[Short Story] The Frosted Rose

Standing in the bathroom, facing the mirror that was above the blue glass washbowl, he surveyed himself running the razor slowly over the barely visible stubble, even as he mulled over the lines. He turned his angular face side to side, unsure which side looked best while facing a camera. He patted his high cheekbones dry with a towel running his hands over his face, testing for smoothness. He stared hard at the mirror and decided that the sharp glint of his gaze was what set him apart from the rest of the players and this was the face he would show to the world. He smiled mildly as he mouthed the lines without uttering them. He turned around and surveyed his half naked, six foot, lean and supple body in the full length mirror that was fixed to the back of the bathroom door - ‘A couple of inches more in height, even a few inches more would have made all the difference!’ ruing the fact that most of the players were turning out to be taller than him. Ok, the speech! Concentrate on the speech!’

His mind said – pulling him sharply from his meanderings.

He spoke the words- ‘Yes, it was a difficult game and xxx is a great player. There were several times when the game was as much his as mine…’ He stopped, pretending to keenly hear a question that was posed to him. ‘Yes my serves were more at the Tline this time...’ then said after a pause with a half smile and a slight shake to his head ‘Yeah, the aces came at crucial times’ pause… ‘I thank this very appreciative audience, my team- my coach, my physio and my girlfriend…’

‘Vijay!’ cooed Shreya his film star girlfriend from the bedroom, ‘Come here baby, what are you doing for so long, in there?’

He returned to the bedroom a little surly from being interrupted, but was soon calmed by the sight of Shreya. She was the girl of his dreams. Tall, athletic and incredibly beautiful with a pearl white complexion that was the envy of her costars. He had been over the moon, the day he professed his love and she had said ‘yes’ as if she had been waiting for that exact moment.


Now the irresistible temptress lay there, half hidden amidst the sheets, and he stood arrested in his tracks, his eyes taking in the beauty he beheld. The blanket slipped a little as she turned to lie on her stomach and he drank in the sight of her ivory smooth skin, her long legs. He sighed in exasperation at his helplessness when his eyes rested on the magnetic curve of her hips.


‘Sweetheart!’ he protested weakly, ‘You are making my life very difficult! I need to work on my speech! Shreya gave a wicked laugh. Vijay gave a sigh and sat down and cupping her chin with both his hands and looking earnestly into her eyes, he asked ‘Sweetheart my friends say you will leave me if I don’t win this game…’ ‘Who did?’ she asked, sharply, sitting up suddenly –legs bent- looking more like a mermaid emerging from the sheets.
‘Aman and Sanjay…’ he muttered. ‘But they’re very wrong baby!’ She laughed, playfully pulling him towards her, submerging him in her warm embrace. He happily drowned in the sea of her love.

He lost track of the time. When he recovered, he found himself in the shower again, all flushed and more confident than ever.


                                 ************************************

They were lunching at the Halcyon club after an exciting match with his friend Aman.
‘Machan this time you will surely win da!’ Aman said half in admiration or was there a tinge of jealousy in that statement thought Vijay. ‘How about your speech Vijay? Is it ready? The big day is barely four days away…’

The duo was soon surrounded by a group of raging fans who wanted Vijay’s autograph. Some wanted photographs with him too. He patiently signed his name carefully in the outstretched books. A girl pushed her way through the crowd and handing him a marker held out her cheek asking him to write on it. As he stood there debating whether to comply – Aman egged him on- ‘Draw a heart –draw a heart and then sign with in!’

Now the crowds were surging towards him uncontrollably, and he found himself drowning in a sea of human bodies – found himself borne aloft by powerful arms ‘Aman! He called frantically, ‘I am here don’t worry…’ Aman’s voice floated in, at the precipice of his consciousness.

Vijay sprang up spiritedly and moved to the court after the break. He was already beginning to taste victory after his one set lead and an early break in the second set over his opponent Prashanth. He moved frantically around the court, eager to finish the game, win the tournament and of course deliver the now well crafted speech. He heaved himself high to slam the ball in the front half of the court. Then all went blank.



                                             *********************************


Dr.Malik walked into the extended care unit, lingering over each of the eight patients who occupied the special ward. He examined them all in turn and explained each case in detail to the young interns accompanying him.

When he reached bed no: 8, he began, ‘This is Vijayanand Murthy, age 32, … you know the famous tennis player, who had the accident in the final … had a severe concussion after the fall, hitting the back of head in the tennis court… has been in Level II coma these last seven years… his eyes open every now and then and there is the occasional convulsions in his limbs.’

