The rain was falling hard outside.
It was a pitch black night, and nothing was visible outside, not even the old broken gate at the end of the compound, or the old and gnarled branches of the old gulmohor tree near the compound wall. Not that there was much to see and admire on that side of the road. Nothing even remotely interesting ever happened there.
Sixty five year old Mukesh’s house was the only house on that side of the hill where the light was shining. It was perched on top of the hill, like a brave soldier who had conquered the peak, but all his fellow companions had either given up or collapsed during the climb. The old house proudly stood there on top of the hill, never ready to give up its position at the top. No one else ever ventured even nearby. For one, the road to the top of the hill was a very steep climb, and there weren’t too many other people who were too interested in making the climb just to admire the view from the top.
Only Mukesh knew what they were missing by not taking the effort to reach the top, because the view from the top was breath takingly amazing. You could see the whole city below; you could see how far the city below stretched. At night, the whole city would be flooded with light, and from the top of the hill it seemed like a whole ant colony had been electrified, and lit up. The vehicles moving on the highway at the far end of the city were the working ants, always busy, and moving in a straight line and the bright light on top of the huge city tower in the center was the queen ant, sitting there in all glory, and commanding the worker ants to move around her.
Often Mukesh would take out his heavy arm chair from inside the house, and he would drag it across the compound, till he was very close to the edge of the hill. There, he would slip into the couch, and start writing his stories. The cold and fresh air blowing from across the hills cooled down his soul, relaxed his system, and brought out the best of the writer in him. And then he would write, he would make his pen bleed over the white piece of paper, sometimes forcing the reader to shed a tear when the main protagonist of his story died, or smile when the girl in the story finally realized that she was in love with the man.
Mukesh wrote the stories with a clean heart, and maybe that was the reason why all his stories were read with such enthusiasm in the city. He knew he wasn’t going to win a pulitzer or a booker prize for his books, but it calmed down his old heart when one of the school kid or the young girl from the nearby college sometimes sent him a letter, saying how much they loved his stories, and really would like to meet him sometime in person.
Mukesh never answered those letters. He didn’t want his relation with his readers to grow more than he wanted. He was scared. Years ago, when he was younger, and less known among the literary circuit, he had once received a letter from one of his reader, a young librarian from the local library, who had read his latest story ‘With Love’ and said she had fell in love with him after reading his latest love story.
Her name was Tanya. She wrote that she was deeply influenced by his story, and wanted to meet the person who could bring out so much love and emotions into his characters. She wrote that she was sure the author himself would be a very lovable and a wonderful person, full of love in real life.
He was young. And he was excited at the prospect of meeting a girl who loved his story so much. So the next day, they met at the ice cream parlor in the city. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. He instantly fell in love with her.
They made a very nice couple; two young people, very much in love, who couldn’t get enough of each other, and couldn’t stay away from each other even for a single day. They dated for six months. And then they decided to get married.
Mukesh felt he was the happiest man in the world. Everything was beautiful in the first year of marriage. Trouble started in the paradise after the baby was born. Mukesh felt he wasn’t ready to be a father, and take up the added responsibility of a baby. Slowly, he somehow felt the love in him dying away. The baby boy became the first priority for Tanya. Mukesh felt like a kid, desiring and yearning for love. He found out that he could no longer write beautiful love stories. His stories could no longer touch the readers, they no longer cried when the protagonist was sad, or got excited when she was happy. And in an act of complete immaturity, Mukesh one day left his wife and children behind, and moved to the house on top of the hill, where no one could find him.
Tanya couldn’t bear the insult and agony of the situation. She begged her husband to come back home, if not for her sake, but for the sake of their son. Mukesh remained unmoved, convinced that he didn’t love her any longer, and needed time to be alone with himself.
And that was when she decided to kill herself.
He was stunned. He couldn’t believe his eyes, or his ears. He couldn’t believe that their sweet and beautiful romantic story had met such a dreadful and insane end. It wasn’t the end to the story he had wanted, or expected. He blamed himself for everything, and spent a lot of his time crying. He missed her, and longed for her again. The love was back in his heart, but there was no one to respond to it now. Mukesh started feeling lonely. And the heart inside him died slowly. He became like the walking dead, living each day just for the sake of it, never being excited about any festival or occasion. His mind was still active, but his soul had left his body long ago.
He never fell in love with anyone again. He started avoiding people, and crowded places. He was hardly ever seen in public. He lived alone in the old house, taking care of his daily needs by himself. No one ever cared to find out how the old man was doing. He was dead as far as the society was concerned.
But his books again had found the same flavor as before. His stories had more pain in them than ever before. People loved reading the stories from the old writer who was dead for the society. It was like a phantom author, who once in a while came down with a story that was remembered for some time, and then forgotten. He became a known name amongst the literary world, but for his own city folks, who never ever saw him, he was still an unknown face, hiding from the world and the society.
