Midnight Ice-cream

Not my best piece but I think I’ll post it anyway.

”Shiiiiine on… you crrrrazy diamond…”

I sang along with the MP3 player plugged into my ears. It was just aswell that it was midnight and hardly anyone within earshot was awake to listen to my hoarse, off key croaking. Not that I would have cared. Lazing around on the balcony, admiring the view, I was content. Down below on the road, two ice-cream vendors stood side by side. The fluorescent glow of the tubelights on their carts was the only illumination on the road. Like two shining beacons of light in the middle of a sea of darkness. The street lights were perenially out of order. I thought it strange that anyone should be selling ice-cream, of all things, in the middle fo the night. Who buys ice cream at midnight? I could’t recall seeing them there before. But it is entirely possible that I overlooked them on earlier occasions. Left with nothing else to do, I observed them for a while. I couldn’t see much due to the distance but trying to guess their conversation was an interesting way to pass the time.I wondered, were they friends? Did they get along well? Or did they treat each other with animosity, seeing as both of them worked for rival brands? I couldn’t imagine any two people being standing on the same place, night after night with no one else for company, being cold to each other. It seemed torturous to me.

A sudden desire to have ice-cream caught hold of me. It was absurd but my will power is a joke. I sneaked out of the house and climbed down the stairs. I avoid lifts, they make me claustrophobic. The lobby of the apartment building was empty save the liftman perched upon his stool, sleeping soundly. Somewhere, a dog howled. And then another. Then a third dog joined in. Then a fourth howl, this one much closer than the others. It woke up the lift man. He rubbed his face hurriedly, a sheepish look passed over his features when he saw me. He wasn’t supposed to sleep during the shift. The gate guard looked at me curiously as I walked out. It was not a particularly hot night, by April standards anyway. But it seemed hotter than it was because of the utter stillness of the air. It hung heavily, warm and stuffy. Trees rose up around me. Their silhouettes conjured up images of demons standing with their arms wide apart, just waiting to swoop down and consume you. The place where the vendors stood was a few minutes’ walk from the gate and I started to feel a little edgy as I walked all alone, everything around me shrouded by darkness. I was somewhat disappointed by the reaction of the vendors to my appearance. There was none. Somewhere in my mind, I had expected them to light up at the sight of a customer.

“One chocobar.” I said to one of them. The man was tall and lean. His adam’s apple protruded out like a steep mountain. His face was disproportionately wide, with beady eyes and bushy, dark eyebrows. The moustache adorning his face was long overdue for a trimming. The man opened the metal lid on the top of the cart and began digging into it, unearthing carton after carton of ice-creams. Finally he emerged from the depths of the storage, one hand triumphantly holding a chocobar packet. Money and ice-cream changed hands swiftly and I quickly tore the packet open and took a bite. It was much too cold but the chocolate coating mixed with the vanilla ice-cream inside, mellowing it and adding a bittersweet twist to the whole deal. It was perfect. Dwarfed everything I’d eaten before.

“Do you stand here every night?” I asked the man.

He nodded. “Every night.”

“Till when?” I continued.

“Around dawn.”

“Don’t you get bored? Do you get many customers?”

“Very few customers.” he replied. “But what can I do? The people high-up decide everything, people like me have no say in it.”
He seemed a bit hesitant. I suppose most people are when conversing with strangers at 1 in the morning.

I glanced at the other vendor. Somehow he seemed uneasy, impatient. It was almost as if he wanted me gone. Or maybe he was angry at having lost a customer. I licked the last of the ice-cream off the stick and threw it aside. My tastebuds satisfied, I went back home.

Back on the balcony, I could still see them. A third man joined them soon. And then a fourth. More customers, I guessed. Suddenly the lights on both carts went out. I could barely make out their shadowy forms now. One of the carts began moving sometime later, pushed by the vendor. The other cart, the one I had bought the ice cream from, stood where it was. The other two men seemed gone too. I stifled a yawn and ambled off to bed.

* * * * * *

It was all over the news the next day.

Ice-cream vendor brutally murdered and stuffed into his own cart. Body found miles away from his usual place of business.

I saw a picture of the victim. Death does strange things to one’s appearance. Beady, sunken eyes stared back at me lifelessly, almost accusingly. The wide face had acquired a sickly pale shade. Death is ugly. Death is infinitely ugly. The disbelief that I felt transcends words. It took a while for sadness to make itself felt. Sadness, which I was surprised to discover. One does not feel such sadness for a stranger’s death. Not in this age. Man has been rendered immune to sorrow unless it hits close to home. But then, a chocobar connected the two of us.

Currently listening to: U2 – The Electric Co.

Naming eej hard

“Come on Mom!” I yelled as I walked out the front door, a suitcase in hand, backpack slung over my shoulder. Meanwhile Dad was honking the horn impatiently. He hated waiting.

“Just a second, I’m coming…” came my mother’s voice from inside. “Tell your father to stop making an infernal racket!”

