I killed a man. I killed a man in the train. The sound of my gun silenced the coach. They should be thanking me for killing the dacoit who took all our money even though I was too late. The several pair of eyes oogled and stared in my direction as if I was caught robbing a bank red-handed. I thought it was the right thing to do. What would you do if a guy takes hard-earned money from a fifteen year old? I got out of the train, penniless. Aware that the station police will try to capture the killer, I had to escape. I knew what I had to do - Lose your trail, lose your tail. For the next couple of hours I boarded one train after the other. After repetitive boarding and disembarking, I finally caught sight of a board which said, "Welcome to Agra."
Several times, I've heard of a great white marble structure in Agra which is architecturally magnificent, but then again what will a guy from the slum know? I later learnt that it was called the Taj Mahal its significance is actually its beauty and the dedication of Shah Jahan. Since I didn't have enough money to buy myself a pair of laces for my shoe, I went to the nearest McDonald's shop and ate out of its trash. I slept in the sidewalks whenever I wanted for a week.
One day I was roaming around and a boy about ten years came up to me and pulled my shirt, pointing towards a distant building. I questioned him, but he just uttered gibberish. I felt like a cat being forced. I reluctantly agreed and went.
He entered the building and led me towards the dining hall. If you look from an exterior, you would just walk passed believing that it just just an ordinary building about ten years old. The interior denies this. It looks clean and floors are covered with carpet. Posh chandeliers hang from the ceiling; the light emanating from it made the room light yellow. A woman came up to me and asked me who I was. Before I could start, the boy, as fast as a lightning, said something which I didn't understand - gibberish. The lady understood and she advised me to stay in the Shankar's (the boy's) room for the time being. Shankar seemed over-joyous - like he had flown over the moon with a cow. He took me around this building, now was more like a palace.
We then entered what was a large dining hall. An elongated dining table stretching twenty metres was placed in the centre. At the other side of the room stood a lady facing the other side wearing exquisite jewellery. Her gown was so vibrant and beautiful that it would have attracted kings from their graves. She swiftly turned towards us; her hair was floating in the air, just like the movies when the heroine catches her first glimpse of the hero I could see light reflect of her banana skin. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was smiling and laughing as she spun, albeit when she caught sight of us, her happiness rapidly transformed into rage and detest. She was more furious that Shankar came inside than a random stranger. Her face showed no hint of delight nor ecstasy. With her wrathful face, she exited the room with heavy steps.
I later learnt a lot about Shankar and that beautiful woman. Shankar couldn't speak properly - he had some mental illness which he developed after birth which disallowed him to speak fluently. Instead he speaks like he is suffocating from his own saliva, but I got used to it and can understand everything he says to an extent. I also learnt that the beautiful woman was called Meera and was filthy rich. She was the heir of a great King or something who looked after Agra, but after Independence was gained, her family lost all its power and went down in the fame ladder.
As I lived in Agra, I learnt a lot of interesting things. I memorized the history of the Taj Mahal and worked as an illegal tour guide. I used to eavesdrop on existing tour guides and gather and reminisce each and every fact. It didn't pay much, but it gave me enough money to move out of Shankar's room and move into one of Meera's community room (which she built for the poor. we had to pay a small monthly fee) which was next to next to his small house. Shankar also lives in one of the same, but in an isolated one which is free of rent.
Every night, I used to sneak into Shankar's room and frighten him. His skin will turn ice cold and hair would erect up. He used to tell me his day's story in a matter of seconds, and I would understand and our feelings would intertwine. It was miraculous; like an invisble cord had connected us carrying each other's feelings and sympathies. With him, I felt whole.
A new kind of visitor had entered Agra, spreading fast and killing many in it's way. Rabies killed many people who couldn't afford cure and vaccines. It killed a man who was living in this community house. His house was locked and closed. No one leased it.
More days had passed than the proper meals I had. Being an illegal tour guide had run its course. It soon became tedious and tiresome. I ran many errands from time to time. When the door guard was sleeping or flirting with woman, I would sneak into the pub and take a few shots with my dear friend, loneliness.
I wanted my father and mother back. I want to know who they were, where they are and are they thinking of me now. No, they won't. Being cast away for adoption as a child, no one purchasing me. Finally it ends up in the doorstep of a priest's doorstep. But all that was from the past, an another life I lived.
