Eden

"And that does not worry you in the least?"

"Would it help if it did?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm not the one married to an attractive woman!" 

Six year old William's unabashed honesty had the latest member of the family in splits, exposing the premature crowfeet around his eyes. His laugh resounded soft and genial with a nervous ring to it as he drew and clutched his palms together in a mock clap. The other children were delighted and began to warm up to their curious Uncle Joe. 

"Looks like Uncle Joe is all shy to go on!" piped Evelyn, which drew another round of laughter from all of them. Even deaf Nana who sat most days on the recliner muttering gibberish, found herself smiling slowly as if she understood everything that was happening in the room. 

Joe took his horn-rimmed spectacles off to wipe it clean. The baited silence in the room made him giggle in bursts, not entirely from amusement though. His palms were sweating profusely by now. 

"How would you little monsters like a story then?" he asked distractedly. The children furrowed their eyebrows, not entirely pleased at their question being waived aside for a story, but the gleam in their Uncle's eyes were unmistakable. His benevolent mischief was proving to be contagious. 

"In a foreign land far away from here, there was a high, misty-walled garden once; it stretched as far as the eye could see! The trees and plants that grew in there were magical; so much so that the legend about this mysterious garden drew visitors from far and wide. The expanse boasted of some of the finest evergreen magnolias interspersed among birches and poplars that lined the gravel pathway network of the garden. A few hardy elms and sappy baobabs dotted the landscape too. The Gardener was..."

"How come there were no flowers in this garden?!" interrupted the ever impatient William. 

Uncle Joe smiled patiently. He had his young tormentor exactly where he wanted, "Oh but the garden did have flowers! So many of them colored in the brightest of hues imaginable! The flowers were the Gardener's pride." 

"There was a Gardener?" 

"Of course!" 

"In a magical garden?" 

"Yes. He was left in charge of the premises at the behest of a strange and bizarre bearded wizard whom men had long forgotten. The magic that coursed through the land was of his doing." 

The children stared at him mesmerized. Uncle Joe had brought his A-game to the table. "And it was this very same magic that reared the blooms, Bill.. At night, one could see fireflies forming a quivering blanket along these flowers. They'd then spiral into the sky at the break of dawn." 

"Wow"

"Among the many marigolds, orchids and tulips that were grown in the garden, the caretaker had a favourite. Nestled within the heart of the garden, it was a... water lily by the pond. A family of frogs took care of it!" 

"A water lily?" questioned a nonplussed Richard, who was silent until now.

"Why yes, a water lily." chuckled the narrator. 

"But I don't like water lilies."    

"What flower do you like then?" 

"I love petunias!" chimed Evelyn.

"Oh!"

"Ooh ooh, I love chrysa-ant..chrysanthemamas!" stuttered Emma. 

"Haha, you love chrysanthemums eh?" 

"I like roses.. but.." replied Richard finally.

"But... they've got pointy thorns?" Uncle Joe cocked his head comically.

Richard nodded. "...but they are beautiful."

"Yes yes, and so it is with all things beautiful. What do you know, it was a rose and not a water lily back at the garden!"

"Really?"

"Yes! A lone coral bloom streaked with crimson in a wide expanse of shrubs, the enchanted visitors would find its shape and whorls mesmerizing. It was a rose like no other, reminiscent of the old garden variety yet blossoming like the floribundas - the scent, ever so calming, lingered on for miles together."

"And the family of frogs?"

"They guarded the rose from all forms of pests and insects. They would swell up their throats menacingly and croak faster when an intruder got too close for comfort!" Joe hunched his back, bulged his eyes and croaked for effect. 

"The tourists, however, failed to be intimidated by the frogs. They would callously trespass to click pictures and yet there were others who became desolate bards, singing its praises in yearning. Men and women, young and old alike, were drawn by the energy that the rose radiated. So much so that a few feverish ones would go beyond the barricade to try and pluck it, only to fall prey to the well concealed arrangement of thorns around it."

The Gardener would watch all of this from afar with a smirk on his face. When the sun bid adieu for her daily repose, he would amble into the park and stop by the perimeter of the prime attraction in his garden. The frogs would stare at him unblinking, their croaks absent, as he would reach out gently, caressing the outer petals of the majestic flower ever so gently. 
"You are mine. Keep growing strong." 
Almost on cue, the fireflies around the rose shrub would glow in bright pulses and the air would be filled with a deep, invigorating scent." Uncle Joe had his eyes shut as if he ceased to exist in the living room and had materialized elsewhere. 

