The Road to Ill-Fortune

(Ah, this one's turned out to be quite a crappy piece of fiction. But after having spent nearly four of my working hours on it, I did not have the heart to flush it down the loo. SIGH! There go my dreams of becoming the next Stephen King...)


He walked down the country road, a basket in his right hand. The sun was in a little too bright a mood, and the heat was making him dizzy.
“Stick to the main road, Juan,” his mom had told him, “Don’t venture into any of the paths that lead into the forest. It’s dangerous... and there are wolves around!”
“Yeah, Yeah,” he had said, before running out of the house with all the enthusiasm of a six-year-old. Now, two hours later, he was tired - and he had almost nothing to show for it.
There were hardly any berries on the roadside trees, and even if he found any, they would be around just because the berry-pickers before him had found them worthless.
Just four in his basket now. After toiling for two hours. What a waste of time, thought Juan. But still he walked ahead — because supper depended on him.
Two more hours went by, and he still handn’t reached the ten-berry mark. “Can’t take anymore of this,” he thought, letting himself collapse under a tree.
He kept staring at the road. It stretched on and on like an infinitely-long serpent, to the very point that the horizon seemed to eat it up. And all the trees by its side were bare, preyed upon by the sun and the ones who had come before him.
“Might as well give up and fall asleep under this tree, forever,” thought Juan dejectedly. Just a moment before he saw the small path that led into the forest.
Should I? Should I not?
In that fateful moment, Juan made the biggest decision of his life: “Mom said don’t ... but bugger mom and bugger her idiot instructions. I’ll just pop in for a minute.”

The trail

The entire landscape seemed to change the very moment he entered the forest. There were more berries, and they weren’t spoilt like the ones on the main road.
Of course, the berry trees here had more thorns - which jabbed into his hands and made them bleed - but who cares about a few scratches when the pickings are so good? “And bugger the sharp rocks under my feet too,” reasoned little Juan, ”If the extra berries in my basket come at the cost of a few sores on my feet, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make..”
And he continued to traverse the forbidden path, which had now started going uphill.
A few miles into the forest, Juan noticed that the berries were now found to be aplenty. And even as the boy’s basket grew heavy with fruit, the rocks under his feet grew sharper and sharper. Time to turn back, Juan’s inner voice told him, but no - he just had to have a little bit more.
So he walked and walked, even as the trees around him seemed to grow denser with each step he took. The sun, which had been bearing down on him for so long, was getting dimmer now. And in the distance, he could hear wolves howling. But still he walked, the basket in his hand starting to glisten with redness.
The path had become a mountain trail now, and one wrong step would mean a quick but gory death. But the berries were all that mattered now. Anyway, with the moon so high up in the sky, it was too late to go home.
Much too late...
Then, from the shadows, he saw two creatures emerging. They could have passed off for wolves, if not for the shreds of cloth that still hung on to their hides. Grotesque creatures, not much taller than him, but with fangs and claws that promised to tear him into half.
“Who are you?” he asked.
No response greeted him. The werewolves just stood and stared, their figures forming awful silhouettes against the midnight moon.
“Who are you?” Juan asked again, breaking into a cold sweat. After what seemed like hours, one of them growled: “We are the ones who came here before you. The berries in this forest belong to us ... empty your basket under the ledge and you can go back with your life.”
Juan looked under the ledge and... lo, he couldn’t believe his eyes! Hundreds, thousands, millions of the red fruit lying under the shadows ... all gathered by the two villains before him.
“No,” cried the boy,” I won’t do that! If you want my berries, you will have to fight for them!”
“Gladly,” said the two in unison, even as the greyness around them assumed a shadier tinge, “Now that you have asked for it.”
With that, the creatures leaped on Juan — their teeth gnashing with hatred. And even as he felt them pile up on him, the boy realised that death could be the only way out of this mess.
They were stronger and wilder, but Juan was desperate. He wriggled and squirmed in the realisation that it was his life — not wild berries — that mattered... and with each bite, each scratch he took - Juan felt himself becoming more and more like his werewolf assailants.
If he got out of this alive, he knew, he would be stronger than ever before. But the catchword, unfortunately, was “alive”.
It was time he showed some initiative. Suddenly, Juan pulled himself together and kicked the first wolf on the shin. And even as the monster grimaced, Juan shoved him hard, sending him plummeting to his death... hundreds of feet below.
This seemed to surprise the other, and even as he stood distracted by its friend’s plight for a split second, Juan rammed a stone into his skull. And the battle was done.
After a few long minutes, the victor slowly tottered up. Wolf skin was already beginning to cover his body now, and it would be just be a matter of days before he grew some real fangs.
But the best part was... the berries. So many berries, he thought with some pride, I may need a truck to take them home.
But then came the afterthought: Who wants to go home now?
I am the best there is... the most powerful! Juan let himself know, before throwing his head back and letting loose a loud full-throated howl. Which was just about the last thing the half-werewolf remembered doing before he felt the earth crumble around him, and fell off the mountain to a certain death.
Juan woke up an hour later, and he knew instantly that he wasn’t going to survive the night. “Aww,” he thought as tears welled up in his eyes, “Just one diversion from the road, and here I am. O, if only I hadn’t taken the forbidden path...”
If only I hadn’t taken the forbidden path...

