Psycho-sphere

Daylight. 
A train on the Warsaw and Peters-burg railway was heard approaching the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything from the carriage windows. Deafening silence reigned in the cabin and i sat propped against my suitcase, keeping a watchful eye on the passengers sitting opposite my seat. All of them seemed weary, and most of them had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their complexions generally appeared to have taken on the color of the fog outside. 

They feigned sleep, just like me. I know that for a fact, i know that look. They were watching my every move, as i was watching theirs. A second felt like a decade but no one moved, and with a swift motion i slid a hand into my jacket and lifting my arm, slowly brandished a knife and boldly stepped forward. Lifting that knife over my head i was about to bring it down with full force when a terrible stench reached my nostrils and i recoiled in horror, dropping the knife and falling on my suitcase. 

My shirt was drenched with blood, so were my hands and face.
I had butchered them. I stood in that pool of blood with a smirk dangling on my face and turned my head to look across the window only to see that the train wasn't moving.
But the time was, really really fast. The day passed on rather quickly then usual, and the continuous tick-tick on my wrist watch increased in sound till it reached a crescendo and i had to cup my blood stained hands around the ears. 
Everything went black then.
 
Its crazy living in that foggy, jumbled blur. Which is a whole lot like the ragged edge of sleep, that grey zone between light and dark, or between sleeping and waking, or living and dying, when you know you're not unconscious anymore but don't know yet what day it is or who you are or whats the use of coming back at all. If you don't have reason to wake up, you can loaf around in that grey zone for a long, fuzzy time.

 The darkness was overwhelming, and i groped around to find something to sit on. I felt like drowning, but i wasn't dead, and that made me smile.
Suddenly, somewhere in that crushing, dark abyss i heard a shrill, metallic ringing of a telephone followed by a loud wailing of a child and i jolted back to reality.

Somehow, somewhere, a light penetrated my feeble eyes and i half opened them, squinting at it till i was forced to concentrate on the constant whirring of the fan revolving above me. It moved at a snail's pace and it sickened me, just like the fans in the rooms of strip clubs and cheap hotels with springy beds and sweet smell pervading it. I felt hot, bruised and battered, was i junkie out of drugs? Nah, i couldn't be. 
Or maybe i was. 
I had completely lost my bearing and with an explosive sigh i sat up and surveyed the room i was in. Pink and grey walls with their plaster falling off; cold,white, glossy tiles; a broken exhaust fan on the top right corner of the wall above a door which was roughened and squeaky from the constant slamming and greasy from the innumerable hands that touched it. Torn pornography posters which were losing their stickiness covered a pink wall and a blinking, neon light above the bed post.
 
The room disgusted me, and putting aside the covers i stood up, putting on my pants and shirt and proceeded toward the door when a stifled breathing caught my ears and craning my neck i saw a woman lying on the bed, drenched in blood. A rush of adrenaline flowed through my veins and i quailed in terror. My face grew convulsed with fear, the eyeballs started out white and vivid and i fell to my knees. It was as if i had a seizure but i controlled myself and slowly, painstakingly crawled towards her.
Her face was convulsed, her eyes glassy. They darkened like indigo pools against her pale skin as she watched me kneel at her feet. Splinters here. Scratches. All things i could fix.
  But i couldn't right now. My hands were still shaking. I'd almost lost her.
The rage in my gut poured out through the veins. I barely held it in check behind the tightly clenched teeth.

 "Did he hurt you?"

She murmured something but i couldn't hear her. I climbed on the bed and before i knew it my hands were on her waist, at her hips, up and down her arms and to her neck, holding it firmly. I stooped down to her face, tunneled my finger into the tangled fall of her on her temple, snugged it behind her ear and swore at the blood staining her lobe. My own pulse thundered in her ears.

"Where are you hurt?"
 
And then her hands were on me. Those strong, beautiful - bloodstained - hands were on my face. My heart skipped a beat, and everything stopped still in that fraction of a second save for her stifled breathing right at my face. 
I shook my head in anger, clenched my teeth,  and my face distorted into an evil expression and before she could reply i twisted her neck and broke it with a 'snap'.

I released my grip on her neck and stood up, wiping the beads of sweat on my forehead with those blood stained hands. 
The room didn't smell sweet anymore.
I felt triumphant, and all of a sudden started shaking convulsively as if with mirth, but my face remained perfectly sober. I winked at the figure lying in bed in a quiet repose, opened the door and walked out, slamming it shut behind me.

It seemed that i had entered a long, white corridor with white, glossy tiles. The longest i had ever seen. There were iron doors on each side of me with iron grills in them through which i could feel dark eyes staring it me, nay, piercing me with them.
 
