POINT BLANK - Part 1

A woman is sitting stiff in her chair in her personal study with her hands to the sides of the chair and a book across her table. Her throat is slit open and she is bleeding in the head. Walled by exotic books and paper cuttings pinned against billboards, the room is swarmed by police who have come for investigation. A man, appearing to be the woman’s husband, is standing outside the room with his hands folded across his chest. He looks very concerned and tense. Behind him is a huge family portrait where he, his wife who has been murdered and their three children are happily smiling for the camera, set against the backdrop of a beach? The police come out of the room recognizing the victim as Aditi Mehra Seth, wife of Ravi Seth, the anxious man standing outside the study.

28 year old Ravi Seth was a rifle shooter who specialized in point shooting. Just like his specialization, his aims in life have always hit the bulls’ eye. From the time he graduated as a topper in St.Michael’s, till the moment he earned his first gold for the country, he has always strived hard to get what he wanted. A bit too temperamental, Ravi would go to any extent to get what he really desired.

Aditi was a determined woman, who valued everything that the media reported of her or her husband, since she was of the firm belief that the media acted as the fourth estate enlightening people and their lives. Being a writer, she wrote love letters to her husband from within the house and expressed her love by way of writing letters which Ravi seemed to like. Ravi and Aditi were a great couple whose respective familial backgrounds were well known for their wealth and respect in the society. Their presence in public events were very well noted and expressly reported in the papers. 

The police come out and one of the constables point out to a gun lying on the floor, below the chair on which Mrs. Aditi Mehra Seth is dead. When enquired about the owner of the gun, Ravi immediately replies by saying that it is his own, since he is a rifle shooter specializing in point shooting.

His version of the story is that he came rushing into the room with the gun, fearing a break-in by burglars, after hearing the loud noises from the study of his wife. While lifting his wife to see if she was alive, he dropped the gun in shock, although it is reported by the servants that he came in only later than them. Bloodstains lead all the way from his wife’s study to their room and a bloodstained handkerchief is found in Mr. Seth’s bathroom.  One suspicion leads to the other and the police find him guilty of the crime. Framed and cornered by the media and police, Ravi Seth is arrested. 

                                                                                                                     ( ...to be continued)

Donna

As the sharp bell pins from the sky fell painfully on her back, drenching every square inch of the newest attire she wore for the first time in her life, she could not help but be thankful to that person, who insisted she wore new clothes on Christmas eve. It was because of that one soul that all this had happened. All the happiness that she is engulfed by, has made Donna look at a life with the satisfaction that she felt never before. Donna had never before seen, touched or even smelt a piece of cloth anew, for she lived on used clothes, thrown away by filthily-rich indolent owners who were so lazy as to even sew a button.  

Donna smilingly walked her way toward the building thinking of the one person because of who her life is what it is today. It was here, in this city, three years ago, on a cold windy night when Donna was returning home from a weary day at work. A frugally attired Donna was still a sight to behold, with tufts of unruly hair swaying against her forehead as she walked, her eyebrows were not the perfect ones but arched in a peculiar point, which made them look unique. She wore a cotton robe, so thin that the street light shone through it, half revealing her body. She was shivering through every nerve of her body and her thin pale lips quivered to show parts of her well aligned white teeth. Clutching her dress from all sides, all she could do was make sure she walked fast enough to reach the house she was living in currently. 

After she ran away from the Church, The Masons' family was kind enough to take her in, provided she worked for them 16 hours a day. She was appointed to take care of the old Mr.Mason in the house, whose life was in semi-coma, sort of a vegetative existence. This really tired her, although Donna was allowed an hour's recess, for lunch and a little rest, when Mr.Mason, rested apparently, which Donna found to be quite funny, considering his existential state. She sewed during that little time after lunch. 

But Donna had plans, she wanted to better her life. She had goals and ambitions of her own. She just didn't stay put, but worked in other places in the eight hours that remained, as a tailor. She wanted to stitch a gown for the Countess. She wanted to see how it was to lead a life of comfort and happiness. 

My Alma Mater

'Memories play a vital role, they shape a person'. ~ My own :D

My eyes welled up, after so long just to, be in that Paradise, enjoy the warmth of the greenery, walk the unending corridors of happiness, sit on the stone bench and watch a match of KINGS, eat in the colossal dining hall, wait for my VOILA bus in the same spot, run in the basketball court and to finally, meet old pals, thus bloomed my memories, bringing tiny drops of happy tears to my eyes. A voice, very loud in my head, pining and yearning for the lost nostalgia, screams 'Love you La Chatelaine'. 

But those memories, will they ever come back? 

-The days when we were mere shenanigans, running around the school quadrangle, exchanging happy laughters, being yelled at by teachers, awing at people with impeccable English, being scolded by math teachers for 'poor performance' and earning accolades at prize distribution ceremonies all the same! Will the sweet voice of my music teacher, the wonderful diction and prowess of my English teacher, the adeptness and ease of my math teacher and the condescending scorns of my Physics teacher ever match anyone's? 

My Alma Mater - La Chatelaine 

The only thoughts my little head was swarmed by were those of my crush, his smile, the way he spoke and expressed himself, his ironed uniform, the way he ran all over the place and his brilliant articulation and command over the English language. I was swayed by everything that he did, the way he walked, his exceptional oratory skills and of course the theater demon in him. Everything about him, inspired me. Well, in other words, it has made me who I am today. Writing something as personal as this on my blog, is to not let the world know what sort of crush I had, but the fact that I drew inspiration from the person who I adored so much.  

One would say I was sort of a misled single child, clad in a school uniform with long thick hair and blinked ferociously through my glasses when asked to solve complicated problems from a Math textbook, I was horrified of wearing my own glasses, for I was used to people addressing me as 'sodaa buddi', meaning Glasses as thick as the soda bottle, not something that any bespectacled person would relish. I could not solve a sum to save my life. I was labeled the 'mediocre' in Math class, the 'Annoying English Enthusiast' in English class and the 'Notorious Competitor' in French class. Well, there's a story behind why these names even came up in the first place :) 

Math - whatever I did, or tried doing, I seemed too slow to let my fingers out to calculate something. I was scared of LCM and HCF. I detested having to learn the tables. Well, wait. This is after failed efforts from my mom's side to relentlessly sit everyday after work to teach me how to solve these problems. She gave up on me and my only aim in life was to cross the usual 65 mark which I was so used to getting. I tried tried and tried, only in vain but was much better in other subjects. Well, now you know why the name 'Mediocre in Math'.

If there was one subject that I truly and with all my heart enjoyed, it was English. I did not look at it as a subject, but as a big book of interesting stories with relevant questions in the middle. I was enamored by the stories I came across, found interesting conversations to be kindled with my grandfather who usually seemed to know more detailed descriptions of the stories. And so, in class, I would have extra information, which I didn't really look at as 'showing off' but as 'sharing of' information. This, irritated the many usual nerds in class. Well, at the end of the day, I was the teacher's favourite. Now, who won? :P 

French. Well, this, is a story that I have to most definitely describe in detail. Maybe in my next post? :) 

Now, talking about memories, when I began this post, I wasn't sure if I would ever relive those days, but I just did, at the very fag end of my blog post, when words began to ebb and when tears began streaming down my cheeks, knotting my throat and freezing my fingers to a stop, only to cork my overflowing emotions.