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Detective John had spent 20 years scouting and solving the gravest and twisted mysteries, and seeing a massacre in front of him did not let the coffee and waffles he had in breakfast come out instead; his heartbeat quickened, and the old saggy muscles of his middle-aged body flexed with power that no Zumba class would ever do for him. Being on a case made him alive, and solving it even earlier than the new recruits gave him a hike in pride.

 

‘It’s the fourth case as this, sir,’ squeaked his assistant, a skinny 20-year-old barely out of college. He started earlier than this boy but has never squeaked around his boss. No, he believed in solving the case independently from the start. It is a shame, though, how the panel thought of putting him on any case when at least four people have died. All the unnecessary drama could have been avoided.

 

‘I want all the case files on my desk.’

‘Already placed, sir, but they have nothing in common. The killer is going on a mad killing spree.’

John let out a dry laugh, ‘No serial killer works without a pattern. You need to be mad enough to see it.’

 

A 60-plus widower living with her two cats and a tenant on the top floor who was out that weekend was killed. Next up is a co-corporate man in his 30s, with a healthy relationship with his finances and a good luxury apartment.

Then, there was a college student with a low profile, meager savings, and no drug cases or police records. And finally, married women with caring husbands and two kids.

 

Four victims with no physical contact or any relation in any aspect. No particular age or same gender. No mutual friends or enemies. There are no timeline clashes of any kind. It's like they might have never even met on the road.

 

But all received the same cruel death. All were attacked, drugged, and had their hearts surgically removed before their bodies were switched close. Apparently, a medical expert had attacked them.

 

The killer had struck at odd times when all of them were reported to be alone in their homes. The forensics team came up with no evidence at all the crime scenes.

 

Laying all the facts around his table, John could build a jigsaw puzzle. Somehow, the killer had delivered all the pieces to him, but one small piece had been lost somewhere. And that held the answer to the entire mystery.

‘What are the updates from the organ smuggling department.’

‘No smuggling of Human hearts has taken place anywhere nearby.’

‘After 6 hours, that heart is useless anyways. So, why are they keeping them.’

‘Maybe they are making a trophy collection, sir.’

‘Read less of old hunter stories and give me a tech update.’

‘Well, out of the four victims, two had CCTV cameras installed around their house, and both show a delivery person knocking on the door and leaving the place without giving the parcel.’

 

‘And I assume the parcel gets filled with a heart when he leaves.’

‘Yes, sir, though we cannot track him, and his description is hidden under his mask and goggles.’

‘Obviously’

‘Though now we have issued a warning not to let in any unknown delivery personnel.’

‘Yes, this would stop him.’

The intern was still babbling about their phones and search history. But John was zoned off now and imagining what had happened. A knock on the door, a surprise package, an attack on the head from behind, and after the murder, leaving unbothered.

 

Two things were clear: the killer was good at medical procedures but weak in technology because he kept the CCTV footage alive. This made him a middle-aged person. Probably a male for brute strength and cold-blooded, messy murder. But then, one can never be sure.

Why he was collecting hearts was another question. What was the strange obsession with hearts?

The killer no doubt was fearless to go on a killing spree in such a small town. In Metros, it's easier to hide, but here, he would be caught soon enough. One flaw, and down he goes.

 

But he thought of the killer’s aloofness too soon as the phone rang to report another attack.

 

This time, it had occurred in broad daylight in the backroom of a busy restaurant. Ironically, the young waitress was alone to receive the afternoon’s food delivery, and all the rest were engaged in lunch preparations.

 

Even standing and taking everyone’s report, John knew the killer had gone with his delivery long ago.

After a grueling brainstorming for half a day and witnessing the bodies of 2 victims, fatigue and frustration had both caught up to him. Sliding into a café, he ordered coffee to calm his thoughts. His phone was buzzing with all the news edits of the case. Soon, the reporters will make this a national emergency and cause widespread panic.

