The wind was strong and he hurtled pass the sidewalks. He had to reach fast. His first and last sanctuary. Thank God it was near to his house. On the way he saw happy people, couples huddled in the cold, why don’t these guys get a drink he thought wistfully. His head was drowsy in thoughts. At the age of 27 he was quite successful. Made his bucks and saved his ass. Yes, he was smart in making money, and equally inept in the matters of the heart. Fear not, a mushy love story does not follow but a depiction of gross error of judgment.
The street lights flickered. A few stray dogs trotted ahead of him. The dimly lit bar came to view. It invited him with a foul demeanor. It was warm inside. The place always looked bigger from inside. He always sat at the corner directly facing the bartender. The bartender was gross. His scruffy face looked like an ex-convict. He had hair growing out of his nose. His lips were parched and black. His eyes almost lost in the sockets. A few strands of hair tucked safely behind the ears. And his trademark yellow Hawaii shirt. He always wore that on a Friday. An ugly man’s smile is sweeter than that of an Adonis’s.
“How was the week Sir?”- asked Ramu.
“Same as usual, how’s your daughter?”-Mr.
“She is better”- Ramu smiled.
He always started with whiskey. That helped his tongue get bitter. He tried the special prawns with it. This was heaven. The place had started to get sparser. Night proceeded without any fight. There were normally some fights. But he was always alone so he could be a innocent looker by.
The bar grew dimmer. He went into his thoughts. He played every scene frame by frame. The way it had happened that day was a movie playing before his eyes. He could at last be himself and enjoy the life of a freaking retard. That’s what he called himself lovingly.
Ramu sat beside him .
“Aapke chere pe kuch likha hai, kahaani bataayiye na”- Ramu pleaded.
Ramu loved his stories. He took a sip of his own Mc Dowell’s and looked across to the last hours of Chandna Bar.
“Ramu what do I do best”- Mr. asked
“You sell yourself well”- Ramu answered. This part of the story was common to all Friday nights. So Ramu knew the answers very well.
“Ok, so today we are selling a product which helps people choose appropriate places to build houses”- Mr.
“Ok, so land prices and locations Saheb?” –Ramu grinned.
“My Ramu, you should work with me”- Mr. grinned.
“Ok, so I was selling this to some real estate agency.”- Mr.
“So nothing”- Mr. said.
“The story didn’t end sir”- Ramu revolted.
“You will see the rest”- Mr.
Ramu didn’t ask any more questions and went on to cleaning the tables.
It was difficult to gulp down the remaining whiskey. He was feeling nauseated. Then he opened his notebook and started writing.
“I have started taking notes too late. The bar is about to close. Today I couldn’t even tell Ramu a decent story. I think the time has come when I won’t get any more ideas. I won’t get any real ideas to write my story. The filth is consumed by the filth. The rich consumed by the poor and poor devoured by the rich. There’s no difference now between Ramu and me. There was no difference before too, but now it’s apparent. I give up everyone I have done my part. I have showed the treachery there is to this day prevalent in the major parts of the city. The frame that irks me most is why the real estate smiled in that defunct way when I signed in my product to him. He could not know where I get my ideas. How did he know that my product was dangerously infamous? Stop stop it stops just now. No more procrastination, no more fears. I do good business. I can’t care about heartbreaks.”
Loud banging noises echoed in the nearly dark bar. One bullet caught ramu in the chest, one took Mr. in the head. The only picture left for the morning newspaper was the unfinished drink, left unattended, left strong.
Famous writer dies of gunshot over family feud
Mr. Jayweer Biswas died of a single bullet injury to his head. He finally the case against his brothers of disputed property. His two greatest works.. TheLand of the Fathers and Brother’s share a Room, both loosely and tightly involving his life long fight for his paternal property in North Kolkata finally ends in what can be described as a tragic ending. His high profile in the literary world had always showered much animosity over his younger brothers. They could not win a case and this man earned millions writing about it. This shows his versatility and ingenuity. But finally someone ended it today. Ironically in his last book he mentioned about the end being futile as the beginning. Though this seems vague, it makes sense now. His last work the unfinished drink spoke about greed as a never ending peg of whiskey. And today the pictures on the front page of the daily show to us that legendary writer has punched a message to all warring families fighting over disputed lands. He is survived by no one, but the interesting fact is that his father wrote in his will that in the event of demise of my youngest son before any of his brothers my whole property will be donated to the Missionaries Of Charity Kolkata.