Stories

The Carnival

A young man takes a ferris wheel ride & a trip down memory lane.

The aroma lingering in the summer air was a peculiar yet pleasant mix of freshly brewed coffee and roasted peanuts. One that was occasionally pervaded by the tantalizing scents of spices and skewered meat. 

Were they in the big bazaars of Faridabad, where the adventurous princess roamed in disguise? No. But for all its similarity, it might as well have been.

A large tent was pitched in the middle of the open field, surrounded by numerous amusement rides and colourful stalls of various sizes. Some boasted an assortment of cheap trinkets, ranging from key-chains to anklets and bangles. Others displayed a variety of prizes to be won. Fairy lights were strewn from boughs and poles, over the stalls and tents. Their steady glow added light to a place that was already brimming with life. 

“Men and women, young and old, children of all ages,” Aahil murmured. The sounds of the past seemed to blend with those of the present — his mother warning him to avoid eating too many sweets; his father’s vehement claim that the games were rigged, after failing to bag a single prize. His own yells of excitement interspersed with the clamour of the bustling crowd and the shrewd vendors. 

“Papa!”

The shrill voice was picked up by Aahil’s keen ears, triggering the sudden realisation that his hand was clammy. And empty. Inhaling sharply, he scanned his surroundings, till he caught sight of the source. A little girl dressed in a purple frock and boots, who was also one of the biggest bundles of mischief he knew. 

The prickle of fear in his mind faded.

“What did I say about letting go of my hand, Elma?”

The child turned to face him. Her twinkling eyes formed crescents, as tiny lips parted to flash a toothy grin.

“Big wheel! You promised!”   

Aahil extended an open palm towards her. “That’s why we’re here, aren’t we?”

In many ways, she was just like him. They shared quite a few attributes; the curly dark hassle of thick hair and the lithe wiry build were among the most noticeable. She’d taken after her mother personality-wise, timid and reserved in nature. Even so, Elma had her reckless moments. While she wasn’t as excitable or impulsive as Aahil had been, the streak still showed. 

He clasped Elma’s hand. “Don’t run off again, okay?” In the corner of his eye, he spotted her giving a tiny nod. 

It wasn’t long before they both were seated in one of the ferris wheel compartments. Thankfully, Sunday evenings were idyllic in comparison to the week-end rush. This offered advantages Aahil was happy to seize on his day off. No long queues, low chances of encountering pickpockets, and a relatively easy access to almost every ride, show or stall. More importantly, there was no worry about losing Elma.

Aahil chortled. Nope, he was still on high alert when it came to her. For now though, she was peaceful, swinging her legs to and fro.

The cabin jerked with a low creak, causing Elma to clutch the rod across their waists. Instinctively, Aahil placed a protective hand on her shoulder. With a slow motion, they moved higher and higher, further away from the ground. Something akin to exhilaration began to flood through him.

His heart lightened.

“Papa! Look there!” 

The haphazard arrangement of tents and stalls bore an uncanny resemblance to a compact model within a snow globe. The exploding fireworks reminded Aahil of the glitter that flew around in the transparent sphere, once it was shaken up. And the people down below, he mused, were the shiny particles that settled at the bottom.

“It’s so preeetty, right?” Elma spoke in hushed tone, but in a pitch that revealed her excitement. “It’s—”

A thunderous rumble reverberated in the air.

Bright bursts of red, green and yellow sparks lit the darkening sky, one fading to be replaced by another. In the brief intervals between those explosions, one could see the stars wink.

Elma remained motionless, gaping in awe. For once, she was at a loss for words. Nonetheless, the joy suffused in her flushed cheeks, the amazement in her wide eyes expressed what she couldn’t.

A firework in her own right.

Aahil looked at the horizon, fringed by the silhouettes of trees and buildings. Pale pinpricks of light flickered in the distance. The world appeared to be miles away. With the way his heart was soaring, he felt he was on top of it.

It was familiar, this feeling. Nostalgic, even.

And fleeting, that he was sure of. An illusion, a shoddy replica of what he’d once had, but Aahil clung to it before it could slip past his fingers. Wrapping an arm around Elma, he closed his eyes.

In that moment, he was a kid again.

