The Night of Love

It looked black. It had always been black. Deep endless black. So black that it felt as if no other color existed. There was a thickness, a strange weight in the black, like a heavy burden being pressed upon something. The depth of black was so intense that, at some moment, one would feel dead. The reality merged with dreams, leaving no corner untouched with black.

It was strange how black and death were synonymous. Black meant the end, where all ceased to exist. Black meant life was left far behind. Black meant there wasn’t going to be another morning again. It was difficult to swallow such blackness with your eyes.

All he could see was such black. He had not seen any color ever, and ironically did not know what black actually looked like. But if you could get into his head and see through his eyes, you’d probably suffocate under the black. He was not sure how the rainbow looked. Nor did he know how red was the rose and how yellow were the tulips. He had no idea about the marvelous Eiffel, Sphinx and Taj. He had never seen the innumerable shimmering stars or the white blotch of the Moon in the night sky. Vast stretches of picturesque landscapes meant nothing to him. He had not seen beautiful women, handsome men, expensive cars and massive mansions. The exorbitant masterpieces of Van Gogh, Cezanne, Da Vinci or Picasso were as good as plain black walls to him. He had not seen Ram, Allah or Christ. He had not seen his parents.

He was not dead, but every bit alive. His body absorbed life every moment. He could smell every season in the air when it arrived. He knew how freshly baked cake smelled like. He could make out the scents of women and colognes of men. His feet knew the feeling of walking on dew strewn grass. His hands knew the touch of a newborn. He could make out the difference between the cold marble floor and the warm bed. He had a silent blank sleep on most nights, but sometimes he had dreams. Dreams full of sounds. His father shouting, his mother sobbing, some neighbor sniggering, the swing he could never ride, repeated sound of metal clanging against metal, and a lot of other noises.

He had felt the sharpness of the knife cut against his flesh and smoothness of molten chocolate sticking lazily to his fingers. He listened to the million sounds, the ones you’d easily miss. He relished the crunch of chips and the slurp of tea. He had not seen any birds but had heard every sound that they could make. The cackle and the caw, the chatter and the chirp, the flap and the flutter, the trill and the tweet…

He liked the smell of his little cottage. It had memories caught in its air. He loved the fragrance of wet Earth right after rain. The same raindrops pattered against the windowpane at nights, saying things only he could understand. The whistling wind bashed against his frame when he stood on his porch. He knew when breeze turned into wind and wind turned into gale. The murmurs of trees told him that something was coming. Even the lull before the storm had a sound only he could hear. The sound of thunder made him happy. There were other sounds that made him happy too, like the rusty gate of his cottage. It meant that he had a visitor.

She visited him every now and then. For him, she was the sound of laughter, the touch of care and the aroma of coffee. They sat on the carpet by the fireplace and relish hot steaming mocha in porcelain mugs. They told each other stories of places they had never visited and people they had never met. They played the symphonies of Mozart and Bach and Beethoven and danced slowly till late in the night. Their bare feet liked the soft furry rug. Sometimes they just held hands and sat in silence. Sometimes he’d just sit there and run his fingers through her hair. That texture reminded him of something sweet. He could do that for hours without saying a word. She would just lie there, silently letting his long fingers touch her hair. She made him feel comfortable. He though if beautiful could be a person, it would be her.

Though he had never known any colors, but she filled those unknown hues in his life. They had been together for quite some time now. Her presence was an essential part of his life. For her, he meant the world. He rebuked like a father, cared like a brother, listened like a friend, respected like a son, loved like a boyfriend and protected like a husband.  They never told what they felt for each other but words were superfluous when actions did the talking.

If anyone would have peeped through the window of the cottage, one would instantly believe they were in love. They seemed so similar. And they were.

After all, even she could see only black.

Fallen Leaves

Winter was about to come in this part of the world. There was a slight chill in the air, the kind that you want to absorb every morning as you step out of the bed. It tingles your skin for few moments as your hand approaches the alarm clock and you swiftly tighten the blanket for the extra five minutes. Those are the happiest five minutes of your day. Winter had a strange ability to instill a delay in time & a delay in movements.