My brother was standing beside the car, a look of acute boredom upon his face. he was seventeen that summer and his idea of a vacation did not involve parents. Finally my mother came out, hurriedly screwing on a pair of earrings as she walked. “Suresh, put the suitcases in the boot.” she said to my brother. He ambled off towards the luggage while I ran to the car with excitement only a ten year old can muster.

It’s strange how vividly I remember that day. It’s been over ten years now but the memory’s fresh as yesterday. I don’t remember last week that clearly. My brother dumped whatever didn’t fit in the boot into the backseat. It was a really small car. The boot could barely hold two suitcases and a bag. Dad had bought it some years ago from some guy at work who was moving out of the country. The car had neon seat covers when we got it. And it was dirty as hell. We replaced those ghastly neon covers with nice, decent looking brown ones. It took me, Dad and my brother an entire day to clean it up. Dad and brother did most of the cleaning really. I was too young to help much. It was a fun day though.

Anyway, there we were. All four of us, squashed in the car. Mom and Dad at the front, me and my brother at the back with the bags. Dad had tuned into some oldies station on the radio that I didn’t really care about. He was singing along to it as he drove and my mom joined him soon enough. They seemed genuinely happy. My brother was staring out of the window with that strange scowl on his face. Over the past few months it had become the standard expressin on his face. He thought he looked tough and brooding. He really just looked like a constipated cowboy. I waved at my neighbours’ houses as we drove past them. Once we were past our neighbourhood I took my handheld video game out of my backpack.

That’s how most of the car ride went. My father and mother singing along to the radio. My brother staring outside and me punching away at my videogame. We would talk for a while sometimes, crack jokes, laugh. Other times we’d fall asleep. With the exception of Dad of course.

We got to the hotel sometime after midnight. I had fallen asleep by then. I didn’t even feel my father pick me up and carry me all the way to the room. He used to do that sometimes. It made me feel like a baby and annoyed me but he loved doing that. We went hiking the next day. Even made snowmen. We also had a snowball fight. Me and Dad against Mom and Suresh. We won of course. My mother had terrible aim. Dad had a beer later that evening. Really freaked us out. He didn’t have any more though and we forgot about it soon.

My mom suggested that we make imprints of our hands on the inside of the car roof one day. I don’t remember exactly when. She was always having such crazy ideas. Dad was hesitant at first but gave in. So we bought some paint and made imprints on the roof. We then scribbled our names under the imprints. My mother’s hand brushed against my nose accidentally, leaving a blue spot on it. I rubbed my hand against my mother’s cheek in return, leaving three thick gashes of paint on it. Soon enough all four of us were having a full scale paint fight. Everyone was covered in blue by the time we ran out of paint. People who were passing-by probably thought we were insane but we couldn’t care less. We didn’t even notice anyone, we were having way too much fun. Afterwards, Dad took a picture of the car roof with his camera. For some reason, that’s the only picture we took during our entire vacation. I think it’s still lying around somewhere in my apartment.

On our way back home the car broke down. And after that summer so did everything else. Things changed after that. I couldn’t really understand much of it back then. Mom and Dad gradually stopped speaking to each other. They pretended to be normal in front of me and my brother but the rift was pretty obvious. My brother went off to college the next year and never came back. I don’t blame him. Things had gotten pretty strained at home by then. Some months later Dad’s liver finally gave out from all the drinking. I think I was the only one who cried when he died. Mom didn’t. My brother didn’t even attend the funeral. Mom was different after that. She kept losing her patience and was shouting and crying all the time. Everything ticked her off. It was like she had gone crazy. She died two years ago. My brother called once around three years ago. Never again.

As for the car, we sold it to a mechanic soon after Dad died. It was of no use to us anymore.

(This will probably be the last piece of fiction I post on my blog. I’m going to make pages on my blog for my art, poetry and prose now.)

Plastic Fire

My eyes scanned the night sky, straining to see beyond the grimy, near opaque glass. There was little of interest there. A dark expanse cloaked for the most part in smoke and dust. My eyes came down, looking past the dismal treeline at the roundabout ahead. Vehicles whizzed past, fading from my frame of view almost as quickly as they appeared. Busy men and women with lives to live and ambitions to fulfil. And suddenly I saw a dancing speck of orange from the corner of my eye. It was a sickly, unhealthy shade of orange and it seemed to be originating from the park beside my house. I rubbed at the glass with my hands, trying to clear up some of the grime. It didn’t help much. My hand crawled up along the cold glass, fingers twisting over the metal bolt as I braced myself for the cold that was going to hit me. It slid down after a few jerks, a biting gust of wind cutting across my frame. Visibility improved yet I strained to observe the flame from that cumbersome angle. It was almost parallel to my window and the park fence and bushline barred my view to a considerable extent. I could make out a form huddled beside the orange fire, stirring it with a stick occasionally.

I stared at it for many minutes, oblivious to the rest of the world, fascinated by the sight. My eyes drifted to the warm interior of my room, resting upon the two thick warm blankets spread over my bed. With a shiver I closed the window and climbed down the window sill. I creeped across the hallway to my mother’s bedroom, ducking down to avoid the wind-chime that hung just above the door. Even the slight brush of cloth against wall seemed to me like a deafening roar, sure to wake the entire city. I crept into her room as noiselessly as possible and groped along the wall for the keystand. Fingers finally came in contact with cold stainless steel which was quickly pocketed.

