Fear

It was twilight when I gingerly set my first foot into little woods. I had a prickly feeling on the back of my neck. There were already sweat beads on my forehead. An invisible line separates the outside world from what everyone knew to be a forbidden zone. None of my friends has ever set foot into little woods. I was the first one to do so. Little woods looks creepy even as far as two hundred meters away. There always seems to be an aura of evil about it. Even the untamed grass stops growing a foot outside the perimeter of Little woods.

Let me tell you why I had to go into little woods. The boys were playing a game of cricket and Mark had hit a good one right into the heart of little woods. Usually nothing would persuade me to go inside little woods. But this was cricket and I realized that I was entitled to hero worship once I went in and came back with the ball. Persuaded by other boys, I had to go inside and retrieve the ball. The sun was going down pretty fast. This made little woods look ever darker and graver than ever. The only consolation I had was that, I had told my friends to call Jaswinder, the local Indian help we had, if I took more than a half hour. Jaswinder was the only man to walk along the edges of the woods and was brave enough to do so to guard his coconut groves from thieves.

There was always a rumor about what inhabited little woods. It was said that there were crocodiles, snakes, scorpions and other venomous insects inside little woods. My father had once said that an unspoken true existed among the creatures of the woods and the outside world. We would not go in and they would not come out. It was that simple. I wasn’t afraid of snakes or killer crocs or spiders. It was the murmur about paranormal existence that deeply troubled me. The particularity and the accuracy of many of the accounts narrated by the Indians varied. But most common about all the stories was that the soul of a young woman dressed in tattered white robe roamed little woods. The eyes of the woman were said to be black and the folklore says that anyone who looks her directly in the eyes is doomed.

All these thoughts went past me as I set foot into little woods that day. The moment I stepped into little woods, sound seemed to mute itself and any trace of activity around me stopped. I turned one last time to look at the far away figures of the boys. The cracked ground beneath my feet crumpled and seemed to mock every step I took on it. Dried twigs cracked and crackled. Every step seemed to indicate that it was to be my last. It was dark inside and what was left of the light from the setting sun came in small bursts of thin rays. They too soon died down.

I stood still for a minute. Sweat was now running through my back. There was not even the sound of popular crickets or grasshoppers which you usually hear in the woods. I strained my eyes to adjust them to the eerie environment. The silence and creepiness seemed to grow by the minute. Judging by the quickly changing surroundings, I made a dash for it in the direction that the ball finally flew out of vicinity. Hardly had I taken ten strides when I saw movement in the woods. I froze instinctively. I tried hard not to visualize a woman in a white gown. Luckily the movement was on the terra firma. ‘Probably a Snake?’ I thought to myself as I moved in the direction of the movement. The movement stopped too. To my relief I found it was a lizard. It was quite as immobile as I was, and with its tail standing vertically it was now studying the intruder alertly. It scurried away in a flash. Temporarily relieved, I moved forward again.

By now I was trying hard to concentrate on the ground to figure out the shape of a cricket ball. My eyes fell on something smooth and spherical on the ground. Happy to at last see it, I bent down and picked it up. It bent inwards as I picked it up. To my disappointment, it was just one half of a cricket ball. Feeling let down, I threw it away. There was an almost inaudible hiss as it landed far ahead of me. I was sure that I had heard a sound. My old fears were now returning. Three steps forward, I felt something moving along the length of my arm. I jumped and wildly started brushing my hands. Five minutes of shouting, shrieking and yelling made whatever that had creeped upon my hand to fall to the ground.

There was a steady trickle of sweat down my chest and my cotton shirt was beginning to get drenched. I wiped the sweat off my eyebrows with the back of my hand. It was getting difficult to see with the sweat pouring into my eyes. I strained hard on the ground once again trying to fathom out the shape of a cricket ball. By now I was beginning to see what an impossible task I had gotten myself into. Getting a cricket ball from little woods is impossible even during day light, let alone the dark. Making up my mind to get a new ball the first thing the next morning I whirled around my path.

There and lo right before my eyes was the ball lying at the base of a dried up neem tree! Ecstatic at the sudden turn of fortune, I swooped down and picked up the ball. I took the next step to move away from the woods and found the shirt being pulled back. I turned cold, but found courage to find what was pulling me back. It was just a low branch where my shirt collar had been snagged. Little woods had granted me what I wanted; now it was trying to hold me back. I shook my head to clear my mind off what I had thought of. Surely a patch of land can’t have a spirit of its own! Slowly, I pulled free of the tree and started walking away.

