The Final Nail

“I am telling you, the coffin is too small, he won’t fit in”

“Did you trying putting him in sideways? He did gain a lot of weight in his final years”

“Yes, its not the width, it’s the length that is the problem.”

“Ok fine, go inform his son. It is almost time. We can’t delay this any more”

Ghalib went out of the room and onto the courtyard to look for the son in the large crowd that had gathered. He walked as fast as you can move in a funeral without attracting attention or arousing suspicion that something is wrong.

He found the son addressing a sizeable crowd. It was the same speech. Ghalib had heard it dozens of times. He was almost near the end. Ghalib listened to the speech.

“Father sacrificed his life for this battle and martyred for our cause. His flame has been extinguished but the fire will keep burning. We have to walk a great distance but we will walk together and walk far. I will be proud to walk with you on our quest, humble in the knowledge that I have big shoes to fill.” And the crowd applauded as loudly as it was decent to do in a funeral.

Ghalib never liked the ending. He just waited for the day someone would throw a size 6 sports shoe in response to the lines of walking far and big shoes to fill.

The Khans were big people. Literally, figuratively and politically. Big people, but not practical people. Like the people who buy a BMW and then live like kings in a village where the roads are narrower than the BMW. Wherever they went, it was difficult to fit them in.

But, Ghalib, their faithful servant for 30 years had never failed them. Not even once in their entire life. He had always managed to find a way out. He was not going to fail in their death. There had to be a way out.

“What is it Ghalib Kaka” the son finally asked.

“You have to come in now. I cannot explain it here. It is very urgent.”

“I just finished my speech. I have to spend some time with them. I will come in after some time. Why don’t you ask Ammi. I am sure she will help you out.”

Nazia was just tying her hair for the seventh time when Ghalib entered. He had entered without knocking. The last time he did that, she had to call an ambulance. So she let go of her hair, turned around and asked immediately. “What happened Ghalib? Is everything ok?”

“Khan bhai is not fitting into his coffin”

“What?” she said surprised. Ghalib always had weak English. He must have meant something else.

“The coffin madam. It is too small. We are not able to put him inside it.”

“What?” she said again. A little less surprised. But still surprised nonetheless.

“There is only 5 minutes left for the events to begin. We don’t know what to do madam.” said Ghalib and hoped that the mention of the time constraint would elicit something more than just another “what?”

Nazia flung her comb towards her dressing table and turned towards the phone. “I knew that the carpenter we chose was a thief. He must have stolen some of the wood. I told you that we should have tipped him more for my mother in law’s funeral”. And wondered how her mother in law continued to haunt her even after her death and dialed furiously.

“He is not picking up the phone, that scoundrel. Can you bring me my other phone Ghalib Bhai?”

“Yes madam” said Ghalib and rushed out of the room.

“Where do you think you are going Ghalib? Didn’t you tell the son about the problem?” he heard the voice shout at him from across the courtyard.

“He was busy, so I went to madam.”

“And what is she doing about it?”

“She is calling the carpenter”

“What does she want from the carpenter now? A refund? That is why I told you to go to the son. Not the wife. Women are never practical. The carpenter cannot make another coffin for us now. Come, let us talk to the son.”

The two of them walked into the house. Nazia was already talking animatedly to her son.

“I agree that it was my fault for not tipping him enough for Dadi’s death, but you have to understand that contacting him is not going to help us now in any way. Why can’t you be practical for once mom?”

Nazia tugged at her hair harder in her ninth attempt to tie her hair. She took a deep breath. This was not the time for these outbursts. Prioritise, she told herself. Her priority was always her husband, now it had to be her husband’s deadbody. 

“What is the next event lined up? She asked.

Your speech is up next. But we can cancel it if you are not upto it Ammi”

“No, I will do it” Nazia said and let her hair loose in all its untied glory, grabbed the mike and walked out towards the courtyard.

“What does she think she is doing?” the son exclaimed after her. “I tell you, women have no idea of the priorities. Do you understand how embarrassing this will be for my career? This was supposed to be my launch pad!” the son seemed to be telling himself rather than at Ghalib.

“The least you can do is stall the crowd till we think of a solution.” He finally screamed towards his mother who had already left the room.

Nazia’s voice echoed firmly across the courtyard. “Brothers and sisters, we are already behind schedule, so I will not keep you waiting. This will be a short speech. My husband cared for every section of the society and did not want any section of society to be left out. He was born a Christian, lived his life as a Muslim, but it was his final wish to have his final rites performed as a Hindu.”

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Post Script

 The above piece was written as part of a session at Write Club on 2nd April, 2016.

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The Negotiator

Image Source: Depositphotos

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Mrs Sharma cut the carrot with a little more force than necessary. She held the knife with a grip that always happened to be a little too tight. She thought of her husband and his late office hours. It was almost 8 ‘o’ clock. She set the cooking flame on a couple of degrees higher than usual. It was going to be a tight schedule if she wanted to meet all her deadlines tonight.