The Blank Canvas

One evening in the summer of 1944, I decided to clean Grandpa’s attic.

To you who’ve found this,
          You’ve seen the painting, haven’t you? It’s been misnamed for far too long. Edvard was broke when he sold it to me, along with its naming rights. ‘Freedom’ was a dull name for it, my creation marring his.

“Choosing one door closes ten others. Then would it be better to have all of them at once? Or none at all?”

     Today, I saw what he meant. The endless possibilities of an unwritten future. She stopped to look. I wish I had too.
     I finally get why he called it ‘The Blank Canvas’.

From,
Shepard Munch

Hide-And-Seek

When I recall how I’d been held against my will, I also remember the moments that made me stay.

Exquisite.

Soft, comforting and all I could look at. A work of art, beautiful and alluring. I’d have made that masterpiece my own if it weren’t for that woman.

She hadn’t turned towards me once, her gaze focused on the pot she was stirring. Lost in her own world, perhaps. I couldn’t blame her. I was imagining myself stretching out on the dark corduroy of that beautiful sofa in her hall, rolling in its warmth.

I craned my neck, trying to get a better view. Ah… Cosy. It was almost enough to make me forget the gashes on my back.

The ground beneath me slipped. In an instant, I found my hind legs dangling in thin air. Clutching at what little I could with my front paws, I tried to pull myself up. Each muscle in my body stretched painfully as I dug my claws into the tiles. Bit by bit, one piercing yowl after another, I managed to regain my original position on the roof. I scrambled a safe distance away from the edge, where I’d neither be seen nor heard. But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

Tiny fragments of a red tile lay on the white floor, mosaic in appearance. It must’ve been the one that made me lose my balance. I hadn’t heard the crash, but it must’ve been loud. And my mewls hadn’t been quiet by any means either. Scampering off was my first instinct in such situations, but the day had finally caught up to me. The cold breeze against parts of my bare skin, the stickiness in the patches of my fur, and my shattered dreams of ever getting to sit on that sofa… it was too much. I stayed still, unseeing and yet, acutely aware of every sensation in my body.

A few minutes passed. The woman continued stirring the pot, occasionally stopping to sniff at it or to regulate the flame being used.

She hadn’t noticed a thing. 

Just when I plucked up the energy to bolt for it, she turned. It might have been to pick up the salt shaker, or the sprigs of thyme on the adjacent counter, but she caught sight of the mess I’d made. The next moment, her brown eyes were gazing right into mine.

I froze again.

She tilted her head slightly, before stretching her slender arms outwards. I blinked a few times, before mentally scoffing. Was I supposed to trust that?

She appeared to understand my hesitation. She smiled, before scurrying out of the kitchen. She returned in seconds, lifting a step ladder. I jumped backwards, out of sheer impulse. She expected as much, choosing to climb it herself. As she reached the top, she extended her hands towards me.

Weird woman.

I ought to have let her bring me down, but I didn’t have good experiences with humans. The younger ones shrieked and threw rocks my way. The adults often ignored me, hardly ever crossing my path. It was only natural that I reacted like I did, even if it wasn’t one of my proudest moments. 

However, I had underestimated her determination.

​​Half an hour later, she was dabbing black liquid on my wounds, blissfully ignorant of the scratches on her own face and shoulders. I think it irked me more than it did her. She gently bandaged me after cleaning me up, stroking the remnants of my fur as she did so. It was then that she did the unthinkable. She placed me on the couch and then scuttled into the kitchen.

I got to sit on that couch. 

It was heaven.

My ecstasy was short-lived. She returned yet again, with a bowl. She placed it on the floor and faced me. With one hand on her throat, she began to speak.

“Bee… ck-h.” She looked at me meaningfully. I stared back. She tried it a few more times, gesturing harder than before. I soon lost interest in what she had to say, but she remained persistent. 

“Mi… k-hu!” She exclaimed, her face now flushed and scrunched up. She pointed at the bowl. I glanced at it lazily, and then with disdain.

I didn’t like milk. And why would I accept what she had to offer anyway?

​​​​Once more, she seemed to catch on to what I was feeling. She put her index finger in the bowl, and let one drop of the milk slide down her throat.

Nothing happened.

