A Brown Study

    The restaurant was unusually crowded that evening, considering that it was Christmas. The young man sat at a table and drummed his fingers uneasily. The waitress responded by hastening with a rather soiled menu card, but that wasn’t what he was restless about. Thanking her, he pretended to read it intently, waiting for her to pad off for other orders. His mind hovered in exasperation, muttering under his breath that she was late again, just like their first date. He glued his eyes to the entrance, with increasing disappointment as fresh crowds streamed in and looked at the occupied tables with waning hopes. It was only to natural that he wasn’t aware, indeed, no one can  be, of being closely and secretly watched. Not by any shadowy person, but by a glistening, black beetle, little more than a perfectly globular drop sticking to the rim of the table’s circumference.

     It wasn’t exactly the beetle, though, who was interested in him. Its eyes were functioning as shiny, round windows for four microbes inhabiting its head, in full control of the activities of the creature. They were by no means of any sort known to biologists. If viewed through a microscope, one would see that oblate spheres of many non-chlorophyllous hues, and rapidly pulsating nuclei, from which emerged a pair of tentacular antennae, extending their ciliary lengths to double as limbs, comprised the structure of the organisms. Their plasms were ceaselessly changing in colour like decorative lights, turning into all shades but green.

      One of the four was significantly larger, differentiated by its many lobed nucleus with rudimentary, developing antennae apart from the main ones, whereas the others simply had single globes for their nuclei. This, the leader, now addressed them in amazingly subsonic vibrations of sentience which no earthly ear or device could possibly pick up.

      “And now, at the end of all our tedious travels in order to study lifeforms of various galaxies, we  as this, though apparently beautiful. We have, quite unfortunately, landed in the most boring region of the planet which, if the mapping section of my memory serves me right, is called ‘civilisation’, by the creatures who made it. These creatures usually walk on their hind legs, and their forelegs and head, along with the rest of their bodies, have seen several complex changes, depending upon usage. For instance, the creature you see here is in a sitting position, and is blinking frequently in an effort to view what are known as ‘words’, which they put, by various instruments, upon the thing he holds, called ‘paper’. It is one of the chief ways in which they communicate, apart from what is known as ‘talking’, as you will see just now.”

      The curious microbes couldn’t restrain their delight as they heard the man thoughtfully utter ‘Coffee”. They drew their antennae up, which quivered with what ought to be, in human terms, laughter. But they were baffled to see the man hand not only the menu card but two other pieces of paper which he excavated from a somewhat tattered pouch in his side, after a long, gloomy search.

     “No, it is not part of his body, but a contrivance known as an ‘overcoat’. Ever since these creatures started changing, they lost their ability to inherently withstand heat and cold, and hence require such protection, made out of things obtained by killing other creatures.”

      “But many of these creatures here are clad in odercokes..”

“Overcoats”, corrected the leader sternly.

“Yes, overcoats.  But those of the others seem of higher quality than that of this creature. Why so?”

“I’m coming to that. Did you notice the pieces of ‘paper’, he removed from the gap in his overcoat?”

The pupils turned blue in assent.

“Those are called ‘pockets’, and the green pieces of paper, ‘money’. The creature is unable to wear a better coat for protection from weather because the other creatures, or humans as they call themselves, have more of the paper called money, in their pockets, while he has less of money.”

“Does that mean, teacher, that among these ‘humans’, the ones with more money are more resistant to natural hazards?”

“Not only that, they are resistant to hazards they create for each other as well, and the ones with the most  ‘money’, are usually, either openly or covertly, the leaders of the ‘civilisations’.”

“But what of a human who doesn’t have any money?”

“It simply dies from lack of nutrition and shelter.”

“Meaning even those depend on money?”

The teacher chameleoned into a shade of alarmingly bright cyan in approval of his pupil’s intelligence.

“Is it that like the planet Xeroblig, the creatures here are segregated by the value of how much money they have and valued on that scale, just like in the other case, the Xeroblites are valued by how many feelers they have?”

