Strokes of Color

Crooked beaks of a couple of crows sitting on the wet footpath, one of them relaxing just basking in the serene weather and the other tearing into the flesh of a lesser creature and doing so with almost artistic precision and clinical perfection. Not a drop of blood of the reptile or a shred of flesh was splattered outside. While the crows were busy in what seemed to be another day in the office for them, the city was neatly and serenely drenched in the overnight rain. The leaves were green and washed clean and were still holding the water drops very close to their chest. Drops of water adorned the footpath almost looking like diamonds and pearls just lying on the road. Further down, was the puddle of water, almost 3 inches deep and looked like a water-color mixing plate shaped awkwardly but yet looked so artistic in the way it was carved out. This little puddle was filled to the brim and was rather over-flowing – however, what was really fascinating was the reflection that puddle held. The puddle reflected the clear and gray sky. A little too small a puddle to expose the reflection of a huge sky would you think, but then just like almost a mirror that though appears too small but still reflects insurmountable details, the puddle too in its own little capacity reflected the cold and gray sky. Right at that moment, a little wheel of a vegetable cart thuds into that puddle and water splashes out in almost random and uncontrollable but still in a manner that appeared to be strokes of a painter or an artist beyond the realms of a mortal man.

Five feet away from this puddle an endless stream of vegetable vendors, fruit vendors and salad wallahs. The vegetable thelas revealed all the vegetables stocked in the most perfect layout. A thela filled with vegetables with multiple colors. As the horns of cars, auto rickshaws, trucks and cycles fill the atmosphere and the stock market electronic meter trickles with numbers, a little rusted knife-blade almost 6 inches long engraved with the "stainless steel" mark makes its way into the heart of a beautiful and almost life-filled apple and chops into two. The hands are dark brown and plump holding the knife move in a cued fashion as if guiding the knife with repeated strokes into that apple and chopping it into many small pieces and laying them on a plate decorating it in a geometric pattern and sprinkling little bit of water on those apples. Once done, the fruit wallah wipes his knife away with an old torn red cotton cloth and washes his hands off while sporting a smile on his face still looking at the apples and other chopped fruits that adorned his thela. He seemed like being proud of his own craftsmanship in the manner in which he cut the fruits and laid them for presentation for attracting the attention of passers by and potential customers.

Somewhere, Rakshit, a small kid, a little plump and overweight for his 9 years of age is sitting by a glass window. He had his eyes transfixed to the window and much rather the sight out the window. Rakshit was watching the whole thing through the window which had countless drops of water. While making the gesture of trying to rub the window clean with his little palms and realizing his failure to do so, he is still glued on to the sights of the crow tearing open the flesh of a smaller creature and the knife chopping the hearts of those beautiful and almost living fruits. As he runs his fingers on the moist window, his concentration is shattered by a scream…

"Rakshit, come on son! You're getting late for the school". It's the sound of a man seeming around 36 years of age panting for his breath. His black leather Florshiem shoes are shown running down the stairs and then placing the gray woolen coat on the chair and running to the kitchen to fetch a pack of Kellogg's corn flakes, a jug of milk, a loaf of bread and a pack of butter. The coat reveals an identity badge that calls out the name "Anirban Kale". Anirban, after seeing lack of response on Rakshit's part, just walks over by the window and taps Rakshit on his shoulder and drag him out if his sub-conscious absence of mind and drags him to the dining table. Anirban reaches out the butter knife and cuts a pat of butter and applies it on 4 slices of bread. Two make their way to Rakshit's plate and the other 2 make their way to Anirban's plate. He then fills couple of bowls with corn flakes and puts some milk and adds some sugar. Rakshit, whose mind is still seemingly pre-occupied with the sights out the window, immerses his spoon into the bowl and slurps his breakfast while Anirban is rushing through his breakfast and the newspaper at the same time. He was trying to catch up with the sports headlines as he missed the India-Australia match last night. "India thrashes Australia by 23 runs" read the headlines on the Times of India sports page. "Are you done, son? We're getting real late for school" asks Anirban ordering Rakshit to get up and get moving. Rakshit picks up his bag and water bottle and Anirban picks up his coat and office bag and they rush to the car. "Dad, hang on a sec! The weather is gloomy. Looks like it's gonna rain crazy! Let me get the umbrella, dad!" says Rakshit fearing and sensing the rain, but is cut short by his dad reasoning that they're anyways gonna be in the car and then they'll be in the school – there's hardly any chance of getting drenched.