The light in the direction of the open ground seemed to be almost out. With every step, my feet were now gaining speed. It was then that I heard the rustle behind me. I started running and in my blind fear did not notice the stubble coming up ahead of me and went face along into it. Lights were instantly knocked out of me and I all I could hear was a ringing tone in my ears. I did not see or hear anything for another minute. Then I felt two strong arms pull me up to my feet. When my senses at last came around, I found Jaswinder staring at me. ‘Mein teek hoon’ (‘I am O.K’) I told Jaswinder. He bobbed his head and led me to the edge of little woods. ‘O.K. Sir. I leave now’ he spluttered in his broken English and walked away towards his grove.

I could now make out the figures of my friends running towards me. I sheepishly grinned towards my friends as they lauded my ‘brave’ attempt at recovering the ball. I will never forget Jaswinder. What a life saver! Sometimes, a man’s face is all it takes to survive. Now I know how Robinson Crusoe would have felt! I parted way from my friends and turned towards the road that led me to my home. On the way I ran into Jaswinder again and thanked for his help. ‘You really saved my life inside little woods tonight Jaswinder. If you hadn’t come I surely would have lost hope.’. He smiled gently and bobbed his head. I think it took a minute for him to understand what I had said. By then I had started walking again. Then he hollered after me ‘Saab mein wahaan nahi thi. Me not there today. I don’t go after sunset …’ My stomach squirmed one last time and I bravely took two more steps before I collapsed to the ground.

Working from Home...

It was yet another Monday morning. I hate Monday mornings. Like most humans, I hate to leave behind leisure for work. To make matters worse, I was already in a foul mood. It all started when the clock failed to chime in time to wake me up and continued with a cup of spilt coffee. I had woken up two hours late to realize that I would be in the middle of an infamous traffic jam if I took my car to the office. Traffic snarls have become a routine in this city ever since IT became a throbbing business in the area. As I sipped my second cup of coffee for the day I realized that today was the start of beta testing. Why does beta testing always start on a Monday?

When I first entered this software industry I was really worked up. I had always dreamed of a job in Pegasus. It was easily many of my friends’ dream to work there. So I was overjoyed to get an offer when my last term ended for my degree in computer science. Most of my friends had applied but weren’t lucky enough. It wasn’t really that tough to get in though. I still vividly remember my first day at Pegasus and the moment my manager labeled me a tester. ‘What could be so wrong about testing?’ I had thought then. The pay was well above average for the industry: It entitled an hourly pay plus a bonus of $2 for every bug found. One year and two months later, I am now feeling the strain of being a tester.

My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of my mobile. The LCD screen on it said ‘Office’. It was manager Mark. He wanted to know when I would be there. I told Mark that I wouldn’t be coming to office today and would be doing the testing from home. Ten minutes and a bumbled up breakfast later, I was sitting before my PC. To my right sat the Mac that I had newly installed three months earlier. The closed curtains pitted me against the machine. I powered on my machine. With a gentle hum, the artificial brain began waking up. Signing on to the company’s website, I found the package that was waiting to be downloaded.

While I let the software startup, my eyes fell on the Logitech Extreme 3D Pro. It was sitting there looking all rugged. My mind wandered between the keyboard and mouse to the Joystick. A split second later I got up to swipe the mouse and keyboard off the desk; in their place stood the Logitech Joystick. A game is all needed to cool down my frayed nerves. The mobile that my office has provided lay carelessly at the side as I plugged the game controller into the USB of my PC. I felt the testosterone rush through me as I slugged my enemy with an Uzi. It was a first person shooter. I had started ‘Mega Death: The Chronicles’ on my PC.

Three hours and 163 kills later, I realized that I had spent far too much time than I had allocated for the game. My stomach had begun rumbling. My quick lunch was interrupted by a call from my office. Mike wanted to know why there weren’t any Bugs listed under my name for the Beta testing. I assured him that by another hour he would be seeing my name on top of the bug list for the most bugs reported for the day. After lunch I thought about logging on the bugs, but changed my opinion to start up Mega Death again and continue where I left off.

By the end of the fifth level my wrists began to ache. By then I had been playing continuously for five straight hours, to the complete annoyance of Mike who had expected the bug list which I promised him at lunch. I was too engrossed in the game when at the middle of the sixth level, it crashed! I was fuming now. I had not saved it for the past one hour, which meant replaying it again when I start again.

