The Lost Umbrella- Part III

Open gates of such royal mansions are always a bad omen. They welcome you with open arms to unravel their secrets hiding inside large mahogany doors with rusty locks and dusty handles, and slow poison you with curiosity until you decay with a mundane finality into boney ruggedness. Mr. Hansen was never a curious man and hence was immune to such open gates. But tonight, his hands were shaking with curious anticipation when he pushed the gate. The cautious hands took an eternity to open it. He slid his body through the little gap it offered and paused, his body taut, expectant. There was no one around. Hurried steps pattered away along the zigzags towards the façade of the “House of Sharpe.”

Although Mr. Hansen’s brain was already fuzzy with logics and counter-logics about his recent actions quite contrary to his persona, he couldn’t help but notice all the cactuses here and there, carefully nurtured, by the natural instinct of a gardener. Never had he seen such a large variety of cactuses at display inside a mansion of such stature. The owner has a queer taste of gardening, he thought. Or he might just be like those cactuses. Mr. Hansen shivered a little at this thought, but his legs didn’t pause or retard.

The magnificent edifice stood tall with all its loneliness and haunted glory. As he neared, he saw that through the window of the ground floor room of the east corner that was facing him, a shimmering light emanated, mystical, enchanting, and most of all, alluring. Mr. Hansen approached towards the light like a possessed somnambulist on an awakening quest.

The window was at a fair height for a plump and short man like Mr. Hansen. He need not duck. He could stand there and eavesdrop without getting caught unless his impatience pushed him towards some tomfoolery. And so he did. For a brief period of 10 minutes, trivial orders and tinkling of tea-cups slowed the time painfully. Mr. Hansen was afraid whether he would finally give in under the surging impatience.

But a tap on his shoulder made his head spun and look up with alarming speed. The scream that left him the next moment was unlikely from a man of his size, enough for the windows to swing open the next instant. A man of towering height and lean physique was gazing down upon him with a scythe whose blades shone proudly under the lights through the open windows. A pair of surprisingly still eyes was fixed upon him bulging through the hooded void. The man did not kill him. It kept gazing. He now looked up. A man with a long neck and velvet bow-tie was staring at him through the window. He seemed amused. A somber voice asked,” Who is it, Solomon?” The long neck answered with a shrill, high-pitched voice, ”A man without sharp features, master.” “Well, he is a guest of ours, untimely, but still, a guest. Bring him in.”

Mr. Hansen, for a moment, contemplated running as an option until he looked up to see the shining scythe. A side-door opened. Long neck came out with the rest of his surprisingly thin frame. The shrill voice announced with an assuring smile, “Master wants you to be our guest” and extended his hand.

Mr. Hansen was now a man trapped by open gates and fewest choices. He took slow, fearful steps and entered through the door. It had to be a small room for the pensive moments of the owner. The “master” was sitting cozily on a couch of finest Morocco leather with his back turned towards him, with newspapers over his face, as he scrutinized them intensely. The door closed. Long neck was standing waiting for his master’s order with mechanical obedience.

But the next order was for Mr. Hansen. “Come, Sit”, the voice said, “you look shaken. Suffering of an old man, I presume? Solomon, bring him a glass of pomegranate shake. The guest must be tired with craning necks and long journeys.” Mr. Hansen took measured steps and sat down on the couch before the “master”, his face reddened with guilt.

Refreshments arrived in due time. He drank to his heart’s content, completely forgetting the embarrassment for few seconds. All these time, he was sitting silently on the couch looking at the man with curious eyes, waiting for the veil of Evening Times to come down to reveal the man. But the man seemed to possess some other plans.

Just as Mr. Hansen put the glass down cautiously with a soft thud upon the glass table, the sound of folding papers made him look up. He was still holding the glass when the man looked into his eyes and asked with an eerie solemnity, ”So, Mr. Hansen, I assume you are looking for your umbrella?”

