Virgin Of The Roads

Note: The crux of the story is inspired from Delacroix's famous painting of the Greek civil war, Massacre at Chios. A similar sketch exists in Bruigel's Triumph Of Death. The title is intended as a pun on Leonardo da Vinci’s Virgin of the Rocks.

The flowers were of a different shade today, the brilliant orange, which had so flamed the desolate roads, were replaced with a pale pink, but I was still burning with the raw love of my native hurting me with poisoned arrows. I was trying to take a lonely walk along the side of the vast field which maybe still had the footprints of my baby steps parading around it. I could see myself some 7 years back playing football with my friends on the hard laterite which had cut and bloodied our skins but we still continuing with the game and now I was finding it difficult even to take the leisurely stroll. I stared up again at the flowers of the huge trees which had provided a canopy for the roads for some strollers to walk in peace and some poverty stricken wretch to catch a nap under the tree and over the flowery bed. The flowers had always amazed me when I was a kid; it was huge and flaming orange.. the fruits were poisonous, my brother had said then and I had believed him.. now I wanted to find it for myself but then being lazy dropped the idea. I looked at the field, the early kids, were looking like solitary figures marking the huge field like pegs. They were watching the wrought ironed gate which having stood for a lot many years was rusting, not able to battle the elements. Those much awaited friends instead of coming from the main gate were jumping the barbed wire fence, looking like valiant young knights ready for the battle, Some others were trying to slide themselves between the barbwires which were widened by some vagrants to make a thoroughfare. Some of them were getting cut by those wires but ignoring those small scratches they were ready for play. All these made my lips twitch with a smile and I reminisced under the flaming tree waiting for the games to commence.

The games had begun and I was beginning to get bored and I walked away towards the main road, which this desolate road joined. The road was as busy as this was desolate; it used to bustle with buses and trucks, cars and jeeps added day in and day out. Some steps down the road there used to be a bus stop, which held some half broken seats, the walls had been painted with betel juice spitted out by some moronic traveler. I remembered the day when I was trying to walk the busy road to go back to my house on the other side and I saw this ninny for the first time, the crazy female was short and had dirty, unkempt long hair, her eyes were wild but she had that goofy smile on her face.. her clothes were falling apart and she didn’t even try to hide her breasts that were popping out. I looked away embarrassed and then tried to look back at her breasts feigning a nonchalant look. Those days a glimpse of raw skin used to make my day, be it the wonderful Naomi Campbell from the magazine that I had hidden under my bed or the disgusting lunatic scrambling on the busy roads.

I was not that desperate or frustrated as my previous statements may make to me be but then one cannot lie to himself. I remember my feeling very clearly, it wasn’t lust at all.. Actually what ever I say I was disturbed then as I am now. She was a picture of distress with no one to care about her.. she was forsaken by kin to take refuge in the dilapidated bus stop, struggling to stay alive by begging from the bystanders, who gave her some money to make her move away from there cultured self. The ubiquitous paanwaalahs were her mainstay, they teased her.. pulled her flowing tunic and sometimes even threw stones at her, but gave her the moth-eaten biscuits and cakes to eat and ramble around on the busy road. I remembered me on the cycle, my eyes were no longer looking at her half popping breasts and searching for her nipples but it was filled with guilt-ridden piety. I had no longer looked at her and had sped away. I used to avoid that road, maybe because of the traffic but also because to avoid the pitiable crazy lady about which I couldn’t do anything but feel guilty, don’t know what for.

Today I was walking towards that bus stop; today I had coins in my pockets. I was contemplating of giving her a tenner but would she understand the value of money.. I had no idea but did I even care. All I maybe wanted to do was try to atone my sin of that lustful gaze with some money and then may be walk away free. The road looked busier than before.. there was a traffic jam with the vehicles lined up. There was crowd gathered at the center of the road looking at something.. Some accident I thought. We Indians are quite philosophical about death, we are never disturbed with death just take it in our stride.. with a billion strong population and half a million getting added every month.. we have someone die every minute.. we just stare at death with a disenchanted glance and then carry on with work. I forgot to add, we also love prancing around the dead with a sorry on the lips and none in the heart, and try to poke the mourning living with bullets of deprecation for being alive. I walked slowly trying to have a glance at the dead too, to find out who was dead and who was alive, trying to look concerned and questioning about the incident.

