101 Words

Smoke, crushed metal, and screams. Objects and bodies strewn on the railway tracks. I’m bleeding and unable to move. My consciousness has a gaping hole through which memories surge in.

Twenty years ago when living in the Mumbai slums close to the railway tracks, a deafening crash had ruptured my sleep. That night Father had come home with the shiny promise of gold jewelry hiding within his clothes.

Now, someone moves me away from the wreckage. My eyesight is a blur but I can feel gentle hands carefully removing my gold chain and rings. I smile in spite of my condition.

“Damn red lights. Think of all the wasted time. Wasted potential.”

Teddy’s face was red. His hands strangled the steering wheel.

“Chill out, man,” I said. “That’s why we have toilets. To reclaim time.”

“Unlike your nasty ass,” Teddy said, “I don’t read on the john.”

“Correction: You don’t read at all.”

John Lennon serenaded us from the radio.

“Plus,” I offered, “it’s not like we’re going anywhere important. You’re laid off.”

Thirty seconds later, we were pulled over.

“Dammit!” I spat. “You really couldn’t wait?”

“Wasted potential!” Teddy shouted.

Wasted potential, I thought, watching Teddy think of what to say.

No matter where I go, I can never be alone. Even in my room, there are faces nodding at me, winking at me, smiling, staring with no expression. I can’t ever escape from eyes on me. I can’t face myself without someone watching.

One day, I can’t take it anymore.

“I’ve had enough of you!” I scream as I rip them from the walls. Pages flutter all around and land with images face down. I can finally hear myself loud and clear. And I realize that the pictures and the people around me have been meant to protect me all along.

LOST

My sense of humour

Last seen running from the funeral, hasn’t been seen since;

Mostly light and fluffy with a dark tinge around the ears, carries a sarcastic kink in its tail.

Could be trapped, please check your shed and garage;

I’m told it will find its way home eventually

If found please ring number provided, it was much loved.

FOUND

Stray sense of humour

Light in colour, fur matted and weak

Suffering from loss, it’ll require years of rehabilitation;

If you have lost yours please ring the adoption centre promptly; if no response we will seek a good home.

The oracle prophesies, “The River bubbles over; threatening the town below. The only way to stop it is to place a bomb in the macaroni factory. Detonate it. Watch elbow macaroni shoot to the sky and rain upon the river—thus clogging like an artery. Join us at the river with your red sauce!”

“What does that mean?” the hand-wringing female client asks.

The oracle shrugs; reluctant to share that the vision foresaw a man’s heart attack and his acrobatic mourners celebrating. Let me be wrong.

She isn’t. Next day, the client’s lover dies. Carny friends perform backflips at his funeral.

“Water in clear bottles with labels torn off,” said Mrs Invigilator, strutting up and down our lines of desks waiting to start Maths Paper One. “No, Phoebe. That’s orange juice, not water. Water is colourless.”

The other girls sniggered. I forced a smile. I know I’m not cool like them.

Mrs Invigilator didn’t say anything about the label-less plastic bottle of transparent liquid I took into Maths Paper Two. Vodka’s colourless. Vodka’s odourless. I giggled over calculus. I fell off my chair. But I got my grades for Cambridge.

Trouble is, I’ve had to leave. Addiction issues, said the college doctor.