She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf - went the first line of his manuscript. Akash is a passionate writer who turned into an enthusiast after many positive feedbacks and a stubborn after being called just-another-chocolate-boy-writer. To prove them wrong and to portray himself as a matured writer, he dipped his pen this time not in chocolate, but in blood.
Akash grew up with a ‘sarcastic spoon’ in his mouth. In a silent classroom, between the power lectures and power naps, his one-liners were a break. While growing up, all he would do easily and untiringly alongside playing was being naughty, verbally. While kids of his age played pranks, he quoted adages. He was a normal geek, not a geeky geek. Too geeky to be normal and too funny to be a geek. Once at a colony meet, he mouthed this, “Jab se tum ne ami tomay bhalobashi, jab se mere aata majhi satakli”, which eventually everyone thought of as his father's dialogue. The hall filled with riots of laughter and he slipped out to learn the next new thing and use.
Colors always fascinated him. According to him, anything red is blood, white is vanilla ice cream and yellow is poop. The more he thought, the more he liked them - their consistency, color and presence in his everyday life. No poem, assignment or drawing would go without at least one of them. The vexed up teachers framed topics such that they won’t need, even in the slightest way the mention of his obsessive subjects. But, he brought out yellow clouds in an essay about Manhattan Buildings and how they touched, broke and rained on everyone. And, inviting vanilla into any assignment was not a big deal, after all vanilla ice cream was the staple dessert of his family. And, red blood had flown out even when a construction mishap occurred and the workers were all out on a strike. He proved in his own way, there’s no frame in a movie, no scene on earth and no page in a book without them. They were O-M-N-I-P-R-E-S-E-N-T.
It was now the time for the O-M-N-I-P-R-E-S-E-N-T to come to the present, after fifteen years. Blood, he thought aloud, would be a treat for his blood-thirsty critics-cum-friends. The years after fascinations were filled with fantasies. Teenage love, romance, flowers have replaced blood, vanilla ice cream and poop. Well, that changeover was not difficult and now, this shouldn’t be too, he underestimated. When he sat down for his image-changing story his pen hardly moved. Ideas were unlimited, but somehow proposals and breakups were inevitable in his lines now.
During his school days, when all other kids would butter up their teachers before exams, Akash would simply call them ass-kissers, in a way too advanced lingo for their age. In his journal he wrote that his exams sucked. And now for his stagnant story-writing skills he wrote, my story sucks. Then he did what he used to in the exam halls. Write the incidents happening in his and others’ lives as an answer to the questions.
So, Akash took a clichéd incident from his life and added the color which is the need of the hour, red.
She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf...
While he was waiting for his friends at the Starbucks, he saw a pretty girl sipping coffee. He observed her, not with the intent of a writer but with the eyes of admirer. She was not tensed or sad and neither did she have a knife smeared with blood. She was simply tired and her eyes revealed a little more than just the lack of energy.
She held her coffee by both her hands, as if a moment lost with that cup would never return. The frills of her black-sequinned skirt agreed with her intentions of maintaining low-profile in the coffee shop. They didn't turn and twirl when she shifted sides on the chair. Her bangles didn't crackle, her kajal hid her feelings and her cheeks blank as if they ran out of expressions. Her airy, vibrant top was somehow a spoilsport.
A book lay beside her and a blue scarf was thrown carelessly on it. “LOOKING FOR ALASKA” read its spine in a congested, lanky font. The novel was his only calling card, thought Akash, the admirer.
The curtain panes in the café, flickered at the harsh breeze hitting from the open window. They were loosely hung, capable enough to hit and run like a live wire. Right near the window she was sitting facing the breeze. The panes fluttered again, this time carrying the force of the wind along with them. They reached just till the tip of her nose, but couldn't touch her. She neither moved back nor showed any disturbance in her behaviour.
“Hi! So, John Green it is!” he said approaching her table in an obvious tone.
Staring blankly at him she said, “No.”
“Okaay. I bet its, Pudge?” Seeing no expression he read out the list, “Chip?.. Lara? I guess not.” She smiled at this. At least, she has read it, he confirmed. “Alaska”, her smile answered.
She didn't seem like Alaska, neither unstable nor dramatic or not even a surprise mix of both. The bookmark was almost towards the end of the book. She hasn't finished the book.
Her head is always held high not as a necessity but as a sign of her attitude. She simply smiled, not to the panes but to herself. It is the story of her life, an eligible bachelorette and guys just like the window panes, always sought her attention. But she has always been the chooser. No one from that list has ever been conferred the fortune of being recognized the second time they meet. She was an absolute scanner, a perfectionist and a lie-detector.