One day, I was in my room and I heard a repetitive thump on my door. I quickly maneuvered towards the door and opened it. I could see Shankar standing as wobbly as a tree with tears falling from his eyes like waterfall. That instance, I examined him from head to toe and realized a big wound situated on his right leg. Swift as an eagle, I took out the First Aid kit to heal him. Again he thanked my in gibberish which when something like 'Thank you for your help, brother.'
I returned doing what I do best - telling stories to foreign travelers. This round, it were some foreign teenagers who had just finished school and just finished school. They were wearing mini-skirts exposing their cleanly shaved thighs. They were the source of attraction for many street vendors and police officers. If I could read people's thoughts from eye contact, I would have had many 'You lucky bastard' and 'Go get 'em, son's from the crowd. Apparently, they wanted to have some time alone together and each of them had daddy issues. From the looks of it, they wanted something thrill-seeking. If they had told me I would have taken them to Palikir Street where the most famous brothel in Agra is situated. It is not renowned for the women there which will make your night high. No, there is a free buffet which includes Chat. People say it gives 'orgasms in your mouth', which I find quite ironic.
Shankar was now put in a relationship with the bed. His wound had been an entrance for some deadly disease. Soon his enthusiasm deteriorated just as much as his strength. I called a doctor, Dr. Sriaparna Reddy, who examined him. Her street name was Ms. Know-It-All, cause she acts she is really cool, when she isn't. It was what I feared, rabies. She demanded an addition three hundred rupees for coming to such an unhygienic place like this. People like these must have their heads cut of, dipped in Chat and fed to lions. She gave me a prescription which contained a cure. I went to the clinic and gave the prescription gracefully. They pharmacist stared at me. He reluctantly went and brought back a huge box. The only thing which caught my eye and held on wasn't the title which said 'Rabeis Kure', but the thing below which said, 'Rupees 4,00,000 only'.
I went back home holding a sad and depressed face. I opened the door and saw him sketching something. When he noticed me, he scrambled all the papers together and slid them into his blue book and put it under his pillow. I think he revered me stupid cause he went back to lying down and groaning.
Soon his groaning became genuine. I shifted him into my room, which was bigger and better. I took how many ever days I wanted to take off, no one cared. I looked after Shankar like any parent would do, like any brother.
When Shankar was off sleeping, I crept my hand under the pillow and took out the blue book. Inside, there were drawing of one woman to stunning detail. I would have been more thrilled, if the drawing had not been Meera, the princess.
I walked upto her door and rang the bell several times. I knew that she was that poor boys mother. I told her about Shankar's illness and his desperate need for a cure. She wasn't bothered until I accused her of being the boy's mother. I could see fear and nostalgia bloom in her face. She turned her rage mode on and accused me of accusing her, if that makes sense. I told her that the cure could save a person's life. She denied to help and slammed the door on me. I felt like the pathway to hope had just been broken.
I lost all hopes. I couldn't afford the cure and the worst is yet to come. Hydrophobia, the worst way to die. Thrist yourself to death. When water becomes a foe. Days later, he attains hydrophobia. He doesn't drink anything liquid. Not even an apple.
I would look at him, a ten-year old fighting with all his might but still in vain. His constant contractions of muscles would bring tears to my eye. My friend, who had helped me from the horrors of Agra needed my help. And I can't deliver. I would sit in the corner of the room staring at the bed. I went to Meera's place in need for money for the last time. She would open the door slightly, catch sight of me and slam the door without saying a word. As I walked back, I would hear the loud clicks of locks locking.
Atleast I was cast out as a baby, oblivious to what my mother looked or sounded like. I pity Shankar though. He must have known his mother well, then gained the mental illness and caste out. What kind of mother will be ashamed of their baby? Atleast his mother is only half-hearless - no rent for him. But it doesn't matter now.
The following day at around 11 o'clock, Shankar got into a serious serious series of fits. He started moving and screaming. His breathing pace increased along with his sweat. He looked at me and grasped my hand tightly. For a second, I could see a lot of things in his eyes, ranging from fear to death. He looked at me and uttered his last words. I was astounded because he spoke in proper English. Then he looked out the window and smiled. His limping stopped. His eyes remained open seeing nothing but darkness. Time of death - 11:11.
I was running on the road, carrying a dead body. I walked up to the apartments; the guard was sleeping. I heard loud noises from inside - Meera must be having a party. I went inside by the back entrance and ended up in the kitchen. I worked my way through and went to the Dining Room, where guests were eating in their neat formals. I climbed the table and dropped the body. I could hear grasps and shrieks from men and women. Everybody's eyes were peered my way. Meera was on the other end of the table. I screamed, "His last words were 'Tell my mommy I love her'!". I jumped off the table and left the palace-looking apartment. I learnt that no one had desert that night.