There were various different stories floating around.. Some one slit someone's throat in view of everyone but no one had seen anything. I smiled.. seven years and nothing had changed. Neither had I, I pushed around to see what had happen, there was the mad woman lying on the roads. She still looked the same... disheveled hairs.. short height .. maybe a little bit more fat, the same ugly nose and dirty face. The lips were cut with blood marking her face.. A few flies were hovering around sucking those fast drying up blood. Her neck was slit and blood was oozing from there too and had colored the road crimson. Some other swarms of flies were hovering there too. Her white dirty cloths were scattered around her body and had formed some crooked curvilinear circle inside which she slept, may be peacefully. Her legs were a little open revealing those essentials, which some "Gentleman" had tried covering with his white handkerchief. On her chest was lying an infant of maybe two months.. It was as beautiful as she was ugly and it was trying to suckle those dead breasts for milk.. Not able to suckle and hungry it was wailing aloud and the crowd of gentleman were asking each other for help and looking at the dead mother and the dying baby.

I looked back at the mad woman.. she was dirty but now she was now looking beautiful to me.. her face was looking so serene. The world bustling around, she was sleeping in peace. I reflected about the baby and it's father. Did the crazy woman had even understood when some ruffian from the crowd of gentlemen had molested her, had she enjoyed the process of procreation which had resulted in the blessed birth. The moment before she died, did she still think of her as a virgin.. some innocent daughter of some loving farmer, near a lake of still water, reflecting the sun. There was no one to answer my silent questions.. not even myself. The baby was still trying to suckle her virgin mother.

I took two tenners from my pocket and threw it on the dead woman and walked back fallen.

Crime and Punishment:

Disclaimer:
This is one blog which I cannot call my own.. though the story is mine.. it is inspired by a short story, which I had read before.. 'The meek one' by Dostoevsky and various others by Maupassant. The title is obviously stolen from Dostoevsky's famous novel. Dont know when they slept and I wokeup to dream their dream.. or is it that they never slept???

Crime:
My wife was hanging from the ceiling. Her face was distorted with the neck broken, eyes wide open with the sad, resigned look she always had.Her hands were clutched shut with the remains of the mangalsutra dangling dangerously from it.The saree was pulled a bit up and I rushed and tried to iron it a little and cover those beautiful, revealed thighs before the police came and saw her in that position, What a shame it would have been for my family if her thighs were so displayed it to the public.She was always like that, thoughtless, never caring for anything I liked.. yesterday the eggs she had prepared had pepper in it, having told her thousand times about me not liking pepper, she had put it just to irritate me, was sure of it.But she was beautiful... May be I had married her because of her gray eyes and auburn hair, or was it because of the sweet fruity smell of her hair or the jasmine scent of her body.

I dont know why I married her.... but now I was no longer married.Her corpse was in my bedroom... Her alta clad feet was still in front of my face. The feet were heavenly... so shapely.. She had the red circle at the centre of her feet, to ward of evil, and some more small dots sorrounding it, and her toenails.. those were also painted with the alta red. She may have done these for prolonging my life, yesterday had been savitri amavasya(Orissa's Karwa chauth) and she had fasted the whole day. I just clinged to those and had cried "on" her feet... Why not I loved her so much... I had told you so.. right? I was in love with her.. maybe thats why I married her. But why did she die, I was a good husband.. Wasnt I? I loved her.. I worshipped the ground she treaded on.. I never looked at another woman.. never said no to what ever she wanted.. then where did I fail her.. Did she not love me?

I decided she didnt love me then. All these fasting were just to fool the world and herself of her true feelings, I decided. I was sitting at the bed and her feet was touching my cheeks.. I gave it an angry push and tried imagining with whome was she cheating me with. I couldnt make up my mind,may be it was Ahmed or was it Santosh... I couldnot decide who it could be.. It could have been anyone in the world, she was sweet to everyone.. to me too. She had that winning smile that she sprinkled on everyone who ever had the fortune of being on her path. She could smile at that 80 year old man, in the dirty rags and unclean yellow teeth, the rabid dog which had an arm aputated and cooed at the neigbour's kid which could have won the ugliest kid contest if he had even enrolled. She was sweet and was the perfect hostess with all my friends(and also enemies) won over by her altruism. I would have been jealous with a vengence, save for one fact which I knew.. She loved me... I had told you so.. right?

