofa.

"Just how could I...." I tried to remember the last thing the previous night, a seemingly futile attempt. I just remembered the party, the dance after it and the Green Apple vodka shots. I looked at the cell lying on the ground.

"No, I can't call anybody now..."

My shoulders sagged from the enormous pressure . The ignominy of my loss, the loss of sanctity, virtues and rationale weighed down heavily on me. An event which had no reason. It was beyond all human reach, a burden that i had to carry an entire life.
The inheritance of loss.

Suddenly i felt really tiny, inexistent and denuded before the entire universe. I required shelter to hide my sinned being, an asylum where i could hide for all continuum, but could nt find any.

"I fucked up, okay... I fucked it all up..." I pressed my forehead hard against the seat cushion.

I wanted to cry. It was partly the searing headache, refusing me a coherent, rational flow of thoughts.

I was still buried in the sea of fibres of the cushion, when the sound of shower stopped. The door clicked open slowly making that familiar creaking noise. Sound of hushed footsteps.

I could not bring myself to open my eyes. I was just too weak for a confrontation right now. I felt asphyxiated, the calamities of emotions strangulating my very self. I felt innately filthy. For a moment, I wanted to run and jump out of the balcony, be pronounced dead the very next minute. I could feel the cushion dampen with my tears and moisten my cheeks with it.

Light hands on my shoulder. I stood up mechanically; still sobbing, with my face buried in the cushion. A strong reassuring hug.

I could nt hold it any longer. I cried out bitterly, letting go of the cushion and burying my reddened face in his chest. My head rocked rhythmically against his thumping heart as i sobbed piercingly, till i went short of breath. I looked up into his dark eyes.

It was a bachelor's party at the pub, almost the entire team was there. I had lost all counts of the vodka shots.But, I remembered how I picked up a fight with another person and conked out. I did nt even remember his name. But, he looked strikingly familiar. Perhaps he was from the same organisation.

He kissed my forehead reassuringly. We held each other for what seemed like a never ending moment, until we could not stay like this any longer and broke off.

His eyes turned red, "Yesterday was a mistake. Nothing of this really happened.Events like this are common in this profession. Forget about me and all of this like a bad dream. I am a married person..."

"Don't take it too hard on you boy...", he said, as he reached for the door knob.

I stood on the balcony silent and spellbound by the turn of events, my eyes transfixed on the morning sun as the door opened with the familiar creak and slammed with a bang.

It was a new day. I had to get ready for my profession.

Half an Hour.. (dedicated to a special someone!!)

Beep Beep.
One message received.

"..should take more.. like half an hour.."

He grimaced.

Had it not been today, the templatised message would read as, "Half an hour.., not more than that, i promise..please baby!!, catch ya.. "

The half an hour wait, for her college to end, to reach ccd, to finish her last minute talks with teachers, to do all the chores, take the scooty before she could reach the table where they always met. It was only a 10 mins ride, had it not been for all those. And then, on other days, she would reach out, hold his hands and mutter sweet nothings. He understood that such chores are pretty normal for a academically serious student, after all, she was one of the most consistent and elite students at the mass communications college; and he, a dull and easy going engineering student with no aims or ambitions. Often they would talk about her plans after college; pretty often it would be she who would be doing the talking and he would be listening figuring out algorithmic ways to come up with a fool proof plan for her!!.. well done engineering, kahi to kaam aayi!! But, today was different.

"Damn, its just 5 mins gone". He looked at his watch. Maybe a cappucino would help let the time run. Its always the idle moments which make you feel that time is irritatingly incessant. He glanced at the ccd newsletter. "Bah!. crap seems to be in the air..". His mind wondered again. The "half an hour"s that had made his life take a new turn in the past few weeks. He met her at the first significant "half an hour"in his otherwise black and white umpteen "half an hour"s of 3 years in college.

"Heya!, do you know where can i find Nipyune?" ,an awkward south indianish accent, a pair of curious black kohl lined eyes, turquoise bangles and a blue salwar; it was the Garbha night.

"Well .. yea, nipun seems to be surrounded by the dance hungry crowd..should be back shortly", he muttered back.

"Hmm.. I am Shibani"

"Nikhil"

"I am representing my college for the University Ed Board, needed some grass on the Navratri.."

"Oh.. i guess then you might as well wait here for the entire executive committee to be back...Pepsi, if you may?"