It was past seven when I finally logged the bugs onto the database. I knew Mike would not have expected to see so many bugs in one day. That’s what differentiates me from all the other testers. Later I found out that not many testers had completed level five for the day. I was the first to report a crash on Mega Death. I was a smug game tester when I finally went to bed.

The Sniper

It had been about four years since I was initially posted in Iraq. I had already been in Kabul and it was my work there for which the military had me transferred here, from one war zone to another. It is not the skills that the Military values a solider for rather the man who holds them, because the best skills are wasted in a man of no right attitude. It took me nearly seven years, a failed marriage and a near loss of society values that made me who I am. A Sniper. Being a sniper is a lot different from what is portrayed in the movies. It requires unnerving grit. Even more of grit, self discipline, and control are required when you crawl back after shooting down the target.

An example of such an incident occurred a year ago when I was asked to move twenty five miles south of Baghdad for a kill that was to take place that night. Missions are always briefed at the nick of time. Absences of tiny details have to be made up for by the sniper’s in field skills. It was to be another Imam. Imams are especially dangerous to the occupying forces because of their inherent ability to control a group which may be termed street fighters. These are no disciplined and trained soldiers like that of the Saddam’s elite black guard. Rather these are common men and boys of cities and villages which face daily oppression at the hands of the occupying forces. But deadly they were. I was to kill an imam at his home that night. I had to do it despite the fact that the imam’s young son, who appeared to be ten years of age, and his wife were with him at the time of the shot. A man’s family should never be around him when he dies from a bullet that travels at 2544 feet per second and splinters through his head.

A kill usually requires waiting at the selected location without moving for hours at end. The life of a sniper tends to slow down immediately following the murder when the enemies search for him. Time stands still when you wish it sped along as it used to before the kill. Even worse is the fact that you are now in the enemy’s stronghold. Woe be told if you get caught after a kill. Such times require a sniper to hold still in his position, affirm faith in his training and suppress savage urges to make a dash for it.

Twelve such missions later, I am now considered to be one of the best marksmen in the army. The posting in Baghdad has been the most morally challenging. I have routinely seen arms and limbs ripped apart through my telescopic lens and remained a mute spectator. The occasion that forever turned my moral standing with the high command occurred a fortnight ago. Four of the occupying forces had been captured two days before. A prized resource that he had now become, one of the spies who had still remained loyal to the occupying forces mentioned that the man who masterminded the capture was in an abandoned bunker. The command was quick to send me and my partner away on the job.

What I saw in the bunker was gut wrenching. The soldiers were naked and were being systematically torn limb to limb. One had died already. The target for the kill was right before my scope and I was able to see his head shatter at the impact of my bullet. I was then given the order to kill no one else but turn back. It is beyond words to describe what was felt to leave back my country men at the hands of furious butchers, who by now had discovered the dead body of their leader.

Since then I had been repeatedly rebuffing any new assault operation upon the enemy and had restricted myself to operating within the base as a lookout. The lookout’s job is much easier due to the fact that there are not many marksmen who could challenge us. The lone enemy rifleman I had noticed a week back was easily identifiable even for a plain clothes policeman and did not require my bullet to be taken care of.

The final operation that I had been handled was the most important one since the day I have had the M40 placed in my arms. The president of the occupying forces was due to arrive the next day and I was briefed about the situation and job the night before. Most of the forces at the base had no idea about the presidential arrival when he entered the breakfast scene. It was about nine thirty in the morning. There was the usual handshakes and backslapping that went around the camp.

All this time I was on post near the top of the water supply tank. My job only began when the president comes out in the open environment to travel to the outer fence to meet the patrol men. It was act meant to show the bravery of the president who instigated, and was now carrying out a war from the safe haven of his office.

My watch showed nine fifty two when the president started walking towards the convoy that was a hundred feet away from the tents. I was watching him through my scope. It was then that I met the glare. It was another sniper no doubt. Briefing information I had from my command I knew that there were to be no coalition snipers in that part of the hills that surrounded the ground. I quickly changed the accuracy and strained my eyes to identify him. It was definitely an enemy in the hiding. I could make out that he was nearly ready for the kill.

