The Writer's Date [Short Fiction]

In spite of the dullness and modest interiors of Oakwood, a quaint restaurant neatly tucked in the inner roads of Chenaati hill city; it had been patronized by creative artists, particularly writers who visited the hill station looking for peace and tranquillity required to write that yet another best seller. It was very common to spot one of these creative geniuses, downing numerous cups of coffee while looking dazedly outside the glass windows that were tainted to provide an apt level of privacy.   One of the writers’ who had frequented this place had described Oakwood to be that secluded nest amidst the laidback Chenaati, to where a creative mind could migrate to, if it were to drown in a slumber of undisturbed day dreams that artists usually need to engage in. If Oakwood was that secluded nest then, Paul, the waiter was its chirpiest cuckoo.  Paul’s verbose nature along with his satirical humour made him a man with a quality to be charming and irritating, both at the same time.  Even his clean black suit with an audacious red bow tie, neatly trimmed handlebar moustache that curled at the ends, shiny boots and nose and well trained sophistication, didn’t conceal that it’s a very thin ice that needs to broken to make Paul speak his mind.  A casual, “Can you suggest something nice to order?” could dangerously divert the conversation.

It was a usual slow weekday afternoon at the Oakwood with just one customer.  The place was running on minimal staff due to the off-season. The tables missed the usual deal cards and the free bread trays that were served along with the salt, pepper, soy and Tabasco. A huge white board was displayed at the entrance trying to oversell a bunch of items that had been pre-cooked and were moving slow. A small bell hung at the entrance to announce the arrival of any customer to Paul and Deborah the only two waiters manning the restaurant. Deborah was to manage the odd numbered tables and Paul was to serve the customers occupying the even numbered tables.  

Mr. Vincent, a regular visitor who lived across the street stormed out of the restaurant angrily, “For once, mind your business - you moron!”

Deborah lifted the Beer Mug with a cigar floating in it while clearing the table and shot at Paul, “Oh you must be proud. There goes my twenty bucks! ”  

Paul retorted, “Damn right, I am proud Deb! I did him a favour. He had no right to be rude to me.”

“You just ordered a heart attack? How can you say something like that! Was that very polite?  The man lost his brother a week back, because, of a Heart Attack! Didn’t you hear the ambulance?  You owe me my tip of twenty!” Deborah Said.

“Had I not said that? You would hear the ambulance, again and oh! Don’t you worry about your twenty; I’ll give you a forty. Go file your dirty nails, wax your hairy legs and flash them to your date.”  Paul shouted back.

“After what you said now, oh yes! You do owe me a forty.” Deborah disappeared into the kitchen with the beer mug.

Paul dropped on his knees looking at the ceiling, “Oh Lord! I pray to you. Send in another customer before we kill each other.”

The bell at the entrance chimed and the door swung open. A pair of Louboutins strapped to the feet of long legs peeking through a slit of an elegant floral gown walked in. A small white bag hung near the elbow of the lady’s arm as she strutted into the restaurant like a life size Barbie. Her, Ken, Clovis followed her and gave a friendly smile as Paul stood up in a jiffy and greeted him, “Welcome Mr. Clovis! Didn’t know you were in town.  Writing another sequel, Sir?”

“It’s all the mercy of the Lord! The usual table please.” replied Clovis.

Paul bowed in acceptance and led the couple to a table by a window which looked onto a green park through the rain droplets that still lingered on the glass. Clovis checked with Claire, “Are you comfortable here, my dear?”

“Oh it’s lovely darling!” She crossed her legs and freed her hand of the bag, resting it on the chair beside her.

Clovis took the chair that was diagonal to his date. He preferred to look at his women from a forty five degree angle. It gave him a satisfaction of being in a position to capture every little micro expression.  After all he was a writer. There was nothing in his surrounding that wasn’t a part of his notes.

Deborah pretended to be busy in the kitchen and hoped that Paul would request her for help in assisting the couple.  The quarrel with Paul had killed her mood. She had a hot date in the evening and Paul’s comment about her had just reminded her about how unattractive she looked.

Paul cleared the menu after taking the order and walked towards Deborah who ignored his presence, “Oh common! Are you angry at me now? Great!” Deborah didn’t reply. She just turned her face away with a sudden spike in anger which occurs when one is confronted by the cause of the anger.