But i felt happy. 

I felt at home, and picking up a broom waltzed to a half remembered old tune, with my eyes closed and a smile dancing on my lips.
Hysterical, shrieking laughter with multiple hoots resounded all around me and i felt big. Bigger than i had ever felt since my Momma died. 

Opening my eyes, i saw four or five shadows flying towards me.
Maybe they were running, i couldn't tell. They were coming after me brandishing swords and spikes, and throwing the broom aside i ran as fast as i could. 

But i wasn't scared, though. Not at all.
I felt big, bigger than i had ever been since my Momma died. 
I was clapping my hands as  i ran and seeing a light shimmer at the end of the corridor i dived at it.
Maybe i had escaped.

Ash, sulphur, white tiles, Aluminum.
I been away a long time.

A tempest in a human skull

Paris, 1830

The charred and blackened remains of what was left after the French Revolution constituted Paris. Dark, squalid, dilapidated and a smokey smell pervading the atmosphere. Paris during this time mainly consisted of overpopulated slums crammed with each other with a labyrinth of narrow streets creating a mesh. Beggars, thieves, vagabonds, escaped convicts and other parasites that infect the society were the chief inhabitants of this city. In short, nothing had changed after the Revolution. No vehicles were to be seen either in the morning or at night, as they were either robbed or were set on fire to provide for heat and warmth from the harsh winter. Happiness wasn't a choice, nor were there any means to acquire it from. Those people who were seen to be smiling or laughing were either deemed crazy or were killed, simply because there was no place for doubt : God had forsaken them, why then should anyone feel different? Gendarmes roamed the streets of Paris day and night, scanning for any unlawful activity and having caught the person, took him or her straight to the Gaol. It was true that they resembled hounds, nay, ferocious animals with their piercing gaze, waiting to catch the scent of their preys,who recoiled at their sight and cowered in the shadows, trembling from head to foot. Altogether, Paris was a boiling cauldron. The fiery tentacles of hell and the enveloping darkness never ceased to abate. 

All of this came into being as a result of Charles X, then the Count of Artois, succeeding the throne after the death of Louis XVIII. This was followed by bad harvests and hard winters, due to which the people in France were burdened with high food prices. Thereafter, there were clashes between the people in the streets of Paris and agents of authority. Business in Paris was at a complete standstill. Crowds were rushing through the streets with various instruments screaming : ''Down with the King!'' and ''to the Guillotine!''

A sad sight indeed to behold.

It was during this time that Pierre Tholomeys, a blacksmith working for the Gendarmerie, was faced with an opportunity : to take this distraction of the Gendarmes caused by the furor in the streets to his advantage, steal a horse and ride away from this wretched place as fast as he could. Since there was commotion everywhere, he faced no difficulty in stealthily slipping into their room and procuring what he thought would last him throughout his journey. The evening was slowly creeping over the land, and making use of the darkness, he untied a horse from the stable and rode off East in the direction of Montreuil. 

By daybreak he was in the open country with Paris a good distance behind him. He was wearied beyond endurance, having rode throughout the night. Feebly, with half opened eyes, he watched the skyline grow light, and was aware, without observing, of the chilly aspect of a winter's dawn. Morning, like evening, has it's ghosts. He did not see them but was still conscious, as though by their physical presence, of the dark shapes of trees and hills making their mournful contribution to his violently agitated state of mind. Passing an occasional isolated house at the side of the road, he thought to himself that there are people still sleeping!  The clop of the horse's hoofs, the jingle of harness and the clatter of his sac containing various instruments over the cobbles were a monotonous accompaniment to his thoughts - delightful sounds when we are in good spirits, but most dismal when we are melancholy. It was evident from the sac being dragged over the cobbles that he was almost asleep and stooped low over the horse. The horse having completely wearied itself from  trotting continuously without a stop had now stopped to catch its breath, causing Pierre to slide and fall on the  ground. 

The fall caused Pierre to start and open his eyes but had difficulty in doing so since the sun having now fully risen, shone its bright light which penetrated his feeble eyes and forced him to shade it with the back of his hand. He had lost all bearing and his mind was a kaleidoscopic whirl of thoughts. He slowly became feverish and a sharp pain in his leg caused him to scream in agony. Dark clouds had now blotted the sun as if they understood his plight, and grumbled as if to call for help. In a few moments, a heavy downpour lashed the earth accompanied by icy blasts of cold wind, and Pierre being already numb with pain made one last effort and crawled to his sac only to find it empty. This discovery further deranged him and made him question his reality until a heavy blunt instrument hit his head and he fell unconscious. 

