Unknown

A personification of despair and desperation

Unknown & Untitled

Weather: Cloudy evening. 

Location: Bandra, Mumbai. 

Address: 

Flat No: 204. 

Name: Anjali Shanker. 

Occupation: Sales executive, Aquagaurd. 

Marital status: Married. 

Husband: amateur magazine writer.  

The silence was getting to her nerves that day. Anjali, into her thirties, was reminiscing her five years of marriage with him. The man, who isolated himself to his ‘writing room’ the whole day; Of late, she was worried about his behaviour. 

Anjali met him for the first time from a book launch of one of his work; he wore a silk Modi jacket and was surrounded by the who's who of the literary and entertainment fraternity. 

As an opinionated mid-twenty-year-old, she was able to resonate deeply to the thoughts he shared through his writing. She read his books before going to sleep, unaware that in a short period, the author himself would be sharing the bed with her. Starstruck at the event, she stammered while introducing herself; the famous writer chuckled at the beautiful girl staring widely at him. Conversations between them started to grow longer and longer, and soon their relationship evolved to be more intimate. 

Anjali's  parents were against the relationship from the outset. The stereotype of white kurta with the long beard combined with eyes that stare at space with abandon was the image they formed in their minds when she told them that she was in love with a full-time writer.   

It wasn't easy to be around him at times of a writer's block, she learned, soon after she started living in with him. His fits of anger closely followed by bouts of sorrow had her suspecting whether he was a bi-polar personality or not. Combined with dealing with her stressful times at work deepened the creases on her forehead.  

Years went by; he never seemed to get through the 'phase'. The block would just simply not allow him to make a speck over the blank white page. It would keep staring back at him, as he watches in horror like if he has come face to face with slenderman. 

Little by little, his frustration turned to aggression. He balled his fist at her whenever she approached him with soothing words of encouragement. The apple of his eye slowly did become sore. It was bound to happen, but she still stood firm, she was still willing to support him for however longer, like her belief that he would make it as big as he did when she first met and fell in love with him. 

This woman seriously had to have some balls to be supporting him the way she did all these years. 

Anjali kept herself busy in the kitchen, stirring the pot as it emanated aromatic vapours. 

On any another day, he would have appeared at the kitchen door sniffing like a bear on a scent. Not today.  

Suddenly, she heard a cracking sound and rushed to his room.  As soon as she reached the door, the sight before her was unforgettable; He raised a cricket bat and smashed the remains of the laptop lying on the floor. He wasn’t relieved until the screen came off the laptop body. She looked down at the floor, now strewn with plastic pieces, glass, motherboard chips and keyboard keys. She looked at him and saw that fury had subsided a bit, at the cost of an expensive gift. 

“Who the f**k, do you think you are?” disgust writ on her face, she was finding it hard to look at the man, whom she had run away from home to get married. Until a couple of minutes ago, she was feeling better cooking chicken stew. She read a motivational post on her phone; prompting people to keep trying no matter what and stuff like that. She thought of sharing the post with him, to lift his spirits as she knew that the call with his agent had not culminated well.

The call happened in the morning; he locked himself up in his room for the whole day since. The chicken stew she prepared for dinner was his favourite. Now she just felt like dumping it in the bin. 

He threw away the bat as well, and looked at her, studied her expression for a second, and then settled back to his chair with both hands cupped to his face. 

“You didn’t answer my question…” She said, still standing beside the door. 

“What?” he replied, 

“I asked you who the f**k, do you think you are?” she shouted. Just so that he would listen loud and clear this time. 

“I am no one, Anjali.” He said. With tears welled up, holding them back, he looked right at her, shivering. 

On another day, she would have consoled him by holding him close; Not today. 

Today, she kept staring at him indifferently from the doorway; her large, round eyes, a poker face. On another day, the sight of him crying would have her in tears as well. Not today. 

“Have you swallowed your f*****g tongue? Why don’t you say something?” He said. 

“What do you want me to say?” She said, 

“Anything my love, you have no clue what happened today.” He said, 

“Yes, I do have an idea; I believe I have a fair idea of what just happened,” She said.

“What would that be?” He said, 

“You just broke my father’s wedding gift with a cricket bat.” She said, pointing to the pieces on the floor. 

“Oh, so you are mad because of that huh.” A smile broke through his face, “You see honey; I was frustrated with it,”

Her reply was curt and crisp. “Oh, I see, why would you be frustrated with it, did it jumble the words that you typed, did it grow a mind of its own?”

“Well… I…” He tried,

“You know what I am frustrated with right now, YOU. Now hand me that cricket bat.” She stretched out her right hand. He looked at her with a blank expression. 

Anjali heard a hissing sound from the kitchen; the stew would have been boiling for a while now. 

“Excuse me,” She said and swiftly moved to the kitchen.  The stew had boiled over, leaving a bit of sludge behind. 

Anjali picked the pan and emptied it in the bin. She looked around the kitchen for some food. If not for the man who broke her dad’s gift, she was feeling a bit hungry herself. 