The Lost Umbrella: Part II

A wailing gale ran errands as nature was slowly harnessing its eccentric torrent. They found Mr. Hansen an easy prey, helpless, clueless yet restless. Oddly enough, the man shortened and slowed his steps in a rhythmic pattern to Mr. Hansen’s momentary delight which took little time to shift to horror and bewilderment. His home was nearing fast. Surely this man cannot be approaching his home? That would be too much even for such a queer turn of events.

But dreads and anticipations again took a back seat as the man calmly walked past the tiny house with oak doors and a little garden, a lonely widower’s muse. Mr. Hansen was never a curious man. He believed curiosity was the mother of destruction. He loved his little world of few neighbours and fewer headaches, which is why Mr. Hansen was having a particular trouble with this man. For once, Mr. Hansen was curious about a person without a face. And he was following him religiously.

Mr. Hansen’s disturbingly distracting dilemmas met a premature end as the man came to a sudden halt at a distance. Good god! Time is a fickle friend. They had arrived at the town border. Mr. Hansen was surprised that he had walked a distance within a few halves of hours which he wouldn’t have done in quite a few weeks of afternoon walks. Oh, procrastination, thou evil! Mr. Hansen rubbed his glasses clumsily with his thumbs and put them on to get a better vista of what was awaiting him along this winding path of events.

The vista was terrific, may be terrifying too. The man was standing before a colossal mansion with Victorian architecture standing alone like some prehistoric animal left behind with urban haste. The long, curved slants of the entrance gate met at two modestly high pillars with pointed ends. Interestingly, the pointy ends were of metal finish and that looked like a recent addition. He needed to be discreet now.  Crouching behind a magnolia bush, Mr. Hansen looked closely again. Even though his body twitched a little protesting against childish eccentricities and voyeuristic nuisances, he couldn’t help but notice a portly man was waiting in front of the gate on the other side of it. The gate opened. The possibility of that person being a servant was next to obvious. Mr. Hansen understood that the possibility of regaining the possession of his precious was becoming thinner, as once the gate was closed, he was left with no option but to return home with a vain and foolish attempt that would only strengthen his singular belief - Curiosity is the mother of destruction.

But the man who was without face all these time lowered his umbrella as his servant had held his own over his head and turned towards the magnolia bush. He was looking at it intensely. Mr. Hansen held his breath nervously. He surely didn’t notice him? He was keeping a more than safe distance. No, he didn’t. The man turned again and then walked briskly along the pebbled zigzags towards his home, palace rather. The Servant took a few seconds to look around before closing the gate in a carefully slow manner and walked away in pursuit of his master. Mr. Hansen, although remained cynical of it, felt as if the servant took an extra second to look in the direction of the magnolia bush.

On another day, he would have walked away with dejection and defeat without taking another step ahead. On another day, Mr. Hansen would not have gone out for an evening walk. But today was not another day. He collected himself and walked hurriedly towards the gate for one final clue. On the right side of the entrance column, a steel plaque had these words Curved-“Maison de Sharpe, 1867.” Sharpe, it rings a bell, he thought harder. Lost in thoughts, Mr. Hansen looked at the gates now. His body went numb, his eyes wide, his legs stoned to ground.

The gate was not locked. It was still open. 

The Lost Umbrella: Part I

Splash! An unwelcoming shower greeted Mr. Hansen as a careless Audi rushed past him into the clamor of another monsoon evening.  Expletives were hurled without much result. Soaking and shivering, dropped shoulders, beads of muddy water hanging in the balance on a crooked nose- it was indeed a sorry portrait of an old man who had finally moved out of his cocoon of procrastination to start his evening-walks, a plan made long ago but each time discarded because of circumstances and reasons that appeared trivial to everyone but him. And he was paying dearly for his decision, it seemed.

But Mr. Hansen, portly and plump he may be, was today a man full of determination and daunt. He gathered the remains of his composure and energy from what had been a faux pas by his standards. But it was his fault only that he was being perished. Since his better-half had left the company of mortals like him, a red umbrella was his constant companion in his less than occasional strolls and journeys. It had a long handle with his initials curved upon it, but the surprising thing was it had a pointy end with metal finish upon Mr. Hansen’s special order. More of a measure of protection for Mr. Hansen from rains and goons, it served him well until the last Monday when in a hurried moment he left it in the sixth seat on the right side of the city bus. By the time he regained his consciousness, his umbrella had been someone else’s prized possession. After all, it was a crafty object.