Both Rakshit and Anirban run out of the house, Anirban locks the main door while unlocking the door of his black Hyundai Santro at the flicker of his remote control key. Rakshit runs toward the car, opens the back door, dumps his bag and water bottle and parks himself on the front seat. Anirban, after locking the door, and while juggling his office bag, laptop and his coat, runs toward the car and opens the door. He dumps his stuff on the back seat too and takes his driver's seat and shuts the door.

Thanks to the weather and the poor maintenance of the car, Anirban chokes the car a bit to heat it up and then Grrrr… the ignition starts and they speed away realizing that they might be running late for the school. "Rakshit, pull up the window son, it is raining. We will switch on the AC." The power of the technological innovation comes to the fore, when the little kid presses the button and the window pulls up. As the window pulls up, the kid breaks the silence by turning the Sony Xplod stereo on and playing his favorite song "Kholo Kholo" from Taare Zameen Par. The dad shuffles a bit in his seat just trying to settle down comfortably looks at his son realizing that his son obviously wants to blurt out something. "Go on! You wanna ask something?"

"Dad, I have just been curious, you know! Have you ever thought that these fruits and vegetables could be living organisms too?"

"What?" As the car turns toward the left, the dad looks at his son with quite a perplexed expression and also arriving at a sort of a conclusion that this question could perhaps be a result of the weird sights the kid had been watching since morning. The car tire runs into a little puddle splashing some water over and also scaring a little crow away that was busy drinking some water from that over-flooded puddle. The reflection on the rear view mirror of the car painted a pretty picture as it kept on absorbing more and more rain drops on it highlighting the rain getting more and fiercer now. The car now takes a right turn and as the song being played fades out Anirban applies the brakes and stops the car right outside a huge, black iron gate. The gate opened and Anirban and Rakshit ran inside while carefully watching their steps and guarding themselves from stepping on the small puddles formed in the garden of the school. Anirban out-stretched his hand to grab hold of Rakshit's small little fingers; Rakshit grabs hold of his father's hand and speeds away to the main balcony. Anirban comes down on his knees helping his little son take off his gray rain coat and then takes it along. The small boy walks separate way and Anirban makes his way to the first floor speeding on the spiral-shaped stairs. On reaching the first floor lobby, Anirban turns left and enters the first room; the sign board outside the room reads "Staff Room". The light gray walls of the staff room had paintings of Nehru, Gandhi, Indra Gandhi and Bhagat Singh all arranged in one line and right opposite to that it had the quotes "Satyamev Jayate" and "Cleanliness is Godliness". The brown round Ajanta musical clock showed the time being 7.26 am to be precise. Anirban sensing that it might be getting late for the regular school assembly, just opens his personal small, military green Godrej almirah. In his almirah are lying the drawing sheets and charts on the first rack and the middle rack holds some greeting cards made as assignment and some other crafts. The last rack of the almirah holds some boxes of Camlin, Nataraj and Faber Castell pencils, pencil lead boxes, water colors, acrylic colors, brushes, chart papers, erasers, sharpeners, scales, compass and other geometrical equipment laid out perfectly.

Anirban locks the door after checking whether all his belongings are in place or not and then removes his gray woolen coat and lays it on his chair and checks his watch and the wall clock to see if the time concurs – 7.30 am both read. "Guys, am not feeling that well, you know! So am excusing myself off the assembly this morning. You guys can carry on." says Anirban. The staff room is filled with 2 other teachers excluding Anirban. There was a burly, cute-looking, round-faced female teacher. She was dressed in a satin gray saree; there was a name identification pin pinned to the left corner of her saree frontal - just around her left breast – the name ID pin read "Harminder Kohli" and she had History books for class 8th in her hands. She wore rimless spectacles that made her look unexpectedly sexy for her age. The other teachers included a semi-bald guy with a mark on his left cheek. This guy was dressed in a brown Khadi Kurta Pajama, and carried Mathematics books in his hands and his name is "Vyas Ahale". Mrs. Kohli walked off the staff room to be a part of the assembly, while Mr. Ahale chose to stay back. He was reading his morning newspaper The Statesman as Anirban excused himself to the washroom to just wash his face off. "What's the world coming to? And especially, what's wrong with the journos? Aren't they supposed to be the society's watch dogs too?" said Vyas talking more to himself but still in a manner that had an expectant tone – in the sense he was expecting a response from his fellow teacher. Anirban, while closing the tap and just shaking his hands dry and wiping his face off asked in a muffled voice "What's the matter, sir?"