I was outside the house soon enough, a blanket clutched tightly under one arm. The night was still, sparse moonlight filtering through the barrier of clouds. I could make out dogs padding along the road, thrusting their faces into the piles of garbage lining the street. Clad in a threadbare shirt and pyjamas, I could feel the cold striking me with full force, permeating to my bones. I began shivering, both out of fear and cold. I’ve always been afraid of dogs even at the best of times.

All was darkness in the park except for the little flame which was my destination. As I got closer I could make out the man’s features. His eyes remained fixed upon me from the moment I entered the park and they were brimming with suspicion. I suppose a man in his position has every right to be suspicious. His face was extremely gaunt, as if deep pits had been dug in his cheeks. His eyes were sunken and listless. He remained huddled beside the fire, bony arms wrapped around his lean frame, dirty, almost formless clothes hanging loosely from it. Wordlessly I walked to the fire and placed the blanket on the ground, keeping the fire between him and me. Dirty black smoke was rising from the fire, the air heavy with the stench of burning plastic. I turned around and walked back, pausing once to look at the man. The blanket was clutched in his hands now, fingers wrapping it around himself in a hurried frenzy. His head rose and our eyes met. Gratitude shone in them almost as gold in the firelight.

There were no fires in the park for the next two days. And one evening, as I went for a walk, I saw the man. Huddled at that same place, another stinking plastic fire to warm his bones. His eyes met mine and instantly they turned away. Hastily he tried to hide a dirty plastic bottle filled with a dark orange liquid in the folds of his clothes. There was no blanket to be found nearby. With a glance at the bottle I went on my way.

There were many more sleepless nights spent on the windowsill that winter. And that tiny speck of orange would always be at the corner of my eye. But the whizzing vehicles with their headlights on blinding highbeam seemed infinitely more fascinating now.

Short piece

I wrote this yesterday during my wonderful school trip (sarcasm implied. Long story, don’t ask.) It’s unlike anything I have ever written till now and I hope it has turned out well. I’m a bit doubtful about the ending though. One more thing that worries me is that it seems somewhat boring. Anyway, here is the piece:

“Catch-catch! Boring!” he exclaims, his lips puffing into a pout, a frown upon his brows.

A sweatered hand rises up, the wrist twisting to release the ball held loosely in it’s grasp. The ball flies through those 3 metres of air to strike the surprised boy on the bridge of his nose. His hands rise up instantly, fingers pressed against the injured spot. A curse escapes his chapped lips. His face reddens as the embarassment grows, the shrill laughter of a dozen mouths drifting into his ears. His bony frame stoops down, muddy hands sweeping up the ball lying upon the yellowing grass.

The ball is in the air once again, it’s target exclaiming in surprise and ducking down. It sails harmlessly over his head and rolls on to the foot of a grassy knoll. More mocking laughter.

“He can’t even aim!”

His face resembles a cherry now, a coupling of embarassment and anger. With an angry curse he runs away, shoe clad feet crunching upon the dying grass. The laughter echoes behind him and tears well up in his eyes. He sends the ball flying with an angry kick and crests the knoll. The tears are streaming down his cheeks, their saline taste upon his tongue. His head turns momentarily, bestowing an angry gaze upon his companions. And then he slowly disappears behind the hill until only his anguished sobs can be heard. And soon they too begin to grow fainter as he moves further away from them.

The laughter has died down now. “Hey, maybe we should call him back” one boy suggests.

“Shut up!” another boy retorts. “He is such a cry baby.”

Some of the others nod in agreement. “He will come crawling back soon.”

The ball is retrieved from underneath a rosebush and the boys spread out. The sounds of their play resonates across the park.

Several metres away, the boy lies spread-eagled upon the soft grass, enjoying the lazy warmth of the afternoon sun. His eyes squint at the empty sky. Neither a bird nor a cloud to be seen. A velvety expanse of blue with the golden sun at it’s apex. In the stillness of the afternoon, the distant sounds of the boys can be clearly heard. It draws him like a magnet, his urge to play battling with his injured but defiant pride. Pride succumbs to the urge and he rises up like a spring, sprinting across the park.

“There he comes.” one of the boys says, pointing at the little form coming down the knoll. The others follow his gaze. The boy who had first thrown the ball feels relief flood him. Inspite of the face of indifference and nonchalance he had put in front of the boys, guilt and regret had been tormenting him, multiplying every second. So as the boy comes towards them he waves his hand in greeting. The boy comes to stop in front of them, his eyes full of eager nervousness. “Can I play?” he asks shyly, fighting down the pride which, capitalising on his nervousness, was trying to make a comeback. The boys nod. “Sure. Sorry about earlier.” some of them say. The boy smiles, acknowledging their apologies with “It’s okay.”

And once again merry laughter rings across the park, the boys bathed in the golden light of the sun, untouched by the cares of the world.