The drops grew in their size as the rain came galloping down with intense thunders. Mr. Hansen hated rain, and sun too. Anything that made his skin tickle, be it the sweat-beads or the rain-drops was despicable to this man. His steps sped up. Ah, there is the five-point crossing. A Volvo appeared yonder as a savior of the poor soul. He ran across the streets frantically ignoring his age.

But a man without a face and with an umbrella descended from the bus as it came to an abrupt halt. It was a red umbrella, with a pointy end with metal finish and a long handle. Even through his nebulous specs, he could figure out the M.H curved upon the long mahogany handle. His steps retarded fast and came to a reluctant halt. A déjà vu or mere coincidence? Mr. Hansen’s thoughts ran wild as surprise took over his homebound urges.

A loud horn nearby brought him back to reality as he saw the bus going away. He didn’t run this time. Lonely streetlights, glistening asphalt, hurrying steps, speeding vehicles- everything spiraled down to this man. His eyes narrowed as the man stood there, motionless, as if he also was untangling decisions from indecisions. The man was a tall figure with a brown overcoat, with heavy boots and a pair of leather gloves to complete the aura of mystery and secrecy. Suddenly, he started with a brisk pace towards the north. Suspicious as he was, now Mr. Hansen could not but feel surprised. This man was walking in the direction of his home.

With no option left but to follow this figure, Mr. Hansen started off, keeping a few steps distance for obvious discretion.  Mr. Hansen was going out of breath to keep up on his quest as the man gained pace, but a quaint sense of urgency kept him going.

Cats, nails and bottles

(This is a bit of experimental staff, call it a storyboard, a raw material for a short film, or simply character sketching)

Character introduction:-

Heimarr- An old Schoolmaster of 65, imparting mathematical knowledge among young minds. He has a queer knack of collecting bottles and containers of unique shapes and sizes.

Selma- A quaint young girl of 20 who has an unnerving habit of storing cat cadavers in the rusty iron trunk beneath her bed, so often mistaken by general people as her old trunk for keeping her dolls.

Adonis- A narcissist fellow with long hair and sharp nails. He has a tendency of curving A’s on surfaces his nails can test.

It is a quiet afternoon in the small town of Innsbruck. Heimarr has entered the little departmental store as he has been informed by the manager that a bottle of the most unusual shape has arrived in the containers section. He has been a faithful customer here, and the camaraderie he shares with the staffs here is always helpful at times in a small town where acquaintance matters more than property. He has been gazing towards the bottle for a few minutes when the turnstile swings and Selma enters. The bottle intrigues her too, for it is of the shape of the tail of a cat and also designed like one. They both stand beside each other, watching, motionless, with different sort of admiration in their eyes. The faint smell of Lavender that fills the corner as Selma draws closer offers an amorous distraction to the old man. He looks sideways and is amused a little to find a beautiful lady with youthful promises standing by his side sharing his interest. The lonely man can hardly suppress his delight as he attempts to initiate a conversation with her-

H : Bottles are essentially feminine, aren’t they?

S: feminine, sure? I am more inclined to think they are feline, at least in this case. (Points towards bottles)

H: Ah yes, but I am talking about bottles in general.

S: not that it interests me, but I would certainly like to know the answer, why feminine, sir?

H: Curves, my lady, the sharp, majestic curves all over them. Tell me what’s the first thing that comes to your mind when I say,CURVES?

S: Well, geometry? (Smirks)

H: Tell me about it! (Grins)

S: Well, jokes apart..

H: No! No! Geometry is sexy, but look at the bottles my dear. Such lovely shapes, curvy bodies, how can one not admire them, love them and keep them to oneself for a nice company?

S: (Smirks at his lewd hints) I was thinking something else though.

H: I am all ears.

S: Well, these bottles are funny.

H: Without a shred of doubt, womankind has an eerie affection towards cats, freaks me out..

