Freak-Dom!!!

And there he was. Right behind my gasping self. I could sense that warm moist exhale on my neck, almost feel his clutches on my back. My last escape-route had been cut off, I was doomed. He sprung on me.....

Born into a mechanized world who ranted and raved at the hoopla of independence, I was and I still am one of them; the everyday beings. More so, in the seeming perfect world, I was termed an 'imperfection'. It was the same everyday that some lived to see another day while others conked out. They call it the vicious cycle of life, a free life has repercussions. That is, unless restricted, freedoms converge destructively. But then, restrictions lie contradictory to freedom. A restriction for one turned out to be a freedom for another. Being quotidian by our very nature, we accepted it. Plenary freedom is chaos. It is in the cosmos that acceptance without comprehension is nothing but compromise. And thus, gradually we became the slaves to our own world.

Everything in my life was just the way it should have been, that is until the day he arrived, unannounced. An abandoned entity, I was adopted by my uncle where I was taught small chores in his wielding shop. It was the way of the cane, either one learns quickly or gets out handicapped. I was in the dark, blinded and abused within the four walls of the oil-soiled room in the backyard where my uncle used to visit in the night with the Aluminum cane. Every night, it was a beating after which I would succumb to his fancies. It was my world and I accepted it as my fate.

It was one of those days, after uncle had left that I heard his voice; a calm yet resolute voice, deep and intense. He asked me about my interests and hobbies. We used to sing together, although I never heard him singing. Every night, we talked to each other. I never asked his name or address and he never asked mine. We presumed that in friendship material particulars hold the least value. One night when my uncle had beaten me with the aluminum wire, that he asked me to kill my uncle and run away with all the money. My uncle was the only one left in the family and I would never want to kill him. I refused, but his voice never stopped. Everyday and night it kept on ordering me to commit the deed. Until one day, I could take it no more. I poisoned the food and my uncle never entered my room that night. My instincts were to run away from the house.

I never saw my uncle again. However, an outcast that I had become forced me to beg on the streets, rummage for leftovers within garbage and find shelters in the make shift tents that workers had abandoned. One day, the voice again came back, asking me to steal and kill in order to survive. This time i refused and it began to shriek at me all the while. I could take it no more. And one day I ran. He was right behind me, the fiery voice never losing me with gasps of hot air that emanated from him. I ran until I could run no more, but then there was no escape from him. Blackness weighed down on me as he sprang on me and I fell down.

It was pitch dark and pin-drop silence but I could hear a loud voice say "freak", just like my uncle used to.

Beyond Enigma...

There are some days when you get irritated for nothing. You feel as if, your existence has no reason. A monotonous life, long office hours and bored of the mundane work. A desperate attempt to seek motivation, some meaning to the life led. It was one of those days in office when I felt that urge to take a break and do something different. And over those short but incessant black coffee breaks, one of my friends came up with the idea of Melghat. A week of adventure, trek and a place where no modern communication technology can reach, I was really intrigued. Contemplations and assumptions became ideas, and soon ideas turned into plans. By the end of February this year, we were all set to hit this place famous for tigers. The trip was a part of the tiger census 2008, a survey called Line Transect Survey conducted by Wildlife Research and Conservation Society (WRCS) in collaboration with the Maharashtra Govt. Initially nothing about this survey made any sense to us. After all we are all software engineers, how do we know about wildlife surveys? But then the whole idea was so exciting that three of us decided on the trip. The next week was dedicated to preparations on the trek, back packed with clothes, torches, batteries, mosquito repellants and general medicines to say the least. We had decided on a train route to Amravati via Chennai which would take us a span of 36 hours. From Amravati it was a bus route of around 6 hours to Melghat. The survey was supposed to start from March 3rd and we reached by the 2nd afternoon.