The man was clearly not a professional but he was now moving into position. My experience in what had happened in the last six years of my duty suddenly ran across my eyes. Two of my fellow marksmen have been killed within the last year at least. Added to this were more than 3200 other unknown countrymen who nevertheless laid out their life in gruesome conditions. My most trusted partner was one of them. He has left behind a son and a wife just like those of the Imam I had killed. I tried to clear my head. It was common for these thoughts to occur in such an intense situation. With steady hands I focused my top mounted scope at the target. My load was already in the barrel. It was always the case when on duty. What I finally saw from the scope of the rifle before I squeezed the trigger one last time was the gray hair and the blue presidential suit that dominated the sight as I took aim for the forehead. Killing a man who led more than three thousand of his own people and sixty five thousand of fellow humans, to death can never be wrong, can it?

The Shooter

It was exactly at four thirty in the evening when the shooter’s pager went off. He was right in the middle of his bath and it took him another twenty minutes to notice that he had a message. He thought about the Alicia, the girl whom he had met at the dry cleaners. It had taken him almost two months to pester her to a lunch at the Swazancy’s. The reservation at Swazancy’s had to go. Reservations there were always hard to get. He had to bribe the waiter there about twenty dollars just to ensure that he had one. Then he thought about his work. It was not peculiar that the organization had called him on a Sunday morning. It was a strenuous and exasperating job. But the pay was ridiculously high. ‘Damn’, he thought to himself, ‘Alicia can wait’.

For him the profession always came first. He thought about calling her up to call off the date. ‘No’, he said to himself sternly, ’this is no time for getting emotional. Never ever get emotional before a job.’ Anger or sorrow sometimes brought shaky hands and shaky hands were no good to the aim. This is entirely unacceptable for his line of work. He messaged Alicia briefly that he was going to a job and asked her not to ring up but suggested that they change the date to dinner the next day.

He never detailed people about his job, for they were always horrified at the details. ‘What has to be done has to be done’ he thought to himself. He knew his Indian parents would be aghast to know what he did to earn his opulent life. Then he switched off his mobile knowing very well that Alicia would call him as soon as she saw the message. He imagined what would happen if he left it switched on and carried the mobile with him. He had a passing image of the mobile ringing while he was right in the middle of his job. He would be busted and the security guards would be upon him in no time at all. Guffawing at his own thoughts and glad that it had somehow lifted his mind off Alicia and the job he proceeded to suit himself up.

It took the shooter exactly an hour to reach the doors of the organization. No one would have noticed it anyway because it was located on either side of it were huge shopping malls. ‘Anderson has really chosen the spot well’ he thought. Anywhere else in the city the small rented space stood a chance of being noticed, but here right in the middle of downtown, there was no way.

As he entered the building he noticed that there was no one to be in the office besides himself and Anderson. Anderson was his boss, his godfather, the man who guided him. However there was no one to protect him from the legal issues. If anything did go wrong, and the client had not exactly narrated the situation that would be available to the shooter, the worst possible thing that can happen is that the cops would be on scene immediately. Then he stood no chance at all. He would have to deny all knowledge of his clients and would explicitly state that he was working alone. He would be right in the middle of a soup. Luckily it had never happened. He had survived only because of his stealth and his ability to lye undetected for hours waiting for his targets.

‘You refused my car for your transport’, Anderson said as the shooter entered the room.

‘You know that’s not my style’, replied the shooter, ‘besides I would rather prefer to get home myself rather than Sam wait on me at the steering wheel. It spoils the day for me as well as him. Why should Sam suffer?’.

Anderson laughed out loud at this ‘True! True! You know you are after all a Humanitarian to be working in such a line of work! Okay enough of the small talk, have a beer. I’ll lay out the job to you’.

‘No thanks’

‘Have it your way then’, said Anderson and proceeded to explain the nature of the job to him.

The job was to take place in a hotel that evening. The exact location of the target was not known currently. However it was confirmed that the target would be at the selected location at a particular time. The Shooter slowly whistled as he heard the name of the hotel. It had considerable reputation across the state and country. A single storied building that laid out its lavishness to its guests. It was the hotbed of celebrity parties and festivities, a hangout for the elite of Hollywood. The hotel had recently, aggressively campaigned to host the wedding union of one of the nation’s top movie stars. The wedding was for the Crème de la Crème of the movie business and to the hotel it meant a deal worth thousands.