Much to her shock Paul walked straight to the writer’s table, “Excuse me, Mr. Clovis; you are man of wise words. You have written so much about women that gives me the trust that you are a fairly enlightened man when it comes to the other gender. I have a problem here with my dear lady friend. May I have the pleasure of discussing this with you?” Paul turned around sincerely and requested Claire, “Of course with your permission Ma’am. Oh! And who better than a woman to know another woman, please feel free contribute to Sir’s recommendations. Only if you don’t mind”

Clovis looked at Claire and responded to Paul after a gentle nod from her, “Go ahead Paul. I have known you enough to consider you my friend. But know one thing; we are all amateurs when it comes to the other gender.”

Paul took no time to ask his question, “So, if you were a friend of lady who is as ugly as a toad, is it fair of you to make a recommendation, which would make her look better?”

Clovis chuckled, “Not if you want to keep her as a friend. I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Paul looked Claire as if he waited for a response from her. But she gave none. He shot one glance towards the kitchen to catch Deborah watching them through the window screener.  He continued, “Say supposing there was a glaring ugly mistake that your beautiful lady here made, wouldn’t you correct her?”

Claire looked at Clovis as if this answer to this would determine the future of their dating. Clovis shifted in his chair and cleared his throat, “Hmmmm...” he breathed heavily before responding, “No!”

Claire raised her eyebrows and sharpened her gaze on Clovis. Paul quickly checked with her, “Is that something you would appreciate?”

Claire was quick to respond, “No. I’d like to be explained about something that I did wrong. I would value the honesty."

Clovis, “Value the honesty? I beg to differ, my dear. No woman has the stomach for honesty.”

“That’s because men are never completely honest with women. Why don’t you be honest with me about something now? We can test the theory right here.” Claire thumped her hand on the table.

Paul nodded in agreement. Clovis shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “I’ll do that only if you give me immunity.”

Claire replied, “Immunity for?”

Clovis bent forward and looked straight into her eyes, “Darling, I deeply admire and adore you. I definitely do not want this to blow it up for us. I need immunity that whatever I say next should never in the future or now be used by you as a reason to stop seeing me.”

Claire was determined to make a point, moreover she was sure his observations would be trivial, “Oh give it try. You have the immunity!”

Clovis stood up, pulled out the chair beside Claire and stood behind her with his hand on her shoulders, “Here you go.  Your breath smells of cabbage at times, and, at those times it is very hard to come near you. You legs are too long, and your Louboutins drill holes into my feet if I am not careful. Your house is like a pig sty which is ironical because you are so spic and span otherwise, like how you wipe your mouth every time you take a bite. Sometimes I just observe these little personality riddles, and it inspires me build fictitious characters. I do love these flaws”

Claire’s eyes widened and her face turned deep red, “You love my flaws?” She picked her bag up and stormed towards the door and turned around, “Oh Paul! I stand corrected. Go apologise to your lady friend about your boorish, inconsiderate honestly and Mr. Clovis, please don’t dare and come to my pig sty to convince me.”

Clovis ran towards her, “Oh Claire! Dear, I told you no women, can stomach honesty.” He held the door with his foot and watched his date walk away, “I’ll call you in a week’s time dear.”  Once she disappeared into the crowd he walked back into the restaurant and glared at Paul. Deborah rushed from the kitchen and walked towards Paul with her hands on her waist.

Paul stood there grinning, “You really didn’t think I could pull that off did you?” Clovis broke into laughter and patted Paul’s back, “With the confidence with which you accepted my proposal, I had no doubt you would! I’ve been trying so hard to break up with her. That gives me just that guilt free time and material I need to finish my story!”  He pulled out a handsome amount of cash, pushed it in Paul’s breast pocket and walked towards the door.

A shocked Deborah watched Paul count his cash.

“Thank you Mr. Clovis! May I know what your story is about?” asked Paul.

Clovis smiled, “Oh Paul! You won’t be able to stomach the truth. Now go apologise to your lady.” He pointed toward Deborah and walked out.