The phone rang. She ran out of the kitchen and picked up the phone.

“Hello. Teena beta, will you be coming tomorrow? Your dad has to go for the health check up and you know he can’t drive for long distances”

“Mom I told you that we are celebrating Alia’s birthday tomorrow. I haven’t even begun the preparations yet. And with Rahul’s year end targets looming ahead, the entire responsibility of organization has fallen on me. I will book a cab for you tomorrow. What time do you have to go?”

“Rehne do beta. Sahi kaha tha tumhare papa ne. Beti to paraya dhan hoti hai” and she heard a click which was a slightly louder than usual.

Was her mom really hurt or was it just emotional blackmail? Well this was the third time she used the "beti paraya dhan" dialogue. So chances are that she was just fishing for a last minute change of heart in her daughter. But then again, she said those words in Hindi. Whenever her mom spoke from her head, she used English. Hindi was reserved for matters straight from the heart. Her mom must have felt bad.

Teena looked at Rahul her husband, in the photo frame near the phone. She saw Rahul smiling back at her. She was also smiling. In the photo at least. No matter how high Rahul went up the career ladder, he still abused in Hindi.  Somethings don't change inside your heart. The smiles in the photo seemed years ago now. Well, it has been almost 19 years since the marriage. But still, the smiles felt like a more distant memory than just the 19 years.

“Mom can I take the car tonight” her thoughts were interrupted as Alia bounded in with barely concealed excitement. She took at good look at her 17 year old daughter and realised that her enthusiasm was not the only thing that was barely concealed.

“Go dress up first, give me some time to ask your dad if he needs the car when he is back”

“Mom please don't do this. You know dad won’t use the car when he returns. I will be back before midnight”

“Go dress up and comb and tie your hair first. Let me ask your dad”. Alia’s mom knew the answer but we wanted Alia to say it out.

“Mom, this is what I am wearing tonight. I straightened my hair just for this party.”

“Who gave you the frock? I have not seen it before.”

“Mmm, one of my friends gave it”

“Are you sure it is your size. Seems a little too high. Can't you wear something a little longer. You know, longer around the legs. Then you can have the car.”

 Bargaining and negotiations were her forte now. Whether it be her daughter or the vegetable-wala or the bai, she knoew precisely when to place her bargaining chips on the table.

“Ok mom, I will change and come” said Alia and sauntered up the stairs in her 2 inch heels.

Teena let herself feel a little proud of her negotiation skills. After all, her marriage to Rahul would never have been possible without her persistence. She remembered the day her parents finally relented and let her marry Rahul. She felt the adrenaline rush of freedom that day. Like a bird that finally flew out of its cage. She longed for such freedom again. Yes she made all the decision in the house. But someone always had a complaint. Why did every decision of hers start feeling like a compromise?

Alia bounded down the stairs in 4 inch heels. Amazing how Alia could lower the frock 2 inches and yet make her legs look the same length. Smart kids are a conundrum in a different league, Teena sighed.

“What happned to the upper part of your frock” questioned Mrs Sharma.

"Mom you told me to lower it. I am wearing it off shoulder now."

“Go back and change it. That's final. No car if you don’t change the frock.”

“Mom, it is just a party at the restaurant next block. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I met your dad at one of those parties”. She shot back.

“Mom please” protested Alia one last time and walked up the staircase in her 4 inch hels.

"Wait let me call your dad" said Mr Sharma and pciked up the phone.

There was no response. She dialed again.

A gruff and hurried voice said, “What is it Teena? Is it important? I am in a meeting”

“No, it is ok. I will call later" said Mrs Sharma and put down the phone softly.

The contrast between Rahul’s present voice and tone and his voice 19 years ago was evident.

Alia bounded in and said “Mom, look at this ankle length dress. Now, no one will be jealous of me. I hope you are happy now. Can I have the keys now?”

Alia was wrong. Her mother was already jealous of her. Always had been. After all, Alia was yet to meet the her final man of her dreams. Is that why she resented Alia’s parties so much? She signed, took the keys out of the drawer and tossed it at Alia and said “Ja, jee le apni zindagi”

Yes, everyone in their family resorted to Hindi when they spoke from the heart.

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Post Script

The above piece was written as part of a session at Write Club hosted by Pavan. The theme was to write a piece featuring an antagonist while simultaneously portraying the reasons behind the antagonist's actions.

Road Rage

Image Source: http://toonclips.com/design/5386

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I hate traffic like everyone else. But it is not because I own a fancy car. I hate traffic because when it lines up in front of a traffic signal, it gets in the way of my work. It is my job to sweep the streets.