He opened his eyes, "...the kinds with which you get goosebumps!" he said with a lazy smile.     

The children had wonderstruck eyes as they hung onto every word their Uncle had to say. They looked at one another and smiled when they recognized the same dazed expression in each other's faces.

"Did he have a name for the rose?" William asked.

"Juliet. The rose was named Juliet." Everybody turned to the person having a good time in her recliner. Her smile was guileless from the absence of teeth.

 "How did you know Nana?" Evelyn stared at her grandmother agape. But the nonagenarian kept laughing oblivious to all the gazes fixed on her. 

"Is this true?" all of them looked at Uncle Joe accusingly. "The rose in the magical garden... had the same name as our Aunt?!" 

"What a strange coincidence." shrugged Uncle Joe as he lifted his hands up in mock surrender. 

There was an excited uproar in the flock. 

Surreptitiously, the botanist winked at his spying wife. 

The Wallflower

The rain had never felt so annoying. Stranded in the middle of the bus depot, huddled under the refuge of a rusty roof, he silently cursed everything from the Weatherman in the Heavens to his charge-starved mobile phone. With no means to challenge the slow, painful onset of boredom, he kept his calm and decided to while away time with an unintelligent and primal hobby he had developed some time ago. Across him on the bench was a girl roughly his age with an average face and a giggle that annoyed him as definitely as the rain did. He was quick to avert his eyes as he said ‘One’, distastefully to himself. The eyes went back to scanning the vicinity. 

The trick was to make an impulsive judgement in under five seconds using the subtlety of a cursory, fleeing glance; anything more or less would be biased or creepy, depending on how he felt about it. The presence and choice of indirect vision was justified if it helped the cause, though best avoided as far as possible. Yet another crossed him in an unattractive pink chudidhar, hair tied in long, unflattering braids. The copious oiling of it did not help either. ‘Two’ he said as the mental counter climbed up. A hawker by the roadside grinned at him to reveal several missing and broken teeth; all in an earnest bid to coax him to buy vegetables from her. He politely shook his head negatively, “three”…  

The count had reached 153 within a span of a half hour and was still going strong, even as he added another to the counter of unattractive ladies pervading his city habitat. 154. When the restless twiddling of his thumbs had started, he consciously broke the habit to scratch his scraggly beard and adjust his posture impatiently.. 154! ‘Where is everybody?’ he thought, only to cynically answer his own question ‘This is your town. Everybody is right here.’ The thought amused and irritated him equally.

Around the same time, he spotted a garrulous bunch making a beeline for the bus depot. It was a perfect stereotype of a gang of friends as popularly seen everywhere, he thought to himself - The fatso, the loud one, the wannabe-hunk, the flaky skin-and-bones (ugh, 155!), the nerd, the shorty and… the wallflower… The dark blue framed wayfarer glasses were perched gently on a button nose, shielding a pair of bright, brown, almond eyes against a warm complexioned face he would find hard to forget anytime soon. Nestled within a hoodie, her face seemed equally irritated at the downpour; furrowing her brows in a comic expression as she looked up at the bleak skies. The gum she had been chewing on, blew into a bubble and burst on her mouth. The tongue quickly stole it back to where it belonged and he had a good look at her bare yet full, shapely lips. Veiled in a rare charm of plainness, they seemed just about right. He could not help the wry smile playing around the corners of his mouth as mild trepidation of his lingering gaze took over. He looked away and beamed like a complete idiot as several sensations swept over him terminating in a familiar tingling along the nape of his neck.  
‘Counter reset to zero’ he announced to himself softly. 
155 on a rainy day in this wretched town. 
Not a bad day after all.

A creature of habit

The turbulent river showed no signs of relenting. It violently made its way downstream, smashing itself with vengeful intent against the banks that confined it and the rocks that had the misfortune of being in its way. The crowd that had gathered under the shade of the apple tree by the riverbank had their eyes fixed at a spot. Some of them pointed animatedly towards something particular along the course of the water-body; others spoke in ominous hushes that betrayed signs of anxiety.

A man, curiously drawn towards the large gathering, came by to inspect the cause. He was known to be of noble descent, bred with strong, unbending morals and of athletic finesse. He surveyed the landscape ahead and he could make nothing of it.. until he saw it too!