A year later Clovis released his third book which was a collection of short stories titled, “20 Breakup Dishes” centred on goofy waiters’ whose conversations unknowingly lead to twenty couples breaking up. The thank you note read as follows,

“Thank you, my darling Claire for patiently accompanying me to twenty different restaurants, for enacting out the scenes from my imagination and giving me the opportunity to obtain live material from the oblivious waiters who played along beautifully.

Special thanks to the handpicked waiters who have always intrigued me with their personalities. This book is dedicated to you.”  

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Written as apart of Captured Writings

Coca-Cola [Short Fiction]

I run through the news channels impatiently to know the proceedings of a court case in relation to the verdict of a drug selling racket in India. It’s been nine years since this case -this case that shook an entire nation and changed my whole life. The report that might be on the judge’s desk right now has my name and a whole lot of papers that support my identity as a journalist assistant from Norway who has contributed significantly to the investigations. I could have been inside the court today waiting for a life imprisonment or crueller verdict- but no, I am here -sitting in my home in front of the television as a completely different person. Isn’t that what I had asked for in return for my favour?

Over these years my hair has turned from black to grey. I am now a middle aged woman working with a government bank and my name is Agnes Brekke. I have two children, a husband and none of them know anything about my connection with the biggest Norwegian drug import to the Indian sub continent in the 1990s. 

I had been to India with my then boyfriend in the February of 1991.I had befriended him through a university exercise on cultural journalism.  He used to work with a magazine that published articles on various civilizations and life in different countries across different continents. Each student was assigned a journalist. And I had thanked my stars when I was assigned to the green eyed, unusually handsome man, Ethan. Ethan was in his mid thirties, usually dressed in his typical khakis and linen shirts. He had sported a beard that made him look intellectual. We continued seeing each other even long after I had graduated from my college and was interning with a local newspaper. Over my seventeen months of courtship with this man I never had a single moment of discomfort. Had the situation in India been little different I would have even sworn on my life that this man was innocent. I had really thought I knew everything about him. He had been travelling a lot around that time for different assignments in Africa, Canada and Cuba. So, when he mentioned that his magazine can sponsor an assistant for his new assignment in India – “Indian Fisherman-Their life at the borders” I jumped at the opportunity.  I was to realise much later that this single decision was going to throw me spiralling down into the dark underworld of India and had it not been one opportune moment I would be there today in the Indian court listed as one of the accused facing potential life imprisonment in a foreign land.

“Breaking news: Ethan Aspen, the Norwegian journalist to serve life imprisonment over drug import and peddling charges in a nine year old case”

I am not sure if it is Ethan who is being walked out of the court into a police van. His face is covered with a bag. He looks much thinner, weaker and older.  The news channel displays the quick facts about the case for the viewers. 

·         Ethan Aspen – a Norwegian journalist assisted seven major drug imports into the Indian subcontinent. 

·        The Nether dope was stuffed into waterproofed and gas filled barrels underneath cargo ships. These barrels would be dropped at a specific location by letting the gas out before the cargos reached the port. These barrels would then be picked up by an Indian fisherman who would coordinate the whole activity by a local drug peddler.  Ethan interacted with these fishermen on the account of article coverage for a Norwegian Magazine and passed on critical information about the import. He communicated the Nether Dope sea hide spot destinations to random drug dealers operating through small unnoticeable retail kiosks only identifiable by a specific pattern of coca-cola advertisements painted in a coded fashion on their walls.  The peddlers would in turn get in touch with the fishermen. Over 17 such outlets on Indian Highways were shutdown and the owners were prosecuted in connection with the most intelligent drug scandal. The information communicated was usually the nautical miles into the sea from the border and address of the fishermen who would assist in fishing out the Nether Dope barrels from the sea hide spots.  He had aided three such imports from South Goa, Gokarna and Kovalam before the CBI was tipped off by an internal resource of the Norwegian Govt. Over 1500kgs of raw Nether – Dope was collected from various spots along the Indian Border during the course of the investigation.Af ter long drawn political and underworld conspiracy Ethan is finally sentenced for life along with 13 other key accused. 