"Arey, did you check the headlines today?" asks Vyas while biting his slightly moist biscuit after dipping it into his chai and then wiping his mouth off with his Kurta sleeve. The fan is making a creaky noise giving the impression of falling down any minute. "So much for it being a private school" murmurs Anirban now settling into his chair while looking at the dismal state of the fan and continuing in the same tone "Not exactly, sir! I just checked the sports page; missed the match last night, you know!"

"What paper you get?" – Vyas

"Whatever difference does that make?" – Anirban

"No baba! The Statesman is carrying the news item as a lead story. It might not be the same with your newspaper, you know!" – Vyas!

After indulging in a round of quick-fire questions and answers, Vyas now turns the paper over to Anirban sitting right opposite him while lifting his cup and finishing his remaining tea in one gulp. Anirban runs his eyes from the bottom of the page to the top while constantly tapping the pencil on his table when he stops at the huge color photograph of a body which is dismembered – this was a picture of a body lying on the wet footpath right under a street lamp. The picture was obviously taken from the top angle with sharp focus to capture every little detail in the foreground as well as the background. The idea was to make it easy for the cops and the forensics to investigate it easily rather than admiring the finer nuances of photography. Coming back to the picture, the light formed a beautiful silhouette around the dead body and the body itself laid with the arms chopped off as also the limbs, the fingers were chopped off so fine as if a reputed chef had chopped onions and garlic for his coveted recipe. The eyes had been gouged off their sockets and had been laid in one corner each around the body. The chopped fingers of the both the hands and the feet formed the oval-shaped boundary within which the body was placed. The chest area was split wide open in the shape of a cross and the skin was folded in a triangular shape and clamped neatly. Right at the centre, of the split chest, a little stick was planted and left like that. The blood was filled in the empty eye-sockets and the remaining blood splattered as a result of such a brutal killing was wiped off clean and everything left in the most artistic manner.

"See that picture? Isn't that gruesome? And these newspaper folks have just lost their sense of judgment by placing such a picture on the front page and that too in color. Fortunately, the kids of today's generation don't have much interest in reading newspapers; otherwise what would've happened to those impressionable minds is anybody's guess!!" says Vyas as he is getting up from his creaking wooden chair and turns left and walks right behind Anirban's chair motioning himself to the loo to wash his hands. "This is on the front page of a national newspaper." murmurs Vyas shaking his hands. Vyas puts his right hand into his Kurta pocket and takes out a small sachet of a mouth freshener and walks out of the staff room signaling at his wrist watch. Anirban now looks at the wall clock and picks up his books, drawing notebooks of students' assignments and walks toward the class.

Anirban approaches the room looking at the walls faded off, thanks to the wear and tear caused due to time. His feet come to a halt as the board Class 6th, Section B approaches. Students are running here and there in the class snatching each other's notebooks and scampering to their desks, throwing paper and stuff around and then in a jiffy settle down on their seats and clear the surrounding mess as they see the professor right outside the classroom. Anirban enters the classroom and he looks around the room. The paint is peeling off the wall and the wall adorns the pictures of the great freedom fighters such as Mahatma Gandhi right at the back wall and bang opposite to the blackboard and then over the blackboard is hung the picture of the Bhaarat Mata and surrounding are the pictures of Nehru and Lal Bahadur Shastri and Indra Gandhi. Anirban settles down to his chair and rests his stuff on his desk.

As he calls out the names of the students while handing them the sheets of their assignments, pops out a question from the last row toward the right hand side of the class room. Off goes a girl "Sir, can there ever be eccentricity in art? What's the most passionate thing that an artist can do ever to take his art to another level?" asks Maya Bhardawaj. Coming from a family of intellectuals and people who just worship books, such a question was more of a threat than a shock! Anirban sensed the impending threat that he was facing in terms of answering that question; he immediately finished distributing all the assignments, then got up from his chair and moved towards the left of the blackboard and picked up a chalk stick and drew a few models on the board of a few pots and pans and asked the students to draw that. Just 10 mins for the class to get over when the teacher spelt out the home work – "Find out the most passionate display of art in your opinion and tomorrow in this class each one of you will have to tell why that is the most passionate display of art according to you?".