Melghat is a tribal belt at the border of Maharashtra and MP, a dense forested area of around 300 villages with breath taking natural beauty. It has a core tiger reserve and abounds in the rarest species of both flora and fauna. There is no electricity despite electric poles in each village, no properly maintained roads and no means of common transport just a ST bus started once a day to Amravati. The rickety old bus is so rusty that it might just break down during monsoons. The other means is the trusty old time tested bullock cart!!! On arrival, we were given a very warm welcome by the coordinator of WRCS, Mrs. Prachi Mehta and accommodated in the forest rest house along with the other volunteers. Among the others there were forest guards and guard internees. There was another software engineer from Bangalore, bird scientists and students from veterinary sciences and wildlife sciences Dept. It was a mixture of people from different backgrounds and academia and gelling in this group was fun. In the early evening we were given a knowledge session on the topographical features of Melghat and an insight into the objectives of each team. Also we were taught on the proper usage of the compass and range finder instruments. The objective was to trek through a route of 4kms. During the trek, we needed to make observations of some herbivorous animals the compass and the range finder and note the same observations on the data sheet. We were given sessions on animal identification. This survey was prone to a lot of mistakes en route because there would instances of animal spotting missed and duplicate spotting. Even the animals tend to be very shy, so extra caution and alertness was necessitated time and again during the trek. Each route would be covered by two persons taking observations on all the sides. There would be two batches of teams in the morning and in the evening and each trek was expected to be completed in at most 4hours. After this we had an informal session and introduced ourselves to the batch. It was really nice to know about the experiences of forest guards in their broken Marathi, Hindi and Korku mix about their life in the forest, the animals, the village people, the beliefs. The morning batch started at 0430 hours in the morning at the starting points of the respective routes and the routes were marked with red arrows at the barks of trees at every hundred meters. Furthermore the route travelers would be supplied with maps about the route. The evening batch started at 1545 hours. I was put in the evening batch for the first day. The eventful day was finally put to end after a sumptuous dinner.

“Amu jumu chi”. I heard a deep husky voice and opened my eyes to look drowsily at one of the forest guards trying to wake me up in the morning. It was 0330 hours in the morning. He had obviously mistaken me for the morning batch. I woke up and saw the morning batch people getting ready for their transects. Being put in the evening batch I was almost getting desperate for my first trek inside the unexplored Melghat. Finally the morning batch people arrived tired and exhausted with a few squeals of excitement among volunteers for their animal spottings.

“you are in for Route 13. that’s the route where maximum leopards have been spotted”- Prachi mam told me before I left for my first route. I was excited and desperately wanted to start it as soon as possible, more so with the hope of a leopard sighting in its habitat. The sumo picked us up and soon we reached the route starting point. This route was topographically special because at 4 different intervals of the route we needed to cross a river, a place where it s almost possible that a tiger or a leopard might be resting in the shade. We started our journey at 1545 hours and soon we were inside the core area of the jungle, left alone in the warmth the jungle had to offer us. Melghat is typically a very difficult terrain to cross because it is continuously interspersed by cliffs and valleys. My shoes were not made for this kind of terrain, so throughout the journey, I was continuously falling down and bruised my hands and legs in the process. But I was in no mood to give up, so we proceeded on our journey. The whole journey was eventful in the sense that I had a few spottings of chital, bisons and nilgai s. I even had spotted a barn owl in the wild. The completion of the route was marked by pure triumph, another milestone conquered, vanquishing all mental and physical constraints. I was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as I reached the forest rest house.

The next three days were different routes for me. I was put in the morning batch and I had lots of sightings on chitals and stags. I also had bisons and nilgai s added to my data sheet. I just had one wish, a tiger or a leopard sighting. The following day, a new route had been added, the highest point in Melghat-- at Vairat (1178 m. above msl.), which forms the southwestern boundary of the Reserve. It is a prime habitat of the tiger. This was a challenge for me, to travel the roads less travelled, carve my own way and leave my footprints in the sands of time. Soon trekking my way through tall bamboo shoots and tropical deciduous forests, I was at the peak of Vairat. That route was the most perilous of all because there were rugged climbs through loose rocks, through rock precipices. It was indeed a pleasure when I finished that route, though I believe I had missed a lot of animal sightings due to the difficult route. Time passed by very quickly and very soon it was the sixth day. My last route was another newly opened route. I desperately wanted a leopard sighting or a tiger sighting. With me, I had a forest guard who was doing his phd in wildlife sciences. He had to do his duty as a forest guard as he had to support his family from the salary. We found fresh pug marks and he told me that a tiger had killed a bison calf last night, advised me to be fully alert. I had a feeling that today was my lucky day. A few minutes after we had found the pug marks, there was a thunderous roar. There is a jungle saying that the full roar of a tiger can break a cold sweat down the spine of the bravest of men. It took me several moments to regain my composure and restart my journey.

