Thank you for being there for me whenever I needed you. Thank you for sharing my life. And moreover, thank you for being my life.

Wifey Dear! I love you.

When I close my eyes, and fall asleep;
you are in my thoughts…
vivid in my dreams.
Your presence so close
I feel so lucky.

You are my life, my heart, my soul
My friend, my love, my all
You taught me to fly
and to believe
in me, which I had forgot.

When you hold my hand
all my troubles disappear.
I am filled with
happiness when you
wipe away my tears, O my Love.

The smile on your face and
the twinkle in your eyes
Lift up my heart and I
believe you are mine–
My angel without wings…

Love,
Rosh

A week after marriage:

Meena: "That butter is gonna kill you some day."
Raj ignored his wife’s remark and continued applying butter on his toast generously.

Butter had been the love of his life till he met Meena. For the first month after they met his butter intake and declined sharply.

When he was first introduced to Meena, he was a massive 110 kgs, but by the time they got married he actually managed to lose 15 of them. For her it was an arranged marriage but for Raj, the first sight of Meena has triggered his love for her. He was enchanted by her beauty.

Meena was uncontrollably emotional after the marriage. She wept a lot. They never went for their honeymoon. Raj tried hard to be the good husband by giving Meena her personal space. He had tried getting close to her during the initial few nights but she had rejected his advances.

Raj knew something was wrong and the only solution he could think of was Time.
Time wipes away all pain, all troubles, all issues.

He gave Meena time.

Two days later:

Raj woke up in his bed alone. Meena would be busy cooking breakfast - he thought to himself. He brushed, shaved and took a shower as he always did.

He called out for Meena. No response.

The breakfast was served on the dining table. Few toasts spread out on a plate before him. And, his favourite pack of butter resting on the table.

There was a note tucked under the weight of the butter. It was from Meena.

"Dear Raj.
I have never loved you. My parents had forced me to marry you. I am going away from your life. Living together pains you more than it pains me. I cannot stand to watch such a gentleman as you going though so much pain daily.Please do not look for me. I do not intend to be found.
Forgive me if you can.
Meena"

Tears trickled from his eyes as he crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor. He did not know what to do. He tried calling her parents. But what would he say to them? That their daughter had run away from home citing a loveless marriage.

He picked up a bread toast and applied generous amount of butter on it. He cried even as he tried to eat the toast. He was unable to swallow the piece that he had bitten off. It needs more butter he said to himself.

He applied some more to the remaining toast.
The pain of losing his wife was overpowering. He cried out aloud -"Meena". The echo reverberated loud and clear.
Meena had left him.

The pain had intensified. It was a heavy, suffocating experience-far more intense than anything he had felt in a while.
Meena had left him.

He could barely breathe as the pain radiated through his chest.

Two days later cops find Raj’s dead body in the dining room with a crumpled note next to him.
"Failed marriage" the inspector smiled after he read the note.

Postmortem suggested a heart failure. ‘Failed marriage’ or ‘Butter’, I guess we will never know.

Regards,
Rosh

Loosely inspired by ‘Don’t Stop on the Motorway’ by Jeffrey Archer

It was 1:00 am when the train reached Derby station. I didn’t have the stomach for travelling alone. My journey from Bristol, to say the least, had been miserable.

Stepping out of the train was such a relief. In fact, I was so excited that I almost ignored that a man had been following me for quite some time now.

I looked around for help. The station was almost empty but for the lady who had been travelling on the same train, seated couple of seats ahead of me.

I ran over to her and explained my situation. Both of us looked back at the man. He was medium built but had a queer haggard look about him. He seemed quite agitated.
We increased our gait, but so did he.

Sylvia, that’s her name, told me that she was visiting her aunt in Derby. She was in her mid forties, bespectacled, with wavy brown hair and streaks of red that was cut short and looked as if it was in desperate need of a comb. Her breath smelt faintly of peppermints, with a mild undertone of nicotine.

I glanced back again trying to locate the stranger following us. He was very much still there. He was calling out and waving his hands frantically.