The gruesome spectacle was unmistakable. Caught in the clutches of the current was a definitive, writhing mass of life that appeared to be bleeding. Its vain struggle against the downstream current was futile.

“Is it a man?” remarked a bystander. “What difference does it make? He is a goner he is!” muttered another. “How about we cast a line of sorts?” suggested a third. “Nay, it’d drag the whole lot of us along!” hushed a fourth.

The man had heard enough. After having shot the most despicable and condescending of stares at the throng, he began to strip to his waist-cloth; all of it in an attempt to fight the tide and save the person heading to his certain death. Exclamations of alarm went up among the people – “Lad, you don’t have to do this!” “You cannot save him. The water Gods will not relent.” “Certainly, you value your life more than this absurdity!?” The man silenced them all with a gesture and spoke in an earthy baritone – “His death will not be by my inaction”. Having said thus, he took a mighty, precise plunge into the cold river.

The audience gradually grew in number as word got around the hamlet about a certain aristocrat who was off his chump. The river banks flooded with people, both young and old alike, to watch a daring act of bravery, the likes of which they had never witnessed in a long time. They were quite fearful yet fascinated by the strokes his sinewy body made – not a breath wasted, he covered almost three quarters of the distance towards the being held against its own will in a vile flow.

The man entered red waters. The bleeding was rather profound as the clear streams were now murky. Upon gaining proximity, he realized two things with a rather compelling sense of horror – firstly, the prey was much larger than its rescuer. Secondly, the creature was a wounded bear! 

The folly of his bravado dawned late on him.The shocked creature clung onto the man in a state of panic and desperation, sinking its claws into his back and arms in the hopes of getting a foothold to secure lands... the man screamed in agony!

The bear was agitated beyond reason by now. In a flash, it chewed off the man’s face and climbed onto his limp corpse momentarily as his form spouted more blood. Within moments, the bear saw the end of the stream at a waterfall. In its final moments, it grabbed the dead body in a tight hug and soon disappeared with a long and distant growl. A distinct thud signaled the ending of the growl.

The multitude were too stunned to react. For a few minutes, nobody spoke until one of them broke the uneasy silence – "He was a good lad he was. Valour was his vice."

“Ah well, he didn’t know any better than what could get him killed. May he find peace.” Having muttered thus, the crowd disappeared into a sunset haze of melancholy.    

(This story was narrated to me by my Grandmother when I was rather little. Never quite understood it back then but as with all good things in life, it made better sense with time. She remarked that all vices of the world were synonymous with the bear and that fools have always found it hard to resist the challenge it presented to them. 

Damn!)   