The survey ended with felicitations by Mrs Prachi to each of the volunteers. And we were on our way back. It was then, that I thought about the tigers which end up dying in the hands of a poacher, or injured in the saws of the traps set. . The status of the tiger in India is in great peril, no one has to be enlightened on this fact. The declining numbers speak of human apathy and callousness towards the most magnificent creature in the subcontinent

On the way back to Bangalore, I was dreaming of tigers, elephants, chitals and bisons. The thrill and the excitement of the transects will remain with me for all ages.

The tiger is an epitome of supple grace, exquisite beauty and mystical charm.
It is an epitome of electric sharp agility, over powering strength and hunting prowess.
Tiger captivates.
If we lose the tiger what else is there to lose.
Tiger is life itself.

Please find the rest of the pics here

A page from the Phantom's Diary...

"..The day you will realise, is the day when you will know that it is already too late... "

Its a hot sultry day and the rickety old bus slackens to a halt, metres ahead of the solitary post which used to be a part of the bus stop. A dusty hot wind blows into my face as I get down. Its a gravel road and one has to be careful while gettin down. The bus had already showered a dust cloud over my head and has now reduced to a moving object constantly pursued by dust cloud. I begin to walk my way home crossing the guitarist by the music shop.

These words ring in my ear as I look at him strumming the guitar. He is not really good, but he tries,conscientiously.
At the threshold of completing a quarter-life, I wonder if I could play it. I have always been an escapist, jumping roads without really walking and crossing the milestones on those roads. The reason being, I do want to get associated but I fail to focus myself, to dedicate myself to a particular goal. Sports, Music, Painting, I have had it all but I don't really have anything. All I had was that neat bunch of yellow certificates which are still lying in the corner of the room waiting for some moth to start eating it. This is what I am now, a jack of many trades. A perfect novice.

My father had told this to me on of our rare one-to-one conversations. I believe, I was on another whim, another desire, another dream. Surprisingly, he had all attention on the regular blabber. A chaotic exchange of ideas and advices. A tumultuous memory ride on my track records; of how I had engaged on one activity and abandoned it in between. Now, I break into a cold sweat as it seems that it was only yesterday. The sheer truthfullness of it, my realisation and my submission to those very words make me feel tired. I walk the last few metres with sagging shoulders.

I open the door and see that the dishes have been cleaned and set on the table. The food is ready and all I have to do is change my dirt ridden clothes and settle for the drier ones in my cupboard. They say that a volcano erupts in every man's life and then things change. I am still waiting for mine. But somehow being myself, I seem to have accepted my fate; submitted to what life has to offer me. A total escapist.

I guess, this is where it started and this is where it will end. A meticulous cobweb of here and there and this and that. Here I am and this is me.

The depart...

A body of a woman is lying down in front of the house. She has a bullet through her head and her clothes have been ripped off. She was my mother.

A man is beside her, pointing and shrieking at the stars and sobbing uncontrollably. That is my father. He says, they came and killed her, because he had joined the Special Police as a sweeper for some extra money. He says the Police had killed one of them and they will kill him too. They always do.

The people around him keep looking at him, stoic and expressionless. A few days ago, my father was one of them. Now somebody else has taken his place.

He tells me that he will take me to the city, to Raipur. He says he will find a new job and send me to school. I do not understand. I ask him what will happen to Kanu, Mishi and Keero from the village school. He tells me their fathers are one of them. He says he will kill them for what they have done. I still do not understand. I cry from remorse, despair and fear within me. Mother s face keep coming into my mind; I cant look at her and I want to run to the school, in the hope that she will be there at the door, as always when I return. My mind goes to the half boiled rice which Mother used to cook for me after school. Somehow my instincts tell me that she is gone. I feel angry now, angry for what they have done.

Aunt holds me tightly as she weeps. She tells me that god will make everything alright. Sooner than later everything will be forgotten. Today its one family, tomorrow it will be another.

Soon police convoy will be here. They will take photos of the body and take it away. They will say Naxal people came and murdered her. Soon they will kill some of the villagers and claim death of the rebels. They will take money from villagers by threatening them with death. Non compliant villagers will be killed as encounters. And then they go away. After that, the rebels come. They take money, food, women and children. Defiants will be shot and bludgeoned to death; the entire family wiped away at the executioner's command. In one way or the other, the ones killed will always be us.

The sun has moved all the way across the house. Before the night ends, I will want to go to the city. We will pack for the night and go away, for ever.

Before long,we would want to get lost in the milling crowd.