I told Sylvia that the stranger was still trailing us and suggested that we run. She agreed and there we were - two ladies running out of the rail station.

I looked back again. The man was chasing us down, still waving a news paper that he held in hand. I told Sylvia that my house was just 15 minutes walk from the rail station.

When we exited the station, Sylvia said that she better accompany me till my house. ‘Two were better than one’ - I seemed to agree.

As we sprinted along, we took turns to check if the man was still following us. He was still very much there. Maintaining a safe distance but surely following us.

"Darn! I think we took a wrong turn somewhere. It’s a dead-end!" I explained Sylvia. She stared at me. We looked back to see if the stranger still followed us. We had managed to lose him.

Sylvia let out a sigh of relief. "I think we have lost him. Let’s walk back and try to find your house" she said. She held my hand and slowly walked away from the alley.

Sylvia squealed like a mouse when her throat was slit. I watched her bleed. I always get excited when I see blood. I wiped the cut-throat blade and threw it in the pool of blood as I always did. That was my signature.

Morning I picked my daily dose of newspaper. The headlines ran with a black and white picture of me by the side.
Daily Mail: "Lady Cut-Throat strikes again! One witness identifies the victim and mentions seeing her with the killer."

Regards,
Rosh

Caution: Not for the faint hearted! The following story has some ideas and themes that may not go down well with everyone.
Reader discretion is advised.

Jessica: "Some more wine?"

Trisha: "Yeah! It’s fantastic.  Different from the red wine’s that I have been having lately."

Jessica: "It’s from a local vineyard. So much hullabaloo about French wines, but I prefer the Californian home-growns."

Trisha (pointing towards the gallery): "What a queer showpiece! Where did you get it?"

Jessica: "Oh don’t you remember my aunt in Borneo? She is a missionary who lives with the so called head hunting tribes.
It was a gift from her. She said that it was the head of a man convicted of adultery.
They have a strange ritual, you see.  They drink the adulterer husband’s blood and then shrink his head and the wife wears it around the neck"

Trisha: "How cruel!"

In venting out her disagreement against the form of punishment, Trisha spills some of the wine on her white secretary shirt. Both ladies stare as the wine seeps through the shirt and makes the stain expand.

Jessica: "Use this towel, my dear. Blood and Wine stains are difficult to remove if they are let on the dress for too long."

Trisha lets out a cry as she uncontrollably tries to stop herself from puking. She spews out the bloody contents of her stomach as she reaches the door.
Jessica watches her drag herself down the stairs to the parking lot. She smiles to herself.

Mark: "Who was it dear?"

Jessica: "Oh! It was Trisha from your office. She wanted to check on you. You have been away from the office for a while haven’t you?"

Mark (with a hint of discomfort): "Yeah. But, I had specifically told her that I would be joining office tomorrow. I shall call her now."

Jessica: "No need to do that now. I have already talked to her. Poor girl! I think she is not well. Look, how she has made a mess of the entire room. I will have to get somebody to clean up."

For a woman who had her living room desecrated, Jessica seemed unusually calm and happy.

Cheers,
Rosh

Zanya held the letters in her hand, still trembling, while an array of tears trickled down her pale cheek. An Army officer had visited her couple of hours back and had notified her that Army Spec. Frank had been killed in a car bomb incident early that morning.

The officer handed her two envelopes and a chest containing some personal artifacts of Frank. He had long gone before Zanya closed the door shut.

The first letter was from the Defense Finance and Accounting Service addressed to her, informing her about procedures for collecting death benefits.

She threw it on the coffee table.

She opened the other letter. Unlike the first letter, this one was hand-written. She immediately recognized the handwriting.

"Darling,
If you are reading this, it means that I cannot meet you any longer - cannot feel you, cannot kiss you. The time that we spent together was the best of my life. I wish that things would have been different - that our country had not declared war on Iraq. Life could have been so different. I could have been with you. I miss you and I love you.
I love you more than you will ever know.
Yours,
Frank"

For the third time in her life she’d lost someone she loved.
First it had been her mother. Then her Golden Retriever - Cuddles. Now it was Frank.