"sure.. thanks"..

It seemed yesterday. The overtly normal talk which then became a scandalous line up of smsing all night, and then turned into uncounted "half an hour"s of talking about the usual humdrums of life. And then, it happened. Before he knew it, he was actually in a relationship. Talk about destiny, life seemed to be a big conspiracy about two people meeting out of nowhere. Life seemed to be on the seventh heaven. He did not have a big gang of friends, nor any interest in learning how darlington ampifiers behaved when the emitter was grounded!!. Life seemed to revolve around the 1km walk to the lover's point(atleast thats wat was the colloqial name), the ccd and the movie theatre. So far so good.

"Shews, 10 more mins.. Goddamn man... ". They say, an idle mind is a devil,s workshop. Never knew devil's workshop could be so blank. Outside, it had begun to drizzle; might turn into a hefty downpour. He glanced anxiously outside. "C'mon man, let it not be a downpour..maybe i should ask her to go home directly..but i need to meet her.." The shortcut to ccd from her college involved crossing a gravel downhill road which used to get real slippery during rains. It normally would be prudent to go back home, before the monsoons cause any further damage; but not today. He called her. No response.

5 mins left. Another call, no response. Another one, no answer. Next one, phone temporarily unreachable. "Wat the heck, get the phone ringing.." he uttered annoyingly. It had begun to rain heavily, the monsoons seemed to take its toll on anyone vulnerable to getting wet. Another call, no answer. "Maybe i should call priya, she should know where this oafhead might be.."

"Hello, hi.. NIkhil here, any idea where SHibu could be...?"

"Heyy, Nyx.. hw re you..., Shibu just left the college in a hurry..Could' nt really talk.. People were going helter skelter, to find some rain shade..."

"oh!..ok.. no probs..thanks anyways.. bye"


"Darn it!!!.." He looked at his watch again. 5:45. She should have been there by now. He called her again. Still no response. "might as well sit here for another few mins..." Normally, she would have definitely called him up before leaving college. But, today was different. Another cappucino, a must.

Two months back, he had been selected in a prestigious foreign internship for a year; a lucky break for a not-so-lucky student. It was a tempting offer beyond which his entire life flow could change. An exchange semester at a world renowned university and then the opportunity to get placed abroad. It was a tumultous moment. On one hand, he had an opportunity of rejuvenating his otherwise dull life, on the other his relationship was at stake. No relationship could stand the test of "long distance", that too when you yourself are'nt sure of return before atleast a year. And this is where, it all started. It started with appreciation and promises of togetherness, longer hours of gtalking, googling long distance , making long term plans of keeping together, trusting each other and banking on each other's strengths to keep up. After all, what seemed to be the crux of a relationship was mutual trust and communication. For a moment, it seemed that balancing one's academic and personal matters was always a possiblity, which most people wilfully ignore. For a moment, the longing between the both had increased significantly to the extent that classes seemed a sheer waste, spending the maximum time in the company of each other seemed prudent. Another 5 mins had passed by. It was still raining heavily. The cup was half empty.

The relationship had gone through the "introduction to long distance" phase pretty smoothly. But soon enough, he got busy in applications and emails to proffessors, getting recommendations and conversations with the concerned people at the University, getting documents for visa and booking tickets to visit the concerned consulate in Delhi. The beginning of the end, he sadly thought. In the midst of all this, his personal life had taken the backseat. He began to wilfully ignore her, always on the pretext of "other important work", "tiredness" and similar lines. These pretexts are momentary, they always tumble down as quickly as they can be conjured. Conversations, took the form of verbal fights and soon enough they were yelling at each other on the phone. Meetings became formal and quiet and then irregular to the extent of "occasional". It was two weeks back, when they had a fight none like others. She was furious and he trying to defend himself. They yelled at each other at the top of their lungs and slammed the phone down and said things so hurtful that they knew they could never take it back.

“GOTO HELL!”

“You first!” he shouted back.

“Why did you lie to me about Preeti?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play stupid Nik, you know what. I saw the way you acting around her at the party!”

“What the hell? We are in this exchange shit together. You have known her for over six months.”

“I saw the way she was hittin on to you!”

“Hittin on me? Here we go again with that shit. We were outside the disc talking about work! We are in this together remember? Hello?”

