Vis Viva

"Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It changes from one form to another"
                                                                  - Law of Conservation of Energy


The seconds expecting a breakdown at the door was as painful as the bullet lodged in his gut. His breathing was heavy and uneven. He knew there was no escape from here, but the killer in him was half mad at the kind of end his assassin's life was coming to,a bullet from a rookie's gun. He thought he would go in a much grand way, like after a long fight sequence similar to a Tarantino movie or at least after a few rounds of shots fired, using up all the clips he had, the anticipation of a shot, hitting the target, feeling the heat of the gun, sweat in his skin, and finally give up to the bullets that would sieve him. He wanted be gone a legend after an intense gun fight. This, was pathetic. Damn the rookie cop with the unsteady hands. He ruined his "Glorious Exit".

His profile was impressive.More than two dozen hits, all clean with nothing tracing back to him or the ones who wanted the dead, dead. He was the best. He was the unknown and unseen strike that got you out. He was off the grid and it was as if he never existed. That's what he believed until he found the trace and now he was cornered, literally , at some random room in some random floor of some random  building, waiting for his Rain of Bullets. He had not one regret with his life. He was powerful. The scythe that reaped the lives. He knew nothing about the lives of the ones he had slayed and he didn't care for them. Yet with the final grains of his sand clock slipping down, he thought he would feel remorse, for all the lives he had claimed, the tears he was accountable for, the looks of terror, the pleas of mercy, the foul stench of death, and the vacantness that filled their eyes afterwards.

As he heard the hard soles closing around him, he recalled his every kill. From the very first to his recent one. He was proud of some of his work and thought he could have done much better at some others. The money, the life, the comforts that came with the blood, all brought a small grin. He was good at what he did no matter how evil it was. He could hear the voices now. It took them full two minutes to figure out the room he was in. "Good call Sherlock.Was it the blood trail that gave away?", he guffawed. They were taking positions as they closed in on the door. He felt it. He was there, the state at which his victims felt right before he made his kill. Death's cruel hand crushing down with a side of helplessness and a generous serving of fear. But, unlike them, he was not afraid of dying. He knew it would all come to this one day. His heart rate quickened, his body was drenched in his sweat, blood all around him. That damn bullet in his gut.

The door burst open ,a dozen black suits stormed in. All guns pointing at him. At this point, he was so vulnerable that the rookie who shot him can get over with this with an old musket. There was no need for twelve semi automatics pointed at his chest. They were making snide comments about how a "celebrated" assassin like him had ended up huddled in a corner like a stinking coward. He had a few witty comebacks, but the pain had broken the threshold and it was to the point that he was looking forward to the end. He wanted them to get over with it. Yet they kept talking. His consciousness was not slipping but pain kept clawing at his life and the blood didn't stop seeping. At last it happened, the black suits shot him several times as he thought they would as he made a move. A slight motion, that's all it took for his life to come to an end. His glorious life as the master of death. As the shots were fired, finally the thought came to him.

 What if?

It happened so quick he hadn't had the time to catch a breath. He knew he was crying out loud, but didn't know why. He heard strangers around him. There was a women sobbing somewhere around in the vicinity. He felt running water and a soft towel followed. He felt was being handled like a small doll. Suddenly he heard the sobbing women up close. He had finally stopped crying and ever so slightly opened his eyes. A worn out women and a balding man, of gigantic proportions were looking at him. They were laughing and crying at the same time. She mouthed something he couldn't comprehend to. It dawned on him, finally, and this thought came to him.

"Oh its on".

P. S. This is totally inspired. My own words but a borrowed idea.

ThE DeScEnT Of ThE DeCeAsEd

DISCLAIMER : THE FOLLOWING POST MAY BE INSENSITIVE SO WHATEVER.

Death. Something that used to be dark and gloomy. I believed it brought about great deal of misery, for the loss of a loved one could be unimaginable and loss of loved one being the key word. What happens at the death of a not so good person? Some one who was rotten to the very core but pretended to be sweet. Even though everybody saw what kind of a person he/she was, yet never made an  attempt to confront them about their wrong doings merely because they were older, richer and had a tad more power than the confrontee. This is about such a person. Her death neither stirred a great deal of grief or joy among her near and not so dear.

I happened to be there, at her funeral. Well I am technically her relative but our relationship was never cherished. Well she was supposed to be a big part of my childhood, but she simply didn't care. Before I go ahead explaining about the funeral, I would like to recount my previous funeral experience because I do not want to seem insensitive or inexperienced when it came to funerals. I had been to two. My mother's brother and father and they were full on funerals of the countryside. The traditional women-in-huddle "opari", sounds of waterworks all around, men discussing how the departed will be missed, family trying to get a hold of the things happening around. One could easily cut a slice through the grief that lingered around the place. After such grim experiences, this was a.. how can I say it.... weird  experience.

 I was walking towards the house were funeral was held. A few houses away, I could see my destination quiet clearly and there started the weirdness. I heard no "Tharai/thappatai" and I assumed it was too early. I heard no crying and I thought people were tired of crying for a very long time, but it had just been a few hours since she passed.  Mind you, this is not a woman with very few relatives. She had 5 step children, 4 sons of her own and a brigade of grand and great-grand children. All I heard was the noise of conversation. Men having men talk and women sharing women thoughts.

I retreated to the wall on the opposite house to observe the proceeding. Suddenly, the people stirred and looked down the street. A family of four were walking towards the house. A respectfully dressed elderly man, an elderly woman, clearly the man's wife and two other women who were most likely their daughters. I knew the gentleman was the dead woman's step son, to whom she had successfully cliched the role of a step mother. As soon as he appeared at the threshold of the funeral house, his two sisters started their lament almost instantaneously. The timing was so accurate that even trained actors cannot start crying on cue like they did. They scooped their brother in a huge hug and led him in. He was not sad or for that matter he reflected no emotion. This death did not affect him, for he made sure her life didn't affect him in any way.

This routine continued for a while . As new mourners turned up, the sobbing sisters engulfed them in their lament and after a threshold period of 2 minutes, they went about their business. The dead lady's own daughter in law, looked thoroughly annoyed, not at nature for depriving her of a mother in law but the number of people who turned up to pay their respects to the dead, adding to one more fake pleasantry that she had to deliver.

The proceedings were dull, not in a grim or nature of death, but people looked extremely bored. Nagging kids all around urging parents for something more fun than a funeral and that's when the most curious event of my observations of the funeral began.

An elderly woman, whom I learned  to be the cousin of the weeping sisters, came rushing in, crying a high pitched lament which was further encouraged by the sisters in distress. The three got together and started crying and the tricky part was when the sisters reached their threshold 2 minutes but the cousin still continued "oparying". They sat there for another 10 minutes not to seem rude , but the cousin was unstoppable. After a about 15 minutes past their threshold period, they left the cousin to grieve alone, and resumed their usual funeral talk. After another 10 minutes, the cousin  came out, finishing all the verses of the lament and joined the sisters to complain about the frequent power cuts.


     What amazed me the most that day was that a human life had ended. Any form of physical existence of the woman ceased that day but the impact she had was so little that it was near miserable. The state of events of her funeral made me feel sad for the life she had more than her death itself.