“Quite right, though I hear that these creatures do not admit it, and in several cases, when they say yes, it means a no, and vice versa. This process is known as ‘lying’. It is an obsolete process which was once practised on our planet too, last observed to occur around the year 7251, when the Prime Tentacle lied to the Chief Fang about invading the planet Truga. It still persists here, so many light years away. These creatures compete to get better at ‘lying’, since the more skilled they are at it, the more money they can have. By faithfully lying to each other everyday and acting accordingly, they have been able to build such a ‘civilization’, which is a more complicated way of getting their needs than, say, hunting or foraging.”

       The pupils were thoroughly entertained to hear it, and flickered from hue to hue in uncontrollable laughter.

“But in such a life, don’t they aid each other in any way?” inquired one of the inquisitive pupils, trying hard to stop changing colour.

“They seem to, by what they call ‘love’, which in most cases is either another instance of the process of lying or an excuse for breeding. The opposite of the process is known as ‘war’. But the wars aren’t as we know them to be. They don’t concern attacking the inhabitants of other planets, which is the normal thing to do, but attacking and killing each other.”

“Each other!” glowed the students, crimson with astonishment.

“Indeed, they carry the idea a bit too far. Apart from their daily conflicts in an attempt to gather more money, they unite, apparently as an act of love, as ‘nations’, so that they may practise ‘war’ upon other such nations for more money. Then the victorious nation puts it down on paper, and displays it to its children as what they call their ‘history’, which is little more than an account of the ‘wars’, they fought for money, and what they then did with the money”.

They whipped their tentacles around feebly, in a helpless state of watery colourlessness as their plasms were curdled into laughter that threatened to lacerate their cell membranes.

“And what do they do with their money other than fulfil needs?” inquired another with much effort, stopping its pearly vacuoles from flitting about and composing itself.

“Find better ways to make more money, and better ways to destroy each other. They call it by the collective term, ‘progress’.” explained the leader, wriggling its nucleus wisely.

The pupils crinkled their tentacles in disgust.

“And now, pay attention, and you will see a practical instance of ‘love’, among these organisms.”

All of them drew their antennae close to the ‘windows’ of the insect’s eyes, and perceived that the young man had been joined at the table by a woman.

“So, how have you been? I got caught up between this and that,” said she, after the customary kiss upon meeting.

“You always get caught up between this and that,” grumbled the man, with ill-concealed chagrin.

“But honey, you know that the school...”

“Yeah, I know,” he snapped, contemptuously.

Their plates arrived, each laden with a hillock of dainties. The man winced, scratching the rotten leather of his nearly empty wallet with his dingy fingernail before fishing out his handkerchief, and wiping his forehead with it.

They munched in silence, devouringly solemn.

When the last of the food had trickled down their gasping, hiccup-stifled esophagi, and wiping hands passed over their mouths, she spoke with a sad smile-“You know what, today is a day when people are absolutely honest. And somehow, I feel I’ve wasted my time and our relationship doesn’t work at all. Please don’t be angry with me, but its all so mechanical, the calls, the meetings, the movies. I suggest we move on.”

The man stared at her, agape in a silent cry of dismay.

“Well I’ll ring you up later and talk. I’m already late for the programme, but glad I could catch up with you. Merry Christmas!” she said, in a thrillingly melodious voice and hurried off into the evening. The man gazed, dumbfounded, at the door.

The beetle scurried over to the plates in hopes of leftovers. Meanwhile, the creatures in its head were flinging their antennae and churning up their cellular contents in derisive glee at the incident.

The man’s reverie was broken by the waitress placing a silver tray before him. Engirdled by small chocolates and translucent lozenges obviously meant to put diners in a cheery frame of mind, lay a rectangular slip of paper with digits in blue meandering all over it, like a river in a valley surrounded by wrapper-enclosed mountains. He picked it up, and couldn’t restrain a shout, slamming the table with his fist, outraged. Consequently, he found his hand wet and sticky. He had squished a beetle near his plate.

