[jai_bhardwaj]

Evening

The curtains were still drawn apart, and it was dark outside. All the lights in the house had been lit up, and they now revealed a home of fine choice, where luxury and simplicity found the perfect balance. It was an example of what one would have call modernity some decades ago, but it was certainly not antiquity. Not yet antiquity. What had appeared to be a well-lit shack in blinding daylight now revealed a forlorn cosiness. The subtleness of the tiny lamps revealed the minute details of the rocking chair going to and fro – men and women holding their faces, shouting out, fleeing in the midst of bas-relief flames. And on top of them, the old man was seated.

His bowl of left over noodles was on the table next to him, and his fork was down on the floor. But he did not bother to lift it up. He was thinking, his eyes fixed on the greying ceiling, and his left hand caressing the back leg of the chair. Puffs of smoke rising from his mouth formed dense clouds, then gradually dissipated into the misty atmosphere of the room. He puffed his last, waited, and suddenly stood up, cutting through the smoke. He let go of the cigarette, and instinctively crushed it with his feet. But it ached. He lifted up his cane, went to the dressing table, wore his teeth set, and walked towards the window. He was ready this time. He had the courage.

The open window revealed faint signs of lampposts along the roads ahead. The dead silence was disturbed only by the sounds of nocturnal insects hunting under the veil of the newly dark night. On the lawn was a shadow of him in the window, distorted by the different lengths of grass. Each and every blow of wind seemed to give a new dimension to that image, yet the core of the shadow remained very same – the old man in his window. And this time in his window, he saw his house, the inside of it. He had just come from work, various blood stains on his apron. The door opened silently as he stepped in. Whisperings and sobs were heard, from his room, and he stealthily approached. It was the voice of his wife.

“I had to tell you! You know that! I couldn’t let you believe that… that this monster…”

His son interrupted, in his sobbing voice. “But, why now mom? Why not earlier?”

A pause followed. The unusual silence of this moment was heavy. The brightness of daylight went gradually dimmer. He waited for an answer.

“I couldn’t have told you… You weren’t… mature enough.”

The day grew darker.

“And what now? What should I do?”

“Just know it son… just know…”

The man stood still. What could only be heard was the pounding of his heart against his rib, and the faded sobs of his son. Darker still.

“…just know that he is not your father…”

His eyes grew large, his breath momentarily stopped, then took off again at the speed of a tornado. His left hand clenched into a fist. At that very moment, he was red. He opened the toolkit still in his hand, took out his largest butcher knife, and let go of the rest of his toolkit. The loud crash attracted the attention of his wife and son. Darkness was complete.

What ensued was a game of blood. With the expertise of the ruthless butcher he was, he cut open throats and arms and chests. The old man knew he had done all this, but he did not see that. What he saw was the splashes of blood flying off in every direction, splattering over the walls, then streaming downwards. The guttering of overflowing blood, the snaps of the sharp fine edge of metal over the skin and the inaudible cries of the victims were being mocked at by the distant rumbles of a beastly thunderstorm.

This time the vision stopped without any intervention of the old man, but the weather remained unchanged. The storm which had been brewing up since the morning was now here. Rain was attacking the window panes with all its might, directed by the flashes of lightning high up in the skies. He wore a solemn look on his face as he watched the battle of drops. Then, unexpectedly, wearing the same expressionlessness on his face, he opened the first window, then the second. The smoke inside the house precipitated out, letting in the icy wind. Rain won the battle. Triumphant, water ran down the old man’s face and drenching his clothes. The old man had accepted his defeat.

As unpredictable as a lighting streak, a smile appeared onto his face. The battle was still not over. Leaving the windows open, he called his son.

“Hello…”

No one answered, but someone could be heard shouting, “Darling! It’s your… your dad!”

“Hello pa?” came an interrogative reply. “This time of night? You okay?”

“Ya… Just tell ya ol’ gardener to come t’morrow morning. Ma lawn need some gard’nin!”

“Okay pa… Is that…”

He hanged up. That malicious smile reappeared. He went to his dressing table, rummaged through the drawer, and took out a pistol. Then he started back for his window. On his way, he bent down, lifted up the fallen fork, looked at it intently, then juggled it into its bowl. He stepped into the pool of water growing at the foot of the opening. Gazing at his own shadow, he slowly lifted up the pistol, whispering to himself, “No one gardens ma lawn. No one.”

The nozzle of the pistol was now at his temple. His finger was on the trigger. He was going to do it. Finally. But his hand trembled. His wrinkles altered their forms with every shiver of his eyebrows. A small tear formed at the corner of his left eye. He could feel it – hot and heavy, despite the rain drops around. As the tear went down, some force took hold of his hand, and despite his strong will, he lowered his pistol.

A few seconds passed, or a few minutes perhaps. He stood still, eyes shut, occasionally laughed at by the flashes of the sky, and perpetually assaulted by the raindrops. The wind blew into the house. He stood still.

Suddenly there was a bang. Loud, distinct pistol shot, piercing through the silence of night, silencing the hunters of darkness. His face once again bore that smile. He swooned down and gracefully splashed into the water. The pistol was still in his grasp. The rain gradually lessened and stopped, as his breath became harder and harder. Blood oozing out from his chest steadily flowed down into the pool of water, settled down as a layer, and finally made the invisible become red.

There was utter darkness outside, except for the light on the lawn, in the shape of the open window. Just the window. Nothing more.

__END__