True Love....

I am 25 and I am still looking for that heavenly sign. And I have an abusive inner being.

I bumped into her in the market. I recognized those prominent cheek bones and those doe shaped golden brown eyes that decorated her faceas she tripped over and fell down. She looked older.

"..Ofcourse she s older, you fool.." someone screamed inside me.

Time then reduced to a super slow procession of frames. Those braids of hair that fell on her face, as she looked at me, the blue tees and casual chinos and how she dropped the jute bag overladen with those reddish water sprinkled tomatoes and cabbages which seemed genetically modified. The jute bag looked heavier than her, but now it lay hapless on the concretized narrow passage with all the contents spilled out. A man was rushing down the aisle with a cart loaded with cauliflowers and I had veered to avoid him and thus bumped into her.

I lay spellbound, my gaze transfixed on her, as I was 10 years ago. My first,last and only love. I was in seventh then, overtly shy and pathetic with girls, that's what had been testimonified on my orkut profile, although I used to believe the vice-versa. Apart from my age, things haven't changed much, which also I believe is a strong sign of the love that I have and had for her. My love was so strong that inspite of my friends teasing me with the girls of the college, I had refused to budge an inch. I had been single all along, patiently waiting for her to come along. She was my soul mate, the one that was meant to be -- for me. Even Bejan Daruwala on the Sunday horoscope this week, TOI had said, its a good time to find your loved ones. This was the divine sign.

Our relationship in school had no verbose content. I knew her name and I fervently hoped that she knew mine. Her distracted gaze whenever she glanced at me seemed like a veil over her true feelings. Mother used to say so. Mother can never be wrong. And then it was the last day; there I was, the first position on the first bench, shining in my bluish white Ujala washed shirt and grey pants. She walked up to me, the same distracted gaze and said, "..fill up my scrap book.." I could nt believe it, I was the first guy to fill her empty scrapbook, what other signs could one possibly need. It was the perfect fitting to the jigsaw puzzle. But my unevolved brain could not answer the next question that followed "..what now...."
She said thank you and walked away, leaving me and my transfixed stare.

Mother said that I would definitely find her,sooner or later.

And as I lay on the ground, a tiny sensible part within me shrieked, ".. atleast help her, oaf..." while the larger rest of me wondered, "..what now..." and about the divine sign as Bejan Daruwala had prophesied. Without an answer from the larger part, I decided to atleast follow the tiny squeaky voice inside me. I quickly got up to my feet and bent down for the jute bag trying to find the missing tomatoes. She had already collected all of them and her shoulder lightly grazed mine when she refilled the bag with the collected vegetables.

"Sorry..." I managed to mutter finally. I handed over the bag, my stare still looking for signs of recognition beneath that distracted look.

She hastily said, thanks and walked away leaving me and my transfixed stare.

Oh, I hate love stories....

Demented Thoughts

The city looks bright and beautiful with tiny shimmering lights on the other side of the river. It begins to rain slowly.I jump into the abysmal dark waters of the river. Sounds of a big splash.

It is so hazy, I can barely see anything. I am encapsulated by the thrillingly sweet and rotten blue green waters as they try to take over my body. I lay spread eagled, as they seem to comfort my pain and merge me as one of them; the exodus in the process of the reunion of the creator and the subject. As I am conquered, my mind races to those tiny thoughts dumped in the closet of my memories.

A nondescript house with a tiny beautiful garden on the front yard, guarded by worn down aluminium wires and a rust eaten gate; pink daisies and dahlias on the right and fully grown sunflowers to the left. A narrow concrete road bifurcate the garden into two equal parts. There is a Maruti 800 parked on the right side of the garden.

That place seems very familiar. I think I know that place.
It’s my home, where I was born, where I played till my ankles ached, where I caught those beautiful red- blue butterflies, where I grew those yellow roses and where I found Zik, my cat.
Yet, why is it so far?

Darkness surrounds me as my mind is clouded by memories of me, my existence and my being. My vision is blurred.

A plump looking woman dressed in a coffee colored flowery bordered saree.
Can it be mother? It’s as if, she is speaking to me. Faint sounds, quite inaudible, but I strain to gather it.
“.. You don’t have to be sorry Fanee, it was never your fault. You have always been our favorite. You were invariably the rebellious girl, independent, trying to break free from the shackles of the school of thought that bred in our family. Go ahead, fly your dream. But remember, always be the person who can look up to herself in the mirror everyday… ”

My mind gets foggy, incapacitated by the rushing water, as it enters my lungs and I fight convulsively for air. Indistinct shapes - squares, circles, rectangles and triangles.