A Journey of Self Discovery

Once upon a time, there was a Mirror. From the looks of it, the Mirror felt that it was a part of a Hotel lobby. The wall across it had oil paintings strung up on a burgundy wallpaper while the ceiling was golden from an array of ambient lighting. It liked the way the paintings looked though it could never tell what they meant or stood for. Beneath the Mirror, was a flower vase, the flowers of which would be carefully selected and changed everyday. The Mirror did not know this for sure. It made assumptions based on the fragrance that wafted about itself everyday at 6 am along with a man dressed in a uniform of black, white and maroon with neatly combed hair and white gloves. The man would then leave after cleaning the Mirror.
Every day and every night, it would see people come to look at it and leave satisfied or determined; it was usually the women who fell under the latter. As was customary, people would stare intently at it for long minutes, alter their poise and posture, adjust their clothing or jewelry, comb their hair and check their teeth, or even have a conversation with themselves which usually were a couple of sentences repeated in varying phonetics and tones, perfected until they bore a smug grin on their faces. The Mirror never understood but found all of this amusing nevertheless. The Mirror, however, held a desire in its heart from a very long time. If only it knew how it looked like....
One fine day, the Mirror made a resolution. Summoning all the courage it could muster, it jumped off the confinement of the Nail on the wall and landed safely on the soft carpeted floor. It looked up to see where it used to be and saw an oval patch of rich, untouched burgundy wallpaper. Beneath it was a small black vase on a table with freshly cut roses in it, the morning dew still fresh on them. The Mirror was happy. Stealthily, it made its way to the exit of the building. There would be no returning.
Nothing could prepare the Mirror for the onslaught of sensations that it was about to experience. It saw creatures of many shapes and forms and even heard their cacophony of sounds, a little too overbearing from the solitude it came from. The air was filled with the smell of roses the Mirror would experience every morning, only this time it was richer! The Mirror felt a layer of aerosols cling to its surface but did not make any attempts to fight the discomfort from it.The ground beneath it felt cool even though the breeze was warm and moist. An uneasy tread around the surroundings made the Mirror realize that it was in a Garden. Beyond the Garden's tall perimeter was a lot of noise and huge metal containers spewing an ugly smog. There were a lot of men and women too, some on foot and some inside these containers. The Mirror paid no heed to it. It was on a quest after all, free at last.
The Mirror saw something curious. In the center of the garden was a fountain that spouted water serenely. Perched by its side was a nervous and shifty sparrow drinking from it, facing a shimmering copy of itself on the surface of the flowing water. The sparrow seemed unaware of this phenomenon of reflection but the Mirror was fascinated by it. Slowly, it made its way towards the fountain. The surge of excitement it felt was immense. Just a little further..
The Mirror inquisitively studied the perimeter of the medieval fountain in the hopes of finding a foothold amongst the stone slabs. Gently, it began the climb, careful not to scrape itself against the treacherous surface of the Stone or fall prey to the slime on them from being damp for centuries. That would not end well it guessed. The water was close by.. the Mirror sensed it. Was this sensation called Anxiety? the Mirror thought for a fleeting second..
The water fell from a height of over five meters in a smooth cascade. It was surprisingly cold. The Mirror stood agape in wonder, taking in all that it could. However, what it saw did not make any sense at all. In a watery canvas that depicted the beautiful garden with all its flowers and green, birds and trees, the center of it all seemed to contain an oval, misfitting illusion. It showed a grey, lack-luster movement. A gradual sense of despair began to sink into The Mirror. The Fountain had tricked it. What it witnessed was a smaller version of the Fountain's pride - its tranquil torrent of water! There was no sign of the Mirror's identity! To the sentient Fountain, the Mirror simply did not exist!
Wrecked with dejection and disbelief, the Mirror made an attempt to flee. It simply could not come to terms with the fact that it did not look specific; that it had no definitive double of itself like that of the sparrow. In its anguish, it overlooked a small discontinuity amidst the continuum of the circular wall of stone around the Fountain.
The impact did not last long. The Mirror fell into the crevice and landed against the heavy and jagged opposition of the stone. Lines capable of divisiveness spiderwebbed along the surface of the Mirror, tearing its existence into several pieces. The Mirror experienced pain and horror at the transformation. In a split second, it could see the sky with its clouds, the stony wall as well as the blue tiled flooring of the Fountain, the multiple drainage vents with tiny black outlets and even traces of the grass growing alongside the Fountain. The information was overwhelming. However, amidst all of this visual chaos, the Mirror saw something... something that flushed it with a sense of achievement.
In its new found, compound vision, the mirror saw a nasty shard of itself. It was grey and black along the sides while the surface was smooth and clean. In its liquid grave, it reflected the sun's brilliance. The Mirror fixed its gaze on the Shard lovingly.. longingly..
The Mirror was finally at peace.













      

A Grimm Harvest (Part #1)

"Ms. Kohler, Mr. Grimm will see you now." the harried housekeeper announced softly. Mr. Grimm's visitor, a dark haired woman in her mid fifties, stiffened slightly at the announcement that had interrupted her carriages of thought. She got up authoritatively from her chair and walked with small, swift yet sure steps towards the door held ajar by Alma, the housekeeper. Ms. Kohler had her hair drawn back in a pleated bun, held together by an intricate bronze hairpin, an heirloom from her Grandmother - Freifrau Erzengelein Hohenzollern, Baroness of the West. Her visage bore many fine lines yet none definite enough to diminish what was once the envy of men; somehow the face now seemed more hard-set and impassive from the rigors of having spent the last three decades as a diplomat for Europe's banking capital, her Motherland. At a casual glance, many may conclude callously that age had been kind to her given that she seemed to have not more than a few extra pounds on her. Dressed in a sober ashen black dress that did not cling onto her needily, none of it held relevance anymore. She was here to finish what should have been wound up a long long time ago.
"Patricia.." the Housekeeper's eyes bore into Ms. Kohler's eyes, "you should not have come." she said with a meek defiance. "You will destroy him."
"It does not matter now." the icy tones in Ms. Kohler's unusually calm voice had its desired effect. With a final look at Alma's pale face, Mr. Grimm's bedroom door was slid shut.