She opened a cookie jar, and it was empty. She looked once more, took a deep breath and walked back to her husband’s room. 

She saw a bottle of Lysergic acid (LSD) on the table. He drank a shot-glass full of it in front of her.  

The psychedelic effects kicked in immediately, He threw the glass out of the window and got down to the floor screaming, “Grenade!” Anjali shuddered when he screamed this way. 

She held the door and started to weep. “Don’t keep drinking that concoction; your head will start searching for green fairies in the room.” She said, between her sobs. 

He looked at her, his face red and restless, seething like a possessed demon. “Yes, b***h cry! Did you know that my astrologer had predicted that I would appear on the front page of every English newspaper tomorrow?"  

He continued, "I thought that I would make it today. I believed that the contract would extend to another three years. It should have made the front page news once more. Yes, b***h cry! My hopes of a good destiny are fading with each passing day.”

The fact was that Anjali’s husband had never made it to the front page; it was an article that could afford only the real estate at the bottom left corner of page three. Anjali had begged her friend at a PR agency to push the story through. 

She wiped her tears and stood straight. “Is dinner ready?” He asked. 

“There is no dinner today.” She said, looking down at the floor around, gazing the mess around her. 

“Why not?”  He asked.

“I was distracted by your performance with the bat.” 

He gulped, stomach growling with hunger, and mind numb with acid. She expected an explosion over not serving dinner. But, he just sat there, staring into space, and wiping his face. 

Anjali said, “I am going to sleep now.” She turned towards her room to the right of the hallway. 

“Anjali stop,” He said. She obliged, and stood to face him with her arms crossed. 

“You know what Amitav Shetty told me today when I visited him to renew the contract? He said that the board of directors, the publisher, and even the public wants my column out of the magazine.

They have apparently been getting letters to remove the same and put those five pages to some good use. Amitav was thinking of selling those to advertising and giving a raise to his employees.”

Anjali said, “See, it’s alright. I can understand that the past couple of episodes of your column was a bit off the mark. But, that shouldn’t render it dangerous enough to be taken off completely." 

Anjali thought out loud, "I remember that it was the column that brought us both together in the first place. You are a magical writer; it’s just that your creative fields are facing a drought at the moment. You must be patient and hold on to your will; the thick clouds shall soon arrive, and a relentless downpour of ideas will help you complete that novel. It will get published and leap to a million copies within a fortnight. Post that, your name would be a household one, with every house having a copy on their bookshelf; as a symbol of appreciation to the art you make. “

Anjali sat down beside him and kept her hands on his lap. “Please stop drinking; it is never going to free that writer’s block. You are only going deeper down into the quicksand. Remember that lately you have begun crafting your stories according to how the readers are expecting you to. You are not the writer that I once knew and loved. You never gave a damn of what the readers wanted with the characters. You had your way, your style. 

I hope you realise that you are letting fame get to you. The self-doubt is blocking the flow of creative juices. Let your head be like a hollow bamboo shoot, let the words flow freely to the paper. I am sure that you can make it through this tough time.” 

Despite all the words that flowered at his feet, her daft husband kept sinking deeper into the acid trip. 

“Am I sinking Anjali?”

“What?” Anjali said. 

“I feel that I am sinking in the quicksand right now. I need your help.” Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks as her husband reached out to her. Anjali moved closer to him. He gripped her face tightly. 

“Am I sinking, Anjali?” 

The painful cries seemed to hit her chord. Tears started to pour down her face as well. 

“Can you be the rope which would pull me to safety?”

“Yes, baby, yes.” Anjali was smiling through her tears. 

“Thank you so much Anjali.” Said her husband as he slowly brought his grip to her throat and started to squeeze it. 

“Hey, why are you…achkk… stop…” Her voice croaked as her windpipe tightened. 

“You want to know who the f**k I am, huh” His face flushed red suddenly, his biceps clenched as he kept squeezing the life out of Anjali. Her eyes bulged and her face puffed, to a pale purple as pressure bloated her face. 

In a final flick of his wrists, he heard a snapping sound from her neck as her head & body went limp.

“That is who I am.”

The astrologer was right. The front page of every English newspaper carried the name “Ashwin Shanker” the following day. Arrested for the murder of his wife, he is finally famous now; a copy with his name reached every household in the city. 

The End

Reviews

[Daniel-Andre]

The first thing I`ve got to point out is the ending. I don`t say this often, but this ending is A.W.E.S.O.M.E!!! This is a great example of a plot twist, and needless to say, I love twists such as this one. Probably why Roald Dhal`s short story "the Man From the South" fell under my liking as well. If you like reading short stories, I highly recommend this one.

In any case, I couldn`t find any grammatical errors, your sentences had a good flow and the paragraphs were chopped up in a good manner. In addition, your descriptions were short and precise. And all these factors together concludes that this text was an easy read. Which is a positive thing, of course.