Well, I didn’t really hate milk.

That was the start of a new routine. One that repeated itself whenever it was mealtime. She’d bring in milk, and I’d wait until she tried it herself. To spice things up a bit, I’d hide myself every now and then, just to see if she’d find me.

She always did.

There were also times that she tried to bring me out of the house. I don’t know if it was her idea of fun, but I staunchly refused. I had everything I wanted, right here.

I didn’t keep track of the days as they went by, but I did notice the gradual increase in my stamina, the newly formed scabs, and the decrease in the number of patches on my skin. I saw the dark red marks on her arms turn faint pink too. Everything was going unexpectedly… well.

​​​​​​”Miku!” It was the voice that I had grown accustomed to. I sprung to my feet, heading in its direction. The strong scent that greeted me made my mouth water. I bounded up to my bowl with sudden anticipation.

Sardines.

I didn’t think twice, gobbling up the feast that had been laid out before me. It was only when I had eaten them all that I returned to my senses. I looked up, and there she was, with that same patient smile on her face.

She tricked me.

I’d say that the emotion that welled up within me was anger, but maybe it was just fear. 

Again, nothing happened.    

The real question came to me one day when I was relaxing in my favourite spot. Why did she still use that word – ‘Miku’?  

​​​​She had started varying my diet, now that I was healing. Some days it was chicken; the other days, turkey; and on rare occasions, salmon. And sporadically, milk. But the word ‘Miku’ remained the same.

I never got the time to mull over it. I had more pressing issues to deal with. Like how fate seemed to have randomly switched sides. Now that I was on the road to recovery, the woman had begun to leave the house more frequently. It wasn’t that I cared, because I didn’t. I had not only the sofa but all the food and the entire house when she was away. Even so, I soon learnt that the sofa was comfy but not as warm as I’d envisioned. The food was somehow more delicious to eat when she was the one surprising me with new snacks. And the house was nicer to live in when we were playing our usual game of hide-and-seek.

The next time I saw her wear her favourite hat, I trotted beside her, intending to follow her wherever she went.

“Miku,” she murmured, pleasantly stunned. I wondered if she thought I was doing this for her, but it didn’t really matter. This was, in all honesty, for me. Hiding was my best skill. I wouldn’t allow it to become hers.

I had once walked on the streets, ages ago. Today, I walked alongside her. That was when I realised. ‘Miku’, the word which had once stood for ‘milk’, had slowly become a name. 

My name.

I, who had been called ‘unlucky’ all my life, finally had a name.

My euphoria didn’t wear off, even after we reached home. I ambled over towards my cherished spot, still in a daze. She bustled around, carrying about her business.

I lounged on my couch as she brought out an old, dusty record player. She set a disk on it, letting it spin under the needle. A music piece, similar to that of chimes and pianos began to play.   

I saw her twirl around in circles, with an elegance that defined her every movement. Her hands and feet moved along with the rise and fall of the music. And I sat back, simply watching. It was perfect, except for one minuscule flaw, one that I wouldn’t even call a flaw.

She continued to dance, long after the music had ended. 

She then stopped, nodding at me. Her tanned arms were outstretched, and her eyes wide with hope. There was no doubt about what she wanted me to do.

This once, I decided to comply.

The couch was just as exquisite as it was the first time I laid eyes on it. But it was still my choice to get off of it.

Why? 

Because I’d found something… no, someone better.

In The End

Despite the odds stacked against her, a young woman wants nothing more than to remember.

It’s funny how life has a way of ruining everyone’s expectations. She wonders why people have them to begin with. Her Aunt Cassie once said that she wouldn’t amount to anything more than an accountant. Her mother told her that she needed a big strong man by her side to survive

They’d be proud of her now, wouldn’t they?

A fist connects with her jaw.

She feels something hard rattling around her mouth, and a fresh surge of warmth gushing into it. It’s a good thing that these brutes tied her up. Else, she’d probably claw their eyes out with the fingernails she has left.

Why did she take this job anyway? Oh yeah, she was chasing after the glory. Why focus on that preening peacock, shrouded by her admirers? See the quiet girl at the back of the class? She’s gonna be a real hero!

