On a dark, scary night when a spooky silence has descended on the streets of Delhi, a van is trundling through the streets with music blaring out of it. The driver is drunk or perhaps sleepy at the least. The moist alleys of Delhi are numb with sweat; unendurable heat has permeated the ambiance. People are standing at pan-shops, which are bleakly lit, and so is the nearby area around these shops. Stray dogs are wandering about the streets for food, but many of them get kicked as they approach the men standing at pan-shops. It’s a typical situation for 1 A.M. in Delhi. The roads are nearly deserted, except for a white van with loud music roaring out of it. The sky looks clear and the stars ominous.
A man is running as fast as he can in the opposite direction of the van. He’s frantically skipping about toward a dead body: the body of the girl to whom he was hoping to propose. He’s hoping that the girl might be alive. But his hopes are crumbled under the immense tires of the white van. He’s helpless. He looks around, but finds no one. He looks at the dead body. She is gone. She is as frigid as an electric wire without any current. The circuit was broken by the tires of the white van. She was broken by the white van. He looks into the eyes of the dead girl, and he sees himself staring back. There are marks on her skin—marks left by the tires of the white van. A white piece of plastic sparkles into his eyes. It’s the evidence. He grabs the plastic and covers his eyes in disbelief. Something has been permanently taken away from him.
Mohan awoke from a long, disturbing, night’s sleep. He had to visit Lina at the hospital. He was thinking about how four years back Parul was struck by a car on the same road, and coincidentally around the same time of the night. He had been with Parul for years, all through high school. They were great friends. That dark night changed a lot of things in his life. He had been struggling to forget Parul, but to no avail. He was stuck in the hole of painful dreams. He needed to run out, unshackled, and embrace life with his old happy disposition. Where had those days gone when the only thing he cared about was the pimples on his face?—he asked himself.
“One of the bones in your left leg is broken. A few minor bruises and some weakness; that’s all,” said the doctor.
Lina was alone at the hospital. Jay had recently gone back to fetch new clothes for her.
“How’re you?” asked Mohan.
Lina stared at the ceiling and refused to reply back.
“What did the doctor say?” asked Mohan, again.
Still no answers.
“What did I do—tell me? What the hell did I do? Why are you behaving like this?” burst out Mohan.
“Yeah…. You didn’t do anything. That’s the only thing you did—you didn’t do anything?” whimpered Lina.
“Oh, please! What the hell did the doctor say?” cried Mohan.
“He sadly said that I am going to live,” said Lina.
“Who is taking care of you?” asked Mohan.
“No one,” replied Lina.
“Yeah, Mister Mohan, that’s what I was talking about earlier with Miss Lina. I need someone to take care of her,” said the doctor.
“I think Jay will be able to take care of her,” said Mohan.
“No, I got into this because of you, so you have to take care of me. I want you to take me to your house and take care of me. You made me suffer. You. You are to be blamed. You. I want you to take care of me. You,” said Lina.
“Ok, then. It’s decided Mister Mohan. You can sign these forms and take Miss Lina home,” said the doctor.
“What the hell happened to that bastard Jay?” said Mohan.
Mohan brought Lina to his house. He lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment; actually it was not an apartment but more of an accessory room in a shack of a sculpture-workshop. Mohan was a sculptor. After graduating from school, he went to an art college. He stayed at the college for two full years, before deciding to quit. After two years, he realized that art could not be taught; only the tools, which are precursory to anything, can be taught, the rest has to come from the artist’s heart. With the money he earned as a part-time waiter at the local bar, he bought the shanty in which he brought Lina. The house was long and without sufficient ventilation. The entrance to the only room was through the workshop. The room was small, but nicely furnished. There was a small studio couch at one end, and a nicely upholstered divan on the far end. In the middle, beside the window, was a neatly kept bed, with a huge, twelve-inch-thick mattress. There was no TV, no music, nothing to disturb him from his painful, recurring dreams.
Mohan shifted the divan to the workshop and slept on it.
Right at the moment when death was clawing in for its final blow a fiery hand appeared, swimming in the water. Perhaps, it is one of the ways death embraces a drowning person. Just before the transition from life to death occurred, the hand, holding fire in its soul, lugged Lina outside the sea of pain.
The next morning when Mohan entered the room, he saw Lina staring at the ceiling. She shifted her focus from the ceiling to the burn-mark on Mohan’s right hand. Witnessing Lina’s icy stare, he, quickly hid his burnt hand underneath his shirt.
Mohan took good care of Lina - cooking whatever he could manage, transporting her in and out of the bathroom, walking her around with the help of a walker, taking her out for fresh air, and showing her things about sculpting. They rarely talked. Everything that Mohan did was like a doctor: there was painless indifference infesting his feelings. There were actually no feelings. Lina wasn’t aware of this. She had started to think that the accident had brought Mohan nearer to her, but she was wrong. They were neither close nor far; they were just trying not to think about the past. Lina had at least learnt this much after the accident, but still she craved for Mohan, always speechlessly though.