She did love me.. Dont ask me how I came to know of it... I can feel it in my bones.. Maybe it was the way she smiled at me when I was hogging the food, the way when she kept looking at me when I was looking at the TV, maybe the way she held me tight before just going of to sleep, maybe the way she kissed me goodnight, kissed me good Morning, kissed me good day... kissed me every hour, every minute every second. We were so much in love but still she was dead.. instead of lying on the bed she was hanging from the ceiling, you may laugh at my desperation but what could I do it was 3 Am in the morning.. and i have been sitting with my dead wife's feet all over my face for an hour or so. Her feet was cold and I was missing her warmth, her smell, her.

I had to know why she died before I called the police.. I clambered around the closet looking for some clue to atleast let me know why? I scrambled across the room empteying every drawer, reading across her diaries.. her papers but found nothing. Then I found at that letter, where I least expected to find, on the table in the living room with the TV's remote acting as the paper weight. The letter was short...
A,
Dont make it tough for me.. I have to do this. I cant go on with you.. nor without you. Sometimes I wished you had a mistress.. sometimes I wished you u came home drunk and bruised me.. sometimes i wished u didnt love me the way u do... sometimes i wished I didnt love u the way I do.. sometimes I wish...
We have loved each other while ignoring each other.I wanted us to be a couple and not each other's habit.
But today when am expectiong, instead of being happy i feel sorry for the baby yet unborn, our unborn baby.
Will we be just a potemkin family, seemingly in love? while unknown to the world, the truth would be different.
I dread myself.
The food is in the fridge please heat it up and eat it.
Sorry for I killed your baby and your wife
Love
W

I looked around.. the feet was still alta clad, the feet was still cold, and I had tears in my eyes. I kissed her feet, my tears wetting those pale feet. The red circle, that was supposed to wade the devil was distorted now with the devil's tears. I picked up the telephone and called the police.

Punishment:
The pundit was chattering something in sanskrit, and was demanding my utmost attention. How could I give my attention to the bald pundit when my love was sprawled across the floor and my heart still not distangled from her. My umblical chord still tied me to my wife and all the pundits hogwash just reminded me of the vaccum my wife's death had created. My sacred thread had changed their directions... from a householder, i had become a sanyasi and then a pariah whose wife was dead. She was clad in a new red saree, my relatives were admiring her beauty.. some old uncle contemplating of times when she had shown her face to him the first time, a moon clad in a veil, he reminisced. The moon was at my feet now.

They asked me to pour water in her mouth. I poured water in those lips, zombie like... Wanted to kiss those half shut pale lips.. but just poured the water.. Ganges.. some said. I didnt care, nor did she. She had some half smile smacked on her face.. may have heard my old granny thinking of getting me married to the village balle. Another victim, she may have thought and thus the smile. We were carrying her now.. four of my friends... i was given a lamp to carry and show the path to the dead.. to the dead or to the alive? I walked in the front leading the way... I walked fast trying to do away with the rituals..

The graveyard was in the corner of the city.. near some god forsaken railway line.. the line to maybe nowhere. They put her in the pyre so lovingly prepared by her husband and the pundit. We had arranged for sandalwood.. the pundit had looked shocked when i had asked if we can burn her along with the jasmine flowers. She smelled of jasmine not sandlewood, I reasoned. I was a hero there... the world reasoning that my love for my wife was just next to shahjahan... She was lying on the top of the pyre.. her auburn, fruity smelling hair shining in the sun. I was asked to stand up and a pot full of water was placed on my left shoulders and was asked to make an anticlockwise circle of the pyre, the pundit made a small hole in the pot while I started walking, the water wetting my back.. The receeding water were filling my heart with all the unspoken wails, unshed tears. I was all welled up but i couldnt create a scene.. my family name would be ruined. I was given a torch smelling of kerosene, and without looking back I lit the sandlewood pyre.

My wife, the one who smelled of jasmine, was burning in front of me. I had killed my wife with my indifference and then I had burnt her with my so called sense of duty.

The world had sympathised and empathised and had proclaimed they understood what I was going through. I smiled.. the smile of a senile man.. The world left, leaving me with my wife who was still burning. The smell of the burning flesh was repulsing.. but for me it was still the smell of jasmine. She, with her sweet temperament was not actually the burning type, so she burnt with a little help from me. I kept on poking at the fire, the passing breeze helped. It was actually romantic, me alone with my wife, in a dilapidated graveyard with a old rail line passing near by, the pleasant breeze and the cool sun, only my burning wife took the romance away.