S: No, I mean, look, it’s their tails right? When you cut a cat’s tail, you get warm, red blood streaming out of the veins. But here, unscrew the cork, and all you get is crystal clear water trickling down your throat with a chilling sensation on a sultry day. Isn’t that funny? (As she speak, her eyes flash a red gleam as she goes on dreamily)

H: (Quite disturbed at the thought, an uneasy clearing of his throat) Why, I have never thought about it!

While they were speaking, Adonis had appeared through aisle of shelves filled with colorful containers. The shimmering, setting sun paints the room with a multitude of colors and the aisle is resplendent with a dim glow emanating from the bottles. Adonis had paid little heed to them or the people around him. He was busy curving an A with her index fingernail on the wooden plaque that described, ‘Bottles and Boxes’. As he is applying the finishing touch with the horizontal line bisecting the towering slants of A, a screeching sound makes Heimarr and Selma aware that they are not without company. Now that he is finished, Adonis looks up and finds them staring at him and the wooden plaque with mild surprise. He followed their gaze. The plaque now reads, ‘A Bottles and Boxes’.

H: hey, hey you, what are doing there?

S: You need primary level grammar lessons before anything, Mr. A.

A: and you need a lesson about minding your own business, pretty lady.

H: Thank you, but we were doing that before you came meddling in.

A: (Smirking mysteriously) Did I, really?

Reflections and obsessions

A hurried step landed on the puddle and pattered away into the hubbub of the bustling streets with a premonition of busy day. A frivolous splash of water and a few boot-prints left on the pavements. Daily trivialities that peddlers don’t pay heed to. But someone did. Silas was gazing into the puddle brimming with murky water. Teeth sprouting from a leviathan hollow with an ochre layer. Time and neglect have taken away quite a few of them. Beads of saliva hung from the rugged lips for what seems like an eternity. Unruly beards have revolted against the oblivious face with a greyish moustache as their leader. A pair of bulging, nonchalant eyes though shone with a dull, obsessive gleam. They gave a cursory glance now and then to the urbane pantomime through the maze of bushy hair invading his forehead like the victorious Huns. A sight no one prefers, except Silas.

Since his innocent days in the slums, Silas was a stooge to the other boys. He spent his carefree days by solitary strolls along the walls of the playground, kicking pebbles around and staring at the other boys while they rent asunder the silent summer afternoons with their cheerful voices. He often tried to sketch on the walls with his long, sharp nails, until one day a boy broke his index finger while torturing him for the sadistic pleasure of others.

Bestial he may be, but Silas too grew up like every other animal. Puberty came to him without much ado. But the winds of change left very few things ruffled. One day, following his contemporaries in the slum, he had dared to enter a pleasure-house. They trade a few hours’ company and pleasure with handsome amount of money, he had heard. But when the whore, appointed by the local pimp, saw the gruesome face that she had to kiss, screamed maniacally and run away, leaving George Washington in the 100 dollar bill in Silas’s hand as his only company for what was going to be a long night. But he existed- in the rear-view mirrors of empty taxis waiting in long queues before the driver noticed, in the puddles of water until some busy passer-by marred his idle obsession.

Silas leaned back on the blue railings with chunks of rust surfacing here and there. He ran his fingers down the railings until his fingertips felt a warm uneasiness spreading through them. It was about time. He looked up expectantly like a stray dog. The backdoor of the restaurant opened as a man hastily came towards him with a bag and dropped it near him splattering the pavement with a little of yesterday’s leftovers, careful not to get too close to this vile animal.

He lunged onto it like a wolf and a pair of hungry eyes lit up in an instant. He looked under the filthy, slimy piece of cloth he rested his buttocks on. A surprisingly clean plate of stainless steel appeared out of thin air into his tight, cautious grasp. He was going to eat now.

But the leftover was emptied on the concrete as Silas ate like a hungry tiger preying upon a cadaver. Once he was finished, he rubbed his hands against his loincloths vigorously. Then, he took up the plate and held it in front of him. A pair of content eyes were looking at a grotesque face like a possessed soul.