/* This is from the book Q&A. I totally loved this part. It almost made me cry. I wanted to recreate it, I guess I didn't do as well as the book.
Several times, I've heard of a great white marble structure in Agra which is architecturally magnificent, but then again what will a guy from the slum know? I later learnt that it was called the Taj Mahal its significance is actually its beauty and the dedication of Shah Jahan. Since I didn't have enough money to buy myself a pair of laces for my shoe, I went to the nearest McDonald's shop and ate out of its trash. I slept in the sidewalks whenever I wanted for a week.
One day I was roaming around and a boy about ten years came up to me and pulled my shirt, pointing towards a distant building. I questioned him, but he just uttered gibberish. I felt like a cat being forced. I reluctantly agreed and went.
He entered the building and led me towards the dining hall. If you look from an exterior, you would just walk passed believing that it just just an ordinary building about ten years old. The interior denies this. It looks clean and floors are covered with carpet. Posh chandeliers hang from the ceiling; the light emanating from it made the room light yellow. A woman came up to me and asked me who I was. Before I could start, the boy, as fast as a lightning, said something which I didn't understand - gibberish. The lady understood and she advised me to stay in the Shankar's (the boy's) room for the time being. Shankar seemed over-joyous - like he had flown over the moon with a cow. He took me around this building, now was more like a palace.
We then entered what was a large dining hall. An elongated dining table stretching twenty metres was placed in the centre. At the other side of the room stood a lady facing the other side wearing exquisite jewellery. Her gown was so vibrant and beautiful that it would have attracted kings from their graves. She swiftly turned towards us; her hair was floating in the air, just like the movies when the heroine catches her first glimpse of the hero I could see light reflect of her banana skin. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was smiling and laughing as she spun, albeit when she caught sight of us, her happiness rapidly transformed into rage and detest. She was more furious that Shankar came inside than a random stranger. Her face showed no hint of delight nor ecstasy. With her wrathful face, she exited the room with heavy steps.
I later learnt a lot about Shankar and that beautiful woman. Shankar couldn't speak properly - he had some mental illness which he developed after birth which disallowed him to speak fluently. Instead he speaks like he is suffocating from his own saliva, but I got used to it and can understand everything he says to an extent. I also learnt that the beautiful woman was called Meera and was filthy rich. She was the heir of a great King or something who looked after Agra, but after Independence was gained, her family lost all its power and went down in the fame ladder.
As I lived in Agra, I learnt a lot of interesting things. I memorized the history of the Taj Mahal and worked as an illegal tour guide. I used to eavesdrop on existing tour guides and gather and reminisce each and every fact. It didn't pay much, but it gave me enough money to move out of Shankar's room and move into one of Meera's community room (which she built for the poor. we had to pay a small monthly fee) which was next to next to his small house. Shankar also lives in one of the same, but in an isolated one which is free of rent.
Every night, I used to sneak into Shankar's room and frighten him. His skin will turn ice cold and hair would erect up. He used to tell me his day's story in a matter of seconds, and I would understand and our feelings would intertwine. It was miraculous; like an invisble cord had connected us carrying each other's feelings and sympathies. With him, I felt whole.
A new kind of visitor had entered Agra, spreading fast and killing many in it's way. Rabies killed many people who couldn't afford cure and vaccines. It killed a man who was living in this community house. His house was locked and closed. No one leased it.
More days had passed than the proper meals I had. Being an illegal tour guide had run its course. It soon became tedious and tiresome. I ran many errands from time to time. When the door guard was sleeping or flirting with woman, I would sneak into the pub and take a few shots with my dear friend, loneliness.
I wanted my father and mother back. I want to know who they were, where they are and are they thinking of me now. No, they won't. Being cast away for adoption as a child, no one purchasing me. Finally it ends up in the doorstep of a priest's doorstep. But all that was from the past, an another life I lived.
One day, I was in my room and I heard a repetitive thump on my door. I quickly maneuvered towards the door and opened it. I could see Shankar standing as wobbly as a tree with tears falling from his eyes like waterfall. That instance, I examined him from head to toe and realized a big wound situated on his right leg. Swift as an eagle, I took out the First Aid kit to heal him. Again he thanked my in gibberish which when something like 'Thank you for your help, brother.'