 

It's a good thing they had not started hounding him for questions. He considered the flies buzzing around the case an unnecessary distraction and a way to idolize the killer’s actions.

 

The attention is what they all want these days. Even these people on social media attract an audience waiting for their likes. But it's fun scrolling, and on days as such, it's even relaxing. He even felt generous enough to like a few videos. There is no need to be ashamed. After all, everyone is attracted to social media. ‘Everyone.’ The pieces fell into place as he stood up and took out his phone. ‘Yeah, I am interested to hear about their phones now.’

 

His desk had a laptop this time, and the intern was hacking into all accounts. ‘

‘Search for the common follower they have.’

‘There is no one, sir. The old lady did not follow anyone.’

‘It is not an influencer or a big shot person. It is an attention seeker we are dealing with, and he hates the fact that he is a nobody. But he got obsessed with the ones who liked. Check into their last liked videos. They all liked the same person’s video.’

 

‘Not video, sir, his painting.’ The intern turned the screen to show the artist who became a killer.

 

‘Why is he not even hiding his location? We can send an arrest team now.’

‘Well, I thought he was not a technical guy. It looks like he kept technology in place so that his actions are known. He went out to collect the hearts he got as likes. He wants fame, but he will not get it. We will ensure a quiet arrest and case closed.’

‘What about the media, sir?’

‘Tell them it’s a story they won’t like.’

The Crimson Knife

I woke up feeling dizzy and strange. My head was heavy, and sweat clung to the back of my shirt. My throat was parched as if I had a severe fever. 

In my delirious state, I looked around for my phone. I tried to turn it on, but it was unresponsive. I attempted to get up from my bed, but every part of my body ached and screamed in the process. 

Trying to fight off the nausea, I ended up vomiting in the waste bucket. Blinking away the black spots in my eyes, I reached for my desk and charged my phone. Sitting on my chair, I looked around my small dorm, trying to remember where I was last night, but I drew a blank. 

I remembered the entire day until 7:00 pm, and after that, there was nothing. Unlike my usually messy room, it was even more chaotic and dirty, which was unusual for me.

I started to clean off the mess of papers on my desk, and on removing just one layer, I felt like throwing up again as a crimson-stained knife lay there. My hands trembled as I started to reach for it but stopped midway. All the spy movies made me wise enough not to leave imprints on the murder weapon. But whose blood was it? The bigger question was: did I kill them? 

I tried to go back in time, scrolling on my phone for answers but found nothing. 

Looking down my window, I saw no one in the hallway on a Sunday at 7 am. 

Upon further inspection, I found no one’s body in my room. I might be strong, but my gut was not strong enough to drag and dispose of a body. 

After clearing all the mess in my room, I found no clues. I felt more confused than ever. 

Even if I did murder someone, why would I bring back the murder weapon with me? Shouldn’t I have left it back at the crime spot or disposed of it somewhere carefully? 

Maybe someone is trying to frame me. What if they killed my enemy and were planning to make me the number one suspect? Would I be playing into their hands by hiding the knife?

Should I be downright honest and tell the authorities everything? But even I'm not convinced by my story; 12 hours of my life are a blur. I have no alibis to back me up. 

Could it be possible that someone drugged me to set up this game? Or maybe that’s not blood but crimson paint, and I am the butt of the joke, and they are all waiting to laugh at me. 

It wouldn't be the first time I've been laughed at. Being overweight and slow doesn't help you fit in. I stand out and am always judged and mocked. 

I eat a salad; they say it's about time I started to diet. I eat a sandwich and order another, and they say one would never be enough. They say if I don't exercise, shouldn't my brain be like Einstein's? 

In their glares and mockery, I find solace in this chair. As I stare at the knife, I feel the weight settle on my shoulders. One deep cut is all it takes, and maybe by evening, they would come to help me, but the doctors would say they were 20 hours too late.

Painting a Story

 

A painting holds a million stories.

