Rust On The Astute Sword

Chapter Four

Chetan was busy reading “Heads You Win” by Jeffrey Archer, lying flat on his stomach, on his bed. Other than chess, or more appropriately other than dogmatism rather, if anything that defined his personality was that he was a book-freak. Freestanding bookshelves jutted out of his room's walls like stiff icy fingers, creamed with accurately placed 758 paperbacks, leather bound encyclopedias, and a few hardback Bengali books. A study table always stood lonely in a corner with a walled lamp hovering over it and a sumptuous looking laptop was sedated to sleep. His high school examinations were over and he had all the time in the world to sharpen his hobbies.

Jeffrey Archer was Chetan’s first choice author, merely inching ahead of Dan Brown and GRR Martin, and according to Chetan, he indulged in many sleepless nights and random sequences in pinching his confused brain to answer the question without bias: Whom to read next?

Chetan stiffened a bit. He grazed himself up and scrutinized the paragraphs closely. He was on the page where Alexander Karpenko’s father was assassinated for defying the Russian State. He felt as if he was there witnessing it all in front of him, when a loud and heavy thud made him jump.

The winds howled as if the coachman had loosened their reins to which they nodded gleefully and strutted like an amateur untamed horse, their grounds being the tress which in response leaned on their mates as if to whisper an age old secret. The windows thumped hard against the panes hurrying to run into their master and a scurry of papers had their freedom granted and flew all over his room from a nearby chair. Lightning winked looking for its long lost love and for a moment when the whole sky was ablaze for a split second, Chetan could see the dark glare of the clouds hanging from the sky. The thunder echoed like an angry beast in agony who had just been shot by the irresponsible and the avaricious hunter and next moment everything went dark.

Chetan fumbled for the door, wondering what happened to the inverter, stepping into lying papers which felt slippery underneath. His foot entangled with the chair’s leg and something heavy fell on his toe along with the chair. He groaned in pain. Moving it aside with his foot he got hold of the chair’s leg and pulled it up.

He then moved slowly, assisting himself from the blinks of lightning and felt for the door. His hand felt the warm clothes that were hanging from the hanger. The door was closed, moving his hands a bit down, he finally he opened the doorknob. Everything in the corridor felt a shade of darker black and strangely no light came from downstairs even. The whole house was bathed in extreme darkness.

A hard object struck his window. He turned to see.

As soon as he moved close to the window, this time taking caution as to not to trample over anything, he peeked out to see. A hard, icy cold brick like object kissed his forehead and made him step back.

Yelping in pain and anguish, he fingered the area in his forehead. He felt a rough, sticky patch with warm liquid. He closed his eyes.
Next moment the light was back. Chetan saw the icy brick like object was on the verge of melting. The hailstorm grew in intensity and more pebble shaped rocks coursed down.

He was injured, his forehead had a deep cut and blood didn’t incline to stop. Wincing in pain he got up and dabbed a handkerchief there. He went over the mirror and focused on the reflection of the wound.

Heavy and hurried footsteps resonated with his mother’s frightful cry made his heart skip a beat. He turned to look at the door.

“Chetan…Your father…H…e……can’t……” she was panting and finally her legs gave in and she slouched on the floor.

Without waiting for her to complete, Chetan dashed through the winding stairs, giving little cautionary measure to the spilled water, and in the next frame he was in his father’s room.

His father lay on the chair, his face bowed down in strange angle with his hairs dangling from his head. His thin framed spectacles had come down to the brink of his nose and his lips were parted ever so slightly. A fat book was open on his lap but the bookmark was hugging the floor.

Chetan shook his father; splashed water from a nearby half drank glass on his face, and cried out, “Dad wake up… Please…Dad!! Hey… Dad!”

Oblivious to everything his dad lay on the chair, like an old man tired of the worldly hypocrisies and flamboyant lies of daily lifestyle, taking a moment to regain strength and composure.

His pulse was very faint, and his breathing was undistinguishable.

Chetan’s mind was rejecting the tacit consequences. This must be a bad dream, he thought. Just a bad dream indeed it was, only this happened to be real. Every time the atrocious thought hit him, he defended it with enough sturdiness. But for how long?

Muttering silent prayers and trying his best to hold back warm tears, he made him lay on the ground. He then pushed open his father’s mouth and tried breathing. Simultaneously he pumped his chest. Thirty times he pumped and breathed into him.

He breathed in air himself and again pumped. He repeated. Incomprehensible prayers left Chetan’s mouth while his shaky hands kept pumping.

At the moment he would have done anything, just anything to see his father opening his eyes and asking him to sit on his lap again, feeding him, holding his hand and teaching the world’s values and he would have, like old times, say, “No you’re wrong!” And then they would have an argument but at the end his father always said, “Chetan, I just wish you knew!”

He got up, his view eclipsed by the shadowy tears. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

The sky appeared to take up Chetan’s grief; thundered and poured in abundance as Chetan waited for the call to get connected.