She was all ashes now. I kept collecting her unburnt bones. I filled the silver urn with bones, with ashes, stones and burnt wood. The ash didnt smell of jasmine as I had expected.. I took the urn and went back home. I placed it on the TV stand and sat on the sofa. The TV was blaring but I kept looking at my wife's ashes, actually the urn. I wanted to be near my wife. I took the urn and held it as I saw the news. I was missing my wife's touch. I remembered when we used to watch movies, with ourselves entwined. She was right, she was my habit, but didnt she understand that i didnt look at her but I wanted her to be near me, so that I could hear her breath, feel her sighs on my trembling hairs, bathe in her smell, now when her urn didnt provide that warmth and all I could do was cling to her memories.

The police found my body, two days after, hung from the ceiling, all covered with my wife's ashes.
Their report said, I smelled of jasmine.

The Recluse

Naveen kept looking at the balcony waiting for Roma to make an appearance on the balcony. He had been waiting for a single glance of her for days now, seating in the road-side chai stall sipping tea. He kept on looking up at the balcony, with the flowering pots with wilted flowers, and the half hidden, moth eaten doll strewn from a heap of old cothes dump. He was talking to balwant, the proprieteer of the shop while stirring the cup, to make the tea cooler, in a periodic movement of his hands. He remembered how happy he was the day when the magazine, he worked for, asked him to pen an article on Roma, the beauty of yesteryears. Naveen was ecstatic at the thought of interviewing his childhood fantasy, the lady whose saree clad picture had been under his pillow for long, the beauty, whose twinkling eyes, laschivious smile and a heavenly gait had made his nights passable and days happy. He looked forward for the divinity to speak to him, but he was not prepared for this, speaking to balwant, sipping the cold tea and waiting for that one glance.

Roma's secretary, also her supposed lover, had emphatically rejected his proposal for an interview; Roma, it seems, never saw anyone, never talked to any individual, she had hidden herself from the public which was willing to give their arm for that one smile. No one had an inkling of why she did that, why she left the lime light to hide behind those heavy curtains.She could have got the world if she wanted, she just had to ask, but still she chose to just vanish away. She must be 44 now, she must have grown a bit fat, her lips may not be as pink as they were, her hair may have lost the rich texture and those shapely figure may not be as etheral as it was before, but 29 was not an age for a diva to retire, even at 44 she must be pretty, Naveen mused.

All his efforts for an photo, leave aside the interview had been futile. He had done everything humanely possible to coax the secretary to grant an interview, save maybe point the gun at him, but to no avail. Roma, never left the house, never rested on the balcony, never roamed in the vast garden, never swam in the vast pool, so how was he supposed to click a snap. He thought of forcing an entry at night but the images of being an late night dinner for the huge mastiff came as a deterrant.. Rightly so, Being a messiah who brought back beauty to the world was one thing, sacrificing oneself at the alter of Page3 journalism another. His vigils at the balwant's shop had brought no results save one, he had become a friend of the nearby plumber who was sometimes called to Roma's sprawling bungalow.. and Naveen waited for one such call.

He dreamt of winning the pulitzer for the story, dreamt of standing next to the stunning Roma.. dreamt of Roma's lips on his, Why not he reflected.. Roma may not have seen a male, save the bald secretary and he may be the best option for her. His day dreams remained incomplete with the sounds of pawan, the plumber running towards him with a 100 watt smile. Naveen knew the reason why, with a pounding heart and an anxious mind he made way for the bunglow hoping he doesnt see that rude secretary. He was shown the bathroom by a old butler, There was no sign of the lady, not another soul could be seen in that bunglow, no voices were heard, the silence was broken periodically by the clocks ticking in some part of the room and the water dripping from the broken tap. Naveen sleathly climbed the stairs, with the camera in one hand and his shoes in the other.

He saw a wonderful looking huge room with chandaliers lighted, the candles lit everywhere, and the room smelling of some french perfume, maybe in preparation of some grand ball. A smile lit on his face.. in addition to Roma, he may see someone equally grand. There were pictures adorned on every wall.. huge potraits of Roma. She was looking so beautiful with the trademark locks of hairs falling on her face, she wearing a saree in one, a dress in another. Naveen was lost on seeing those snaps, beauty has an intoxicating power, a beautiful face makes one more still than copious amounts of grass. He picked a picture .. kept looking at Roma, who looked the enchantress in that particular picture,her hairs were left open for the picture and they fell behind her back seeming like an ocean of flowing black hair.. the eyes were hiding some twinkling mischief, those lips were a picture of interwined gloom and grace and she looked so lovely in those long skirts and loose blouse.