As a writer, all I knew was how to paint with words. I never really understood how a painting can do the work of a story. All it indeed is a drawn-out photograph of a scene frozen in time. Sometimes, it is just a splatter of colors.

I know this first stanza left all the painters annoyed by me. What I meant to say was that I was clueless about the power of paint.

 

That’s why I never really went to any art galleries. I am more of a museum or library person. But when my friend, an avid sketch artist, brought up the art gallery of Vincent Van Gogh. I was indeed intrigued. Firstly, I knew about his painting ‘The Starry Night.’ I won a small bookmark for it at a college fest. Secondly, the exhibition was happening in Chandigarh so I could go on my first friend's trip.

 I love traveling and exploring but have never traveled with my friends. I mean, school trips don’t count, do they? They are fun in a controlled way, with hands at the back, walking in lines, no goofing about, and the itinerary is too rigid.

I wanted to experience a friend's trip, and if it meant reading paintings for the day, I was sure on board.

 

We had wisely chosen Saturday for our trip so that we could study on Sunday. The last bit didn’t work out that well, but we did beat the crowd on Saturday.

 

The trouble was we were short on Photographers. My friend and I have zero patience to capture pictures, and I also have an embarrassing urge to be the model each time. Neither did we have a good phone for pictures.

But in the end, the pictures came out fantastic. Maybe it was necessity taking hold or Van Gogh’s aura overpowering us.

 

Traveling with an art nerd meant that as soon as the immersive projector threw on his next painting, I would get an in-depth description of why he created that art piece. Seeing the colors and lighting was fun, but at a deeper level, I felt Van Gogh was just a storyteller. He used his paintings to tell his life and draw down his hopes and aspirations. He lived so many years ago that people can assume what he must be thinking then. Maybe he just created art without overthinking about it. It's like a story without a title. Perhaps he painted because he wanted to get out of the routine. And now, years later, we have gauged stories out of it. After all, it's human nature to seek a happily ever after everywhere.

 

As the colors spurred and merged, I just tried to soak in the wholeness of the moment.

 

I was living the Starry Night in real life. Then, I was standing at a crossroads on the field.

 

I couldn’t help but feel baffled at how artists were locked up in Asylums in that era. In the end, maybe all these crafts are witchcraft. They come with magic of a kind that can turn our minds senile.

If Van Gogh lived today, he would be a Pioneer or perhaps just another street artist trying to find fame on YouTube. It's funny how luck and destiny tick.

 

Sometimes, I wonder if I am crazy for my art, too. Maybe not, because I juggle with my engineering day job, but at nights or quiet weekend mornings when I perch on my desk with my pen, I feel my power course down through it. I understand how Van Gogh felt sitting in his tiny cell, cut off from everyone, but still feeling the urge to draw, paint, and tell stories. It's what makes us feel so alive.

 

Gogh was even a writer, as he had penned many letters for his reference. After a decade of artwork, he was gone. The hate finally took its toll, and he crumbled to his fall.

 

Now, the very same society worships him for his art. But when such artists live among us, we find them queer. And history has repeated itself a lot over time. The names change, but the aristocrats remain.

 

As sunflowers sprang up around the exhibit, I vowed to appreciate all the creative people around me. Ultimately, we are all storytellers trying to make this worldly life fun and beautiful for everyone.

 

 

A Phony Obsession

He came into my life when I was going to begin college. I had never been this free in my life. So free, so full of joy and energy. Then he walked straight into my arms, and I found a new emotion: obsession.

 

Being obsessed with my first-ever phone made me blissful. I was very clumsy with it at first; I kept forgetting to charge it, and I used to ignore it for hours.

 

But our love blossomed slowly as I discovered WhatsApp was not the only social media platform. When I came on the trending Instagram, I realized what it was like to be one of the cool kids. And that is how this phony love grew more assertive.