   

Silences and Deeds

The days were young, you gambolled in the green.
I watched.

You whetted and sweated till your blade burned with sheen.
I watched.

You nocked an arrow, and set it free.
I watched.

You heard the cry, smiled with wry glee.
I watched.

You fed the flames, made the dials and wheels go wild.
I watched.

You towered brick by brick, in concrete style.
I watched.

You brushed the qualms aside, and pulled the trigger.
I watched.

You briskly worked the keys, and typed the figure.
I watched.

You ripped it up and trounced it black and blue.
I watched.

Kicked it away, though it simply stuck to you.
I watched.

Your treacly promises, soft nothings delivered sweetly.
I watched.

We met in mirrors, though you wouldn't speak to me.
I watched.

The Assignment

A silent, swirling mist flooded the lane in billows of obscurity as darkness claimed the city. On either side of it, the windows of the buildings were blurry blazes of yellow, a few with blinds drawn. The lamp-posts on the street were thoroughly ill-maintained by the authorities considering the paltry significance they held in the daily transport of the metropolis. But even then, they made their best endeavour to combat the night, each determined to retain its circular domain of light. Nothing much ever occurred on that particular street, but that night it was ominously quiet, apart from the occasional yelps of the stray dogs the lane boasted, unable to endure the deathly chill in the air.

   The stillness of the shadows was suddenly disturbed, as a pair of feet strode into the lane, feet evidently meant to be noiseless, but the shoes wrapping it betraying such intentions. The owner of these feet, a tall, stalwart man of around thirty-five, somewhat past his prime, padded along the pavement, warily treading clear of the lamp-posts. He was clad in inky blackness, blending admirably with the murky place. He had on a thick overcoat with its collar turned up, almost touching the rim of the considerable felt hat which shrouded his countenance. With hands tucked away in the trouser pockets, he walked in the dark, his attire gentlemanly, though his purpose was not.

   He stopped by a ramshackle pawnbroker’s further down the deserted street. Beside him now was a dark figure leaning against the wall, clothed in an odd huddle of winterwear, with something like a great woolen hood concealing the face entirely. To this grotesque spectacle the man said nothing, neither did he offer a cigarette as he lit one, blowing rings of smoke in still anticipation.

  The man smoked hard to steady his nerves. It wasn’t that he was scared or anything. All emotions, and particularly fear, were alien to his austere, unfeeling nature. It was precisely these characteristics of his, coupled with an immaculate set of ‘skills’, which had landed him his present job, and consequently, lost him his family. He mused on the happy memories of his wife and daughter as he lurked around the place, which was his customary preparation when on an assignment.

   He and his wife never got along too well because they had discovered, as the profound warmth of illusory love slackened between them, that they had hardly anything in common to bind them. Moreover, his vices were despicable, and he was nothing short of a fiend when drunk. The final, crushing blow in their marriage came when he lost his post in the army. The inevitable ensued; a dolorous separation at court, but in the process he lost the one he loved most, his daughter. Life went further downhill when he dreadfully wounded a rival in a bar brawl, and after serving a short term for it in the bowels of an infernal prison, he emerged, positively suicidal. It was then that the agents of his nameless ‘employer’ found and sheltered him, for he had been a gunner of repute while in service.

   The man despised his job, though it was the only available for him. It brought in enough to allay his material desires, and involved the stealthy removal of people from the face of the earth. His talent and experience had made his first three assignments exceedingly successful, all his victims meeting their demise under ‘circumstances pointing to foul play’, as the papers loved to call such happenings. He had received phone calls in each of the cases, a raspy voice furnishing him with all necessary details, and a photograph of the target lying inexplicably on his table when he got home after an outing. Every call ended with the routine warning that there should be no failure, and no mess, just a quiet, clean kill. His last three had, thus, met every criterion, resulting in the mysterious appearance of a note-stuffed envelope on the mantelpiece of his house. He harboured high hopes that the fourth would conclude with a similar aftermath, and dared not think of the negative.