After this summary they flash a photo of him at an outlet with coco cola painted on its walls. And highlight the coca- cola ads to display the pattern. I shiver because I was sitting right there about four feet away from Ethan when this shot was taken.  I look at a photograph I had pulled out just hours ago.  A photograph of me resting my head on a board painted with the coca-cola logo.  A photograph that was the logical extension of the area photographed in the image that was being shown in the news.  I light a cigarette to calm my nerves and continue to watch the news as the sweat drenches my t-shirt.  I switch to multiple news channels covering the same news- they all show the same photograph, display the same pieces of information and like the first channel they too don’t mention a Linda Schwartz in association with this case.  The photograph on my table fails to appear in the news. I let out a sigh of relief and switch off the television.  My body is still shaking with disbelief.  I light one more cigarette and draw the smoke deep in till every inch of my lung is filled with it. I breathe the smoke out slowly realising for the first time that my worst nightmare is over.  I flip the photograph on my table. It reads

Name: Agnes Brekke

Norwegian Govt. Internal Resource ID: 8080NGZP

Cover: Linda Schwartz

Cover Profession: Assistant Journalist

Case ID: INDNDPO190383

My real identity had been made my cover and a new identity had been given to me.   

The End

Many Wines [Short fiction]

She was sitting across the table with the prettiest face Eriq had ever seen. A beautiful black gown prided on her perfect body.  But he could tell, she is not the kind that one could charm very easily. She looked at him with the eyes that demanded an interesting conversation. Eriq’s reputation of being an Author usually set such expectations from the women he dated. What story could tell her, he wondered, rubbing his sharp chin.  

“A story? Is that all I can offer to please you my lady?” Her asked her in an attempt to buy more time. 

“Aha.. that is all. It’s is not every day that one gets to share a drink with a writer.” She looked straight into his eyes as if she challenged his art.

Eriq gazed at half empty wine bottle and pointed at it, “This.. Reminds me of a story- a true story!” he said.

This was way back in the 1980’s when I used to spend most of my holidays with Granny Medley. She lived in a town called Burfesco. It was a small commune nestled between the folds of two mountains. There was hardly any concrete there barring the cosy residential cottages with hipped roofs. That too, would be covered by green moss during the rainy season. This place was unheard of and was mostly uninhabited. Granny had her own versions about the history of the place. Some included the world war, something about the vineyards, but all versions were consistently hazy and conflicting. They usually depicted Grandpa as a Hero, were told over a glass of wine by a lady who was old and had a reputation of being tipsy.

It was generally known in the family that our beloved Granny who was once the smartest, the most widely travelled, the one that once personified elegance was now a funny old lady with partial amnesia and a flare for sharing stories from her past.  May be that’s what made it so easy to talk to her. There was nobody in the family who had not poured their heart out to Granny Medley.  She would either have a remedy or a story – either which way it would generally fix the issue. What more she couldn’t help but forget the whole discussion. Of all the fixes that granny had provided in answer to my silly troubles of childhood and adolescence there is one thing which I remember very dearly. It was a pearl of wisdom rolled out by innocent Medley. I was completely unaware that I would carry it into my thirties as most simplified yardstick to ensure I was with the right woman.

It was the summer after my first serious girlfriend broke up with me.  Anna, was a such a warm and affectionate girl. Mild, understanding and shy or so I thought about her.  I had never imagined there would be a day when she would break up with me. She didn’t even battle an eyelid while telling me it’s over or that she found the relationship too listless!  I watched her walk away wearing the bright orange half shoes and a white top little above where her jeans hugged her waist. Her golden hair bounced on her shoulders till she disappeared. Not once did she look back. And so I spoke about this to Medley in an attempt to understand this girl who changed her stand overnight. 

“How old is she?” Medley asked as she read the labels of her priced wine collection in a teak cupboard.

“She’s seventeen! Does that matter?”  I snapped wondering if Medley actually heard my story or missed parts of it. 

“Age is a factor, an important factor for a girl. Now, hold this bottle for me darling” she peered over  her glasses giving me a reassuring look that some story or fix is coming my way. “Get two glasses dear, the round base ones placed in the second shelf from the right.”

I reached out for the glasses and arranged them on the table next to the window overlooking Medley's little kitchen garden. “She didn’t even look back Granny. What kind of girl does that? Aren’t they supposed to be the emotional ones?”