He sent his son to a boarding school at a very early stage. He didn’t like his own son since the very beginning. He still considered his son partially responsible for what had become of his wife.
The boy grew up away from love and family, and obviously wasn’t close to his father. Some summers he wouldn’t even care to come back home, but instead stayed back at the school, or went off to a friend’s place to spend the summer vacations. He hated to spend time at hi s father’s old and shabby house on top of the hill. They didn’t even talk to each other. Mukesh would send him his monthly pocket money, and pay for his education, and that made him feel that his duty as a father was over with that.
There was a loud sound of thunder. Mukesh came back to his senses, and peered through the window. In the flash of the lightening, for a second, he could see the old gulmohor tree outside.
The window had been thrown open by the wind, and was now flying on its hinges, banging against the wall. Mukesh cursed silently under his breathe, and got up to shut the window. Just then, the lights went out, putting everything around in a cover of darkness.
Mukesh shouted a few more curses, and walked in the dark towards the kitchen, groping for a candle. It took him some time to find a candle. Every thing in this house took him some time to find. Years had passed now, but he still was not used to the fact that Tanya wasn’t there with him now, to keep the house in order, and put things in their proper place.
Finally he managed to light up the candle, and set it down on the old wooden table. He sat down, an old man catching the sides of the chair for support, while his old bones made rickety sounds, warning him not to try too many exercises.
He was lonely. He remembered his wife, her sweet innocent face swimming in front of him. And then she suddenly she burst out crying, accusing him of killing her. Mukesh immediately opened his eyes. He had had this vision a million times till now, but each time he would wake up feeling nervous and guilty.
He remembered his son. He must be around twenty five years now, the same age when Mukesh had met Tanya. God knows how the boy looked now. He hadn’t seen his face for more than fifteen years now. He hadn’t heard his voice for close to a decade now.
‘He must really hate me. There is no way he would forgive me now’. Mukesh thought to himself and sighed. He felt bad for the boy, the way he had treated him, for no fault of his. He was after all his own son, and he had treated him like an enemy.
Mukesh had been living in guilt for years now. But today something in him was paining. His heart ached; his left side of the body was dropping. The breathing was slowly becoming slow and irregular.
He clutched his heart with his right hand, and reflected back on his life, analyzing all the mistakes that he had made, and all the things that could have been avoided. He could have been a happy man today, and had a normal life, surrounded with his family. If only he had not acted the way he had. He was a sinner, and he knew God would never forgive him. He would never find peace even after he died. They would never let him enter through the gates of the heavens.
If only he could ask for forgiveness from his son, and hug him only once.
He then remembered his half written story. It was almost complete now. The girl had just realized that the boy loved her with all his heart. After all the problems in the world, she was finally convinced that he deserved a second chance.
The story just needed a good ending now.
“The end is the most important part of the story. You could write with all your heart and all your characters could be in the right place. But if the end wasn’t fine, then the reader would never be able relate to your story. The end made or broke the story. It is the most important part, yes”, Mukesh remembered his own words, and tried getting up from the chair. He just had to give the Perfect Ending to the story.
He got up with great difficulty, clutching his heart with one hand, and pushing the chair with the other hand for support. The other hand didn’t have much strength left in it. It gave way, and Mukesh fell flat on the floor.
“I just have to give the perfect end to the story”, he remembered. He collected all his strength and will power. He prayed to God to help him get up. He just had to write the end of the story.
Finally he managed to get up, and stand on his feet. He started walking towards his old study table. This time his legs didn’t bother him much. He was feeling light. His heart too, wasn’t paining now.
He thanked God, and walked slowly to his table. The papers were still there on the table, flying and fluttering in the wind. He sat down the candles on his study table on top of the pile of his old books. He pulled out the old heavy chair, which made long ghostly sounds as the legs scratched the wooden floor. Mukesh finally sat down on the chair, and picked up the draft copy of his unfinished story.
“She decided she should give him another chance.
‘We all make mistakes in our lives. Vivek is just another human being. He has committed a mistake. But the important thing is he realizes his mistake. Why, otherwise he wouldn’t have come crying to me last night’, Anita thought.
And finally she decided to call him. She picked up the receiver, and dialed in the number that she so clearly now remembered.
She could hear the phone ringing on the other side. She waited with bated breath, waiting to hear his voice again, waiting for him to pick up the phone.
‘Come on Vivek, pick up the phone now. It’s me, Anita’, she said impatiently. The call ended, and no one picked it up.
She dialed gain. This time somebody picked it up just after the first ring.
‘Hello, Vivek? It’s me. I love you, Vivek. I love you’, she couldn’t hold herself more, and started shouting over the phone.
And then the voice on the other side spoke, a heavy and deep voice. It was so unlike the sweet and calm voice she had expected to hear.
‘Ma’am. It’s Inspector Shukla here’, the voice said.