 

Being on the phone for hours, I realized no one could ever be bored. It was a wonderful place to escape, too. The phone is everything: your alarm clock, your calculator, your connection to the extremes of the world, your newspaper, radio, television, textbooks, and even your teacher. Everything can be done on this rectangular palm-sized screen.

 

Of course, I knew better than extending old relationships when I started college, so I removed Instagram from my phone—keeping the lesser of the two evils.

 

Little did I know that my WhatsApp would be filled with so many groups in college. A primary group is created and then branches into sub-groups and sub-subgroups to discuss people absent there.

 

It was like an entire society flourishing there.

 

I admit I was nervous about texting at first. It felt weird sealing deals and discussing things in texts. Should we not meet offline to discuss it?

 

Then I started typing it in just a few messages but as a writer, I found this exhilarating. Offline, I have always remained an introvert. But texting was all about wordplay and the right timing.

 

The phone became my new shield. There is no need to make eye contact to get to people. Texting helps me be a new me. I could not see anyone’s judgemental looks, and their jokes on me seemed small when typed in words, I could delete any part of a conversation, re-think about what to type, use emojis when I get bored of expressing my emotions, and be much cooler than I really am.

 

I was slow to realize this made me even more hooked on my phone. I got urges to hold it and switch it on and off like a pacifier.

 

I felt so much in my skin with it. It changed me; I felt so connected to the real world. I was no longer zoning off into fictitious adventures. People heard and loved me in the real world because now I was too a phone-hooked Gen-Z.

 

It is funny that I started as an amateur but soon left many of my friends behind. I was very instant with my replies, but they took hours to reply to me.

 

They may have had a heavy class schedule or too much workload. But then summer vacation began, and people took even longer to respond. The old insecurities started to creep back in. What if everyone hates me? Maybe they have even created a hate group for me—or worse, a meme page.

 

I know I have this Main Character energy, thinking that the script revolves around me, but I cannot help it when replies come after 5 -6 hours.

 

This made me wonder if I was addicted to my phone. My parents often pointed this out, but I brushed it off.

 

But then I thought about the last time I lived without my phone. It was before I got it around 12 months ago. So, indeed, I can survive 12 hours without my phone now.

 

The day I chose to be off my phone, I woke up at 6 am. Terrible choice, well not cause, see, the logic was I would be able to use my phone at 6 pm. See, it seemed so close.

 

Until 9 am, I was fine. But then I felt my first hunger pang as it was morning milk and phone time. I fall asleep early, so I must read all the discussions, gossip, and scandals discussed overnight in the morning. Now you think that day I finally got the time to be uncaged and spent my time drinking my cup of milk peacefully while going out for a stroll in a garden and even singing with the birds.

 

No, not at all; what am I, Cinderella? Nope. I just spent a sad time being bored and edgy.

 

I had to keep reminding myself of the challenge. At 10 am my brain was going frantic about the critical emails. I had to remind it that no publisher would message you. You are not being affiliated with the Nobel Prize because we missed the deadline for filling out the form. You are too young to be announced as the PM.

After 15 minutes, my brain had another issue: What if my friends were worried about me? What if I was required for some work? I had to remind myself that I am not Batman and that the world does not need saving. Moreover, there is an option for phone calls; I will be called if I am wanted that much.

Then again, my brain screamed, what if some vital, urgent message came? It was tough to tell it to calm down. It is as tough as keeping a teenage girl away from her boyfriend.

 

By noon, I was coming up with flimsy excuses like my Duolingo streak and YouTube Web Dev tutorials. I literally watched it one day; why would I need to continue it today, of all the days?

 

I knew I had to up my game to succeed, and I did what every sane person would do: read the entire novel Kite Runner in six hours. Then, I spent two hours getting over my hangover and writing its book review.

 

I finally realized that it was 8 pm, my curfew was over, and I could return to the digital world.

Oh God, my phone was bombarded with texts.

 

People talked and discussed things, sharing reels and jokes, and the world kept moving. No one seemed a bit anxious that I was phone-dead the entire day.