Nothing is more terrifying than to peer into the depths of a human conscience and that too we can't do without trembling. There is nothing more obscure, complex, mysterious and infinite than the human soul. To make a poem of the human conscience is to merge all epics into a single epic transcending all.  It is the labyrinth of illusion, the furnace of dreams,and the battlefield of passions. To peer at certain moments into the the face of a human being in an act of reflection is to see something beyond their silence, is to discern struggle and conflicts of dragons and hydras, of the anger of Hades and the power of Zeus, of thunder claps and hailstorms. The infinite space that each man carries within himself, in which all the seasons are mingled with each other, and contrasts it with his spirit is altogether and overpowering thing. 

Dante Alighieri found himself one day at a fateful doorway which he hesitated to enter. We too are confronted by such a doorway, and we too must hesitate but enter nonetheless. 

Pierre Tholomeys was now confronted by such a doorway and he too hesitated to enter but was about to enter when a sharp blunt instrument hit his head and shattered his reverie. 

Alas! Pierre Tholomeys was never a blacksmith, nor had he stolen a horse, he was but a servant to King Charles X and was on his way to the guillotine, the fateful mistress no one could deny. His face was haggard and covered with bruises from the blows he received from the butts of  innumerable rifles, his eyes swollen and bloodshot from the lack of sleep; his hair was unkempt and covered his forehead from where some blood flowed from a gash, and was clothed in rags and tatters like the rest of the people around him that were either shouting, laughing, crying, throwing various things at him or dancing in ecstasy. The contorted and convulsed faces of men, woman, children with pitchforks, axes, and other instruments screaming their lungs out was a frightful scene to behold. The whole place was a pandemonium filled with the roar of thousands of people which rose to a shattering crescendo.

But Pierre Tholomeys meeting the frightening gaze of the people merely managed to give a weak smile as he ascended the stairs of the stage, which further piqued them and made them raise their pitchforks at him. It was still raining heavily when he neared the 'mistress' and a sharp nudge from the rifle in his back caused him to kneel in agony, his hands being tied, and with the serenity of a man resting on his own bed he placed his head on the guillotine and closed his eyes. A radiant smile had now spread on his haggard face and anyone who pitied him then would have guessed that he was thinking of his home in Montreuil, of him being there with his wife and singing a lullaby to his daughter that slept in his lap.

The clouds grumbled furiously which was followed by a thunderclap and finally the guillotine began to swish downward, gathering speed with a horrible, metallic whistle, towards Pierre's neck and cut it with precision, his head rolling down the stage toward the spectators who clapped and applauded the fateful event. 

Darkness had now completely enveloped Pierre and he slept that peaceful eternal sleep.

To die, to sleep, 
to sleep, perchance to dream,
Aye, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death, what dreams may come.

The Contour of our Shadows

Paris, 1892

Damien always woke up just before the dawn, maybe because he never slept much, or maybe because the darkness somewhat soothed him. As per routine, he would gather his tools and head towards the graveyard with a lantern to check on the condition of graves, but on this day, he went towards a mound overlooking an old farm down the hill. He dropped his tools on the ground, put the lantern beside him, crouched and after mechanically selecting a tool, started digging. Although the light emanating from the lantern was little, it nonetheless illuminated his face and highlighted his strong cheek bones, finely chiseled creases on his forehead, deeply sunken eyes and wrinkles around the mouth. 

The time around dawn elapses very rapidly and so, a faint light from the sun escaped the clouds and slanting towards him, radiated his figure. He was a tall, thin, pallid man with an unkempt beard and shriveled hair and his mechanical digging in the earth showed his dedication to his work. He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat ; his shirt open at the throat, and from time to time wiped the beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead with the back of his hand. Suddenly a light passed on his face, a smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in thought. Lifting his eyes to the old farm down the hill, he heaved a sigh that was pregnant with emotions and sat beside the grave he had just dug up. 

His daily life was of a curious microscopic sort; his whole world being limited to a few feet from his person. His familiars were creeping and winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their band. Bees hummed around his ears with an intimate air, and tugged at the flowers at his side in such numbers as to weigh them to the roots. The strange colored butterflies which this graveyard produced, and which were never seen elsewhere, quivered in the breath of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, and revolved around him in a jovial sort of way. Tribes of emerald-green grasshoppers leaped over his feet, falling awkwardly on their backs, heads, or hips like unskillful acrobats; or engaged themselves in noisy flirtations under the fern-fronds with the silent ones. Huge flies, ignorant of wire-netting, and in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing that he was a man. 