Naveen just kept looking. The door adjacant to him opened suddenly and there was someone dragging onself across the floor, the dead foot lying so dead behind her. He had dropped the picture he was carrying and he kept looking at the face on the floor, if you call it a face. It had no trace of the lovely eyes, just two sockets with the eyes deep within, the luscious lips that were the fantasy of millions were looking sickening and there were protrusions all over her face. The voice which had men whine in their dreams was reduced to a whimper and she kept mewling some obscure paraphrases. Naveen shuddered at the diva at whose feet millioneres used to fall, lying so pitiably at his feet. He picked up the camera and clicked, the flash lighting the leper's face for a second. She was dragging herself across the hall, oblivious of anyone's presence. Naveen kept looking while she went to the nearby desk, took up a framed photograph and kept on fondling the same.

Naveen clicked another picture. He could see the pulitzer in his hand. He kept on clicking, Roma suddenly broke down... there were no tears just the silent whimper. She was touching her face, her hair her skin... She turned around with the lifeless leg dragged around like an appendage. She touched her lips and fell on her back crying aloud a voiceless sob. Naveen went on to her and kissed those non existant lips.. maybe trying to make her remember of the waman that she actually was. He kissed her on the forehead, his tears drenching the lady's face. The face had no reaction.. She just lay there with the beautiful Roma of the past lying on her bosoms. Naveen took those reels out of the camera, threw them at the fire and walked away.

There was a notice in the 5th page in an obscure column of the paper, the next day.
Naveen Chaubey has been terminated from the newspaper services and any legal dealings with him are no longer hold valid.

A flower's odyssey

A solitary flower stood at the corner of a vast garden
enjoying her beauty under the heat of the morning sun
Dressed brightly, the flower laughed
A little proud, A little vain
laughing in her innocent pride.
She smiled at the playing children
She winked at the cooing lovers
and painted her life with all the hope
An optimistic picture of what only time would reveal.
Slowly she blossomed, radiating her beauty
Her fragnance filled the world
She stirred with every touch,
the soft touch of the passing wind
The warm touch of an innocent child
The firm but nurturing touch of the gardner
And she waited for her fate, Matured as she waited.

She attracted everyone who saw her
Ants and insects, bees and man
The bees swarmed around her
Drinking her nectar, licking her sweetness
Draining her beauty, making her hollow.
A light breeze now took the flower away
She fell on the hard ground with a life all spent
The petals were covered with dewey the tears
As she faced a different world all bleak , all white

A warm touch made her fly away from the hell
to a temple resonanting the sweet sound of faith
And she reached the divinity's head
Hundreds fell at her feet, thousands admired her
as she pleaded for time to stay

The next day she was dumped
All spent, All forgotten, she faded away

The cat and its prey

(The following was written long back when I had to write the competitive exams like the IITs, The time is ripe now to reproduce it as a blog)

The scene was a lush green jungle with wilderness so deep that the animals had troubles moving around. Among those thick greenery there was a clearing with an old tree at the center and hundreds of animals just lying around in the shade. There was a bird up in the tree so happy with itself that it was singing in glee and doing a tap dance of sort. The animals lazing around didn’t know where the bird came from and why it was gallivanting around. A cat, which was sleeping under the daffodils half opened the eyes and looked up at the colorful bird doing its rain dance.

The cat now was awake from his slumber and he kept on looking up thinking of ways to make a dinner out of the bird, the sweet little voice, the enchanting cabaret the graceful poise didn’t matter all that it mattered was the bird and the dinner it would make. The bird was oblivious of all that was going on, very much like the diva who remain ignorant abt the millions who lust for her. She was just doing what her heart wanted to, sing for the much awaited rains, sing for the much welcomed spring or maybe sing just for some other bird to make notice. Our cat though was now looking at the bird in deep appreciation.

He looked around and saw now many of his fellow animals had half awakened from their slumber. They too had started looking up and were looking at the bird with hungry eyes. He could see the same thought going around in every animals mind, he could feel the twitch across their lips, see those whiskered lips salivating in hungry anticipation. He again looked up at the bird, the bird was still doing her rain dance and he became motivated to go for her, come what may.

