Note: The narrative changes here. This is another meandering turn to a storyline that I have no clue about. Kindly indulge me by ignoring the randomness of this. This is practice, after all! But hey, if you did fall asleep midway, I'd really love to know! (the.poets.mind@gmail.com)
"Coward!" He had it spelt out in fine cursive script on the walls. She was not around to see him cringe. One more look was required to make sense of the situation.
Sarita was furiously pacing down the corridor, waiting for him to make up his mind. Her husband was still in the ICU. The police had made three rounds since morning. The statement was yet to be recorded.
It would be simple. He had received threatening calls for a couple of weeks before the attack. He had not taken them seriously since they seemed too farfetched to believe--which Dubai-based don would take interest in an entrepreneur when there were so many more richer industrialists to farm? It seemed a stupid decision in hindsight. Hindsight was always meant to be this clear.
Meanwhile, Sarita walked up to the bathroom, and yelled, "Are you building a castle in there? What's keeping you?” He felt the bile rise up; another wave of fear took him by surprise. She was cold blooded! He muttered to himself, "Yes, of course. With all the bricks that I'm shitting, I might as well build a castle for us."
He was definitely not the finest specimen of his species. He had gotten by on the inane copy churned out for a doddering agency. People romanticized his profession, and by virtue of association, hailed him as a creative person. "Hardly true!” his closest friends smirked, in private. They valued his loyalty too much to hurt his feelings. His great luck with women riled them; they were lookers by all means. Ego was indeed a painful associate in friendships of convenience. His loyalty meant all resources at his disposal were open to them. It was a heartening thought to be able to call up one of his many friends in times of loneliness. None of them failed to oblige. That ego boost was good enough for them to indulge his histrionics. Anyone who could manage so many relationships was well worth the admiration.
They thought of Sarita as an oddball. She was well off in every sense--fine homes in three cities, enough inherited wealth to keep up with her spending, a husband who was considered near-genius by his associates and indeed most people who knew him. He had successfully transitioned from Academia to the world of commerce and within the short span of three years, established himself as an engineering services provider of merit. He was yet to hit the big time, but an IPO would cure that. His increasing stature in his field (of ceramic wizardry, of the kind that laymen did not understand) was leading to larger contracts to design astonishing contraptions--ceramic braking systems, of the kind used in Formula 1 cars, except made much cheaper through his design and manufacturing processes. Most global carmakers had an eye on him. He was a kind and forgiving man, a fact they realized when he offered jobs to the younger relatives of the friends of the traitor who had cuckolded him.
Why then would Sarita spend time with a suave hustler like Sikander? They kept their counsel and never questioned either Sarita or Sikander about their relationship.
Sikander meanwhile was still stuck in the bathroom. The outdoors seemed dark and uninviting even at high noon. The police would surely get him, for no fault of his. Or so he thought. He was right, she was too good for someone like him. The heave of relief he had heaved a month ago was not settling on his chest, heavier by the moment. How could he have got caught in this mess?
So the wheel of Karma had turned a full circle.
