A May Affair

There is this strange lull in the times of this otherwise hyper-activity phase of merry-making. It is this deathly stillness that we the residents of Dreamorperish fear the most.

All of us dislike them but I hate storms.

No, not because of what havoc they are capable of wrecking…not even because of the dust that waits for you to sweep it out of your house, your room or portico. Not even because of the trees that fall, buckling to the fatal blow of the ghastly wind.

But because of the memories that every storm brings along with it. The memory of the day when Christopher-the Bamboozle knocked at my door.

Centuries of conmen put together would fall short of describing what gut Christopher was made of. He was the champion of his trade. Swift of hand and quick of tongue, this heavily built man was by far the most courteous of his tribe though.
It was his easy charm juxtaposed with a true cold blood manner that aided him on his trails for hapless victims.

Just as I sit waiting for my tea to brew strong enough, my thoughts float back to the day. The day of the raging storm that knew no end. The day Christopher-the Bamboozle knocked at my door…and they day he confessed his dislike for me.

It was a stormy August afternoon in the country side of Dreamorperish. Marked by the typical lazy Saturday afternoon, it was a day to just sit back and catch up on some sleep, read a book or listen to some of ones old favourites on the radio.
All of a sudden, stormy winds started blowing, the winds howled, the trees swirled, the rooftops sounded with the pitter patter of raindrops…which soon gave way to thunder showers.
The sky darkened as if Divinity had spurted vicious, black ink on to the sky. No birds chirped. No crows croaked. The streets of Dreamorperish were de-peopled and I had this inexplicable stir in my head. Something seemed to be amiss. What was it, I was not to learn until about another hour.

I sipped some water and headed for the bed. Pulling over the sheets on myself, I prayed for the stormy rage to subside. Something told me it portends a not so happy event.
I slept for a while, not long before I heard the knock on the front door. I curled up in bed…not wanting to go out. Knock again…twice …thrice…with an ever increasing intensity.
No, I cannot ignore those hammerings on my door! I get up and go out to check who that is…I have been nursing a headache for two days now…something tells me I must not go.
I fight every instinct, resolute to go give the one who disturbed me a good piece of my mind. The storm is at its peek. It knows no end…

Christopher standing at my door…with a butcher’s knife…screaming to be heard in the midst of that storm.
“I have come to kill you, Harris,”, said he, mad with rage. I do not know the reason for his anger.
He aimed at me…whilst I duck to escape the blows he dealt with that abominable knife.
I rushed back in to the house, with Christopher close at my heels.
I screamed, but no one listened. No one came to my rescue. Oh! The storm was to blame.

He deals another blow, and now I run behind the parlour, all around the table. Christopher keeps striking…he is not the one to exhaust and stop.
“I have come to kill you Harris”, says he again. Now I have reached the rooftop…hoping against hope that some one hears my screams. Oh! The fools are all huddled inside their homes.
I know I am cornered. Christopher knows it too…slowly, but surely, he inches towards me.
I still remember that look in his eyes from the day he came to kill me. There was disgust in those black, fiery eyes. They burnt with rage! Rage for me…what for, I am yet to learn.

My end is near. I await the final blow…and then Christopher speaks, “Harris, it is not for no reason that Dreamorperish town calls me mad. Why I come to kill you, I am sure you know”.
The storm is going strong and he has to scream even harder to get his words across.
“But Christopher”, I try to make him see reason, and he hushes me with a wave of his hand. “Hush, you fool”, says he, and strikes. I can feel that knife cut deep into my heart…I scream but no one comes to my rescue.
I am incapable of uttering any more words…and he is quiet too. He strikes again…this time my head bears the blow. I am bleeding all over…and screaming, as if I am possessed. Christopher has pinned me against the wall and counts every time he stabs into me. I cannot talk. The storm is still blowing and going strong. I cannot talk. Christopher is mad, so he has no words. Our eyes do the talking.
While his flash anger and inexplicable frenzy, mine flash the look of one who is lost. He is the vanquisher, and I am the vanquished. There is fear and upheaval in my eyes. The look of a dying man, who has no one to his rescue, is no different from a rebellion of sorts…if it were in him, he would strike back…if it were in me, I would devour the very being of Christoher. But I cannot move now. I am on the floor…breathing my last. Christopher, sitting by my side, and weeping. It is not without a reason that the rest of the town called him mad.
Suddenly he strikes me again, one final blow dealt to me, and I am a dead man. However, not before my final words to him. I promised I shall be back, wherever he was, to avenge my death. I am dead now. I am lying in a pool of blood.
The storm still goes strong. Christopher is planning his escape, and he is successful in managing one.
I hate to see myself lying like that. So vulnerable, so helpless. A part of me is still crying for help. The storm is finally settling down to mild howls, whispers and whistles.
It is not before a week that the local police discover me. Thanks to old Mrs. McKenzie who reported by absence…I still remember her savouring those afternoons when I read to her after she was forsaken by her son.
A prayer has been said, the soothsayer has laid me to rest. The people of Dreamorperish have wept a tear or two, and some even forgotten me. But I have not forgotten that fateful storm. I have not forgotten my promise to Christopher. I still writhe at every storm that blows past Dreamorperish. Sitting on the rooftop of my house, I keep looking for Christpopher. I shall return for him. I am a man of my words.
Oh! The disgusting storm, it will halt now, only to throw up images from that day. Chrishtopher, I am right here, awaiting that knock on my door…every passing storm, every possible day.

P.S: These words are an attempt at a technique of storywriting/general writing...to write from differnt perspectives. More to come from time to time.

What Am I Made Of? - Pt 3

Dramatics: All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women merely players! [Shakespeare]
In the theatre there are 1,500 cameras rolling at the same time - in the cinema, only one. - Orson Welles
Orson Welles is the person who narrated “War of the Worlds” ever so passionately and with such gusto on the BBC, the world believed that the Earth is under attack from space! What art it would have been to be able to be that kind of an orator! What beauty and years of practice along with unfailing passion towards what you love to do!!
My major and formative years in school and college have been spent up on the stage. Being a part of hundreds of plays and skits instilled in me an undying love for art, drama, and theatre. So much so, that I enjoy not only performing, but also watching. Mumbai was a blessing in disguise, for I managed to catch quite a few good plays during my two year stay there. However, getting back to one of the many loves of my life, dramatics, I would definitely want to say that I am every bit an extension of all the characters I have ever played on stage, and vice versa?!? It is lucky if an actor can use “vice-versa” in here, by the by. Though it is not that I did not get to play challenging roles. One of my personal favourites was the character called “Wayland”, in a play we staged when in school. It was called “the man upstairs” and Wayland was the ghost of a dead man who haunted that house each night, in a bid to avenge his death.
Then there was an enactment of the bard’s Merchant of Venice, where I happened to play the ever so covetous role of Shylock, the money minting, shrewd and ever calculating conniver. Another was where I played Timor the Lame and yet another where I got to play Jeanne De Arc’s sister. A mirthful, flamboyant girl. Always in high spirits. All I had to do there was to scamper about the stage. Oh! What a riot of laughter that performance elicited from the packed house!
Many such plays and opportunities later, I can say that I take pride in my passion for dramatics. Why not? For it was the best you could be, do what you want, live a thousand dreams, react and go scot free, scream and be laughed at (rather than roughed up), and laugh truly!
Learning: Do as you please. However, ensure you knowingly hurt none!