 

I got a nasty blow on my ego that day.

 Did I chuck my phone away? No.

 

All I learned was that it was all for show. We are not at all connected by our mobiles. Not only me but everyone, even you, are using it as a façade, a mask to put on a fake self forward.

 

In Artificial Intelligence’s grand scheme of world domination, we thought AI was trying to become human, but what if it was a step ahead and turned us into Artificial Dumbness?

 

Scary thought to explore as I pick up my phone again.

Drowning in Doubts

When I learned to swim, I forgot how to drown. No, honestly, I remember how during swim class, my friends and I would deliberately try making our bodies heavy so that we could act like we were drowning (and get an early off from training), but the auto swim mode remained on. Five years later, I realized water was not the only place we could drown. Recently, I have started drowning in doubts; they feel too deep to jump out of.

 

I have completed my first year in college. Successfully or barely? Well, that is my first doubt. What defines ‘successfully’? Passing each subject or toping in each subject? Cause I seemed to have just satisfied the former.

I have always considered myself a ‘Yes’ student, meaning I agree with everything the teacher teaches without asking any doubts. But as my fresher year ends, I am surrounded by deep doubts.

 

Not the philosophical ones, like who the creator behind the universe is or what happens after death. But practical or pathetic doubts like am I social enough?

 

I do not know about you, but I sometimes feel that if I talk too much, people will think I am a crazy blabbermouth. And if I remain this silent, then they will think I am a crazy psychopath.

 

I cannot act as a mixture of both; instead, I work on the extremes. Every morning, my body decides which suit to wear, whether an extrovert or an introvert.

 

And then I doubt you would still be reading about my doubts.

 

This leads me to my identity crisis. I opted for engineering after thinking for a long time, and not that I am upset by my decision. I am just confused about how my writing fits into all of this, like where I will use my words in coding or which theorems will imply my fancy quotes.

Maybe it is writing that makes me lose marks as I sometimes flounder by using words from the dictionary. A string of compressive English flows out of my mouth when I get panicked or nervous. And who wants to listen to a long monologue instead of a simple conversation?

 

This brings me to my next concern: trust. It is a dangerous thing. I have read too many detective stories and watched so many thrillers, and I now silently judge my shadow. It is not difficult to make friends; trusting them is difficult. And I hate myself for it. They make it so easy in fantasy novels. A perfect trio or a bunch of five or seven friends getting along effortlessly. Sherlock even has a best friend, Watson, who is his accomplice.

I, on the other hand, talk to my friends while enclosing myself in an ice cube, not letting their warmth seep in. Is it right to doubt their intentions? Yes, they understand my problems and can relate to them, but can they resolve them, or will they gossip about them? Are they my true friends? What if I am the problem? Maybe I am a toxic friend? Perhaps I overthink every situation, but even a ‘Hi’ or text can seem frightening to me sometimes.

 

Ultimately, I spill the beans to my mother and father in our super-secret conferences every night. Does trusting my parents so much turn me childish and naive? Am I wrong to be so dependent on them even after I have completed my first year of college?

 

I wrote how I was homebound every weekend, but spending two months of summer break at home seems like a long time, and I long to return to college. Am I growing up? That thought scares me a lot, as it leads to more doubts.

 

I am not ready to behave like an adult. Getting out of the teenage phase is challenging, as in my last few months as a teenager, the teen drama has not decreased. I am either confused or angry; nowadays, as soon as I turn confused or doubtful, my anger starts bubbling up.

 

It steams up and flows out like an active volcano, leaving behind rocks of depression and ash of guilt at this fruitless act.

And, no, meditation does not work because I do not want it to work. When I am angry, I feel so happy getting rid of all the feelings I have felt. It is a self-made therapy, and even though it is scary for others to watch, it is pretty relaxing for me.

But the thing is that now I need to calm down as I step on a new level of growing up, and it sure does leave me in fear. Then, I doubt whether there is much scope for me as a grown-up. I am a mess emotionally, but what about professionally?

