Death of a Writer!

In the drafty night, an uncomfortable silence looms while everyone is snoring in their oblivion. A shadow emerges and the tip of the shadow’s outline is visible in the distance. As he creeps into the room, a coldness is felt. However, the spirits taken in the evening proved to be much more absorbing than the draft of icy wind. He mistook the draft for a mild sensation and waived it off in his drunken negligence. Before he could engross himself in his journal of poems, before he could get the nip of the pen to touch the writhing piece of paper, the sharp tip of the shadow swiftly thrusts into his back like cutting through a ripe watermelon. His first kill, so his movement was rustic, but it didn’t leave him unnerved as his grip was strong, as strong as his intentions to go ahead with the evening’s agenda. The deathly virgin puncture left a splatter of blood on the wall and droplets coming on the knife’s grip as he firmly holds it against his body, making sure that he ends his chapter tonight.

He usually goes in his frivolous yapping on paper with his favorite whisky, which now finds itself mixed with his blood. He held the glass tightly trying to fight through the pain but eventually gave in to the shock of it all and finally tipped the glass to the floor. Shattering the silence of the night with the breaking of the glass, it hardly raised any suspicion as the moon was high and the nip in the air made sure that people snuck in their blankets early.

He lived alone, the neighbourhood was alien like for the bachelor surrounded by ‘hum do humare do’ households. His presence was usually abhorred my the neighbours with his frequent gallivanting with young people visiting him in the late hours, his interest in drowning himself with cheap liquor now and then, his incessant consumption of cigarettes and a general unkempt way of living. A true bachelor way of living, but the years had caught on him and his bachelor life eventually transformed into a aloof-like lifestyle, developing a strong sense of individuality and independence rather than matching up with his hum do humare do compatriots. His life meant going to the university, enjoying a drink in the evening with his compadres, and when they used to leave for their kids and family, he would come back to his abode switch on the transistor, jump to his favorite channel, fix himself a drink and engross into a poetic self with a pen and a paper writing that classic piece of wisdom he felt would be his gift to his kin.

His task was done for the night, he gathers himself with his slicing tool and makes his way through the creaky door, he throws his shawl over his head making sure that no one can see his face and briskly makes his way through the nippy wintery night. The street light beaming yellow makes only visible traces of the blood splatter while the morning light waits for the blood bath to show itself and open a homicidal case in a sleepy neighbourhood which will change the neighbourhood forever.

The evening was anything out of the ordinary, he went about his daily routine. The morning started from the bathroom with the general ablutions of the day. He makes his own breakfast but usually frequents this parantha wala stall right outside when the day is supposed to be hectic and he needed to conserve his energy. Making breakfast was a tedious task but he got the hang of taking care of himself. The bai would come on her own time making sure that she misses him, deftly missing out on his household requests which she is capable of taking up being a soft hearted woman. She felt compassion for him but she didn’t want to be involved too much to raise eyebrows. Her husband didn’t approve of her working there but their family needed the money.

As he made his way to the university, he always felt a calmness before he enetered and a general whiff of reminiscence that he’s back to the old days when things were much more calmer and fun was a general way of life. It wiped off as soon as a student passed by with condescension in his eyes and it all came back to him. A time left 19 years ago and counting and its not going to come back for him. He should have just eloped abroad and sought a life different from being in the motherland of all Indians, because he isnt really appreciated here and neither he has gained anything from the land. Had he the spine to save rather than giving up on wordly possessions and fun, he may have had a better life to live which was enriching and comfortable. Now he is carrying books and going to vomit what he’s learned from lazy fucks who have vomited on the text books themselves and narrate a story around it to make them feel important about themselves. His general rounds in the hallways always got him back to his golden days in college but alas it was in the past.

Neville was fond of him and would be inquisitive about his subject of study and would generally have a good conversation with him.”Goodmorning Sir!”, Neville said.”Goodmorning. Neville, how can I help you?”, “Sir, I am trying to understand how we can structure the story around this topic, do you think you can sit with me for sometime?”

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