This meant that security measures would be too tight to get close to the target. He has to be in a safe place without anyone noticing. This was what worried the shooter. He had almost always had no problems staying hidden from view and shooting at the most unexpected moments, but doing it in the middle of a partying hotel was hard. It involved slipping in and out of such a hotel unnoticed in broad daylight. The shooter made it a clear point that such a job would mean a wait for an unknown period of time and literally meant staying in danger almost continuously. He wanted triple the usual pay.

Anderson nodded and merely copied out a number, handed it over to the shooter and said ‘Park a hundred yards ahead of the hotel and call this mobile. The rest I am sure you can take care of’. The shooter rose from his table shook hands with Anderson and left.

He arrived at half past one at the hotel. He called the mobile that had been provided to him from a coin operated phone. The voice at the other end asked him to seat himself in the car. A few moments later there was a tap on the window. It was the contact. The next ten minutes he filled the shooter with the lay out of the hotel. Then he handed him a snow white dress that resembled that of a chef’s in the hotel. It was to prevent any suspicion.

The man was a junior manager in charge of hospitality in the hotel. He would obviously be paid an exorbitant sum for his trouble. ‘Use the kitchen door. You can come in and move out that way’.

‘I need something to hide this in’ said the shooter opening his suitcase. The contact nodded and handed the shooter a silver tray that bore the hotel’s emblem on its underside. Then he climbed out of the car and went into the hotel. Te shooter decided to wait another three hours before going in. The name on his badge read ‘Sanjay’. The guards did not murmur a word at the Indian chef who headed for the kitchen door.

The kitchen was large and was abuzz with activity. Clearly there was a very important deadline to meet for the ten different cuisines being prepared. No one took any notice of the Indian Chef who silently went by or the serving of Kadai Paneer that vanished from the Indian side of the kitchen. He made his way right into the central wing where the ceremony was to be supposedly held. There were 21 suites in that part of the wing. At the farther end was the impeccably decorated double door. It had hid quite a number of private events from prying eyes. Besides it stood the announcement that a certain Mr. Hollywood actor was getting married to a Ms. Hollywood sweetheart at six that evening. He was to go through that door. There were two large bouncers at the entrance. They did not even twitch at the faux Indian chef who carried a covered silver plate which emanated a spicy aroma. They knew there was Indian cuisine to be served that evening. They never suspected foul play.

He rid himself of the aromatic Indian dish and positioned himself for the job. He had never been so close to the target in his six year career. It made him sweat profusely despite the breeze in the open yard. It was another two hours before

the guests started coming in. From then on everything happened at a much faster pace.

The ceremony started at seven. He even looked better than he did in his latest movie. Hysteria was yet to die around the groom who had played the part of a narcissist model. The majority of his fans were obviously women. The bride arrived in a red dress accompanied by her father and the hot shot movie producer who had launched her movie career two years ago. At that time she was just another blonde dreaming about the starry movie life. Two years and three movies later she had come to demand some of the highest paid salaries in the business.

At the altar the two actors looked perfect for each other. The shooter paused to think about the righteousness of his job. Andersons’ words echoed in his ears ‘you are too humanitarian for this line of work’. The thought about buying himself a house on the Sunset Boulevard from the pay erased all sense of morality in him and reeled his focus back to the couple at the altar. The shooter had made a decision and then went about his job effortlessly. Twenty minutes later he was coming out of the kitchen and was moving towards his parked car. No one ever had suspected him. It would even be a hard job for the security cameras to identify him. He was safe. The evening’s shoot of the one of the most secretive and most private Hollywood weddings was going to fetch him a fortune. The Paparazzi had just finished the scoop of his life.

Kumar gets a Pen

Kumar has been staring hard at the sun beaten walls of his mud house for the past three days. In the time that I have been observing him, his life was getting harder as the days passed. Facing the realities of life as an 11 year kid with no parents was tough enough. But aggravating the situation was the fact that his parents had left besides him a younger brother, all of 8 years old. But it does not end there. They had left him just Rs.1422 in a plastic cover to face the world. The only brightness that I could see for him was that there was at least a plot of land to call his own. The government had issued a decree just two years ago as a means of compensation that enabled his father to try his hand at agriculture.

