The Souvenir (Part 2)

As the darkness before his eyes cleared, Simon felt a numbing pain in his head. He could barely lift his blood soaked left eyelid. With half-blinded vision, all he managed to see were two pairs of legs scuttling away towards the entrance followed by a bang of the closing door. As he lifted his right hand to sense the source of the unbearable pain in his head, he felt the soft tissue soaked in gore. He pressed against the wound in a battle against gravity and lifted himself to his feet. At that moment, he still found comfort in knowing that his wife and unborn child were safe. He moved to his left to light the chandelier that illuminated the living room below and saw the light filter through the glass onto the still body of his wife, blood oozing from the passage the bullet had made through her forehead.

April 10, 7:30 AM, London (UK):

“I’m telling you, she’s going to love it”, hollered Patricia as her inattentive brother continued to act aloof, looking through the window onto the street below. “It’s just the perfect gift – the symbol of eternal love to mark the start of your love life”, she continued, her voice now more of a sing-song. “You got to get up and go. Proclaim your love to her, you snooty fool”, her voice ebbing back to its normal high pitch.

“I’ll look like an idiot.”, Jake finally responded. “No, you will not. You have been infatuated with her since high school. And believe me, she knows it too. I know her, she’s my best friend. She just can’t understand why you are being such a sissy about proposing to her”, Patricia’s voice was now shriller than ever, and the house’s glass panes stood in mortal danger. “Ok, I’ll do it. But I won’t carry this nonsense object with me”, Jake got up on his feet. “Just take it along, she’ll like it even if you don’t”, Patricia thrust the object-in-question into her brother’s reluctant hands, and pushed him out of the door.

Walking on the kerb, Jake thought to himself, ”Wow. This is it. I’m going to proclaim my love to my childhood crush.” “Taxi”, he shouted and bam, a cab parked itself right in front of him. Today was his lucky day, or so he thought. “Piccadilly”, Jake uttered as he got into the car.

As the cab swerved its way through the buzz of the daily commuters on the streets of London, Jake picked up her sister’s forced offering and began to carefully analyze the details, the civil engineer that he was. As he turned the trinket around, he leaped from his seat, as if pulled by an invisible hook, the trinket tumbling off his hands onto the front part of the cab. “Sorry sir, Didn’t see the bump coming”, exclaimed the abashed driver. “Never mind, my showpiece fell off. Can you look for it?”, Jake responded in an uncharacteristically calm tone. Nothing could have spoiled his mood on this bright sunny morning. “Sir, do you mind if we look upon reaching your destination?”, the driver said. “Ya, no problem”, Jake pushed himself back and crossed his arms below his head, as the cab hit the deserted Circus street and caught speed.

After another half hour of smooth driving, Jake finally saw the brick-red building in the distance, and its unmistakable stone engraving – “Gottenham Music School”. “Can you park the car by the gate, Mr.? My love interest is supposed to finish her violin lesson in another 5 minutes.”, uttered Jack, now giddy with excitement. But the cab driver didn’t slow down. “Excuse me, Mr. I said – Stop right here”, Jake demanded. “I’m sorry Sir, I can’t. The brakes are stuck”, exclaimed the panting driver.

(To be continued…)

The Souvenir (Part 1)

April 10, 1 PM, Agra (India):

“God, I hate these dusty April winds”, cried the vendor for the umpteenth time in the day, as he passed the cursory sweep of his long tailed bushy haired broom over the trinkets. “You whine more than you sell”, beamed the voice of the neighborhood fruit vendor. “At this rate, you’ll go hoarse before your cart empties itself off its worthless contents”, the sarcastic overtone continued. The vendor was unfazed, years of proximity with Gogi, the fruit vendor had taught him two lessons – his words were as bitter as his fruits were sweet. But the proud owner of “Agra Souvenir Shop” was not pleased with the way destiny had panned out for him over the past few weeks.

“Kabir bhai, chai?”, bellowed the orphaned tea-boy as he wheezed past the sniffing Gogi’s cart with so much as a hateful sideways glance, and handed over a tumbler of hot tea to the souvenir cart owner. As the noon sun began to shower all its mercy (or the lack of it) on the hapless cart owners, Kabir pulled open his tattered umbrella. The shade offered him two comforts – escape from the solar munificence and escape from the neighborhood banter. As he sipped the ember liquid, he began recounting his poor fortune over the past few weeks. All he had sold in this period were 3 reincarnations of the Taj Mahal, the glorious monument besides which he parked his cart, cast in marble and encapsulated in glass. The piece was beautiful, nevertheless, it wasn’t his big-ticket product. He clearly remembered the 3 customers due to the few and far in between sales.

April 10, 2 AM, Connecticut (USA):

“Simon, Simon, wake up. Someone’s in the living room”, whispered Celia into her husband’s ears. Simon woke up with a start. “What? What happened?”, he cried. “Sshhh, I think there’s someone in our living room. I heard voices downstairs”. Simon strained his ear for the semblance of a sound but there was none to catch. “Go to sleep Ceiliaaaaaaaaaaawn… You are hallucinat…”, he was caught in the middle of his drowsy sentence by a loud sound of glass breaking on the ground floor. “Quick, Celia, climb out of the house through the fire escape. I’ll handle these cons”. “But…”, Celia cried. “Just go, I’ll be safe. You have to save yourself and my baby”, he placed his hand on his pregnant wife’s lips. Celia climbed out of the window onto the terrace as Simon jumped from his bed, caught hold of his grandfather’s musket that had been hanging over the bed since some decades and set off to duel the intruders. He stepped onto the staircase, pointed the muzzle into the obscure darkness of the living room below and shouted,” Who’s there? Freeze or I’ll fire.” Two silhouettes emerged from the dark abyss below, holding their hands up in the air. One of them cried,” Please don’t fire. We’re just thieves. We surrender.” Simon turned his gaze towards the other silhouette. It had only one arm. “Poor little thing, handicapped and thieving”, he thought to himself. Or was it one arm up in the air while the arm was groping in the dark for something. Before Simon could comprehend, he saw a semicircular object approaching him with lightning speed. “Boom”, went the gunshot. There was a momentary silence followed by a hollow thud on the floor.

(To be continued…)