One day when a post about the accident sent by the police department arrived, Mohan had an excuse to talk to Lina.
“What was the color of the van?” said Mohan.
“I don’t remember,” answered Lina.
“This report says it was white,” said Mohan.
“If the report says white then why are you asking me?” mocked Lina.
“Because the van hit you and I thought you’d at least remember that much,” poked Mohan.
“I don’t remember,” said Lina.
“Was loud music coming out of the van?” asked Mohan.
“Yeah, why?” answered Lina.
“Did you recognize the driver?” asked Mohan.
“If I saw him again I would” answered Lina, “but why are you asking me all this?”
“I want you to help me find the driver,” requested Mohan.
“No. I have better things to do in life,” said Lina, even though she wanted to say ‘yes.’
The next day when Mohan asked her to join him for an ice cream cone, which was apparently Lina’s favorite food, she promptly said ‘yes,’ and he purposefully chose the same road, St. Stephen’s Road, where she and Parul were struck by the same white van. He parked the car close to their school, right across the street from where the accidents had occurred.
“I want you to look at the cars while you’re eating your ice cream,” said Mohan, “and I will bring you anything else that you want; we are going to spend a few hours here.”
So it became a ritual for them to spend hours at night eating ice cream, pizza, Bombay-burgers, bhel-puri, pani-puri. Anything that Lina fancied was brought to her with alacrity.
“What’s your favorite food?” asked Lina.
“I like spicy things, like pani-puri with extremely caustic spiced-water. I like stuffed paranthas with potatoes, my mum used to make them for me. I love rajma-chawal, chole-chawal, dal-chawal. I like simpler things, nothing sophisticated,” replied Mohan.
“Take this,” Lina said after a few days.
“What’s this?” asked Mohan.
“Nothing, just something for you to eat,” said Lina looking out.
“Thanks,” said Mohan looking at the rajma-chawal and aalo-paranthas.
Thereupon Lina started cooking for Mohan. She cooked everything that Mohan loved though she never asked about it. She just looked for cues from whatever he said.
One day a similar looking white van with loud music blasting out made its way through St. Stephen’s Road. Mohan fired-up his engine and followed the van like a starved tiger following its prey. The night brought about denouement to a longstanding problem.
He clutched the piece of plastic he had scavenged from the accident scene. Right before he overtook it, he veered out of his lane to block the white van. Lina had no clue what was happening. She silently looked at him and the discarded food. In the mad frenzy that ensued, Mohan jumped on the brakes as soon as he was ahead of the van. The van bumped into their car which caused Mohan to lose control of the car. Lina was hurled out of the car, breaking the windshield. Mohan got out of the crushed car from the driver-side door and found himself writhing in front of a truck speeding toward him at 60mph.
Deepak Maini
dee.maini AT gmail.com
A man is running as fast as he can in the opposite direction of the van. He’s frantically skipping about toward a dead body: the body of the girl to whom he was hoping to propose. He’s hoping that the girl might be alive. But his hopes are crumbled under the immense tires of the white van. He’s helpless. He looks around, but finds no one. He looks at the dead body. She is gone. She is as frigid as an electric wire without any current. The circuit was broken by the tires of the white van. She was broken by the white van. He looks into the eyes of the dead girl, and he sees himself staring back. There are marks on her skin—marks left by the tires of the white van. A white piece of plastic sparkles into his eyes. It’s the evidence. He grabs the plastic and covers his eyes in disbelief. Something has been permanently taken away from him.
Mohan awoke from a long, disturbing, night’s sleep. He had to visit Lina at the hospital. He was thinking about how four years back Parul was struck by a car on the same road, and coincidentally around the same time of the night. He had been with Parul for years, all through high school. They were great friends. That dark night changed a lot of things in his life. He had been struggling to forget Parul, but to no avail. He was stuck in the hole of painful dreams. He needed to run out, unshackled, and embrace life with his old happy disposition. Where had those days gone when the only thing he cared about was the pimples on his face?—he asked himself.
“One of the bones in your left leg is broken. A few minor bruises and some weakness; that’s all,” said the doctor.
Lina was alone at the hospital. Jay had recently gone back to fetch new clothes for her.
“How’re you?” asked Mohan.
Lina stared at the ceiling and refused to reply back.
“What did the doctor say?” asked Mohan, again.
Still no answers.
“What did I do—tell me? What the hell did I do? Why are you behaving like this?” burst out Mohan.
“Yeah…. You didn’t do anything. That’s the only thing you did—you didn’t do anything?” whimpered Lina.
“Oh, please! What the hell did the doctor say?” cried Mohan.
“He sadly said that I am going to live,” said Lina.
“Who is taking care of you?” asked Mohan.
“No one,” replied Lina.
“Yeah, Mister Mohan, that’s what I was talking about earlier with Miss Lina. I need someone to take care of her,” said the doctor.
“I think Jay will be able to take care of her,” said Mohan.