  The phone had rung again that morning, and the unknown voice had informed him of the man who’d be driving down the very street he was on. He’d asked for certain arrangements to facilitate his objective, and it was all as he desired. Now, he could only wait.

  The vigil wasn’t long. As his keen senses told him it was coming, he dropped the cigarette and pulped it under his foot, scurrying up to the figure and straightening it onto its feet, balancing it on a skateboard. It was only a mannequin, a clever contrivance of his, meant specifically for the task at hand.

  The curtains of yellowish fog parted in the distance as the headlights came into view, emitting tunnels of light. The man waited until they came into distinct visibility, bathing the street with a soft white illumination. Then he shoved the mannequin with proper force, just enough for it to trundle down and stop in the vehicle’s path. A resounding screech cleaved through the air as the car halted, having rammed into the plastic figure and reduced it to scattered bits and pieces. The killer briskly pulled out a revolver. His moment had arrived.

   The driver, his target, clambered out of the car in consternation, and walked timidly up to the mess in front. The gun was raised in the dark, its muzzle in a silent beeline with its target’s head. It was then that the killer noticed her out of the corner of his eye, in the backseat of the car. In ghastly stupefaction he gazed at the little girl, as if he had seen an apparition. He thought at first that it was his daughter, but realized a while later the impossibly curious resemblance of that child to his girl as he had seen her last, more than seven years ago! A flood of agonizingly passionate memories consumed him. He was disarmed, incapacited.

   He could only stare as the girl’s father got back and turned on the ignition again. It was his last chance, but his hands were cold, they refused to budge. For the first time in his life, he had a profound, overwhelming grief mingled with a human sort of feeling he didn’t know, pity perhaps.

  The orange backlights of the car dashed off into the empty night as the killer strained his eyes to discern the last rays ripple away through the fog. He had failed in his assignment. However unpleasant the result of his futility might be, he was prepared to face it.

   

Nearer

It had eventually dawned upon me just how thoroughly useless an encumbrance my existence was, entirely comparable to a very displeasing half-memory of some childish nightmare. I might, upon reflection, liken it to some hideous fever or ailment, a span of suffering between my past life, if there was any such, and the potential next one. A body riddled with interminable disease, a mind laden with the hopelessness of defeats. It was certainly irrational to trouble them anymore. They had done all they could for me, and I had done my best to keep them well. Something else had done its best to make everything much less pleasant, that invisible something which cannot be explained, malicious in its efforts. I believed it had some generosity too, until circumstances would not permit such conviction anymore.

    There still was hope of escape. I had long contemplated it. But a rather combative nature always stayed my hand. I hated to lose, and would not let that something have its way yet again. I hadn’t lived in lies and agonies all these years for nothing.

    But when ailments threatened to permanently disqualify me from work, and confine me to days of starvation, only perhaps to be fed once in a while so that I might starve again, I decided to do the needful.

    They were but tiny white discs of finite thickness. There were many of them, fitting easily in the hollow of my palm. They had a lot to promise…

    The darkness was heavy. I was like a bubble adhering to a writhing seaweed, floundering on the bed with the weight of oceans upon me. A current came from nowhere and tore me upwards. I felt a lightness which I never knew existed. Thus levitating, I soared vertically upwards for quite a while unhindered. Then, unseen things swept past with soft gurgling echoes, sending me gently to and fro until I was drawn into a plethora of chaotic, conflicting forces. The blackness clobbered all about, and I grew increasingly certain of being reduced to pulp, when abruptly, the world turned to a shade of quiet grey, pushing me about more uniformly. A gentler stream at last, I thought, away from the ruthless maw of stormy waves.

    Thenceforth, I traveled harmoniously upwards in a circular fashion, until things suddenly darkened, and the ride ended with the unprecedented vision of a deathly sky. Each living cloud resembled solid stone, comprising a mighty wall, utterly impassable, and throbbing with veins of intermittent lightning.