He paused, then continued …

‘Often, he goes on as if he is talking but it is always inaudible and almost sounds like gibberish…’he smiled up at his rapt audience. A perky intern asked, ‘Doctor, what is the level of brain activity in such patients? Do they dream?’ Dr.Malik spoke thoughtfully, ‘Obviously there is a lot of brain activity –that would explain the convulsions and the slurred speech- but research is still on about mapping dream activity…’ he didn’t elaborate further.

On the group’s exit, the staff nurse approached the bed for a routine examination. She pulled down his lower eyelid and shone a torch in the eyes of the dark emaciated form. She called out to her assistant to fill in the details in the record sheet in a matter of fact tone–
‘Pupil constriction- Yes
Temperature –normal
Breathing regular…’
Vijayanand stared vacantly at the torch that was flashed at his face.

At exactly 4:00Pm in the afternoon, Shreya walked in as she had done over the last 7 years. She sat there holding his hand, and gently massaging his face. She combed his hair and dabbed on a bit of talcum powder on his wan face. She spent the rest of the hour talking and reading to him. She always hoped and prayed that he would recover one day, although she heard pronouncements to the contrary from the doctors and nurses who attended on him.

She sat there quite unaware that Vijay dreamed of her often. That he kissed her lips tenderly and recalled their moments in passion in his dreams. Or that he lived and relived the days and events that led up to that fateful day. She did not know that she and Aman were the only two inhabitants in his dreams. Had she known this, her tears of despair might have also been tears of joy.


The supine form in the bed shuddered and lapsed into an endless dream. Vijay looked at Aman and Shreya sitting at the table facing him. ‘Did you hear what the doctor said?’ he asked agitatedly. ‘Am I in a coma? Am I in a madhouse?’   ‘Vijay! You old delightful fool laughed Aman… You are hallucinating again!’

Aman smiled reassuringly, looking dapper, as ever in his white and white tennis gear ‘Why don’t we play a game?’ He asked picking up his raquet. ‘Shreya, why don’t you come and cheer us as always?’
Vijay slapped his shoulder and asked ‘Best of three as usual?’ Aman nodded and then asked, ‘By the way how is the speech coming along?  Shreya smiled up at him in the sunlight, ‘You know Vijay, they are planning to make a film about us – about you and me and our love! Think about it! And guess what? We are playing the lead role!’ She shrieked in delight. ‘I don’t know about you, but I have to prepare my acceptance speech if I win the best actress award…’

[Short story] Strangers in the Sand

It was late afternoon as I stepped out of the car, the sun still bright and a balmy breeze on my skin. I did a quick check before I locked up — pedometer, headphones, iPod, a bottle of water. A few stretches, a little spot-jogging. I bent down to tighten my laces in readiness for the run.

This was my routine on most weekends. I was here in the Middle East on a yearlong assignment at the bank I worked for. My regular workday included long hours and indiscriminate food choices- it was easy to pile on the pounds. I had hit upon this routine reluctantly at first, but now I truly looked forward to these moments alone with my thoughts, perfecting strategies as I jogged at a slow pace listening to my favourite music.

The beaches in this part of the world are breathtaking. Everything is tastefully and neatly laid out. The deep blue sea is abutted by a vast sandy beach, which gives way to a large, beautifully tiled promenade. Lining the promenade are landscaped gardens with lush lawns, and beyond these grassy stretches are the parking lots.

The beach usually had a large turnout on weekends — people arriving in groups armed with grills, tents, cushions, carpets, chairs, partying in the open till the wee hours. Children rode toy bikes and cars on the promenade while their parents watched from the lawns. Today, though, the beach was bereft of activity except for a few scattered figures. I was surprised, but not unduly troubled since I had the place almost to myself.

It began rather imperceptibly at first. Circular waves of sand moved inland, blown by the wind off the sea - beautiful to watch, quite unlike anything I had seen before. I even considered taking a picture. But the haze intensified quickly and I realized, in that instant, that I was in the midst of a sandstorm.

I had witnessed sandstorms before - from the safety of my car, short spells where visibility dimmed a little and sand hissed against the tyres. I thought this too would pass and jogged on. But I noticed the woman jogging ahead of me turn hurriedly and begin running back, and the few others nearby scurrying to their cars, hastily gathering picnic mats and baskets. I should have followed them.