 

I keep hearing how AI is snatching all the jobs. You can code on AI and even write with it. Even before I enter the market, my two core skills have no worth left.

 

I doubt how I will survive in this passionate world. I suspect my CG, which remained shy of 9 in the first year, will be high enough to impress.

 

As for the skills, I feel like a jack of all trades, a master of none. Will that be fine?

 

I doubt the time I invest in studying is being utilized, I then doubt my answers in the examination hall, and finally, I doubt whether my report card is good enough.

 

I doubt I will gain super brains by accident anytime soon.

 

Eventually, I drown so much in doubts that tears and depression lay heavy on me. The future seems so dark. I doubt I will ever be something or not. Will my words be read or not?

 

But then, no one knows this, right? Nor Shakespeare, nor Einstein, nor Usain Bolt, nor anyone, not even the commoner, does not get a guided set of instructions on how to build your life.

We write our destinies. That is what made me begin writing.

So, I write, leaving behind my words on the cloud of the internet for years to come. I do not know who will discover them, but I have one message: drowning in doubts is not bad; dwelling in them is critical cause the longer you remain, the lesser time you have to find the answers.

 

Hide and Kill

Fifteen summer break days have already passed, and we have done nothing. Well, except for our video game skill polishing. We were crashing at Rich Kid, John’s home, as usual. He ruled over us with all his wealth and grandeur. So, when he said he wanted to spend a night in his old ancestral mansion, we all had to agree.

 

The night was starry, and a pleasant wind blew as we parked in front of the dingy mansion. No lights flickered, and the empty windows stared down as lifeless eyes. It waited as a silent beast.

 

But I looked around at my four friends, and none of them was a bit afraid, so why should I be?

 

John started the mansion tour by reminding us how rich he was. At times like this, I got the urge to strangle him. I turned sideways, and my eyes contacted Jack, and he was giving me a Smirk as if he knew what I was thinking.

 

Martin was already hungry even though we had just had dinner, and Peter was not paying attention to John, his eyes glued to the phone on which he was beating a high score.

 

John stopped in the living room and tried creating the aura of interest that all tour guides do when they reach the prime location, “Friends, this is the room where my great–great–great grandpa died. And no, he did not topple because he was old. He struck a deal with the Demon and lost. His soul was sucked. Today, we should honor him by winning in his lost game.”

Martin cut off his speech, “Dude, we are calling no devil here. Not in the mood for all the hoodoo stuff.”

 

John smirked, “Too late, my friend. The devil has already been summoned, and now, he is here to take away your souls. Behold…”

The lights started to flicker, the doors began to smash, and the fireplace burst into flames as a hooded figure appeared. Peter dropped his phone, Martin toppled backward, and Jack shouted something, but I could not hear anything. All I saw was the figure stepping out of the fireplace before everything darkened.

I came up to a whiff of some medicine. An older man was leaning over me. “Well, it looks like we had quite a bit of fright. I am sorry for being a notorious devil to spook you out, sir. I was paid for the job.”

 

As I sat there being John’s latest prank victim, I could not help but be embarrassed. I was not too fond of jump scares from the beginning, and being the joke behind each incident does not humble you.

 

It was midnight, and John said, “Well, guys, I think our buddy Rick is shaken up; he better leave with the butler.” I spoke up, “No, I am fine.” John mocked, “Oh, don’t worry, he is a man who won’t turn into a devil on the way.” My ears turned red, and this time, I felt something I had never felt before anger. Seeing them all laugh at me, always their target, was getting on my head.

 

Another half an hour passed, and we were now all alone in the mansion if John was to be trusted this time.

That is when Jack said, “Guys, how about we play a game of hide and seek.”

And soon, everyone was on board with this idea; you guessed it, I got chosen to find everyone. As I sat counting on the couch, staring at the grandfather clock.

I just knew the four planned to get more action out of me. They will record it and release it on the net. I earn a lot of views as per them.