Her blood froze, and the hair at the back of her neck stood up. She knew the worst was yet to come.
‘Ma’am, there has been an incident here. Vivek is no more’, and with that sentence, her whole world came falling apart.
“Now, that is a perfect ending to the story”, Mukesh re-read his finished work, and stared admiringly at the last paragraph. It contained his signature style of an abrupt ending, the kind that no reader could even imagine.
A smile spread across the old man’s face, and he decided to retire for the day. He was happy now.
‘What an end that was’, he thought to himself, as he pulled down the covers, and fell into a peaceful sleep.
He woke up the next morning, with everything very hazy. He couldn’t see properly. There was a deep fog spread all around. He couldn’t even breathe properly. It was suffocating. He got down from his bed, and walked down the stairs. His knees no longer pained, and his body no longer ached. He was feeling like a young boy now, his spirits high, ready to enter a new world.
But where was this smoke coming from? He had to find out, fast, before it choked him to death.
He went downstairs, and found everything in disorder. All his furniture had been moved. The windows were all thrown open, and the carpet on the floor was no longer there. The wooden floor lay there exposed, naked and bare.
Mukesh was astonished. He was shocked, and angry.
“Who dared enter my house? Everyone here knows that I don’t like guests and pesky fellows nosing there way around here”, he thought.
“If it is some nosy kid, or a thief, I will kill him”, he cursed and clenched his fists.
The smoke was coming from his study room. He followed the smoke, covering his face with his hands. He pushed the door to his study, and immediately jumped back a few steps, as the old door came crashing down to the floor, baring the inferno inside.
Mukesh screamed, as the smoke now tried to find its way out through the fallen door. The study was all covered in soot and ashes now. Everything was burnt. Nothing was spared. Not even his collection of books, his furniture, his curtains, or his own copies of his published books. It was all gone.
He remembered his draft copy of his latest story, the one he had just finished writing last night. He ran towards the table on top of which he had kept his latest master piece.
It was gone, burnt to ashes. His only copy of the story had been destroyed.
He sat down on the floor among the ashes, and lay there crying. He sat there and cried, squalling like a child. He cried for a long time.
And finally when his tears were getting dried up, he heard the creaking sound of the door.
Mukesh got up immediately.
He came running outside, shouting “Who burnt down my house? Who burnt my house?”
He stopped in his tracks, as two men and a young lady entered the house.
They didn’t even look up at the old man, who looked so much in disarray and despair. They looked around the house, and started talking to each other. One of the men was dressed up in a formal official looking attire, while the other younger man was dressed more casually in jeans and a loose tee shirt. The other woman who seemed to be the young man’s partner was dressed in jeans and a bright shirt, and was holding the arm of the young man, looking around the house, observing it.
“Who are you? How dare you enter my house without permission?” Mukesh shouted. But the party of three people didn’t even look up, and continued their normal conversation.
Mukesh shouted again, and still no one reacted.
“This is it. They burn down my study, and dare enter my house. And then they ignore me in my own house?” Mukesh was very angry now, and charged towards them ready to throw them out of his house.
As he neared them, he heard the lady say “Sweetie, there hasn’t been much damage to the house. It’s just the study that has been damaged.”
Mukesh stopped. The lady was still observing the house, and then commented “It’s a beautiful house. It will look very beautiful after it has been repaired.”
“Yes sir, its very beautiful”, agreed the official looking man.
The young man looked around, and remained silent for a while.
“You haven’t seen it the way I have. I hated this place. I hated it so much. I couldn’t wait for the vacations to get over, so that I could return to the school again. I have seen this place the way you people can never see it. And trust me, I still don’t find anything beautiful about this place” the young man said sternly.
Something about this man looked familiar to Mukesh; something about the way he talked when he was not impressed, reminded him of somebody.
“I will have it repaired sir. You just come and have a look at it when it is done”, the older man said with a false smile.
“Fine. You do your best then, and let me know when can I come and check it out again. I won’t come here again. Just call me when you have to”, the young man said.
The other man nodded.
“And what did the investigating officers say? What caused the death of my father?”
“Sir, they said the fire in the study started from something small, maybe from a candle fire. And your father, God bless his soul, had expired of a heart attack even before the fire started.”
The other man didn’t say anything. He looked around the house one last time, and sighed.
“If only he had loved me, and treated me like a son, he would never have to die alone like this. We could have worked it out together dad. Why did you do this to me?”
They left, leaving behind the soul of Mukesh standing there in front of the mirror, trying to see his own reflection in the mirror. All that the mirror reflected back was the empty house, and the emptiness in Mukesh’s life.
He had spent his whole life trying to write the Perfect Ending, while his own end was not so prefect.
But not all stories always have a happy and Perfect Ending. Sometimes it’s better to leave the story half told. And that could be the perfect ending to some stories.