A hand slams the back of her head, flipping her face-first to the floor. The smell of iron fills her nostrils. Wet warmth soon surrounds her nose, soaking the ground her forehead is resting on. The weight of the chair presses uncomfortably against her back and shoulders. She’d like to shift some of it onto her still-bound hands, but she’s too tired to try.

Maybe Frank would give her a massage when she gets home.

Frank. Sweet, gentle, reliable Frank. No one thought he’d end up with her.

“Frank is too soft. He needs someone smart and assertive.” She can still see the disapproving shakes of their heads. Faceless, because she doesn’t have a very good memory, but deprecating all the same. “Not Alice.” 

Two kids, a car and a house stopped their tongues from waggling.

The chair turns on its side, stringing her along with it, like a rag-doll. “Done with me, bastards?” The sound that escapes her throat isn’t the chuckle she intended, but it’ll do.

Her reward is a crushing blow to her arm.

“Alice, you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not.”

​​​Frank’s the only person to call her out on it.

Pretense is one of the few things she’s good at. And she’s used it quite often too. Like the times she put on a dazzling smile while being sidelined for her introversion. Or how she pretends to recall everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries year after year, even though they ought to know by now that she can’t memorize a simple grocery list.

And the way she acts like she’s learnt how to be a good mother when in reality, it’s just as confusing to her as it was half a decade ago.

A particularly hard kick to her stomach makes her wheeze. Her eyes fly wide open at the impact, and she cringes at the sickening crack of a rib. She spots a speck of white, amidst a growing pool of crimson. So that’s what it was.

Another molar.

The room falls silent for a bit. She’s pleased by it. The only noise she’s remotely been able to tolerate is that of Matt and Joan.

Someone sets the chair upright.

“Tired already?” She rasps, her voice horribly similar to that of a ninety-year-old woman. A rough hand grabs her face, wrenching it from side to side. She stares up and sees him. Despite all the grainy photographs she’s seen and reports she’s pored over, she’s so terrified she forgets to breathe.

His hand releases her.

She inhales deeply. “Given up, Scarface?”​

She hears the familiar swish of metal in the air.

Guess not.

Better her than them.

She remembers taking her kids to Aunt Krista’s house. Matt’s radiant smile as they sprinted towards the bus stop, because they were finally going somewhere other than school. And little Joan tugging on her long brown hair in a cute attempt to make her stay back with them.

For reasons beyond her, she recalls her words to them before she left.

“Don’t open the door for anyone.”

Her mind’s a blank slate if that’s all she can think of. Maybe it’s because all those years whizzed by in a blur.

“Don’t talk to strangers.”

Or perhaps, she didn’t spend enough time with them. What’s their favourite food again?

She should know that, at least.

“Don’t leave the house on your own.”

It’s a pity she doesn’t follow her own advice.

As the knife presses into her arms, she imagines herself being carved like the turkey they had last Thanksgiving.

The ropes fall away.

Her hair’s nearly ripped from her scalp, as she’s yanked up by it. She stands, leaning on her left side as though she prefers it. Her hand clutches the front of her shirt, fingers brushing against the crust of blood on the hardened fabric.

Sad. This was her lucky one.

She looks directly at Scarface. It’s a name she made up since she couldn’t care less about what he’s called.

He mouths words, ones she can’t hear.

She glares nonetheless, conveying every bit of defiance she can muster. Not much, considering she wants to spew out her insides. Her knees are numb, and she’s got a splitting headache. A nice long nap would do the trick.

That massage would have to wait.

Gathering the remnants of her strength, she wonders what it’s like to actually be brave.

She spits in his face, leaving a red trail. Satisfied to watch the controlled calm break into unrestrained fury, she awaits the inevitable. The slashes of his blade across her skin make her scream, but her eyes shine with remembrance.

Fettuccine Alfredo. With shrimp.

She smiles as darkness enters her world.​​​​

El Nombre de Una Rosa

They yearned for what they didn’t have, but there were moments when what they had felt enough.

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Rose: With whorls of petals arranged in a deceptively ordered arrangement, and a softness that could fool one into thinking it was harmless, it was a relatively treacherous flower in comparison to say, a jasmine. Because if one took a closer look, they would see that rose petals were always… always slightly twisted. And if that wasn’t warning enough, right below the flower, there were thorns, ready to prick whatever happened to brush past it.