The bedroom was reminiscent of another era altogether with the walls swathed in black and grey while the occasional presence of wood in the form of panels and flooring served as surfaces to ensure that light had not lost its way in the melancholic setting. In spite of the enormous size of the room, adorned with a large crystal chandelier depicting a multitude of Nereids attracted towards a central source of light as well numerous lamps that were concealed well throughout the bedroom, Mr. Grimm insisted that the lanterns be lit instead. Over the past few months, he had acquired a penchant for odd requests and Alma had always quietly complied. "Need more flames.. candelabra over there.." he would say in between wheezes with a labored hand gesture in the general direction. As a result, the Grimm's bedroom, over two centuries old, still seemed to mourn the memory of its inhabitants with a dance of shadows amidst an eerie silence. The Grimm Ancestry, mostly peasants and fisher folk who had acquired a massive fortune among questionable circumstances, stood watch in elaborate portraits along these walls, dressed in the regalia of Counts, while some of them were even made Lords. Their rule over the Island had been a dark one, marred with many years of poverty and famine, in what was once a bountiful land. It was Lord Marcus Grimm, the Estate heir's predecessor, who vowed to bring about reforms on the Island, losing over three quarters of the Family fortune in the process. His numerous titles ranging from formal ones like "Lord of Light" to more informal ones loosely translated as "One Among Us", seemed to be a paltry exchange to the Youngest of his Sons, who watched on quietly as his family was reduced to the brink of bankruptcy. As fate would have it, he inherited the Estate over his brothers, and with calculated conviction, he began to expand the Grimm's fortune back to its former glory. He was largely successful except..
"Richard.." Ms. Kohler spoke, her eyes fixed upon the only other human presence in the room.She did not require an accommodation to the limited visibility the room had to offer. "It is time."
The ventilator in the room hissed a little more sharply than usual. A rasp, almost human, pervaded the pause that followed.
Ms. Kohler, casually lifted the closest lantern and strode towards the far side of the room. She made her way past two large cylindrical glass chambers that seemed to contain pistons in a constant, alternating rhythm, surrounded by a murky fluid environment. A pair of hoses snaked their way from outlets situated at the base of the cylinders, alongside a blood red Persian rug, towards the dull golden railing of a bed. No glances of curiosity were made. She held the lantern up and the flame cast its light far and wide up to a massive headboard, depicting a Lion that was valiantly lashing out at a throng of men, some of whom fought with pikes while most fled. The slain were carved in a macabre heap behind the Beast.
She smiled. Propped up beside the bed in a rocking chair was the small, frail figure of a man Ms. Kohler knew a little too well. Dressed in dark satin pyjamas, he seemed to be wearing sunglasses that concealed a good third of his face. His nose and mouth were covered by a translucent mask to which the hoses from the glass cylinders were attached. His arms lay motionless beside him. Tempting as it may seem to call the silhouette lifeless, a 'heave' along with the rise and collapse of his chest conveyed otherwise.
Richard grunted. He turned his neck to survey the movements of his visitor, the lantern in her hand was quite distracting.
She smiled. "Before we proceed, I want you to think back... I want you to think back to a time where you believed in God & Magic." Ms. Kohler's voice began to emanate from multiple sources. "Think back to a time when you believed in Love and Desire. I want you to think back to a time... when you would easily smudge the line between right and wrong."
The man squirmed. Her voice was making him uncomfortable. The pistons pumped faster and the hissing presented itself in shorter intervals.
"Good." She said without looking at him. She kept the Lantern aside and undid the neat pleats of her hair, letting it fall along her shoulders in thick locks of black.
Richard began to feel a tingle in his lifeless arms. It was not a pleasant experience. A searing pain began to spread to his chest.
"Now I want you to think of all the people you have deceived and manipulated. All the people you have killed in the name of serving your country."
The spasms had started. The wrinkles on the Old Man's face pronounced itself in a mask of agony.
"And finally, I want you to recollect..." Ms. Kohler stole a glance at Richard and continued, "the woman you had betrayed."
The serpentine runes in the design of the bronze hair pin gleamed as Ms. Kohler ran her right thumb along its shaft. The lantern's flame now licked the gentle arc of a dual faceted blade.. one that was notched with letters of a long lost language, snaking in smooth, gentle waves along the arc.. The blade joined a doubly curved shaft forged of a metal, alien to discovered science, that held the sheen of bronze. Together, the blade and the shaft made a formidable symbol of peasants - The Scythe. 
A symbol of harvest.


(End of Part 1)