    An unforeseen, titanic blast of thunder ensued, nearly shattering my sanity. When I could see again, the heavens lay sundered, the rupture broadening swiftly. It opened like a pair of eyelids being pulled apart with enormous force, severing rather succulent, venous meshes of lightning. A circular portal materialized, and I was hurled in by a massive whirlwind.

    Pandemonium prevailed as I drifted towards what seemed a distant speck or white star with maddening velocity. Fleeting glimpses of hideous tentacles and lashing vines flew past me, as did execrable cackles, tortured cries and litanies of portent from amorphous, insectoid mouths. Had I traveled any slower, they would have surely consumed me. But I flew towards the gradually nearing light at the end of the tunnel with unflagging, urgent force.

    I little knew when I had been carried far past the monstrosity-fraught regions of the tunnel, the morbidity having now been replaced by a curious shade of pale azure walling me in with its enormous circumference. At lessened speed, I gazed at the changeless hue swimming by, seeming near, yet ever too distant.

    A deluge of abrupt illumination enthralled me, and the effulgence of pure white light forced me to embed my consciousness into its depths. The light was agonizing to the eye, yet mesmerized in a manner that prevented turning away from it. I noticed that I was no longer drawn towards the light, but flailed my limbs in an attempt to swim upto it through the vacuum in between, like a moth to an enchanting flame.

    At length, my efforts were rewarded, and the moment I waded through the barrier of light, there appeared celestial vistas of empyreal numerosity. Engulfed in boundless light, I perceived unearthly patterns of pure energy, woven by some distant nucleus at the far end. Nebulae of pure white beams emerged from it, floating about like gossamer extending to the throne of some nameless god. In my hopes of clambering up to the very core, I endeavoured to grasp one of these, but they all shied just out of my reach. After great struggle I caught hold of one of the stray, fainter beams which instantly gave way, sending pulses of unrestrained suffering tearing through me as it disappeared.

    I fell, agonies ever rising as I descended even faster than my journey upwards. All the regions traversed vanished around on my way down like lightning shadows of dim memory. The fall stopped at last with a muffled noise, the pains multiplying into a bizarre sea of suffering.

    My eyes opened to the white lights characteristic of hospitals, accompanied by similar conversations of concern. The pain of my soul far surpassed that of the body, for deep within, I knew that the nameless ‘something’ had won again. But there was solace at the end of the path I had traveled. And sooner or later I would find it. I was indeed much nearer to the peace I sought. I still had my friends in the bottle at home. I was nearer, yes, nearer.

Something Bad

“ Highway 3 is reportedly getting increasingly unsafe for vehicles, as a band of robbers is supposed to be operating on it and several others as well. The police have –“

“ – Cause the lies become the truth. Hey, hey, hey, Billie- “

“ – There is no pain, you are receding- “

“ – has been found that the building certainly had something by way of paranormal activity going on in it. Investigators suggest that any entity- “

    The man abruptly turned off the radio in rebellious disgust. Driving alone on such a bleak highway was bad in itself, and he didn’t want to add the misery of listening to news as depressing as that. He had driven down many such roads on even stormy nights, and had never had any fear of being attacked. He knew that more than half of what the newsmongers said was purest fiction. But even the music didn’t seem to alleviate that weird solitude which was only too natural on such an occasion.

    He suddenly became aware of a storm gathering, for the moonless night was suddenly lit up by an enormous jagged fork of lightning, the following clap of thunder pervading his senses.

    Another flash soon met his eyes, but not of lightning. In the little rear view mirror appeared the headlights of a trailing car. He could somehow make out the indistinct silhouettes of two rather broad-shouldered individuals. The one to the right snaked his head out of the window and raised his dangling arm. Soon, there were some holes in both screens of the vehicle, and one in his left shoulder. It felt as if a white hot metal rod had been pressed against his innards, and blood flowed freely. The newsmen, for once, had been exceedingly, painfully honest.

    The rest was all a bizarre haze, much like a very displeasing half-memory of a nightmare. His whole frame felt like a stiff block of pulsating agony, refusing to yield. He somehow managed to push the speed up, driving towards nothing. He had a dim idea that perhaps he was still being pursued, or perhaps they had given up. But he was taking no risks. He must get to town.