She joined me near the table with another bottle and a cork screw. Her grey hair curled neatly below her ear. She has this posture she normally assumes when she talks about something serious. Her foot folds towards the side with her long skirt tucked behind her legs while she adjusted her glasses, “Read out the year of the bottle next to you.”  She dismissed my questions. 

“1982 White Merlot.. This looks pinkish” I read out the italic words on the bottle that spoke about the greatness of French wines.

“This is the girl you dated. 1982White Merlot!” she said after taking in a sip.  “You know how it is made..? The grape skin is left on to ferment for about four to five hours to give that hint of the grape tang. That pinkish hue.. aha like first love! It gives you a fleeting feeling but when you grow older its taste is too immature for an experienced man or woman of tastes. Now sip this 1978, Merlot.” She poured the wine just enough for a sip into the round based glass near me. “This is the girl who left you! 1978... you will feel there is a whole new definition to the taste of Merlot. Unlike the 1982...this one is very new in taste.. the honey and cherry are sharper. Girls and young women are like freshly made wines that define the taste giving more definition to their lives and interests as they reach different milestones of their life. She left you probably because.. you know.. you were a Chardonnay.. dry and different..... th” she stopped abruptly while looking outside window. “Oh dear, did I forget to pullout those carrots again!”

Anna, the girl I dearly loved is a bottle of Merlot and I was a Chardonnay? I let out a sigh of relief when Medley got up to take a look at the overgrown carrots.   That was a conversation I didn’t want to continue. But that was only until years later when I met more women and went through more and more heart break that I realized that Medley could have had a point. My first step after this realization was identifying the wine or the woman I wanted to be with. 

Cabernet Sauvignon, they say is the queen of subtlety. Sauvignon has the strong flavours of dark fruits which is masked in its earthy taste. It is bold yet elegant with an essence that lingers after the drink is long finished.

Eriq, looked at the lady who seemed very pleased with the story. She would definitely find it romantic to be associated with a wine like Cabernet Sauvignon and then he threw in a question, “Which wine do you think you are?” 

This had set the pace for the night and the writer had won his required audience. His Granny passed away when he was three. He had not gone through several heart breaks as he was usually the one to break up. Anna was nobody but an element of his fiction and Cabernet Sauvignon? That was the description he had read in the wine menu.

The End

P.S: Writing after such a long break! Wonder if it meets the expectations.

Morning Dew [Short Fiction]

(C) Ashish Arora Photography

 

Dear Lorven,

I received your letter and I didn’t know how to respond to it until today. Forgive me if I have made you feel forlorn or your love unrequited. But being a woman on the brink of love is like having a stormy wind inside the heart which rattles all the windows to oneself.  She usually needs time to untangle and rationalize ‘love’ which she complicates in ways, which only she can understand.

 As I walk here, through these fields, wearing pristine white, I feel as fresh and alive as the earth that has woken up to a warm sunshine. The day lures me with its splendid possibilities -tempting and teasing me to look at it with dreamy eyes, to wish, to hope, to fall in love and to have faith.  My dear, you are like that golden hue I see in the sky - full of marvelous promises. I feel like a little bird getting ready for the first flight, I dream to spread my wings open and long to fade away into the bright sunshine you speak of. I wish to look at beauties of the diamond studded grass, the orange, the yellow, and the majestic landscapes with love brimming through my heart. And I long to escape to a different life, a life beyond the boundaries of self into togetherness and oneness - into a life where the horizon between the earth the sky fades, a life in which ‘I’ resonates to something more precious.

Yes, your love is ruling my heart right now.  And, I am humbled by the majesty of this emotion. I am amazed at how the world is full of multiple layers. It’s beauty unraveled by the depth of emotion with which one looks at it. My dear, I am looking at it right now under the magnifying glass of love and passion. I see a synchrony of lucid emotions that delicate, yet gracefully hold every breathing being as the world spins in fouettes. I am reborn into a new life with the supremacy of love.

I feel like leaving everything behind right now to take a leap forward- to submit and to discover more.  I have no fear, no concern nor a care of how it is all going to be. For my heart has commanded that I fall in love- deeply and truly.

-Ellie

Written as a part of Captured Writings