As the sun now showed itself in full splendor, small and large snakes glided in their most brilliant blue and yellow guise, it being season immediately following the shedding  of their old skins, when their colors are brightest. Litters of young rabbits came out of their forms and warmed themselves upon the hillocks, the hot beams blazing through their skin. None of them feared him.

The monotony of his occupation soothed him, and was in itself a pleasure. He stooped down and with his emaciated hands touched a cockroach on his back, which immediately stopped and listened intently,its antennas ever attentive. A faint chuckle escaped his lips and his eyes brimmed with tears.
"Hey there, little one. Want to hear story?" he said to the cockroach. 

Saying this, he propped himself against the stone wall of the ancient cemetery, closed his eyes and started his usual soliloquy. a faint smile still lingering on his lips.

Paris, 1772  

It was a time of turmoil and a time of joy. A time to make amends and a time to get punished for. A time when felicity and grief walked hand in hand and reigned in the streets of Paris. When thieves, beggars, vagabonds and drunkards lived like there was no tomorrow, laughing boisterously and dancing to a broken tune, their bodies gyrating in a disgusting manner. People roamed, or rather, crawled the streets day and night wearing rags and tatters, even the men of higher class had themselves drunk and roamed with the wild crowd. The whole city was overflowing with sewer and gutter refuse. It was altogether a shameful and disgraceful picture to look at, but well, that's how Paris suffered then. 

It was during this time that i arrived in Paris and was looking for a lodging for the night when i chanced upon a deserted street, and my intuition instantly told me that this was a bad sign. I immediately slipped into the darkness of an old tavern and waited for any signs of movement. I sniffed the wind and listened, but no avail. Quivering with fear, i came out of the darkness and had advanced only a few steps when the path became muddier and muddier. 

Now i observed something rather extraordinary; the street was not deserted. Here and there were to be seen creatures crawling in a certain, vague, shapeless mass, which moved towards a light flickering at the end of the street. It reminded me of those heavy insects which drag themselves along from one blade of grass to another, towards a shepherd's fire. I was mortified at this sight and darted in the opposite way only to hear them crawling towards me and joined by more cripples, paralytic and blind men swarming around me. Also one armed men, one-eyed men, and lepers with their open sores. They emerged from the houses, from the side streets, from the cellars, howling, bellowing and screaming- all running towards the big fire at the end of the streets and that's where they forcefully led me.

"Where am i?" i cried, with tears streaming down my face. 

They all answered with a burst of demonic laughter.

At last we came to the great fire and then, it came upon me, something of a revelation : the city of thieves, a hideous blot on the face of Paris. A sewer from where there escaped a monstrous horde of people every morning only to return to this grotesque place to celebrate. People of all religions covered with painted sores, beggars in daytime and robbers at night, enacting prostitution and murder on the streets of this once famed city. 

It was a vast square, irregular in shape, lined with crooked, hideous frames of old houses whose decayed, worm eaten walls presented an ungodly sight. Fires around which swarmed strange groups, roamed here and there. All was commotion, confusion and shouting. One heard shrieks of laughter, the wailing of children and the high pitched voices of women. The hands and heads of this crowd, silhouetted against the luminous background, made a thousand fantastic gestures on the wall behind. 

Beautiful. Nay, ghastly, i would say. As soon as i regained my senses and my bearing, i had a bottle of beer in my hand and some woman's bonnet on my head. This was ludicrous, i shouted indignantly, and throwing the bottle and bonnet, stormed out of the company of this vile crowd and  climbed the roof of an old shop, in order to have a clear view of the ceremony below and propping against the wall fell in contemplation.  These poor souls weren't celebrating life, they were celebrating death. And what was more terrifying about it was that they knew it. These people were cursed. Nay, this wasn't witchcraft. They were being dogged by death the day they were born in this vile city. It was death that roamed the streets of Paris at night time, and not these people. Or rather, it was death disguised in their shadows. 

"Any time now", was the sentence which lingered in their minds everyday, every night, every waking moment. Thus, it was for this sole, unwavering reason that these men, women and children, armed with daggers and pitchforks reigned the streets of Paris at night and celebrated death in this obnoxious and repugnant manner. 

Every night. These ceremonies were held every night for 17 years and more, till these souls finally succumbed to their shadows.

Paris, 1892

"....Since time immemorial, death has been crouching in our shadows, ever watchful, ever attentive, to feast on the next soul it decides upon."

He finally heaved a sigh and opening his eyes, turned towards the cockroach.

"Little one, do the dead ever dream?", he asked in a matter of fact way.

"I guess they do, they do dream. And a lot. Maybe, the dreams are the canvas on which the dead paint their sorrows. Eh? Let me know what you think."