“Don’t try to hide your cheating ass with her behind the “we were talking about France” lie. It didn’t look like that talk from where I was standing. Priya saw the way you two were talking and how close she was standing to you! She was the one who pointed that shit out to me!!!”

“Who? Priya? What? Is she supposed to be your spy? Do you have spies all over the place keeping tabs?”

“I know what I saw..A drunk Preeti and she was clearly tryin to take her chances. Why don’t you just tell me the truth? I watched the way you were looking at her all the time. What was it? Her skimpiness? or her half drunkedness?”

“You are blowin’ things way out of proportion Shibu. I can’t believe this. We have been together for more than an year now and here we are fighting again about some girl you think I’m gettin’ with or gonna get with on the other side.”

“So what are you sayin, you two been hookin’ up behind my back? Is that what you’re trying to tell me now? Sounds like the truth is finally coming out of your lying mouth you son of a bitch!!!!”

“What the hell now? You think that’s what I’m sayin’?

“Yeah that’s what I’m sayin.”

“Look this is nonsense. You’re making something out of nothing”

"Just put the phone down, dont need your stupid shit to make my life any better.."

"Yeah, that sounds fine, know what its just 14 days and you wont hear from me again...and the clock ticks for good.."

"Yeah, that's exactly the one last favour i wanted. Good! you outspoke me..and i dont have to go through this shit once you leave...and know what, I really don’t want to see you again…"

[grunt]. Click. He banged the phone down.

".. this rain doesnt even seem to slow down...". It was 6 in the evening, and still no signs of her. He had his flight tomorrow mornin, and it was important that he met her. It was his last meeting with her today. She needed to reach home by 7 and this monsoon was cutting whatever precious time they had left. He wanted her to know that he still loved her the same way and this was not what he wanted. He closed his eyes momentarily despaired and pained.

“Hi Nyx… How have you been..?” a shivery, heavily drenched voice uttered behind his back.

Another significant half an hour had passed.

Untitled.....

The annoying sound of the deep snort of crushed nose candy stirred her from the slumber to find her in the wooden surroundings of the smoky dark flooring of the room. It was damp and musky. As if the wood was protected by a sea of moss. Her kohl lined eyes opened slowly, eyelids fluttering dizzily to the distant ray of light above her. She quietly whimpered to the pounding headache; the hangover had to leave its marks. A barely audible fearful cry, fearful of being assaulted if heard. Another day had dawned. The stench of decomposing defecation, of rotting bodies and dirt hit her like an anvil dropping on her and she quickly got up holding the thin dirty tarpaulin sheet to cover her otherwise nearly naked salt eaten body. Around her were eyes, concupiscent, evil and cruel, dirty, dust laden and intoxicated. To her, faces were all the same. Same old dirt but different faces! But nothing unusual, for her it meant one more day of survival in the cellar. They had been on the seas since a week, lost all count of time in the tropical humid air, living on dry fruits and glucose powder to keep them alive. Their mission- to lay siege and take hostage on enemy country, inflict as many casualties as possible. And her mission - to kill the enemy of her country, the divine retribution for the one who had brought down that destruction in her family, who made her an orphan right in front of her eyes, who showed her what bestiality meant and who transformed her to what she was today, that’s what she was told, that’s what the institute professed to all cadres like her. She scarcely remembered all of that past. She remembered just the training institute, the near death survival training and her motive, the picture of that fair bright-eyed person with the golden hair on the moth eaten newspaper. That picture was inscribed in the frozen hive of her mind, that face with a slight scar on the right cheek, the lips contorting as if there was a statement to be made, a perfect nose and kind yet mysterious eyes. She could never miss that face, now that she saw him in the TV before leaving. She gently took out the newspaper from that crumpled bag and looked at that black and white photograph in the shimmering light. The letters in the background were hardly of any importance, they were illegible. She folded it back and took a deep snort of the remaining coke on the floor and looked up into the funnel of light poring mercilessly on her.