 

When the time was up, I went to the kitchen. As I selected the sharpest knife, I remembered a podcast I heard once about how a serial killer was created. They go into the kitchen, pick up the giant knife, and decide it is time to get over all those who make fun of them.

 “Come out, come out wherever you are.” I could make out a boot behind the couch, but it could be a trick of shadows. Still, I trudged out towards it and stopped short. Martin was lying there, blood pooled out of the multiple stab wounds, his mouth was gagged, and his lifeless eyes stared back at me.

 

The knife fell out of my hands; I could not believe it; was it another prank, “Matin, wake up. I pulled at his collar and tried to wake him up. But he remained limp. “

 

“Oh my God,” I looked around; it was Peter. I stood up swiftly, “It’s not what it looks like; I didn’t kill him.”

Peter started backing away from me, “Stay away from me, you maniac.” “I didn’t do anything.” “Then why are you carrying a knife.”

I looked down in shock. My right hand was tightly gripped around the knife; I was unsure how it got there. The knife was dripping with blood. But that could not be possible. I came from the kitchen just now.

 

Peter was running up the old stairs, shouting for Jack and John. I started to give him a chase, all the time thinking if he could just shut up. Suddenly, the old staircase crumbled, and Peter was falling down the hole. But I grabbed him by the collar. Peter started wailing, “Please pull me up.”

“I didn’t kill Martin.”

“Please, save me, I don’t want to die.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I am sorry.”

“You don’t believe me.”

I saw as the fabric gave way, and he fell; his screams stopped instantly. I was shaking; who killed Martin, John, or Jack?

 

Jealously rippled through me; only I deserve to take out my anger on them all.

I continued stomping upstairs. Jack met me on the top of the stairs.

“What is happening, I heard Peter shouting. Is that a knife?” His eyes widened further as I pushed him against the wall. “You killed Martin; how could you? You were my best pal. But now you changed teams. It is more fun pulling my leg than standing by me. Right?”

“Rick, calm down.” His eyes gave away his intentions; there was no care or concern, only fear as he tried to push me back. He was more potent and could lift heavier weights than me, but I was too worked up to give him a chance to fight back.

 

He could not stop me from slicing his neck. And it felt good seeing him slump down the wall. I was ahead of John now. He killed one; I killed two.

 

I opened the last door, and I knew he would be sitting on the desk smirking and laughing at how foolish I was, how it was his master plan all along.

 

But I was shocked to see that he was dead, too.

 

I did not kill John. I did not kill Martin. I could not kill them all.

 

I crashed on the floor and began to cry.

Before long, I was being shaken awake. “Well, it looks like we had quite a bit of fright. I am sorry for being a notorious devil to spook you out, sir. I was paid for the job.”

 

Seeing the Butler stand above me, I heaved a sigh of relief. Looks like I have another shot at it.

Aboard the Last Train

Death was a concept that I only encountered in fiction. In movies where, they speak an emotional dialogue before going limp in the hero’s arms. Death remained a foreigner for a long, but it was just a matter of time before I felt it for the first time.

My grandfather (Daddu) joined hands with death just 15 days ago.

And it has been an emotional incident in my life.

We had planned the annual trip with our grandparents, during which my brother, my parents, and both sets of their parents went together to someplace. Daddu was adamant about visiting the newly inaugurated Ram Mandir in Ayodhya this time.

It was a long journey, and my parents were hesitant since Daddu’s health was an irregular subject. One day, he would be sick; the next, he would be energetic and excited about the trip. A week before the trip, he showed excellent health and high spirits, so we were all hopeful as we got on a train to Lucknow.

 

What happened to his last train ride became my first meeting with death. In all the fear and gloom, all I could think about was how Daddu’s life went a full circle before the end.

 

Daddu was born in pre-independent India in 1938. They lived in the Punjab area, which is now Pakistan. When he was 9, India was celebrating Independence, but areas of Punjab were in turmoil as the partition took place.