And saying this, he picked the cockroach between his forefinger and thumb and turned it over on it's back. The vigorous, spasmodic kicking and flinging of it's arms and antennas gave him delight, and he burst in a fit of demonic laughter, rivulet of tears streaming down his face.

The Ballad of the Winds

A Sunday afternoon in  a cold and windy November was slowly approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as the Helmcrow moor was being enveloped in a mist. It was at this precise moment in its nightly roll into darkness that the moor came into its particular glory. The solemn stretch of rounds and hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom, the moor exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated it. 

Slowly and gradually the place became full of watchful intentness now; for when other creatures sank brooding to sleep, the moor appeared slowly to awake and listen. Every night its huge form looked as if it was waiting for someone, but it had waited thus for so many centuries with no one to keep it company save for the storm as its lover and the wind its friend. Civilization was its enemy, it seemed. And ever since the beginning of vegetation, the soil had worn the same antique, brown dress and it took pride in wearing it.
Even though Helmcrow or the wasteland, as people used to call it, was the most peaceful place one could find and with its majestic form spreading to as far as the eye could see, people abhorred it. Its bleak and dismal emptiness sucked the marrow out of them, as they used to say, and made them depressed and melancholy. But with no other alternative at hand, they lived and died a dejected life. 

At this point in time, you could discern albeit not easily, a crooked and weary form amid the gathering mist moving to and fro upon the moor. Upon close inspection after a while, the contour of a man becomes dimly visible sitting on a stool in front of a small fire. The red hot coals from the perishing fire greeted him like living eyes in the corpse of day and lighted his face. He was white headed as a mountain, bowed in the shoulders, wore a glazed hat and long boots. His whole figure was wrapped in a shawl but still his frame was shaking with the cold gusts of wind that had started blowing. He neither had a whisker nor a mustache and his lips were thin, and now and then there was a twitching as if he was often engrossed in thought. The old man frequently stretched his eyes ahead to gaze in the north east direction and then reverted them to the fire.

Silence reigned supreme, save for the chilly gusts of wind that were howling among the bushes and the chatter of the old man's teeth. He picked up a stick from the ground and was using it to shift the coals in the fire with considerable alacrity when suddenly he stopped. It might reasonably have been supposed that he was listening to the wind, which rose as the night advanced. The wind, it seemed was made for the moment, as part of its tone was quite special. Gusts in innumerable series followed each other and ricocheted against the objects in its way. Treble, tenor and bass notes could be found therein. People unaccustomed to this land would have found this conspicuous murmur of the wind to be ordinary, but in fact, it held a more deeper meaning.

The frail, bony hands holding the stick started quivering as the surge of emotions swelled inside him and made his eyes well up with tears. He perpetually fought the urge to wipe the tears rolling down his cheeks and instead, closed his eyes. Listening to the winds engulfing him, caressing his wrinkled face with the remembrances of the past. These were no ordinary winds, these were the sea of voices, cries and laughter kissing the shore one last time before returning the next night. They were the wind chimes, the church bells and the laughter of the past Summer.

A chirp from a blue bird broke his reverie, and he opened his eyes rubbing them, startled at the scene around him. It was a beautiful morning and he screamed with joy and with a smile across his face started jumping, amazed at how he could do that. A deep frown now settled on his forehead and he raised his hand and saw to his surprise that he was young again! But that didn't stop him in his tracks, because there she was : Rachel. The love of his life, the very name radiating happiness. Those blue eyes and those lips could make anyone swoon.
She was walking towards him in her favorite blue dress but she was walking very slowly, as if afraid of something. As she came closer he saw the look on her face, the look which made him scream in anger, '' Oh Helmcrow, what have you done? Bring Rachel back! NO!" But no sound came out of him nor could he move. She looked worried, nay, terrified. Her face was pale with fear, and on approaching him, she raised her hand and on touching his face she immediately crumbled into dust.

Suddenly, a few drops of water fell on his face and blurred his vision, followed by a loud croak of a frog which brought him to reality. He wiped his eyes and watched it hop and jump into a nearby pond, an indication of rain. A peal of thunder further confirmed it and heralded the coming of a thunderstorm. What he uttered was a lengthened sighing, apparently at something which had led to his presence there. There was an erratic abandonment about it, as if in allowing himself to utter the sound, he was accepting something. One point was evident in this, he was existing in a suppressed state and not one of languor.
The mist had cleared by now and the gathering dark clouds further enveloped the moor in its gloominess. The bells had started ringing  to call those who were outside back to their houses. The old man stood up and wrapping his shawl around him more tightly, retraced his steps from memory towards his home, guided by the sounds of bells.