…the pebbled, mucked up road twisted at the group of bamboo trees and turned right near the lake to enter into the thick growth of broom shrubs beneath the ever flowering red bougainvilleas. It was the most beautiful part that the road cut through, twisting and twining between the apple groves ending at the very doors of a small solitary thatched hut. 2 boys with their oversized pants tied at the waist playing sticks at the front yard while a small girl of around 4 years wearing a soiled frock chasing the pigeons away. The father seemed to carry a heavy bunch of tree branches in his arm and mother seemed to pick up the clothes that were strewn on the ground for drying. There was golden hay lying all across the ground and beside the bamboo gate there were flame-red chilies of the size of her thumb kept for drying Mother used to say that father worked for the government. There was a strange machine with an upright black pole which talked by itself and made strange illegible sounds. Father used to talk to it and wouldn’t allow anybody to come inside when he was talking…

Nearly 5 months had gone by, since she was living in the outskirts of a remote village. All the arms were stashed in the cellar below the wooden footing and all communication was through radio transponders. The villagers were simpletons, kind and unaware of the impending militia within their very own village. She was hardly bothered with any of this. She was a killing machine, made for a purpose; a messiah, to wreak vengeance on the person who had put her at peril, to claim justice for the lives of those “oblivious” family members and to claim honor by giving her life for the nation. Every day and night that she spent on the foreign soil, she dreamt of the institute; she remembered the blood boiling speeches of the institute, the stories of the acts of bestiality and cruelty that they had committed in the name of war, the plight of the homeless orphans like her and their brethren who had been killed before their very eyes and ultimately the terror which this nation had wreaked on them; her life was a very small price to pay, the best that she could do. And she waited for the day, calmly and patiently. That night she dreamt.

… there were men in green uniforms and harvest green colored berets with automatic rifles slung over their backs on that road, moving in a single file, alert and quick. They were much unlike her father, rugged, unshaven and cruel. The village people had informed about nearby villages getting razed to the ground, men and women being brutally killed by militants and called for immediate evacuation. But father had brushed away all such concerns of mother, their village was the closest to the border patrol; there was no way that any miscreant could ever lay hands on that village. She was near the bamboo bush looking for the rabbit, when they called her and asked for directions to the nearest house; they said that they were from the border patrol and that they were thirsty. She pointed out her house and ran over to the corn field by the bamboo bush. After a while, she spotted the fleecy white ears of the rabbit and approached it slowly and stealthily and quietly bent over to catch it. Sounds of gunshot! She looked behind her and saw smoke from the house. On a sudden instinct, she ran over from the fields shouting for mother and her brothers. The bamboo gate had been thrown away. There was an unearthly silence, as if each living organism had been a part and a witness to the ghastly spectacle. As she looked with tears drawn to her eyes, the house burnt brightly vomiting pitch black corpuscles of soot into the air. She knelt down in helplessness realizing her futility and cried bitterly. Her entire world had been dashed to smithereens. The world around her grew darker until it was pitch black as she closed her eyes and fell down unconscious …
… The sun was shining uncomfortably into her eyes as she weakly got up from the make shift bed by the thatch. It seemed to her like a big bad dream. There were lots like her, sleeping, crying; injured and healthy. An elderly woman came to her and stroked her head. She said that god had picked them as the chosen ones and the institute will protect them from all harm at any cost. The next month when hundreds of cadres of the ‘army of God’ were addressed by the guide, paper cuttings of newspapers were given to each of them. She was told about her parents and her siblings’ deaths. The person whose photo was on the cutting was the perpetrator of all sufferings and all innocent deaths would be duly avenged by the chosen ones. The speaker veiled behind a black colored cloth said, “hatred breeds hatred and we shall give them their share…”

People were thronging in thousands, fighting to get to the front, nailing and pushing, climbing on each other to get a view of the Minister. He had come to address all the villagers, promising them with aid and support. They were all kinds the young, the elderly, the teenagers; happy, sad, rowdy, serene, laughing, crying and so on and so forth. And there was she, at the second row of the line of people. She wore a sari and was draped in a bright decorative green shawl. She had put on her best make up and with her feminine build and feline looks, she looked the prettiest in the whole lot. She looked forward to his grand appearance and her final act. She was the agent of an event which would change the course of history; the executor of justice to bring down retribution and glorify her existence. Those days of endurance and penance when she had transcended all limits of the calamities of trauma and suffering, would be put to test today. He came down from the stage to greet the crowd. He was no different from the picture on the newspaper, just that he looked a tad older. As he joined his hands before the women in the front, their eyes met. It was a strange familiar meet, as if a stranded piece of the jigsaw puzzle had been put into place to make a complete meaning. She did not flinch or move. As she looked motionlessly, her right hand mechanically moved to activate the switch.