The Sun decides to turn orange; so that he can match the color of the drink the girl has been holding on to in its fading streams of light.
The table has a tablecloth saying, “God is almighty”. ‘Pretty unusual advice’, the girl ponders as she traces the soft silk words etched on the cloth with her fingers. The tables around are empty; the waiters aren’t hovering around much either. She glances at her watch.
***
“Check out this watch!” Sandhya chortles like a school kid.
“C’mon! I already have three!” she replies, trying quite unsuccessfully to drag her away.
“You don’t have this one!” she retorts, eyes glinting like sequins, knowing quite well that
She has her this time.
They buy the watch and spot a “50% off” on the other side of the street. Sandhya pulls her and both of them try to run across the street. Neither of them notices the black car hurtling towards them at high speed, meters away.
***
Six thirty. There is an old man sitting on the table across. She waits patiently. He is never late. She looks towards the old man for a fleeting second, nothing unique. A mop of frizzled leftover hair sits on his scalp, having turned oblivious to its purpose of existence long ago. Baggy cotton pants, checkered cotton shirt, shoes which look like they have met his grandfather. He is looking towards the sea, through a splatter of palm trees that are blocking his view. She adjusts her hair, pushing back a wayward lock over her left ear. She crosses her left leg over her right and traces the writing on the table for the tenth time. Her mind wanders.
***
“You mean there are people who can disappear in front of your eyes?” a round eyed girl of seven questions her mom who is cooking in the kitchen, trying to fulfill her believed pre-occupation on the planet. She answers without looking.
‘But of course! Such people wear bright clothes and often have a ring on their finger. It is of a coiled serpent. If they get angry, they can make people around you disappear as well!’
***
She sees a man approaching. He has come. He brings along with him, her moment of glory; her Nirvana. He is wearing a bright yellow shirt and shades. His walk carries an air of nonchalance. In a different life, she might have been attracted to him. But not today. Not in this moment. She would do what she has come to do. She grips the handle and closes her finger around the trigger.
***
The world changes in a flash. There is commotion all around. Her vision is watery. Her head feels like a bag of sand. There are stabs of pain being reported by her brain from all over her body. People seem to be running all over the place. She can hear the faint siren of an ambulance. She tries to turn her head and sees a black car stalled at a little distance.
A man wearing a fiery orange shirt steps out. He is wearing shades. Her eyelids are heavy, almost closing. She sees the lifeless eyes of Sandhya before passing out.
***
The constable runs into the Inspector’s room with sweat on his brow. He has a letter clutched in his hand. “I will commit murder at seven at The Seaside”, it says. There is a little newspaper cutting attached with it. It is an article about a road accident. The inspector looks at it for a full minute before throwing it away in the bin. Looks like a bad prank. The fan above him goes on making the whirring sound that almost no one has noticed in ten years.
***
The man stands in front of her now. Her tears flow freely. He just stands and stares. Silence stares awkwardly at the spreading, never-ending sea and then concentrates on this scene. The waiters are inside the glass doors, unknowing of the scene unfolding outside. She decides to give him two more seconds of life. She fails to notice that the old man has almost reached her table. She takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger. The silence shattered, the gunshot echoes in the distance. When the smoke clears, she sees an old man with a bullet in his chest and a young man with dark shades holding him. She drops the Gun and breaks down.
***
The inspector nurses his glass of whisky. It’s been a long day for him. He shares his evening with an old gentleman wearing baggy pants and a checkered shirt. He takes a sip and speaks “I got a strange letter today. You remember the road accident where this girl was killed and her friend survived? Someone sent me a cutout of the same and a message saying that he would commit murder today at The Seaside. I tell you, these kids don’t have anything better to do. They read novels written by people like you and expect that they can create a menacing atmosphere. What they don’t know is the Police ain’t a shithouse!”
The old man smiles. He has found his Exit. His readers would not be disappointed. He would not die of some tupenny cancer. He would die, and in style. He takes a look at his watch and realizes he has about half an hour to complete the autobiography. He takes out his pen and writes the heading of the final Chapter,
Chapter 20: Curtain Call…