The die is cast.
But even now, if you were to venture to Helmcrow moor at night at that precise spot, you could hear the winds hissing and sighing as if it never ceased to converse.

Soliloquy of Silence

A dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on the eerie, abandoned street. It was a windy, whispering, moonless night and the hissing and sighing of the wind amongst the trees carried a macabre touch with it, as if the rustling leaves were having a conversation with the wind. The colored and wrinkled leaves on the road suggested the advent of autumn and their dancing on the wind presented an ironic sight, as if they were bursting with joy and life after being withered from their branches. There was a flurry of movement behind a hedge and a figure soon emerged clad in a reefer jacket and worn out jeans, hands thrust deep into the pockets. He walked with a cautious tread lest he should disturb the fugue of excitement that the night had chanced to bring about, but, each footstep produced a resonance which pierced the night and replaced the howling of the wind with indistinct, receding voices and laughter that chased him until he reached the porch of an old, abandoned house.

The door creaked open, moving open a centimeter at a time, it could move faster but the door had grown moldy and soft with water and neglect. Once inside, the sheen from the moonlight slanting through the broken window illuminated the room and revealed a poignant scene. A thick coating of dust and mold encrusted everything. The once, grand wooden staircase was now thick with dust and dust covered papers were strewn on the stairs, each paper a burning memory. Old teacups lay on the coffee table, thick with dried up mold, dust covered mirrors, smell of mildew and stale air. Silence reigned supreme in the house, and its only occupants weaved their webs from the spindle of the stair banisters and and from the ceiling to the wall. Each mote of dust dancing in the moonlight carried a voice, a laughter, a cry, a shout, a silence. Until tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down the cheeks, his legs became weak and he lay on the floor, sobbing explosively, hands outstretched, crying for  redemption. 

Yes, drown yourself in your guilt, go tell yourself nothing is worth smiling at, let that sonorous voice echo into your conscience and convince you that this is what happiness sounds like. Maybe we're all stories in the end, read by fractured, depressed and guilty souls in silence, reflecting on their lives. Perhaps i am redemption, or perhaps i am damnation. I am the songs left unsung, the stories left unwritten, the pause between each telephone ring, each honk, and each...sob. I am the cloud pregnant with emotions and anticipation hovering over every soul. 

The crisp, musical rustle of her gown on the polished, wooden surfaces of the stairs is what you could have cherished. The fresh, rejuvenating perfume of her skin is what you could have yearned for. The child curled up in a white blanket in her lap is what you could have smiled at...but you..you apathetic being turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to her and now, after all these years rings the familiar telephone ring somewhere in the pit of your brain, erasing the memories into wisps of smoke which fade into the background, like landscape on a fast moving train.

A dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on an eerie, abandoned street. In this circular area stood a woman with a bundle of white blanket in her hands, rocking to and fro, shivering, shrieking and vibrating with cold at the same time, like the shrill, piercing urgency of a telephone ringing somewhere.

The Wandering Zephyr

 It was a lovely night, one of those nights, dear reader, which can only happen when you are young. The sky was so bright and starry that when you looked at it the first question that came into your mind was whether it was really possible that all sorts of bad-tempered and unstable people could live under such a glorious sky. The mention of bad-tempered and unstable people reminds me that my behavior during the day and in fact during all other days has been reproachful.

When i woke up in the morning, i felt strangely depressed, as i did every morning. The disheveled hair covering my forehead, the reek of piss and vomit from my bed indicating that i didn't changed them since a week, and the disorderly state of my room completed the picture of a man depressed with his life and an enemy of himself. I must confess that i liked my room this way, for it made me aware of my conscience and i didn't trust the maid. She would barge into my room every morning to clean it which resulted in my cursing and swearing oaths at her till tears glistened in her eyes and i was forced to stop and let her clean it. Oh how a girl's tears have the ability to pierce the strongest of hearts!

I am spiteful. i am vile, base and impudent. I am a sick man. Forgive me, dear reader, as you must be cross at my disdainful demeanor  but it really relieves me by expressing myself so. I have not been able to make a single acquaintance during all the years i have been living in Baltiysk, Russia.  But what do i want an acquaintance for? I know the whole of Baltiysk without them. Every Sunday night i would go to Hob's market where half a million workers, men and women, with their children spill into the streets like a flood, flocking to certain parts of the town, all through the night, till five o' clock in the morning, eating and drinking like beasts. The people swarm round the open taverns and into the streets, eating and drinking everywhere. It was as though a ball had been prepared for them, the public houses were as gay as palaces. I, however, did not take part in the festivity and felicity but rather enjoy watching the expressions on their gleaming faces but at the same time feel sorry for my unhappy state.
Suddenly, new jobs were being available in the country and the whole town leaving for them. It terrified me to be left alone, and for three days i was racking my brains in trying to find if something was wrong with me. I would no longer see and meet the old familiar faces that i used to see every morning, and it hurt me to even think about it. It is true, i am a complete stranger to the people on the street, but they are not so to me, i know them rather intimately, for i have made a thorough study of their faces during my wanderings in the street. I am happy when they are happy, and i am sad when they are sad and downcast. This particular old beggar used to wave his cap and blanket at me whenever i left my house, and i did the same to him.