    He little knew when the fuel meter had plummeted towards the E mark! He wouldn’t make it! Very ill, fading, asphyxiating, he sought the world outside the car, however terrible. The last memory was that of opening the door of the running vehicle and…

    Rain fell. He opened his eyes to frigid beads rushing down to meet him. A sizzling arc of lightning cut across the firmament, revealing the torrents. He started, and found upon crawling up, that he had lain, muddied and very wounded all over, in a barren field. His car was nowhere to be found.

    Shivering, weak, and feeling horribly faint, he somehow pulled himself onto all fours, gritting his teeth against the pain. In the distance, a flash of lightning helped him discern a house, its black form looming large, like a sudden mountain in a river plain. All his hopes lay there. Much enthused, he dragged himself together as he could, and shambled totteringly towards it. The house, two-storied, was nearer than he thought, much to his relief. Upon reaching it, he found it in complete darkness. The ramshackle door, however, remained alluringly ajar.

    Stumbling into the dark ante-room, he called out, but to no avail. Taking some steps forward, he tripped hard against something, but fell, as it seemed, on a heap of whitish bedding, or perhaps linen, tangled strangely together to form what he thought some sort of hammock. He sank into it, nestling wearily, and pulled the weavings like a blanket to himself. They wrapped around with unexpected ease.

    There was a vile stench, which he noticed at length. No matter how tired he was, it prevented his sleep. There was a creaking noise somewhere, and as it drew closer, he tried to lift himself up, only to find himself smothered by the mesh. A wild fear suddenly consumed him; he knew that something was not as it should be. Amidst his struggles, he thought he saw a couple of round lights approaching, and yelled for assistance. They drew closer, softly illumining his surroundings. Ceasing his fight, he noticed someone lying beside him, wrapped like a mummy. The excoriated face was scarcely even that of a corpse. Only a single eye hung from its socket, a reminder that it had once been human. He tried to shout, but was stifled. Somehow rolling and twisting around with panicking force, he came face to face with the pair of white orbs. His eardrums were rent by a thousand clicking and buzzing noises which emerged from between the lights, a large, mephitic gap which was evidently a mouth. His final scream was muffled by the gagging constraints. The lights went out.

End of the Road

Of what I saw, or what saw me, I cannot tell.

A levity like gossamer, as I fell,

From the empty-space-fraught doorstep of the stars,

To a seaside-skirted avenue of cars.

A caravan of halted wheels and souls.

Beseeched, each, by supplicating tithe bowls,

Engines, chained by eyes of tunneled light,

Lead the wanderer, twisting into the night.

Past wayside marketplaces, gaudy airs,

‘Twixt wrathful incantations, clamorous stares.

Tripping on sand castles, seagull cries,

Which cleave into the walls of moonish skies.

Thus floated I, and at length came upon,

A daze-panoplied ring of lights which shone,

Like heaven’s distant empyreal vale.

Just clumps of cars and crowds stalled in the gale.

I called to them, they surely did not hear,

And rushed over the path to where they were.

I did not shove, but wafted through to see,

A young man, slain and smiling, or was it me?

Bob

   Life was blank. There wasn’t much left in it anyway. The dreadful war was over, and it had ended in what might be considered defeat. Not merely for the country, but for the countless who had gone out to the trenches, and I happened to be among them. After several months of gallant insanity, I, like several others who had been unfortunate enough to survive, found myself entirely beyond all hope, with a fairly crippled right leg, an ailment ridden body, and no opening or position at all. It was chiefly by virtue of a government scheme which entitled hapless, war-beaten sufferers like me to a certain monthly allowance that I was able to keep soul and body together, and shelter it in a seedy room which I found in one of the most insalubrious regions of the city.

