The gift

He was wide awake in the mid hours of the night. He felt the pencil under his pillow and dragged it out slowly. His grandma was fast asleep beside him. Her loud snores confirmed her deep involvement with her subconscious. He can peacefully write now, he assured himself as he turned to a blank page in his notebook. But what should he write. He has not thought of anything till now. He scratched his hair with the tip of his pencil and looked around the room. Nope. No light of inspiration showing. He could only hear silence in the room which was getting disturbed by the sporadic snoring and sound of crickets chirping from somewhere outside the window. He concentrated on the blank page of his notebook till the horizontal lines on it got blurred. He rubbed his moist eyelid and continued thinking.

10 minutes passed and still nothing on the sheet. He regained consciousness of the room and listened to it in stillness. He could hear a song. Yes, it’s an old song, he remembered. He could hear it coming through the walls. The movement of the fan above him and the sound of the crickets outside were giving a perfect tune to the lyrics, as he began humming it through his nostrils. His eyes shimmered as the thought of poetry emerged from the song. He started scribbling it into his notebook. He wrote two pages in twenty minutes and looked at the grandfather’s watch. And then he read the lines that he had written. Not bad, he said to himself and tore out the two pages of his writing. He has got to show this to his teacher tomorrow to enter it into a competition. He reached school and waited for the class to get over. Then he rose quickly from his seat and rushed after her. His teacher stopped as she saw him coming with a piece of paper. ‘What is it?’ she enquired. ‘It’s a poem for the competition’, he said rather hesitantly. She took it from his hand and began reading it at the window side. He waited patiently with his eyes searching for some kind of expression on his teacher’s face.

‘This is very good for your age my dear’. She spoke after reading the poem. ‘You should continue writing if you can write in such a flow'. Her words were assuring and calm. He felt delighted for having written this. But then suddenly he saw his teacher’s face turn grim. ‘You know’, she said. ‘My son is exactly of your age and I have been trying to inculcate some sense of writing into him. But I have constantly failed in my efforts. He just cannot write'. He listened to this new tone of conversation and said, ‘but you are yourself a good writer, madam. Then why do you feel that your son will not carry forward the gift?' ‘It happens my dear boy. There is always darkness beneath a burning lamp'. She replied and strolled away across the corridor.

Three inch of cigarette

All his life he had counted upon his luck with the cigarette. This three inch stick had shown him life and love. The cigarette dared him to take life’s challenges. It had all started with a game, he recollected. He had been challenged in his college days to rob a millionaire who was getting drunk inside his house. The challenge was – getting into the house of the millionaire and coming out with 10 lac Rupees worth of ornaments. And yes all this was to be done between the time his friends had lighted and smoked the last puff out of their cigarette.

That day he had come out with 25 lacs worth of gold and hard cash, with two drags still remaining on his friends stick. He dropped the money sack and smoked the last puff. The game took over his instincts. His friends changed but the cigarette remained. He became richer and richer. He had all the time in the world but his profession lasted till the cigarette dangled on his lips. It was his stop watch. It was his conscience. It was slowly taking over his subconscious. He had met this beautiful young lady at a pub in Mumbai. Three drags down and he had known almost everything about her. On the ninth puff he had offered her a drink and as he tossed the bud into the ash tray, she was going with him in his red car. He had found his love over a cigarette. She turned out to be a sweetheart and him a passionate killer. Romancing into the nights of his tenth floor residence, he could bet on his pack of cigarettes anytime.

But today was a different story all together. His wife was lying on the ICU bed with the inhaler on her mouth. This was the first time she was inhaling pure oxygen after their first chance meeting. Our hero went outside and consulted the doctor. She had no time left, he was assured. The only thing that flashed into his mind was the cigarette. He took out a stick and flicked it between his lips. A tear fell from his eyes as he wished into the skies. “You will be all right sweetheart, before this cigarette ends its life.”

The palm reader

Mani fixed his eyeballs on to the figurative lines on the palms of his friend. Observing closely he concluded that his friend is an interesting character. He has a bend towards the extremes in life. “You can even turn into a murderer my friend, beware. Or you can go on to earn millions by exercising your wit.” “Will I earn lots and lots of money?” His friend asked, sipping from the Jack Daniels pint in his hand. “Wait, wait…let me put it straight. I want to visit all the big cities in the world and smoke marijuana in that city. And yes of course, screw a babe everywhere I go. 500 in total, that’s all before I die.”

“That’s a lot my dear friend. Don’t take me otherwise.”…Mani’s eyebrows fretted as he cribbed for having entered into this conversation. “Oh yes sure…you can do it. Why not? As I said you are going to become very powerful. Just wait and watch.” “Ahh…you are a good palm reader. You know a lot about my thoughts. But do you know why exactly I need the money?” Mani looked straight into his friend’s glimmering eyes without wanting to look anywhere else. He could see the effect of whisky on his friends face. “What will you do if you come to know that you are an adopted child? And that your biological parents are living in some remote village; that they are poor and need money. All this, you come to know on your 24th birthday. Your parents cry in front of you for revealing this so late. And that they are scared to lose you now. Which parents will you go to? Which identity should you now live up with for the rest of your life? Does my hand answer all these questions?”

The discovery was heart warming and shocking. Mani rubbed his forehead and dived into his hot chocolate. He felt his stomach empty. He had nothing more to say or explain. Suddenly, the friend who seemed strong and daring till now, looked so vulnerable. Perspectives change so fast. “I cannot really answer all this. My palm reading abilities are limited. But I admire you much more now.”