The Real World

“If only I hadn’t pinched that stupid watch...” mumbled Don Juan suddenly. This was the first sound the Don had made ever since he was brought to the hospital with a bullet-ridden stomach a couple of nights ago.
Martinez jumped up and ran to his side, but the old warlord had already breathed his last.
“Hey Dog! Come here fast! Call the medics! I think the boss is dead!” he shouted. Dog brought the doctors along, and they did everything short of thumping the Don’s spirit back into his body — but no — he was as dead as doornail.
Dog turned to Martinez: “Did the boss say anything? About who the empire is going to? Anything?”
Martinez looked confused: “No.. nothing. Something about a watch...” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “That’s weird. They told me the last statement of the dying always makes sense. Why would he go to sleep talking about a bloody watch?!”
Dog just snorted. “Aww... maybe he was just talking in — what do they call it — extended metaphors. Anyway, come off it... we have to go inform the others.”

And even as the sound of their footsteps receded into the distance, a radio turned itself on in the next room: "Chicago underworld kingpin Don Juan was fatally wounded in an encounter with gunmen led by his protege, known only as Senor Oliviera, on Sunday afternoon. The incident had taken the ageing Don, who had just acquired total control over the city after allegedly eliminating two of his most dangerous rivals, by surprise. According to sources, the wounded Don is still in a very critical condition..."

FIN

Changing seasons...

The scalding summer

Harshad always knew that his father was a cruel man; and worse, a cruel village landlord.
Indeed, Thakur Balbir Singh never cared for the starving villagers — every favour had to come at a much greater price.
For instance... take the case of poor old Balua, he thought. The 80-year-old man had come begging for a bag of grain the day before; and his father had been making him toil for it under the hot sun ever since. First he had made him dig trenches around the village, then he made him plough the fields and now, he was making him wash the pigs — without even according him the benefit of a proper meal.
And yet, the villagers respected the landlord. The more he exploited them, the more his henchmen pillaged and beat up the commonfolk — the lower they knelt before him.
“Sooner or later, the Thakur will fall,” thought Harshad, “And justice will be served...”
He was truly ashamed of his father.

Spring comes-a-visiting

Then, one day, a cool breeze wafted across the region — very different from the usually scalding sandstorms that characterised it. “Here it is,” thought Harshad, “The winds of change are here...”
A messenger came running towards their palatial residence. “Thakursaab! Ranisaheba has come! She’s come back to town!”
Ranisaheba. Harshad had heard many a tale about her. Fifteen years ago, she had been the Thakur’s sworn enemy. That is, until the Thakur used his goons to drive her away.But now she was back. And the boy knew what this meant.
The beginning of the end.
“She’s back!” gasped the messenger, “And she is trying to win the villagers over. Even as we speak, she’s feeding them all at her haveli!”
The Thakur’s wife fainted and all the faces in the vicinity turned pale. But if Harshad expected to see any sign of disappointment on his father’s face, he was sadly mistaken.
“Ha! What’s wrong with you people?” the landlord hollered jovially, his giant mustache glinting in the sunlight: “Go get yourself something to drink and lighten up!”
“Overconfidence and pride. They will fade away with the setting sun,” murmered Harshad to himself a little too glumly.
Days followed months and the reports that flowed in weren’t very encouraging. The Ranisaheba was now feeding them by the horde. She had erected a pandal outside her palace, where her servants used to serve the villagers food — morning, noon and night. Hell, she was even constructing houses for some of them!
On the other side of the equation, the Thakur did not have villagers coming in for favours anymore. He could not even find people to grow crops on his land, leave alone make them work like slaves. And whenever he ventured into the village, the commonfolk would spit loudly to show their contempt for him.
And no, Thakur could not beat them into submission. Probably because all his henchmen had ditched him for the competition.
But, for some reason, the Thakur did not seem worried. And whenever Harshad asked him why, he would repeat an age-old cliche: “Patience. Time heals all wounds.”