The houses too, are familiar to me. When i used to walk along the street, they seemed to be running before me. They would gaze through the windows and practically say to me, " Good morning, how are you? I am fine, thank-you  They are going to add another storey to me in April", or " I was nearly burnt last night, oh how withered i am now, i was so terrified!"
It seemed as thought everyone and everything had left the city for good, as it looked like a desert now. Perhaps they had started to dislike my company and my presence  After a day or two, the houses too, had lost their charm and gaiety with which they saluted me every morning and looked forlorn and sad. I had no excuse to go to the country, as i had no cottage or relative to go to.
Days and months flew by but the deafening silence which prevailed in the city was not broken, for i strained my ear against the window pane for the slightest sound of their arrival. During my lonely walks in the day, i noticed that even the birds had stopped singing, as if they were hurt that nobody liked them and had forsaken them because  of their incessant noise.

After getting dressed in my usual clothes and an overcoat, i left the house in search of them. for it was impossible that they should forget me. I walked for hours and hours  and, as usual had for some time been completely oblivious of my surroundings, when i found myself near the toll gate. I felt cheerful at once and stepping beyond the gate, walked along the road between fields of corn and lush grass, unconscious of any fatigue and feeling with every breath i drew that a heavy weight was being lifted from my heart. There is something incredibly moving in the way nature, with the coming of spring, suddenly reveals herself in all the glory, splendor and blossoms out with flowers....She reminds me of that girl, ailing and faded, upon whom you look with pity and compassionate affection, but who in the twinkling of an eye, becomes by some  magic chance indescribably fair and beautiful, stunned and fascinated, you ask yourself what power it was that made the sad eyes gleam with fire? what caused the rush of blood to her pale face? What brought the passion to that sweet face? Why her bosom heaved so wildly? What was it that filled the face of the poor girl with life and vigor and forced it to light up  with so brilliant a smile and so contagious a laugh? You look around and wonder who it could have been, you begin to suspect the truth. But the brief moment passes, and tomorrow perhaps you will encounter the same forlorn gaze, the same remorse in her eyes and traces of vexation in her movements. And you feel sorry that the beauty, so suddenly evoked, should have faded so irrevocably and so to little purpose that she did not even give time to fall in love with her.
Suddenly, a loud boom occurring at intervals reverberated across the land and shattered my reverie. It happened in a bell-tolling sequence, perhaps it was a bell tolling. A wedding? A hanging? It could be anything. A tear glistened in my eyes and the cheerful countenance which i had just now, faded away. I turned around and walked back the way i came, dejected and dispirited   eyes downcast.
And so, i would always wander away in search of my dear friends and in search of solace, oblivious of my surroundings, drowned in my own thoughts, until the 'sound' would reach my ears and would force me to retire back to my home.

Whisper of the Sirens

KAZAKHSTAN,                         (1)

From the ramparts and their jagged towers, the village of Balkhash presented a wonderful sight. Woman paced through the market, a blue blur of burqas. Children guided goats through the crowds, struggling to avoid the throng of cyclists . Pigeons wheeled in the sunset. Various birds squawked from treetops in an evening chorus joined by barking dogs below. Some street mongers pushed trolleys along, selling scrap metal and pieces of plastic. Sheep entails hung over the bicycle handlebars of a butcher's shop. A  row turbaned 'white beards', the elders of Balkhash, sat on a mosque rooftop talking among themselves while they waited for the call to prayer. On the mud roofs around them,  boys of all ages ran here and there, shouting and chasing each other wildly amidst the smoke drifting upwards from the kitchens below. Many were flying home made kites  which fluttered in the breeze, gathered around the sun like excited moths. In the distance, lights were being turned on in the sixteenth century mosque. Further off, hovering over the Balkhash like a dark cloud was the black crayon smudge of the Paripomosus mountains.

Then it came, first the crackling, croaky whir  a large intake of breath and them, the melodious voice of the muaddin calling the faithful to the evening prayer. As the call continued, a tide of men, swelling by the minute, flowed across the city towards the mosque, and the white beards descended from the roof to pray. High above the street, a man stood on a flat rooftop, elbows atop the low parapet, surveying the scene with delight. He was clad in torn shirt and  jeans and raising his cellphone to his face he muttered something and closing his eyes, pressed a button. 