All of a sudden, I understood why they had fled. The circles of sand gathered momentum and density, and in no time visibility around me dropped to nearly nothing. A low, freight-train roar filled the air, rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the sharp, persistent hiss of sand against every surface. The world shrank to a few feet in every direction, and then those feet disappeared too.

I stopped in my tracks. Needle-sharp sand particles pierced my skin and eyes. I couldn't breathe as sand entered my nostrils, and I fumbled in my pockets and covered my nose with a paper tissue. I was caught in the middle of a sandstorm with absolutely no idea how to protect myself.

Now I understood the sparse turnout. There must have been warnings I had missed. I regretted continuing to jog after noticing the others leave. I froze as I could not see even a few inches ahead - the haze and the sand in my eyes left them watering and useless.

My mind raced as I quickly weighed and discarded options. I had lost my sense of direction. I fumbled for my phone, head bent low, a hand uselessly covering my eyes, tried to open the compass application - but I had never used it in this location and wouldn't be able to interpret the readings effectively. My only option seemed to be to switch on the phone's torch and plod forward through the haze of sand and wind and fear. I even contemplated lying flat on the ground and waiting for the storm to pass, but it showed no signs of letting up. Eyes nearly shut, I kept inching forward against the wind, unsure if I was holding a straight line, praying not to ram into something.

   

Faint sound of footsteps. I turned eagerly and called out, but my voice was swallowed whole by the wind, and sand rushed into my mouth. And then I saw it: a light, bobbing, advancing through the dust towards me. I had no idea what or who to expect, but I felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief wash over me.

 
                                  

He emerged from the haze, the light from his phone cutting through the dust. I had never been so relieved to see another human face. When he was close enough, I saw he had a carpet draped over his head, which protected him somewhat better than I was. He offered it to me without a moment's hesitation. He muttered something in Arabic, grabbed my hand firmly, put the carpet over my head, signalling me to squat down. I slid down slowly, waiting for the ground to come up to meet me. We sat there in that tiny space barely inches from each other. In any other time and place, this proximity would have been unthinkable. Here, with the storm pressing the carpet down around us and his breath audible inches from my ear, it felt like the most natural shelter in the world.

He was using his turban to cover his nose, and he extended it to me. I held it gratefully and opened my eyes a little wider to look at him properly - mud-spattered, with a heavy crop of thick black hair, and something in me was simply, unreasonably glad that it was him.

   

We worked together to open the carpet further and create more room – Herculean, in the wind.  We finally made a small tent securing the ends with our feet. Every time a particularly vicious gust blew, the carpet billowed and freed itself flapping above us, we laughed like children - helpless, gasping laughter that cut through the roar of the storm. I don't know if it was relief, or absurdity, or simply the strange intimacy of shared danger, but in those moments, I felt closer to this man whose name I didn't know than to many people I had known for years. What felt like several hours turned out to be just three-quarters of an hour before the whirling and hurtling sounds began to die down.

The air finally cleared.  We pushed the carpet away with a huge sigh of relief and stood up. Dust lay over everything - the ground, the trees, the lawns, making the place entirely unrecognizable. He said something in Arabic and began sprinting towards the parking lot. I followed, seized by the same urge to reach the safety of my car.       

Only two cars remained in the lot, both a muddy brown. I opened mine and began cleaning the windows with a paper towel that's when I caught my reflection and saw how terrifying I looked. I took out a water bottle and washed my face vigorously, dismayed to find sand deep in my hair and ground into my clothes. My shoes had turned almost black. I turned to look for him and found him cleaning his car nearby.       

I got into my car and pulled it alongside his, then stepped out. I said the only word in Arabic I knew: “Shukran!”

I waited for him to finish and held out my hand. He offered his grimy hand rather hesitantly — and I understood: we had shared something real, but the world outside the storm still had its rules. I took his hand anyway, and he let me. He said “Maa salamah,” which I knew was goodbye, then gestured gallantly for me to drive away first.

I watched him shrink in the rear-view mirror until the road curved and he was gone — and I felt, absurdly, like I had left something behind in the parking lot. I didn’t know his name, or what he did for a living, or whether I would ever see him again. None of it mattered. I had been through a crisis, and I had shared that moment with a complete stranger, and something between us had been forged that no storm could undo.

 There are times in our lives where we experience encounters in the least likely of places -encounters that bring perfect strangers close as they collaborate for survival. In an instant, all the barriers that divide us - language, religion, creed, custom,  fall away, and we interact simply as human beings. We may part and go our separate ways, but the memories are etched forever in our hearts, carried with us to our graves.