“Oh! Interesting”, said Akash, actually worried. Thank god, she didn't finish the book, he thought. She would change her opinion soon. “I am Akash. I didn't see you before. Are you new around here?”
She seemed to enjoy the café, the position of her table and the din of the people around. For her meeting, that corner and that noise were very important. It is not going to be a smooth one.
“Hi, I am Rima. I am not a regular, just waiting for a friend,” she said casually. Something about her was very relaxing, soothing and definitely friendly. She was the kind who can be approached to seek solace and love, but not to offer. She removed her bangles as if she’s getting ready for a duel and put them in her satchel. While reaching for the cake on the platter, she hit the book by mistake and it fell to the ground.
With storm like hands she pulled her scarf to tie her hair, forgetting about the knife. The curls wrangled with the scarf for freedom. The knife bundled in it, sprang to the floor and made thudding sound which took a few moments to die down. Her heart sank and so did her plan. Her fast hands spilled the hot coffee on floor covering the knife and the blood stains. She graciously apologized to the disturbed neighbours and before the cleaner cleaned it, she exchanged the knife with the cake server on her table.
The writer in Akash suddenly remembered the deadline and started a conversation with her. “I often come here to read or write, you know it’s usually not this noisy.” Without Rima, there is no story.
Though she covered up the scene in the coffee shop, what would she say to Sawant, who had been waiting for this since his childhood? Her brow started to sweat profusely; he will be here any moment. It was a memento for his revenge and love. Why she among all, turned out to be the spoiler? It was her moment; it was supposed to be their moment. But she ruined it.
Rima shared her experiences about Chandigarh, her hometown and how it was different from this city. And Akash listened intently to her, framing stories mentally between their dialogues.
Rima was waiting for Sawant, the leader of the students who have been suppressed, deprived of their rights and reservations. The members did all they can to get what that is rightfully theirs. But things only worsened. Her blood boiled with all these bitter memories. This time they fought the government itself, they staged a dharna or strike in the capital city for the government to listen to their pleas. Sawant’s brother Harshavardhan led this movement. Meanwhile, Sawant organized speeches and rallies to build up their strength with the support of neighboring universities too. In the chaos during the movement, Harshavardhan was killed. Before he breathed his last, he handed the ancestral dagger out of his pocket, crossed his right palm with it - a symbol of victory for him and a token of victory for his folks and gave it to Rima. They got the justice they were longing for, that day after the thousands accompanying him lost their cool after his death. Like all other rebel groups, the token of victory was as much valued as the victory itself. Rima was now ashamed of her carelessness. This was not just a moment of celebration, but of her love. She was planning to propose for their marriage while handing him his trophy. As Sawant approached her, she rose with a serious look.
As they were talking, a group of youngsters entered the café. Rima without any gesture simply walked past the talking Akash. There he was Pratap, in his shiny shades and flirty bangs. And there she was, nothing like what she was a minute before. She grabbed her satchel and went towards them. May be its her friends, he thought and the story lines were still forming in his mind, taking turns and twists.
Out she brought the dagger spilled with coffee and stabbed herself heart in one forceful stroke.
She took out a bottle from her bag and walked straight to Pratap. She pinned him to his seat with one hand and her leg was on his thighs, stopping him from rising. He was tall and hefty and she was unforgiving and revengeful. Akash was in complete chaos, there was a blur between reality and his fictional story.
Sawant ran to hold her and fixed his eyes on her. As if they asked for explanation, Rima said, “I couldn’t bring to you the smell of victory. Sorry, please forgive me.” Before he said anything, she continued, “We won. And my blood on this dagger is the proof. But before you say anything, I would like you to know that I love you. My sole question in life was ‘How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!’ I guess ‘straight and fast’ is the quick and peaceful way.” While the onlookers were shocked, Sawant was shattered. For a man’s word, this woman, the woman he loved left her life...
Pratap’s friends were too shocked to move, she was the only one who knows the plan. She was the director of the scene. With her storm like hands she emptied the liquid in the bottle on his face and body. It was acid. She never bid a goodbye to Akash. His story remained incomplete. The story in the making was devastated. He picked up book that fell down and left.
Days passed after the incident, he still thinks of reasons that made her do that. This story can have any ending, after all it is for him finish it. But having decided to do justice to it, he researched online, browsed newspapers and finally found Rima. She said that what she had done was justice. He opened the bookmarked page from the novel and found ‘straight and fast’ underlined.
That evening, Akash started his story. Love is not a bed of roses or a path of thorns. It is a journey of souls. Akash knew how his story is going to end.