I returned doing what I do best - telling stories to foreign travelers. This round, it were some foreign teenagers who had just finished school and just finished school. They were wearing mini-skirts exposing their cleanly shaved thighs. They were the source of attraction for many street vendors and police officers. If I could read people's thoughts from eye contact, I would have had many 'You lucky bastard' and 'Go get 'em, son's from the crowd. Apparently, they wanted to have some time alone together and each of them had daddy issues. From the looks of it, they wanted something thrill-seeking. If they had told me I would have taken them to Palikir Street where the most famous brothel in Agra is situated. It is not renowned for the women there which will make your night high. No, there is a free buffet which includes Chat. People say it gives 'orgasms in your mouth', which I find quite ironic.
Shankar was now put in a relationship with the bed. His wound had been an entrance for some deadly disease. Soon his enthusiasm deteriorated just as much as his strength. I called a doctor, Dr. Sriaparna Reddy, who examined him. Her street name was Ms. Know-It-All, cause she acts she is really cool, when she isn't. It was what I feared, rabies. She demanded an addition three hundred rupees for coming to such an unhygienic place like this. People like these must have their heads cut of, dipped in Chat and fed to lions. She gave me a prescription which contained a cure. I went to the clinic and gave the prescription gracefully. They pharmacist stared at me. He reluctantly went and brought back a huge box. The only thing which caught my eye and held on wasn't the title which said 'Rabeis Kure', but the thing below which said, 'Rupees 4,00,000 only'.
I went back home holding a sad and depressed face. I opened the door and saw him sketching something. When he noticed me, he scrambled all the papers together and slid them into his blue book and put it under his pillow. I think he revered me stupid cause he went back to lying down and groaning.
Soon his groaning became genuine. I shifted him into my room, which was bigger and better. I took how many ever days I wanted to take off, no one cared. I looked after Shankar like any parent would do, like any brother.
When Shankar was off sleeping, I crept my hand under the pillow and took out the blue book. Inside, there were drawing of one woman to stunning detail. I would have been more thrilled, if the drawing had not been Meera, the princess.
I walked upto her door and rang the bell several times. I knew that she was that poor boys mother. I told her about Shankar's illness and his desperate need for a cure. She wasn't bothered until I accused her of being the boy's mother. I could see fear and nostalgia bloom in her face. She turned her rage mode on and accused me of accusing her, if that makes sense. I told her that the cure could save a person's life. She denied to help and slammed the door on me. I felt like the pathway to hope had just been broken.
I lost all hopes. I couldn't afford the cure and the worst is yet to come. Hydrophobia, the worst way to die. Thrist yourself to death. When water becomes a foe. Days later, he attains hydrophobia. He doesn't drink anything liquid. Not even an apple.
I would look at him, a ten-year old fighting with all his might but still in vain. His constant contractions of muscles would bring tears to my eye. My friend, who had helped me from the horrors of Agra needed my help. And I can't deliver. I would sit in the corner of the room staring at the bed. I went to Meera's place in need for money for the last time. She would open the door slightly, catch sight of me and slam the door without saying a word. As I walked back, I would hear the loud clicks of locks locking.
Atleast I was cast out as a baby, oblivious to what my mother looked or sounded like. I pity Shankar though. He must have known his mother well, then gained the mental illness and caste out. What kind of mother will be ashamed of their baby? Atleast his mother is only half-hearless - no rent for him. But it doesn't matter now.
The following day at around 11 o'clock, Shankar got into a serious serious series of fits. He started moving and screaming. His breathing pace increased along with his sweat. He looked at me and grasped my hand tightly. For a second, I could see a lot of things in his eyes, ranging from fear to death. He looked at me and uttered his last words. I was astounded because he spoke in proper English. Then he looked out the window and smiled. His limping stopped. His eyes remained open seeing nothing but darkness. Time of death - 11:11.
I was running on the road, carrying a dead body. I walked up to the apartments; the guard was sleeping. I heard loud noises from inside - Meera must be having a party. I went inside by the back entrance and ended up in the kitchen. I worked my way through and went to the Dining Room, where guests were eating in their neat formals. I climbed the table and dropped the body. I could hear grasps and shrieks from men and women. Everybody's eyes were peered my way. Meera was on the other end of the table. I screamed, "His last words were 'Tell my mommy I love her'!". I jumped off the table and left the palace-looking apartment. I learnt that no one had desert that night.
/* This is from the book Q&A. I totally loved this part. It almost made me cry. I wanted to recreate it, I guess I didn't do as well as the book.
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