The train left the station at 10:30 pm, and we were glad we all clamored on time with our luggage. Seeing the bunk beds and the train chugging, Daddu was extremely happy; he even cracked jokes. It is always pleasant before the storm.

It was raining the day Daddu left his home in Pakistan; he and his family moved along muddy fields and hid behind boulders as robbers pillaged the refugees. They dug holes and buried all the valuables they had, and at night, they were too scared to sleep.

The clock had struck midnight 30 minutes ago, but Daddu was still excited. With every station stop, he used to wake up and then realize we were still not there. After that, he ultimately gave up on sleep and decided to tell us stories.

They finally made it to the Indian border refugee camp. Daddu recounted the daal they had made there and how it was the best thing he had ever eaten.

Being a foodie throughout his life, Daddu sadly became a diabetic patient in his early 60s, and his sugar was always high. Yet, the following day, when we were just an hour away from Lucknow, his sugar was very low for the first time, and he refused to wake up.

Daddu slept peacefully in the refugee camp, but his family knew they must keep moving to settle somewhere. With no fortune, they arrived in my birth town, Ambala, where my great-grandpa started a kiryana store. My great uncle, who was interested in science, began making charts and models in a factory related to science.

Science and medicine will give the cause but not the cure. We rushed him from the train to the civil hospital, where his sugar got stable, but they still couldn’t wake him up. We then rushed to a private hospital, and they detected a brain tumor, but they still couldn’t revive him. My parents decided that there was no use in keeping us at the hospital and that it was better that we kids, along with my maternal grandparents and our grandmother, go to Ayodhya.

God is everywhere, yet we look for him in certain places. By His grace, we believe things happen and maybe also a bit of destiny. When he was 12, Daddu nearly got kidnapped by a man on a cycle claiming to be his family friend, but his uncle managed to save him in the nick of time.

To save Daddu was in the hands of God now; Doctors said it was best to go back home. My parents traveled for 12 hours in the ambulance with my Daddu. He kept moving and moaning, yet his eyes remained closed and unaware of his surroundings.

Daddu said that as a teenager, he grew oblivious to the struggles of making a living. He was not interested in studies and spent time lazing around or going to watch movies that’s until his uncle opened his eyes and brought him to work with him, where he realized his skill to draw out all the charts and science diagrams beautifully, and that’s how he saw hope in his life.

 The first night in the hospital was very hopeful. Being near home, Daddu started to breathe without an oxygen mask. We were delighted and optimistic, but the next day, the tables turned, and it was shocking to know how everything could crumble instantly.

The perfect life crumbled when the Indo-Pak War of ’71 took place. The sounds of cannons were chilling; hiding in trenches and seeing the bombs burst in the sky was frightening. Daddu calmed down his children by telling them it was like Diwali Night.

Night time is the scariest and most uncertain, and you know it's serious when your parents go for a night meeting at your uncle's home. It was sad, but within a week, it became clear that the end was near.

Finally, Daddu began a legacy by establishing his own business based on his uncle's legacy. A company where both his sons (my father and uncle) will join and continue moving forward.

On Sunday at 8:43 am, he breathed his last. Whenever on a phone call we asked him to come and visit, he would always reply I will come on Sunday. He didn’t break his promise as his body lay in our home that Sunday.

 

Seeing him lie there as floods and floods of people came over, I went into the stage of denial. I couldn’t believe such an extroverted, jolly person was not getting up to meet everyone.

He told us not to cry when he will be gone, but emotions sometimes betray us.

 

He lived fully and always stayed in the present. So, while undertaking all the cremation ceremonies, I couldn't help but wonder that maybe he never left the train ride. Maybe his spirit boarded the last train from Lucknow and didn’t even need to go to Ram mandir to meet God.

Life is a train station. We are forever on the journey, waiting to board the last train. However, when the ticket arrives, it is one mystery for sure.