Frank was a warm, caring, religious man who made her laugh and forget her lonely past. From the day he had entered her life, it took a turn for the better. She had begun to appreciate life more and more. He showed her that no matter where one came from, or who one was, life was an unwritten script waiting to be filled in and changed at one’s own will.
But now stark reality awaited her. Her husband of 7 years was no more.

She heard a thunder.  The dark clouds rolled in and the sky darkened. It was going to rain.
A crash of thunder again… A drop here, a drop there…
The gentle tap of rain on the windows engulfed the sad silence.

She wept aloud to break the rhythmic tap of the dancing raindrops. Tears roll down her cheek again. The intensity of the rain is increased too - Each trying to keep pace with the other.

A sudden lightning struck and a strong breeze rocked the trees. A split second image of a person passed before her eyes.
"Frank!" she cried out aloud. Her mind was probably playing tricks.
There came three rapid knocks at the door.

——————————————*****———————————————-

When Zanya woke up in the morning, it was still raining. The marbled floor that had been her bed for the night was hard and cold. She got up slowly to her feet.
She knew that the everyday then onwards was going to be just a little more painful than the previous day. She missed Frank but life had to go on.

She picked up the letter from the floor and placed in on the table.

Suddenly a man stepped out of the kitchen into the little circle illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window. Was it Frank or a figment of her imagination?

He smiled and disappeared, never to return to her life again.

Cheers,
Rosh

She is my best friend. From the highs to winning the Indian Idol to the lows of not having even a single singing contract, she has been faithful to me.

I remember being introduced to her by a good friend during the grand party that I had thrown after winning the Indian Idol. She was quite charming and I took to her easily.

From then on she became a part of me. I was happy with her.

Couple of weeks later I was informed of the terrible news that the Mr. Lalwani had died of a heart failure. I wept, not because Mr. Lalwani was a close friend, but because he had promised me a contract with his record company.
I was back to the streets where I belonged. Within matter of weeks, I had lost everything that was of importance to me. My dreams of fame and fortune had vanished and I was left with the grim reality of a middle class life.

I took her home that night. I cried and she consoled me. I could feel my pains disappear.

I get a call from somebody called Lalit Lalwani. It seems Lalit want to honor all his dad’s commitments.
He wants to meet me tomorrow at his office to discuss the contract. I am ecstatic.

She is happy for me. I kiss her again.

INDIAN EXPRESS - Early Morning Edition
"Indian Idol star - Praveen Kumar, 28 found dead. OD suspected."

Cheers,
Rosh

Romeo: "O true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die."

Romeo dies.

Juliet wakes. She surveys the audience from left to right hoping to find someone.

Juliet: "Where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am. Where is my Romeo?"

Juliet sees Romeo’s dead body.

Snatching Romeo’s dagger

Juliet:"This is thy sheath;"

Stabs herself

Juliet: "there rust, and let me die."

She falls on Romeo’s body, and dies.

Even though she is supposed to close her eyes and lie, she continues to survey the audience.

All the parents and teachers stand up and applaud the 3rd graders for the wonderful enactment of ‘Rome and Juliet’.

Suddenly Juliet springs to life and runs towards the audience. I lift my Juliet and hold her close to my heart.

The applause stops. There is dead silence now.

Juliet: "Oh Daddy! I love you. I thought that you missed my play."

Me: "My little princess! How could I? I love you so much."

Juliet kisses me on my cheek: "You are the best Daddy in the world!"

I smile and reply: "And you are the best daughter in the world."

The audience gently applauds.  Some of the parents had tears in their eyes. I had too. It was the happiest day of my life.

As I walk my Juliet down the aisle, happy tears well up in my eyes.

This is going to be the happiest day of my life.

Cheers,
Rosh

I shout for help.
I can hear the ring of fire brigade and police sirens.  They are getting close but will it be too late?