I have been observing Kumar for the last two years. He is my favorite boy in this village. He always studied hard, rarely shouted, had a calm demeanor and only spoke when spoken to. It is rare to see such a boy in this dusty little village, for it had always been the play ground for noisy little children who enjoyed playing pranks on the elders and passersby. For the past one month all that Kumar had wanted was a Camlin fountain pen. The teachers in the municipality school where he studied were reprimanding him every day for not bring one. He was mesmerized by the pens that the other boys had owned and was craving for one. I have been seeing him plead for the pen for the past one month into the ear of his drunken father, to of no result. But the boy’s persistent nagging had made his father to finally agree to get him the pen in two days time.

Kumar’s mother Laxmi had passed away two years back during the great south Asian Tsunami that lashed the shores of India. Sadly, as Laxmi was swooped away by the waves, so was the little wealth, that had been so meticulously saved, from the family. His father then a fisherman in one of the scanty little villages, that now laid ravaged by the waves was so depressed by the loss of his wife that he decided to move away from it. And that was how he landed in this village, which lay some 200 Kms off the coast, to begin a new life. Life was tough on his father too. He was constantly asking for my help in his little farming venture, but I never did. Now I feel guilty of my actions or rather the lack of. Depressed by the sudden loss of his wife and the loss of the small fortune that he had saved himself, Kumar’s father took to drinking.

I observed that the brothers had developed lean, but strong bodies. I have often seen them helping their father irrigate that parched plot of land to try to grow something profitable. Every morning at six, just at day break, the boys would get up with their father and help him water the plot. The boys would then scurry off to their school which started at nine in the morning and went on till noon. I knew that it was almost impossible for them to grow something without my help and so for the first year, I lent them my help at the plot. The reaping was just about enough for them to fend for themselves. It was the second year that ran bad. I refused help when I saw Kumar’s drunken father. Therefore the yield was subsequently low that year. It made him curse me even more for not helping him.

Then two days back it happened. Kumar’s father was riding home in an inebriated state from the local grameen bank with Rs. 5000 in his pocket, when two men robbed him of his money. What was even worse was that Kumar’s father tried to fight back in his drunken state. A short row ensued that ultimately finished when a blow from one of the men landed on his head. It was the blow that left Kumar and his brother orphans. He was found a few hours later by the local policeman and was brought to the local hospital that lay at the corner of the village. I watched with guilt as Kumar and his brother cried and tried to digest what had happened.

The local lady doctor tried to help as much as possible. But it was inevitable. Eventually it was time to carry the body to the burial ground. But I preferred to devout my attention to the helpless little boys. For two days, the boys did not leave the hut and ate almost nothing, save for the curd rice that the old lady next door made them eat. On the third day, Kumar had dried up to tears. His mind started to reel back to reality again. I watched him as he began assessing what his father had left them. That was when he found the plastic cover with the money hidden behind Lord Ganesha’s portrayal. Other than this there was the land and the bicycle that his father had used.

On the morning of the fourth day, I saw a very different Kumar. Kumar woke up at eight in the morning. He did what was necessary of the household chores and sent his little brother to school before leaving for the farmer’s seed bank that was located a few kilometers away. As he left the hut, his eyes fell on the shiny new Camlin pen that the Doctor had offered him at the hospital in an attempt to make him stop crying. It was still in the pocket in which she had pinned. It was a wry smile, but a smile nevertheless. He took the pen with him. By six the next morning, he was getting ready to plough the land and sow the seeds. And I, the soil on which his produce will grow, was ready to help him as much as I can.

The Earth Elemental.

End of Part Two

The Mistress

I guess I can never correctly single out the moment that I first met her. But the moment I met her I fell in love with her. And so it seemed to be the case with her too. My parents tell me that we actually met a few days after I was born. They tell me it was the moment when they were bringing the 10 day old me out of the hospital to be brought home. I was going out of the hospital and she was going in. But I still remember that we were instantly attracted. But I was too young to realize that attraction.

As time went by we grew up together. Her touches grew more and more exciting as I grew up and reached a zenith when I evolved into a teenager. It is actually a miracle that no one in my family found out about those innumerable meetings. Many a night we were alone on the roof top. Her fondling touch raising my sensuousness. Her alternating cool and warm touches played across my chest. During all these meetings never once did she allow me to touch her. This made it all the more tantalizing to me. Every meeting used to end in an unprecedented manner. It was either my Mom calling for dinner, or my sister asking me to pick up my phone or something much more stupid that broke our meetings.... What made this relationship even more electric was that everyone in my family knew her well enough. And she was equally receptive and pleasing to all members of my family. But she wasn’t related to me either.