He did not take any extra time to sleep that morning. Something had been bothering him all night, and he couldn't sleep at all. It wasn’t unusual though. There were nights when too many memories wouldn’t let him sleep and there were nights when a certain emptiness couldn’t let him sleep. His profession was deeply connected with good rest. It relaxed his nerves, something that was most crucial to him. They said a sleep deprived brain could not control the body well. And for him his fingers meant his life. He stared at the mirror for a long time. His reflection was piercing into his soul through his eyes. He looked away.

Today he did not feel composed. He took a deep breath, thinking about the consequences of the job that lay ahead of him. For a fleeting moment, he felt himself shudder at the thought of doing it. He recalled some entrepreneurship coach saying that one should be very confident of one's actions when one wakes up, which led to a purposeful day. He almost smirked mentally. Giving lectures was easy. Doing it, was difficult.

He remembered the old days, detailed down to every single moment. He could almost see that demonic dimple on his own face. A familiar old feeling of unrequited Love and sharp shards of betrayal cut through his mental fabric. He shook himself instantly. He wouldn't have imagined back then that he would become what he had. And more than that, he would do what he was going to do. He felt a surge of seething anger jab through his innards. His head throbbed suddenly and he clenched his fists. His body was beginning to show signs of a resolve of steel. This was going to be the full stop to an old tale. He feared the beginning of a new story. He took a long cold bath that soothed his uncertain mind. It is my destiny, and I shall not flinch.

***

She took her time to wake up that morning. It was a Saturday and the Bank where she worked wouldn’t open before eleven. She lazed in her bed. Life had been sweet. Her boyfriend was loving, owned an S-Class Mercedes and had a high cheekbone, one to die for. She remembered the nights they were away and couldn't sleep. And the nights they were together and wouldn't sleep. Her mind slipped in and out of slumber and reverie. She walked to the window and inhaled the misty morning air, stretching her arms wide..

She stood in front of the mirror and stared at her own beauty. She couldn’t help but smile, exposing her little dimple on the right cheek. Her boyfriend loved it the most. Suddenly she was reminded of someone else who wrote a million words of praise for her dimple. That single thought brought a mix of sad and pitiful emotions. She almost smirked mentally. He had been so naïve to give her his collection of poetry on the Valentine’s Day. Words are just mere words, she thought. Love, if it existed, had to be a measurable thing, not an intangible emotion. She felt sorry for him.

The next instant, a strange fear enveloped her. She had stopped smiling now. It felt that she wouldn’t be able to look at her beautiful reflection ever again. She quickly pushed away the silly thought and went to take a long warm bath that added to her sense of satisfaction. A light filled her head that consumed the small dark dot of doubt that lurked in the recesses of her mind. She took her time to get ready for the work, grooming every inch of herself, removing every wrinkle, moving her hands over her marble textured skin. Her life was like a bestselling novel, she thought, and someone must have written it brilliantly

***

The buildings were so high that merely looking at them for a while made you dizzy. The all-weather glass exterior reflected the sunrays to an eye pinching extent. This is why people generally did not stare towards the tall skyscrapers. The Gods of Architecture had made sure that nobody could look them right in the eye. One such glass monster had many uninhabited upper floors.

The Dragunov sat on the dusty windowsill, perched like an eagle. The early December sun glazed over the chrome finish barrel, much like the predator’s shiny feathers. It was silent, waiting, still as a dead clock. The lens of the detachable optical sight shone, like the sharp vision scanning the area for its target, the busy Bank Square. It was high above the ground, much high, and hidden from view. Its prey, somewhere in the crowds below.

The eye on the other side of the lens, blinked.

The dimple and the reflection were going to embrace the end. It reminded him of something poetic. The last few seconds of the prey’s life.

The bullet of revenge seared through her cold heart as she fell down lifeless.