“No, I got into this because of you, so you have to take care of me. I want you to take me to your house and take care of me. You made me suffer. You. You are to be blamed. You. I want you to take care of me. You,” said Lina.
“Ok, then. It’s decided Mister Mohan. You can sign these forms and take Miss Lina home,” said the doctor.
“What the hell happened to that bastard Jay?” said Mohan.
Mohan brought Lina to his house. He lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment; actually it was not an apartment but more of an accessory room in a shack of a sculpture-workshop. Mohan was a sculptor. After graduating from school, he went to an art college. He stayed at the college for two full years, before deciding to quit. After two years, he realized that art could not be taught; only the tools, which are precursory to anything, can be taught, the rest has to come from the artist’s heart. With the money he earned as a part-time waiter at the local bar, he bought the shanty in which he brought Lina. The house was long and without sufficient ventilation. The entrance to the only room was through the workshop. The room was small, but nicely furnished. There was a small studio couch at one end, and a nicely upholstered divan on the far end. In the middle, beside the window, was a neatly kept bed, with a huge, twelve-inch-thick mattress. There was no TV, no music, nothing to disturb him from his painful, recurring dreams.
Mohan shifted the divan to the workshop and slept on it.
Right at the moment when death was clawing in for its final blow a fiery hand appeared, swimming in the water. Perhaps, it is one of the ways death embraces a drowning person. Just before the transition from life to death occurred, the hand, holding fire in its soul, lugged Lina outside the sea of pain.
The next morning when Mohan entered the room, he saw Lina staring at the ceiling. She shifted her focus from the ceiling to the burn-mark on Mohan’s right hand. Witnessing Lina’s icy stare, he, quickly hid his burnt hand underneath his shirt.
Mohan took good care of Lina - cooking whatever he could manage, transporting her in and out of the bathroom, walking her around with the help of a walker, taking her out for fresh air, and showing her things about sculpting. They rarely talked. Everything that Mohan did was like a doctor: there was painless indifference infesting his feelings. There were actually no feelings. Lina wasn’t aware of this. She had started to think that the accident had brought Mohan nearer to her, but she was wrong. They were neither close nor far; they were just trying not to think about the past. Lina had at least learnt this much after the accident, but still she craved for Mohan, always speechlessly though.
One day when a post about the accident sent by the police department arrived, Mohan had an excuse to talk to Lina.
“What was the color of the van?” said Mohan.
“I don’t remember,” answered Lina.
“This report says it was white,” said Mohan.
“If the report says white then why are you asking me?” mocked Lina.
“Because the van hit you and I thought you’d at least remember that much,” poked Mohan.
“I don’t remember,” said Lina.
“Was loud music coming out of the van?” asked Mohan.
“Yeah, why?” answered Lina.
“Did you recognize the driver?” asked Mohan.
“If I saw him again I would” answered Lina, “but why are you asking me all this?”
“I want you to help me find the driver,” requested Mohan.
“No. I have better things to do in life,” said Lina, even though she wanted to say ‘yes.’
The next day when Mohan asked her to join him for an ice cream cone, which was apparently Lina’s favorite food, she promptly said ‘yes,’ and he purposefully chose the same road, St. Stephen’s Road, where she and Parul were struck by the same white van. He parked the car close to their school, right across the street from where the accidents had occurred.
“I want you to look at the cars while you’re eating your ice cream,” said Mohan, “and I will bring you anything else that you want; we are going to spend a few hours here.”
So it became a ritual for them to spend hours at night eating ice cream, pizza, Bombay-burgers, bhel-puri, pani-puri. Anything that Lina fancied was brought to her with alacrity.
“What’s your favorite food?” asked Lina.
“I like spicy things, like pani-puri with extremely caustic spiced-water. I like stuffed paranthas with potatoes, my mum used to make them for me. I love rajma-chawal, chole-chawal, dal-chawal. I like simpler things, nothing sophisticated,” replied Mohan.
“Take this,” Lina said after a few days.
“What’s this?” asked Mohan.
“Nothing, just something for you to eat,” said Lina looking out.
“Thanks,” said Mohan looking at the rajma-chawal and aalo-paranthas.
Thereupon Lina started cooking for Mohan. She cooked everything that Mohan loved though she never asked about it. She just looked for cues from whatever he said.
One day a similar looking white van with loud music blasting out made its way through St. Stephen’s Road. Mohan fired-up his engine and followed the van like a starved tiger following its prey. The night brought about denouement to a longstanding problem.
He clutched the piece of plastic he had scavenged from the accident scene. Right before he overtook it, he veered out of his lane to block the white van. Lina had no clue what was happening. She silently looked at him and the discarded food. In the mad frenzy that ensued, Mohan jumped on the brakes as soon as he was ahead of the van. The van bumped into their car which caused Mohan to lose control of the car. Lina was hurled out of the car, breaking the windshield. Mohan got out of the crushed car from the driver-side door and found himself writhing in front of a truck speeding toward him at 60mph.
Deepak Maini
dee.maini AT gmail.com