It seemed like everything and everyone had stopped. The time had completely ceased to move forward and the only sound that was heard was the ticking of the second hand until the minute hand moved forward and then, it all happened. An immense explosion erupted near the mosque in a ball of fire and all the shops, stalls, cars, people and houses disintegrated and disjointed as a beast pulls its prey limb from limb. The fire and smoke spiraled up into the air and the twisted, blackened remains plummeted to earth with breathtaking speed. Madness began.


                                                           

Amsterdam, Schiphol Airport.   (2)

As the big DC-8 sank down, i glanced round its crowded interior. The bulk of passengers who shared my belief in the madness of flying, dug their fingers in the upholstery or in the seat, while the others who were not, sat with excessive nonchalance like those who are ever ready to face their impending doom.

The DC-8 landed with a short bump and taxied on the runway to the airport where it was to line up with the corrugated disembarkation tube. The exit door opened and i stepped into the tube and came out on the terminal floor, passing  tow or three airport employees who eyed me suspiciously. Oh well, its their job, i thought, and moved on. There was a man standing at the end of the platform. He was of middle height, with dark hair and black, cold eyes. I recognized him immediately : Nathan Lloyd. He was dressed in a black suit and overcoat but his forehead was accumulated with beads of sweat and looked worried. As he came forward to greet me, his worried countenance jelled almost instantly into an expression of pure shock. It was then that i observed , almost subconsciously, that he was looking to his right and not at me.  

In that small fraction of a second, i caught a glimpse of a man in grey suit to Nathan's right with a pistol raised to his head as he pulled the trigger of his silenced  Walther. He jerked convulsively and fell on his face on the floor, as the assailant made his escape. My senses were numb and i couldn't react, waves of nausea engulfed me and my stomach was in a knot. On noticing the dead body riddled with bullets, the whole terminal was soon enveloped in furor and madness. In this commotion, i lost my bearing due to the pushing and nudging of people running by but soon regained my balance and on impulse started towards the door of the second terminal.

On my way there, i found myself correct as the first terminal was flooded with screaming people. Suddenly, i saw the man in grey suit making his way past the door of the second terminal. I darted towards it and tried to pass through but the damned door was blocked by a person trying to enter. A girl. I dodged to the right and she dodged to the left. I dodged to my left and she dodged to her right. Check. You can see the same performance take place any minute on a city pavement when two over polite people succeed in blocking each other's way. I looked up to see her face but right then, a heavy, blunt instrument hit my head and i fell on the floor, lying unconscious. 

                                                                   (3)

When i opened my eyes, i found myself seated on a chair with my face on the table in front of me. I guessed myself to be in a cabin of  a boat or ship with a single light at the end of the room, as it was swaying side by side. I tried to sit erect but couldn't, and my face and body ached painfully. My head was swarming with unconnected places and people and my thoughts were a kaleidoscopic whirl. I couldn't focus correctly but on shaking my head, i made out some pictures on the table and two large hands picking them up and putting them down. There was a brass knuckle on his right hand, from which i judge, i got the bruises on my body.

Silence reigned in the room save for my muffled groans, and after a lapse of some time , a hoarse voice spoke in an Italian accent from the darkness in front of me. He was probably fat and short necked.

"You scoundrel! You failed us, dammit. You've failed us ALL!", exclaimed the fat guy.

I tried to speak but couldn't find my voice.

"Kazakhstan, the Mosque, You ruined my plan. Nathan Lloyd, shit, he was YOURS, goddammit! It was a good thing i tested you, you mole. Look for yourself, you twerp!" 

He threw the pictures at me, and i found to my surprise, that it was me in every picture. How could that happen? I gasped in horror and recoiled in my seat.

"Ten years of my planning gone down the drain. Ten years! Hell, you were my best man, Brain. I relied on you. But, no....NO! You do not get a pardon this time. This time...you sleep with the fishes!" He shouted in anger, and pounding his fist on the table he cursed at me in Italian and pointing his burning cigar at my face, whispered in my ear the words, " Brian Cain". 

Brian Cain. Brain. Oh God, no, this cannot be. And then, it all came to me. Everything. And before i had time to assemble my thoughts together, i was lifted off my feet and thrown into the sea. Struggling against the current in vain, i kept myself afloat and saw to my horror, barrels of oil being emptied into the sea. I was slowly losing my balance as the waves pounded and engulfed me, and the last thing that my eyes could register was the light of a flickering flame coming towards me. Everything turned black after that.