His sleepy eyes half asleep could now see everyone geared up for the fight for the goal. In his minds eye he could see the battle happen before it happened. He could see the cats fighting with each other, the claws open, the nails out as if to strike anyone out cold who comes near their vicinity. He could see the cats over each other tearing each other apart, some had lost an eye some had blood all over the face, the tranquil eyes had been replaced by an angry grimace. He shuddered on seeing the battle, he cried at the unthinking war. The bloody skin with the torn eyes, the massacre of his friends and the like was a sight he couldn’t behold.

He leapt back; saw all the other cats still eyeing the illusive dancing bird. But our cat had the vision. He walked away slowly from the crowd with a knowing smile smacked across his lips. The bird was still dancing looking lovely, but our cat now knew the truth. He had the vision from the hill and the Promised Land was no longer enchanting, not at the price it came.

A dog's day out

It was july 3rd, considered to be the hottest day in the northen Hemisphere, a day marked by the ascendant of sirius in the sky, a day called by most as dog's day and a day which incidentally is day of my birth too.

I was sipping cold cofee that day in the first floor table of the cafe, the coffee was bitter and the musings of the person in front of me was no better. I was looking in her eyes but my mind was shouting mercy, I tried to look intrested but dont know if i managed it right. I was looking around for more interesting faces when I looked at a dirty old dog on the streets. The dog was not even worth a glance and i just looked through it and returned back to hear the uninspiring talks. The lady in front of me was blabbering around and all I was thinking, was a means to escape. God must have heard me for the lady execused herself and I had a moment respite. I looked back at the road and there was the dog still standing where it was with a puzzled look as it looked ahead at the tar road.

The dog's look was interesting. If I can quantize emotions then possibly I will give it as 30% irritation,20% puzzled, 30% anger, 10% hurt and 10% resignation. Just kidding, In a single word the dog was absolutely world-wearied. It tried to move forward when suddenly a motor cylcle with a macho guy and coy girl zipped through. Poor dog didnt know that they had more important work and they were getting late, the dog was just happy may be that he was not run over. He was back at the same place. Now he looked to his left from where the motor cycle had crossed, (he may have thought of it as the dog remover, but sadly I dont understand a dog's language), he found that it was empty. He gave a winning smile, with the dirty gums visible and I responded with a burp. Now he steadily moved forward.

In the middle of the road he realized that now there was a big car coming from the right, he may have been dead but for the heavy honking and he just froze where he was. The car stopped with a creeking break and the driver gave a mean look and a loud curse cursing the dog, its dead mother, her father and also the father's sister.This done the car left and our dog was hurt but still looking ahead.

Freud should have been there to analyze the dog's determination but on 2nd thoughts he would have also commented on my being interested in the dog crossing the road. The lady had still not come but the waiter had and he was asking if I needed something else I just gave him an order for something which was the cheapest and continued with my dog watch. The dog hadnt made any more progress but its look had changed. It was no more disgusted, no more hurt it was just plain determined. I kept on looking at him pining for him to cross the road and there it was looking forward to run his last lap.

The road had become pretty empty with sporadic movements of the odd cycle and rare bikes. The dog gave a look towards the left, turned its head towards the right , made a computation of the time it needed to cross and then dashed ahead. It kept on running as if there was no tommorow and crossed the road in less than 3 seconds. It must have been a record of sorts but there was no one to take notice save me. It was now at the other side, I was smiling and so was the dog. It looked back and saw the mighty road, the great obstacle that he had tackled. He was just enjoying his moment standing below the unfinished building which some say is another shopping complex in making.

The dog just stood there with the content smile and the twinkling eyes. He was in a world of his won enjoying his victory, the world passing along his wide eyes. The gum was still visible, the eyes had a drop of tear or two. he didnt hear the continued traffic, he didnt hear the people shouting, he didnt hear the rock falling. There was no sound, none at all, just the thud of the rock, the silent whimper of the dog and the swish of the life passing around. The workers were angry because now they had a dead dog on the stone. They lifted the stone removed the dog and threw the body in the dustbin on the other side of the road. The dog was back to the place where he had started from, but it was unaware. He remained blissfully unaware that his dash had been a failure. He remained on the top of the garbage pile waiting for the corporation workers' garbage trolly.

Meanwhile, my lady had come back, the idle chatter had resumed and I stayed pretending to listen.