    But, after the strange manner of human nature, I continued to live. I woke up each morning to the most pointless, insipid existence imaginable, but there always seemed to be something about it which was dimly alluring. I would pretend to be a person of activity, shambling out everyday to purchase the needful, and perhaps, the very rare luxury. I could have bought a week’s stuff at once, but it gave me a good feeling, a reason to think of and look forward to tomorrow. The occasional longer journeys were to the offices, with the all-important papers in hand, which would feed me for the next month. I would display them with a forced smile, trying also, to add a similitude of pride as I would bring out a cross of gleaming silver. It was the only relic I had of the war, apart from the agonies and those papers which I fiercely guarded.

    And the papers did need guarding. I even had to stay up some nights, for such was the menace of mice in my rooms that I felt no security even after I had locked it in the cabinet. It was only natural, since my ground floor room abutted upon one of the filthiest alleys of the city. It was too malodorous for me to even open my windows.The noises of stray animals as they would battle all night for the possession of the garbage bins strewn around there would rouse me continually, thus making me a watchful sentinel of the papers.

    This problem was largely solved when Bob came. Bob was a frail, ginger tomcat. He was aggressive, but rickety and ill-fed, which evidently led to a daily defeat in the back alley fights. I first came upon him nestled cozily in a corner of my room, having made his way in while I had briefly gone out that evening, forgetting to shut the door. He was a piteous spectacle, withered and scarred all over. I tried at first to scare him off, but finding himself threatened, his mellow purrs swiftly turned to growls, resolved to fight to the end. There was something pleasing about his tenacity, which I immediately rewarded with the leftovers of my humble dinner. Since then, Bob remained with me.

    He was a furry ball of animation, was Bob. The pleasure it gave me to watch him play about was more than I can describe. Brimming with alacrity and ever alert, he would jog all around the room and often up the stairway, only to be chased away by the indignant landlord, though certainly returning with some prize which he had made away with, usually meat, or even fish. Delight would gleam in his glassy eyes, the pride of having won his meal, or earned his keep. My additional efforts soon promoted a greater improvement of the state of his health. It soon showed in the replenishment of his fur, developing into a thick coat of fiery auburn, and in heightened alacrity. This, in a way, aided my recovery immensely, too. I could sleep with greater peace at night, knowing that my papers were safe under his beady eyes, glowing green and alert. And true to his task, every morning would find me with a considerable crop of dead mice, which he would faithfully take outside one by one upon my opening the door for him.

    That night, I sat writing a letter by candle-light, when a whim suddenly led me to bring out the papers again and glance through. I did so, and leafed wearily through the sheaf, recalling the storms of the war as I put them aside on the table and continued the letter to one of my few friends with renewed vigour of narration. I failed to continue long though, and went off to sleep, forgetting to put the candle out.

    I woke up to a sudden sound and discovered, with great consternation, that the candle had fallen! The flame was steadily consuming my papers, and had reduced much of them to a charred heap. Just at that moment, Bob, who had leapt onto the table and knocked the candle down, sprang off, singed by the fire. Making a wild dash for my bottle, I deluged the table, and it all went out in wispy smoke with a sizzle, leaving behind a black lump of nothingness.

    A cloud of unmitigated rage set in, and seeing as if through a haze, I bellowed and hurled all I could lay my hands on at Bob, who dashed out of the door I had forgotten to close. I sat broken, ruined and wide awake till dawn brought an explanation. The poor creature quite possibly thought I was planning to stay up, and must have dozed off, as a result. He had surely woken up to the sound of mice, and jumped onto the table to stave them off, bringing the candle down in the process.

    A thunderstorm swept over the city all morning, but nevertheless I waited for sometime, hoping he would return. I opened my window and called out, but to no avail. I went out in the rain and searched the alley, calling out for him in vain. I waited all day, and stayed up all night listening to the anarchical rumble of the mice inside and the combat outside. A distinct feline cry amidst the wild squabble in the storm swept lane suddenly fell upon my ears, and I grabbed my umbrella, running out into the night. I yelled out for Bob and rushed towards a dim, waning circle lit by a solitary lamp-post. There, drenched in rainwater and blood, lay my Bob. He had lost the war.