I AND MY WORDS

Its hot nowadays in Hyderabad. If you ask around, people will patiently inform you that the weather is normal for this time of the year, and that it shall last till the end of April, when the pre-monsoon showers shall begin. I do not know about that, but for now, the heat is really getting to me for sure. I have not been to some of the famous places yet. It seems surprising; in Delhi, I used to die to visit monuments; what has happened to me now? Sometimes, I wish I could force myself to visit the Qutb Shahi tombs or even go the Qutubuddin Sha dargah. But none of that seems to be happening at all. I am turning into what I fear the most; an inactive, pessimistic person.

I met you a few days back, You seemed so odd to me. There were changes in your look, That did not appeal to me. The hair was different, the ears had an extra piercing, The clothes you wore seemed strange, the shoes were shimmering. You were in tune with the others, not with me, And I had thought, here was someone who understood me. You asked me how it looked, And I quietly smiled. Not willing to hurt your feelings, I said you looked just fine. Your attitude was so different towards me You seemed to shifty around me As if I made you highly uncomfortable, And that you did not wish to be seen around me. You laughed in a manner that was totally fake, You tried to stir up conversations with some intricacy. And I tried to understand what was wrong today Why you were hurting my soul pointedly. What was my fault, that I was being treated thus Were you ashamed of your "friend", as you had once said of me? I felt embarrassed and guilty, for making you feel this way But was it really be

I am going crazy. Nothing seems to make sense now to me. The killer is on loose again, and all I can do is while away, poring over clues on his target next. Will it be Sam, or will it be the forensic scientist again? What were his patterns; what were his trademarks? With age, I have also lost my ability to recall. But he is around us, or was. But is it enough to catch hold of him, and make him pay for what he has done? Destiny is on his side once again. And here stand I, licking at my wounded pride that still exists after missing him on so may occasions. What is Stanley up to right now? Frankly, I don’t know. I don’t care as well, strangely. Once, I would have been all fired up, but today, I am totally distant with all that is happening around me? Is it my old age? Or has this line made me like this? Impassionate, distant, lost? I was standing outside, watching an unconscious woman on ventilator, who had been administered a lethal dose of thallium. How could this have been done, withou

“Welcome. You must have been waiting for a very long time, I believe,” she said to me. She walked towards me in the lounge, where I had been waiting for her. “Not at all,” I replied, as I got up to shake hands with her. “In fact, for a minute I thought that I was late, for I do not wear a watch. My name is Rohit.” “I know that, Mr. Mattoo had informed me previously. I am Laaleshwari Kaul. I was looking forward to meeting you. How is your documentary shooting going on?” “Fairly well,” I spoke, as I walked along with her into the hospital, as she led me towards the infirmary. “How are you today?” “Just as usual,” she spoke, as we went past one ward after the other. The day was very normal. “Boy,” I said, “It’s a bit chilly today.” “You think so? I thought the weather was better than last week. It was really hot,” she smiled, as we closed in on the infirmary, which seemed a nice, warm and cozy building made of wood and stone. “Here is the infirmary. Do you want to go and have some tea fir

And I was brought back into action for inspecting another body. It feels strange sometimes that all I do is to tear up some already torn, mutilated or rotting bodies for a living. But that’s what people do; some kill for a living, some bury them. Me; I just inspect them to ascertain reasons of death. I was looking through this body, which was relatively neater than the others, when my second assistant came in to say that Maher had come in. I was perplexed; Maher had not met me for several months now. What could he possibly have to do with me now? I instructed him to ask Maher to wait, while I washed my hands at the sink, and moved out of the room that should also be called “The Museum of Death”. Maher was there, waiting for me besides the lonely window that was the only source of natural light for my room, and seemed a bit lost, when I entered in. “So,” I spoke directly, “what’s up? What brought you here?” He turned around to look at me. Those piercing eyes conveyed a sense of frustrat

Am I crazy? Maybe. Can you call me lunatic? Probably. Can you say that I killed her? Most certainly. Does it matter to you why I killed her? It does, though you were in no way related to that woman. That scum was rightly killed. She was aware of her beauty, and was ruthless in taking advantage of it. The woman was a blot on how society should be. How can anybody use something advantageous about them to create havoc like that? What about the editor, you may ask. What wrong was he doing? I’ll tell you what wrong he was doing. But how can you understand what wrong he was doing. You people are the same ones who were complicit in his crime. You are the same people who were reading that salacious gossip that the newspaper “The Daily Star” was belting out. The trash was absolutely unacceptable; it was crass and vulgar, just like that woman (what was her name? Yeah, Dawn Jones) How could he have done that? I still remember that night and the rising waters, as me and Maher were struggling to st

I am a journalist no doubt, but even I am losing track of what is happening here. There seems to be nothing but chaos today that is taking a grip of my life. What the hell is happening to me? I was standing right there, with the witness in front of me, when Maher had rushed in. All hell broke loose that moment when he agreed to the fact that he had been a witness to that ghastly act of the play of life that had unfolded that dreaded night. And yet, he is not in the condition to do so, for he is “too weak to be exerted upon”, as the doctors said that day. Maher, in the meantime, was giving a piece of his mind to his subordinates. “What the fucking hell were you doing huh? Sleeping on your asses? This git of a reporter manages to get to the bottom of the matter and identify a witness, and all you give me is that they did not want to talk. What am I supposed to do with you guys now, huh?” I looked at him. He was really pissed off with his subordinates, who, like swatted flies were strewn