The autumn of spring

And then, the tide started turning again.
According to newer reports, the Ranisaheba was not doing that well anymore. By splurging her wealth on the villagefolk and distributing it among them, she had achieved near-bankruptcy. She was now selling off the antiques in her haveli to keep up with the feed-the-poor routinue.
Harshad respected the Ranisaheba... but now, in her newfound poverty — he could feel himself pitying her. The reports started getting increasingly distressing: Ranisaheba could not feed the villagers today; Even now, they are squatting under the pandal, waiting for food. And a few days later: A few villagers tried to attack her while she was coming out of the haveli. She doesn’t even wear good clothes now. And they all spit on her.
This was all very confusing for Harshad. The Ranisaheba had been more generous than Raja Harishchandra himself... but all the villagers felt for her was hate.
He glanced at the aging Thakur; he seemed neither happy nor sad — just a tad impatient.
The weather was getting hot again. And dust-ghosts now whirled around at regular intervals, as if searching for a place to rest. As if hailing the return of the old days.

Summer’s here... again

A month later, Harshad saw the messenger again. This time, he had good news.
Last night, several armed villagers had entered the Ranisaheba’s haveli through a bedroom window on the first floor. They had stabbed Ranisaheba and her five-year-old boy, then burnt down the building. Nothing remained of the good samaritan now — just ashes.
Thakur Balbir Singh laughed loudly. Then he ordered a bottle of whiskey, which he consumed with a few of his closest associates. That night, revelry reigned in the Thakur’s residence.
The next morning, Harshad went to him again. And sitting on the edge of the bed, he asked him: “Father, how did you know this would happen?”
And the Thakur turned to him, whiskey still on his breath: “Son, I know I’m a hard man. But I’m like this for a purpose.”
Then, settling down, he said: “The Ranisaheba was a good person ... wanting to help the villagefolk and all that. But she couldn’t understand the very people she was trying to help, and therein lay her mistake.”
“Her mistake?” Harshad did not know what to think.
“Yes. It’s very simple, actually,” said the Thakur, “When the Ranisaheba first started helping out the commonfolk, they were grateful and happy. But as time went by, they forgot that she was doing them a favour ... the daily meals became their right. And God forbid, humans hate being deprived of their rights...”
Harshad understood. And when he looked to his side, he saw old Balua .... he had come after eight long months for another bag of grain.
“True,” thought Harshad, as he watched the Thakur handing a shovel to the elderly person, “My father must be a cruel man, but a wise one at that...”
For the first time, he felt proud of being the son of Thakur Balbir Singh.

The dawn of winter

Years passed... and one day, the Thakur eased into his chair.
The cold had set in now, and the desert night wore that spooky , mournful look — as if hailing in a whole world of change.
A couple of hours later, his wife, the Thakurain, tried to wake him up for dinner. But he didn’t.
He had passed into the afterlife with a smile on his face.
This story has no connection with the Ranisaheba one. Nor was the Thakur paying for all the hardships he had caused the villagefolk. It was just that his time had come.
Life, like all other things, must pass.

What is truth, asked jesting Pilate...