That’s what he was.

Juan Estafador. It was the name he’d always referred to himself as, even when they’d first met. In a time when bloodshed and hunger had been the norm. Back when she was just a slip of girl failing to face the winter cold, and he’d been a lad trying to brave the world on his own. “They’re not nice, Ella,” Juan had told her, after he’d learnt her name. Ella had not known who ‘they’ were, but the feeble warmth that had radiated off his body as he wrapped his arms around her had given her comfort. “We can face them together.” His dark eyes had shone with clear outrage at the unfairness of it all. But one look at his large red cap, which sat on the top of his tousled black hair, and his torn white shirt, which was far too big for his puny body, had told her that he couldn’t do much against it. He patted her head softly. “We don’t have to play nice.”

He was just a bud.

In the weeks to come, Ella would come to learn just exactly what Juan meant. He would teach her what it took to survive. She remembered their first time like it was yesterday. They had walked in the market hand in hand, when all of a sudden, she tripped over a rock. She had cried that day, real tears dripping down her face, because she’d seen him put his foot in front of her own. Her friend. They were supposed to be facing ‘them’ together. Then why?

She cried harder.

He’d left her on the road alone, bruised and bleeding. She didn’t know what was worse. Him and his lies, or the fact that she’d believed them. She didn’t have to ponder much, for by then, a few shopkeepers had dashed over to help. She never heard their reassuring words or paid heed to the way they bandaged her. No, there had only been one person in her sight. A sheepish Juan standing a few feet away from them, with bulges in his trouser pockets. “But it worked!” Juan pleaded after they’d left the bustling crowd, for what seemed like the hundredth time. Ella bit into the pear he’d given as a peace offering, but turned her face away. With a cardboard box in an alleyway as their home and nothing apart from Juan’s findings to eat, her pride wasn’t that big that she’d refuse a decent dinner.​​​​​ Yet, that didn’t mean she had to speak to him.

“Ella.” His voice shook with repressed regret. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t ask her to face him, but she did anyway. She saw his trembling fists, placed at his side. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, anger dissipated into the wind. “We’ll work together.”

After that, it was one adventure after another. Becoming the trouble makers of the market place meant that they could live another day, but would have to face the scorn of everyone they encountered.

So be it. No one would risk taking them in either. With prices skyrocketing and the looming threat of famine, who would accept two waifs?

Eventually, they’d become experienced enough to understand the importance of makeup, wigs, charm and ‘shop rotation.’ They’d travel from market to market and city to city, knowing that one day it wouldn’t have to be like this. That it would all end. Somewhere along the line, they grew up. But that day never came.

War had finally ended, but the prices hadn’t come down. Neither had the taxes. On the contrary, they had become higher than ever. Now, they were just two among the growing number of con-men and women all over the country. “The damned war did this. It’s all their fault,” swore Juan. He ruffled her short hair affectionately, an action of his that she’d gotten accustomed to over their partnership of eight years. “But we’ll make it. We’re the best.”

Ella still didn’t know who ‘they’ were. She had begun to think that Juan didn’t either. ​​​​​

Being the best in the con business was a matter of shameful pride, but that wasn’t to say that they hadn’t tried. Finding a job was hard enough. Managing to survive off the pay was even harder.

They were no exception.

Two years later, and nothing had changed. Save for the better clothes and food they’d finally been able to afford. They’d moved on from petty thieving to bigger heists. After all, they had a reputation to live up to.

But nothing beat the rush of the run. Right after a quick scam.

Ella stood next to the fruit stall, her gaudy red sundress gently swaying in the wind. Amidst the fragrance of bananas and peaches, she caught a whiff of perfume.

Rose.

She didn’t have to look behind her to recognize who it was. Instead, she glanced carefully from the corner of her eye. A man wearing sunglasses, dressed in a mauve shirt and tan brown shorts stood next to her. Her gaze was momentarily drawn to his red cap, sitting snugly on his curls. It was as though he was inspecting the fruits kept on display, but Ella knew better.

She waited.

Slowly, he raised his glasses and gave a quick wink.

It was another day.

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