The morning started like any other normal day with the songs of the birds being drowned by the blaring of the horns. The sleek sports bike caught my attention. Not the bike but the rider, especially when I heard some angry yet ingenious vocabulary from the rider. It seemed to be directed at no one in particular. But it did manage to grab my attention. That is the thing about colourful vocabulary. It intrinsically has higher decibel values than normal conversation. Colourful words always grab attention in the black and white noises of everyday life.

The traffic moved in spurts. Starting and stopping every half a minute. The stream of expletives from the rider also seemed to synchronise with the green and red switching of the traffic signal. I was a nobody, but even I was getting uncomfortable. You can imagine the state of the family that was seated in the car next the bike. They even had a grandmother in there to add to the family’s discomfort.

 I mean, we all hate the traffic but why was he using his vocal chords instead of just honking like the others? It was only when the words reached their Virat limits that I saw the door of the car in front of the bike swing open. A 6’6” tall and broad frame stepped out and took long strides towards the vocal rider behind him. No, not another road brawl!

The broad frame spoke angrily but I don’t think he used any swear words. If he had used, I would have heard them instead of just angry growls. The rider seemed to be surprised by the sudden reaction from a fellow commuter. Well, what did he expect that he could speak his mind and not get beaten up? Like I said, he should have kept his mouth shut and just honked like the rest of them.

The rider got off the bike. He stood almost a foot lower than the assaulter. Self-preservation always trumps anger. I think that is what was happening here. The bike rider raised his hands in a pacifying gesture towards the incoming tall frame. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Apologies always sound at several decibels below normal conversation. All I could hear next was the crunch of knuckles on cheekbone. The small man seemed to be lifted off his feet for the fraction of the second that it took for him to swerve and hit the pavement with a dull thud.

I noticed three tiny objects fly and they landed near my broom as I watched with my mouth wide open. One of the objects was a premolar, one incisor and one miniature wireless hands-free headphone. I could still hear faint conversation on the other side when I picked up the wireless headphone.

I did not know which of the three objects was more precious to the owner. I was not sure which of the three could be reused by the owner. So I picked up all three and proceeded to hand it over to the small man who was now trying to get back on his feet.
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Post Script

The above piece was written during a session at Write Club on Action Writing
 

The Siege

Image Source: https://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/s/siege_warfare.asp

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“I can’t take another step.”

“I know.  I’m tired too.”

“You don’t understand. I really can’t take another step.”

“What do you mean can’t? You have to. You can’t give up now that we are so close to the end.”

“Take a close look at where you are asking me to step.”

“I see a lot of empty space. Just take a step.”

“It is not about the space. It is about the rules. I can’t take another step.”

“You mean I win?”

“No, it’s a draw.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Look, listen, the king has no safe square to move to. And he is not under attack. It is called a stalemate. It is a draw.”

“Ok, if you can’t move, then pass your turn. I will move and make the next step and turn the deadlock into a deadmate.”

“Look, there is no deadlock, there is no deadmate. It is called a stalemate and it is a draw.”

“Explain to me why it is a draw.”

“Look, the king has nowhere to go and he is in no danger. So he stays where he is.”

“Then let me move.”

“It is my move and the king doesn’t want to move.”

“Then let him move one of his other soldiers”.

“Are you blind? You killed all my soldiers.”

“A king with no army and he has the gall to demand a peace treaty?”

“I am not asking for a peace treaty. It is a technical draw.”

“But you said chess is just like life. Explain this draw to me.”

“Ok, the king is safe in his castle and he doesn’t want to come out. You can’t break into the castle. So it is a draw.”

I thought I had finally convinced him when he got up and walked towards the fridge. My relief was short lived as he came back half a minute later and sat down with a bag of chips and a bottle of coke.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I am laying siege to your king’s castle. I am going to stay here till he runs out of resources and has to make a move.”

“Look, I said chess is like life, I didn’t say it is like game of thrones. You can’t lay a siege.”

“Then make a move.”

“The rules don’t allow it.”

“Why not? I see lot of space.”

“How hard is it to understand that everything in chess is not like life?”

“I don’t care, make a move.”

I saw him grab another handful of chips and stuff it into his mouth. I have seen battlefields covered with blood and sweat and broken weapons. He was going to cover this one with chips and ketchup and spit.

“Just hold your king and move it damn it.”

I grabbed the king.

“Yes now that you touched a piece, you have to movie it. That is also a rule. I know it, you told me.”

I grabbed the king and really moved it. Further than he had ever moved in his entire military career.

He grabbed his forehead and said “What the hell are you doing? I am bleeding” and wiped the cut on his temple with the tissue.

“Sorry, I was aiming for your mouth to break the siege.”

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Post Script

The above short story was written as part of a session at Write Club on  19th September, 2015. The session was hosted by Nikita and the theme of the session was "Dialogue Writing".