The first complaint I can give, however, is about the conflict itself. Because this little situation between the two characters escalated very quickly. Don`t get me wrong, it`s a good plot, but not every story is suitable for a short story. Perhaps they`re more suitable for a screenplay, maybe a longer short story perhaps, or a novel? So frankly spoken, what I`m saying is that every manuscript has a beginning, middle, and ending. And I definitely think the middle part in this story deserves to be longer. So if you plan to do any rewrites on this piece, I suggest giving this a look.

We`re still in the middle of the frying pan, so a final complaint. My second issue lies with the dialogue. Now, the reader knows at all times which character is speaking. So there`s no confusion there, but I think you repeated the word "said" a bit too much. Just a tip, before/after each dialogue, you don`t have to use the words "said, replied, explained, responded, etc". You can use words of action to show a characters movements and body language during a conversation instead. Here`s a simplified example just to illustrate it to you:

The knight reached out his hand, "could you give me the sword?"
"Here you go, sir", the blacksmith smiled. Leaning on his knees with the blade grazing his fingertips.
"You took your time with it, didn`t you?", the knight admired the sharpness of his brand new weapon.
"Indeed, but could you please just take it? Being on my legs like this takes its toll on my back. I`m not as young as I used to be." The knight grabbed the sword by its hilt, "Of course, my apologies." The blacksmith waved his hand, "Ah no matter, no need to tell me you`re sorry. As long you spill the blood of our enemies with that steel, it`s all I need."

Anyways, I think this creation of yours was a good read. And I hope my review was helpful. Keep up the good work Soldier of Literature!

[Ashwin Shanker]

WOW Daniel BRO ... YOUR Review has given me the joy of winning an award ... If I could rate reviews... I would give this one a 100/100 ...

Remember my initial days here, when you used to painstakingly point out each and every grammatical error I make, and I would rework on it... Well... This review helps me understand that I have made progress.

You are right about the 'middle' part... I need to flesh out the characters more vividly. Perhaps throw in a little flashback and some character building is to be done and elaborately so. I will be doing that in the near future, and would likely request you to have a second look at it once I am done.

About the 'said' part.... well... Let me have a revision of the structure, perhaps in my re-write, I could fix up a bit there as well...

Thanks once more man :)

[Daniel-Andre]

You`re welcome, and I`m glad you found my words uplifting and helpful. And indeed, I remember how I pointed out the errors of your grammar xD Though, it`s really nice to see that you`ve made improvements. Lastly, I would love to give this piece a second look after a revision. So don`t hesitate to ask! I`d love to do it.

[Anjali]

The climax was unexpected! Well written plot. I guess there are many emotions that I went through while reading it. And here's what I felt about:

First of all, a writer's block- yes this start happening when the writer's freedom or expressing his own self cannot be fulfilled or it is restricted due to the market demand of the readers!

Another is the astrological prediction, one should not blindly believe in those predictions, rather it is up to oneself to create your own self, believe in oneself and attain the goal. There are many cases out there in India where people blindly follow or believe in the predictions given by the Astrologer and wait for that good time to come while wasting the present moment!

[Ashwin Shanker]

Thank you for the review Anjali.

I am glad that this writing was able to invoke certain emotions in you. Would be great if you could share what emotions you felt for which part?
Yes, Writers block is such a horrifying thought, for every writer, especially those who are making a living out of it. Thus, this story could strike a chord, especially for writers like you and me. (Though we might not strangle anyone because of it :P )

Regarding the astrologers prediction, it wasn't that the protagonist believed it to come true. It just happened as a coincidence. As a consequence of his action. You would have noticed that the writer, is even unknown to the reader until the very end, (when the newspaper spells out his name) Hope you noticed that. :)

Anyways, thanks once more for the review.

[LilyVice]

I have no empathy for the characters. This struck me as a narcissistic, self-fulfilling fantasy with a melodramatic ending haphazardly concocted to pass it off as a 'story.'

What was the point?

I don't know.

It's advisable for writers to be able to differentiate between material that deserves to be read by a wider audience and the scattered sketches derived from the abysmal idylls of the mind which ought to remain in the back log of a journal, never to see the light of day.
This story falls into the later case.

[Ashwin Shanker]

The story is narcissistic but not a fantasy. It is a very dark fictional piece intended for a slightly mature audience. There are several minute nuances to be noticed about the unknown writer and his wife's desperate attempt to motivate him. The picture I chose was of the american psycho, another story where psychological horror was used well. There are animals in each one of us, sometimes releasing themselves on paper. If you look at the Indian soap opera, a million plus industry where the content is far darker than the situation I have written above, but widely enjoyed by the society simply as means of entertainment.

[Kathrin S]

*latter

This comment strikes me as unconstructive. I am the first one to advocate criticism, it is necessary and helpful. But to harshly criticize an entire piece without giving suggestions for improvement doesn't help. In my opinion this site is about building each other up, not tearing each other down.