I can never forget the great times we had during my college days. It was real fun having her around when I ride my motorcycle. Our home was in a rather narrow lane that left no room for newer buildings to sprout around and was always heavily infested with people as is in such lanes. She used to wait at the end of the lane for me to appear on my motorcycle. A 135 c.c.Yamaha. From there to my college is about 14 kilometers. A rather lonely ride too, for any passerby to really notice what one does on such rides. Needles to say, we both enjoyed it every day.

Two years later and very satisfactorily employed in a software firm, I was beginning to lose touch with her for the first time in my life. It was becoming more and more difficult to meet her with my busy schedule. Many a time has she gently tapped my bedroom windows and asked me to come onto the roof and many a time I dint. I was either too tired or too preoccupied to notice it. The monotonous life had set in and I forgot her. But she never forgot me. She used to wait for me at the same spot hoping that we would relive my college days. But this was a different me. I was working software professional. And so I acted as though I ignored her, pulled up my windcheater (my jacket) and was off to work.

Another two years went by before I got married to the girl who sat a few cubicles away from me. I met my future wife just as I was coming out of the office’s cafeteria when she bumped into me. Our eyes met at that instant. That was when I decided that this was the girl that I was meant to marry. Three months of dogged pursuit followed by a year of courtship and we were happily married. I conveniently forgot to tell my wife my relationship with my first love. But all these events my first love merely watched.

The next time she tried to allure me was ten years later. By this time I had moved into a large plush apartment that had three bedrooms with an underground car parking facility. It was when I brought my new set of wheels, a new Honda City, out to the apartment’s courtyard. She had been waiting for me as before. I felt the tingle of electricity inside me. But I now had a 6 year old boy and a 4 year old girl who needed to be dropped off at school before I could begin my hectic day at the office. I tried to avoid her by turning up the sun film-coated windows of my car and then proceeded to my daily chores.

Turning 40 years old is a turning point in one’s personal life. An affair is most alluring at that point in time. Old memories of young love never die easily. I began an affair once again. Again it was easy. No one suspected us. It was again on the roof top. She was as good and as exciting as before. But the aging sure had an effect one must add. Nevertheless my mistress’s touch was far more enticing than my wife’s. I had made arrangements for everything. My kids were at my parents’ home and my wife was at her mother’s. No one ever suspected anything. Not even the night watchman who appeared bewildered when I asked him to keep open the door to the roof that night. He merely shrugged his shoulders and left with the keys jingling in his fingers. It was to be just as it was when I was twenty years old. But it was not to be the night I expected. She did not turn up. I waited till midnight (which was out usual waiting hour for the other to turn up) before I hit the bed.

Two weeks of dread followed during which all I could think of was her touch. Then suddenly one morning there she was again! This time I knew for sure she would be there that night. This time too I was lucky to have the roof to myself. My wife was at my sister’s home along with my kids. I had lied that I would be late from work that Friday. The watchman, by now familiar with my unusual requests, had left the door to the roof open. The scene was set and she arrived on time. It was an ecstatic evening .One of pure pleasure. A long wait that had run into years by then had never diminished my passion for her. I was tired when I went to bed that night at two ‘o’clock.

I woke up to a furiously ringing telephone call that morning. It was from my wife who was staying with my sister at the sea shore house. She had called to tell me that my first love was there outside my sister’s place and that she was so angry that she was thrashing all that lay outside the house. I reassured my wife that all was going to be well and I that I was coming there to sort out matters. I jumped right into my car and speed away to my sister’s with a deaf ear to my watchman’s warnings.

Thankfully she was gone by the time I reached there. At least her anger was gone. I could not believe my eyes when I saw what had happened. The place was a total mess. I saw that she had smashed car glasses and windows. She must have been throwing everything about. I went inside, gave my wife a bear hug, and consoled my kids that everything is going to be alright. I seated them in the car along with my sister and her husband and drove back home to the safety of my apartment.

There was always one thing that I could never fathom during all those years of my knowing her. You never knew when she might turn angry, or for what reason, or what she will do when she becomes angry. It was the drive home followed by the tranquility of my home that knocked some sense into me. By end of the day I had decided to end my relationship once and for all. I had decided that it was too risky for a father of two, happily married, to be alone on the rail less roof top of any building to enjoy the wind caressing my body.

The Wind Elemental.

End of Part One.