A wizened old man wearing a pleated shirt and black chinos, poring into a book of Advanced Anthropology with a pair of reading glasses. He looks back at me. He has a stern posture, but kind eyes. His glance is deep and intellectual. I find it difficult to match his gaze and look down. He seems to have a sad gaze which is well concealed behind a straight expressionless face.
“…Child, you have never been the bright kid like your brothers, but you have that tendency to bounce and fight back and that is why I dote on you; because you never stopped believing in yourself. Never abandon your ideals; they will guide you in times of darkness…”

Two boys play wordathlon on the terrace. They seem engrossed, their face contorting with anxiety as they form words with those letters on the palette. They look at me, their eyes tearful and sad, and their expressions blank and serious. I want to bid them goodbye but I am neither able to talk or move. I am transfixed by an unnatural force. As I frisk out and sit on the taxi bound to Mumbai, one of them stands up and raises his hand.

I try to wave back but I am enveloped by a strange darkness. My eyes are wet, I want to reach out to my twin brothers and tell them that I will be back soon but I am numbed. I sit down behind the taxi driver, mechanically ask him to proceed. I wonder if I will ever see them again.

As the car moves forward, I begin to choke on my thoughts. They are just too fast to capture and take a note of. My childhood, school, college pass by momentarily, like a movie reel super fast forwarded. The job in the Mumbai local daily, the first assignment of coverage of the slum where Mr. Kumar, the editor made politically correct editing. Everything back then seemed so normal. Life was worth living.

I think I can barely breathe. My lungs seem to burst with the pressure as my ears begin to ring and my head starts thumping in pain. The water inside has blocked all possible routes of air.
Clouded by obscurity and the pain of deserting my house and my family, I look at the co passenger sitting beside me. He smiles. His face is strangely familiar but I turn aside and look outside the window.

“Hey Fannie, Come over and join us for coffee”, a straight face with soft wavy hair, jet black eyes wink at me. Sameer, the aspiring model cum actor who seemingly became my soul mate. Meeting up at the canteen after bunking the boring political science sessions, going for movies at the local theatre and evening time always wasted at the café joints, we found solace in each other. Much against the wishes of all, he asked me for marriage and I agreed. My life changed forever.

Why? …Was I wrong then? I believed in him, then, his way of life, his honesty and admired him for what he was. I believed the feelings were same towards me too. But that fateful night, when he abandoned me; accusing and abusing me physically, mentally and emotionally, I was broken. My beliefs had caved in on me; my ideal world had been shattered into pieces. And then, a month later when I had collected those few intact pieces of life in and around me, I tried to battle back. To get an entry in the apparently normal idealistic society, I tried to muscle my way in. My inspiration was my progeny, the umbilical craving of giving it a name, a societal shelter. I did find him, but he had already cheated on me. I could not believe myself; it was as if the sky had dropped on my head. Numbed and denuded, I was left there stranded, weak and unprotected. Unable to fend for myself, I became a nocturnal parasite. My world had been bludgeoned into a gory death. All that remained of me is a zombie.

I believe I had left my job for him. I believe I had eloped with him against the wishes of all near and dear. I believe we took each other to be husband and wife at the temple near the hilltop. I believe I believed in him. I believe I was believed to be pregnant. Did I believe myself when he left without a cause? Did I believe myself, when I caught him with another woman in that desolate house in Malabar Hill? Life then had diminished to events while I was busy, believing.

I have never stopped believing nor have I ever been an escapist. I found a job of an English teacher at a secondary government school in the suburb. However, the shrapnels of that unforgivable past have stayed with me. I was unable to give the shelter of legitimacy to my new born, the blanket of a family. My fate was sealed under those poring looks and hushed familiar talks behind my back. I am tired and exhausted, fatigued with thinking over answers that do not have questions. I wonder whether this life of any ordinary exploited member of an ostracized class is worth dying for. The seeming evanescence of an idealist betrayed by her own beliefs; I have failed myself.

Asphyxiated I look up as my vision begins to blur as the layers of water flow over me. I feel no pain; only remorse on my helplessness. Darkness soon overcomes me. I wonder whether it is the time to say farewell.

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