Little orange-tinted glasses. He was always made to put them on, even when asleep.
But no, today he wouldn't.
Stam got out of bed, throwing the covers - and his glasses - aside. Today he wanted to face life the way it was. Warily, he stepped out the door. And he certainly wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him...
People - hordes of them - were walking backwards. All the vehicles were moving in reverse, as if that was the way they were supposed to behave. Blindfolded traffic policemen were helping old women cross the street, then dumping them into a well situated just across it. The sun was up in the sky, as if unsure if it were supposed to set or rise. Animals ... there were no animals in sight, only dumb humans who thought they were as smart as they could be. All of them slowly walking backwards and out of sight.
And the air, the air seemed to be on fire.
"This is all wrong!" cried Stam, "All wrong!" And he rushed forward, trying to inform them of the error of their ways.
The humans looked at him, some with surprise and others with disdain. "Who's this madcap?" some of them asked others. "He?" the others answered them, "That's young Stam. But this is weird ...he seemed to be quite okay till yesterday."
Stam couldn't care less. Couldn't they see the obvious? It was as clear as daylight. And so, like some ancient prophet out of a powdering religious book, he tried harder to make them understand. In whispers, in screams.
But to no avail. They just kept staring, their eyes as glazed as glass, until one of them said: "Yesterday was yesterday. Stam's not one of us today! Kill him!"
This the others understood. And they stood erect, chanting the words like zombies in a dear departed choir: "Yesterday was yesterday. Stam's not one of us today! Kill him!" Stones came flying his way. Stam got to his feet, ready to flee. He should never have removed his glasses. Without it, he was alone. He was dead meat.
A big rock hit him on the face. With blood pouring from a gash in his cheek, Stam looked up. The humans were now advancing, their eyes blank and their chant rising to a terrifying crescendo: Kill him, kill him.
Stam started running. Wrong or right, survival was the only thing that mattered to him right then. But everywhere he fled, more and more humans started turning up - raising the same death chant... Kill him.
He had gone too far. The only way was the human way ... and he had violated it.
And just then, when all hope had gone, he saw the Strouk’s house.
They all thought he was a demon. Nobody ever went to the Strouk’s house. Mama had told him not to, either. But then, he did not a choice. And in the present circumstances, mama would be the next to cast the stone.
Stam ran into the Strouk’s house, all the while looking back in fear. But no, the humans did not follow him; for some reason, they all feared — and respected — the Strouk.
The house was dark and dusty. A few pieces of furniture, covered with a white (now yellowed) blanket, lay in the centre of the living room. At the far end was a tiny washbasin, stained with spit. And beside a window, in the west end of the room, was the Strouk.
He was laughing.
“You are the third person to come in this decade. Do I sense an intellectual revolution in the making?” he asked rhetorically.
In Stam, emotions were battling for supremacy. Part of him was scared, part of him was angry, part of him was dumbfounded ... but for the most part, he was curious.
“What’s all this?” he asked aggressively, “Everything’s wrong out there. But they just can’t see it. And they want to kill me for pointing it out!”
The Strouk remained calm. He had seen quite a few tantrums in his age to be really impressed by this one.
“So what if you saw them walking backwards,” he asked, “You were supposed to be wearing your glasses. Outside of them, truth’s not the same.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have removed them,” admitted Stam, “But that doesn’t change the fact that we are still doing everything wrong!”
The Strouk pondered for a while, and then said: “For a world that knows black to be white, who’s to tell them what is day and what is night?”
Stam hadn’t thought of that. “So, the one-eyed-man isn’t exactly king in the land of the blind?” A smirk spread across the Strouk’s face and, for a split second, Stam thought he spied an evil gleam in his eyes. “No... far from it. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed has no place. For a while, they will shun him ... and later, after they have had enough of his madness, they will roast him over a slow fire. Because, in such a place, darkness is the truth.”
“C’mon,” said Stam, “Truth cannot be founded on a majority decision... can it?”
“Of course it can,” responded the Strouk, “Until the day someone discovers that the sun is just a figment of the imagination, they will go on thinking that it is a ball of burning gas. And till then, it will be the only answer to that question... You see, the possibilities that lie before you are infinite. You have to pick your own Truths.”
Stam could now see what he meant. His questions were answered, but he wasn’t happy. But then, happiness is not a very easy thing to achieve.
The Strouk spoke up again: “I think you have overstayed your welcome — and it's time for my nap anyway. Why don’t you close the door as you leave?” And when he could see Stam hesitating, he said, “Don’t worry about the humans outside. You would be surprised to notice how weak their memory is.”
So Stam picked himself up and stepped out the door.
Indeed, the crowd of humans had dispersed and the only ones around were busy walking backwards. Stam looked back to see the Strouk preparing for his nap.
“Life sucks,” Stam thought as he put on his orange-tinted glasses and joined the great majority.