I try to get up again but of no avail. Part of the collapsed roof has pinned me down. I cannot seem to feel my legs - let alone move them. I try to crawl towards the exit. Smoke has engulfed my room completely.

I spit on my handkerchief and hold it over my nose. This is the only trick I remember from the Disaster Recovery Meetings at my workplace. Hope it works for me.

Every breath I take makes me wonder if that would be my last. I don’t want to die this way. As I struggle to remain conscious, I hear the sirens loud and clear. I can hear people talk.

Thankfully rescue has arrived in time. The door collapses and I see a firefighter running towards me.  A big burning piece of wood, most probably my almirah, falls on my head. It pains. My mind wants to shut down but the burning pain keeps it running.

The fire is put out by the firefighter, and he wraps me in a blanket. ‘Everything is going to be okay’ he whispers.

I touch my cheek. I feel the scars running all across my face. Then I open my eyes gently and look at my ugly reflection in the mirror. My tears cannot take away the pain. I live that fiery night every day. As more tears welled up in my eyes, I knew it was time to wash my face.

I had lost everything that night, but I still had my job. I am getting late for work.

Cheers,
Rosh

It is a cold, dreary evening. I had tried to get a flight ticket to Denver but all the airlines were booked out. After all it was Christmas season.
I had been on the road for over 40 hours now.

No, I did not pull over at any motel for a  short nap.

The only break that I remember was the one when I was asked to pull over by a  country Sherriff. I was charged with over-speeding. I tried to reason with him and explain him of my plight. I had to be in Denver by the evening. The girl whom I had loved for the past 15 years was getting married on the 25th of December.
I had to tell her. I had to let her know, just in case…

He smiled and issued me a ticket! That loathsome, f***ing bas*rd!

"Come on! Come on!" I urge myself. I had to be there before dawn break. Although I  encountered heavy traffic in a few places, I didn’t slow down. Instead I chose to break all the possible rules that I could. It had to be done. I had to reach Denver soon or it would  be all over.

I drift off to sleep for a brief while and jolt back into consciousness; narrowly missing the freeway divider. The darkening sky is calm and grandiose. It soothes my senses. The last glimpses of the crimson sun sinking below the horizon, beyond the Rocky mountains, quickly reminds me that my life will be no more if I do not confess my love to Shelly. I speed on.

Ah! There’s the St. Paul’s Cathedral. I recognize it even though my GPRS has it on the other side of the road. Couple of miles north lies my destination. Will she come out if I call her? How will she reach when I confess my love to her? All this, and many more questions play peek-a-boo in my mind.

I can see her house now. I think it has been freshly painted for the wedding. I speed on crazily. I want to reach there as soon as I can.

The car comes to a screeching halt! Had I hit her? Shelly’s best friend! I think I have coz the thud that it produced when I hit her still reverberates in my ears. I am shaking and sweating. My shirt clings to my chest like anaconda to its prey making it difficult for me to breathe.

I get out of the car. I see her motionless body - white as snow, with a few streaks of red. Her skull is fractured and body badly mangled. I kneel over her hoping against hope to breathe life back into her.
All of a sudden she jumps at me biting my hand and bludgeoning my face from all sides.

I awaken, shaking, sweating and screaming in the wee hours of the morning. To be precise it is 02:10 am again. My breath comes in short, sharp, frightened inhalations of terror.

"That darn cat!" I shout as I throw my pillow towards her.

Cheers,
Rosh

"Good Morning Dear"
"What’s there for breakfast today?"
"You"

I smiled.
She had been the same for the past 55 years.
Yes. Age had finally caught up with her and she had wrinkles on her face.
Yet as I lay on the hospital bed, with an oxygen tube in my nose, I could see the angel I had married to. She was my guardian angel - gentle, supportive, caring and beautiful.
She was and is and ever shall be my love - More beautiful than a display of thousands of twinkling stars or a garland of well cut diamonds.

I held her hand in mine once again as breathed my last.

———————————————————————————————-

Cheers,
Rosh