Somewhere in the city, primarily in the bustling commercial hub, amidst all the burgeoning corporate houses, is a tall imposing structure – a nice but a little old building almost 11 stories tall. It painted a beautiful and also some sort of a cold-blooded picture. It was just so post-cardish and so perfect for a noir thriller. The building was painted in light shades of gray almost pre-visualized and designed to be in perfect contrast with the pre-monsoon showers. A black truck arrives and stops right outside the huge building and the back door opens sounding like a bolt. Couple of guys jump outside and pull a huge pile of letters and mails, put them in a trolley and hand it over to another guy who was dressed in dark blue uniform – the name "Aslam Raza". He takes the trolley and enters OTIS elevator. He presses the floor 7th button and switches on the fan inside the elevator. The elevator stops at the 3rd floor and an old man asks if he can enter; Aslam replies that the lift is going to the 7th floor; the old man stopped himself from entering as he had to go down. The elevator comes to a halt; the display screen reads 7 in red color. Aslam steps out while reading out a sticker that reads "Please switch off the light and fan when you leave the elevator". Aslam acting sensible switches off both the light and the fan and pulls out the trolley.

He motions himself through the most abstractly laid out office in the country. From the top, it looks like a maze through which a tiny marble has to sneak its way out. Aslam zig zags through the maze delivering the courier to everyone. While Aslam moves around in the office delivering everyone's courier the sound of phones ringing and the TV channels flickering is constantly increasing in the background. The city outside is also getting more and more wet with the rains picking up. The tiny drops of rain water on the tinted glass add a darker gray tone to the sight outside and the thelas of fruits and vegetables, colorful rooftops, colorful cars, trucks and other vehicles, kids dressed in colorful clothes and people just running around and walking with colorful umbrellas – the city looks like a canvas!

The offices of several newspapers are ringing aloud with phone calls. The journalists, the editors and the reporters are wiping the sweat off their foreheads. Everyone is tense.

The time is 2.30 pm. Anirban walks out the staff room and sees Rakshit already waiting there for his dad. "Come son! It's time to go home!!"

Both Anirban and Rakshit run down the stairs after wearing their rain coats and move towards the parking. Anirban clicks open his car and dumps his bag. Rakshit opens the other door and dumps his stuff. The car starts and heads home.

After reaching home, Anirban undresses and drapes himself into a towel and steps in for a hot water shower. Rakshit removes his shoes and dumps his bag in his study and rushes to the living room. He picks up the remote control and switches on his Sony Bravia LCD TV. He then switches over to Cartoon Network and fills himself a glass of Coke. He sips into his coke and enjoys his cartoon show till Anirban comes out. They both get ready to have lunch that was prepared by the maid.

"Rakshit, it's time for your tuitions! Why don't you get ready?"

Rakshit goes for tuitions and Anirban goes back to his study to sink into his work. He picks up the newspaper and searches for the story that had grabbed his attention in the school today. He opens his Times of India and while sifting through the paper he comes across the same news item on Page 9. He is surprised with the fact that there are still certain news-hungry journos devoid of morals who just work with the single goal of sensationalizing. "Isn't this exactly what criminals seek? Publicity?"

Two days later:

Once he comes back home and is busy checking his students home work, he is suddenly shaken by one assignment – it's a photograph! The name on the photograph reads "Maya Bhardawaj". Anirban is all pensive and reaches out to his own drawer and opens the file reading "Confidential". He opens that file and he sees the cutting of an image of the killing that had happened 3 nights ago. He checks this picture against the one submitted by Maya while still in disbelief and he is shocked out of wits. He puts everything in his file and closes his drawer when he sees his son approaching his room. "Dad, its just 8.00. Can we go out for dinner tonight? I don't wanna have the same ghisa pita khaana again"

"What do you feel like having?"

"Let's go out for Pizza"

"Alright, then get ready! We will go out" Anirban gets ready for the dinner and waits in the living room while his son is getting ready. Not having anything to do, he switches on TV and watches news and he stumbles upon the news that Police had managed to get the finger prints and were trying to identify the killer based on finger print analysis. Rakshit steps out of his living room and both father and son head to the City Mall on the main road and step into Pizza Hut. After going through the menu Anirban orders a medium Margarita and his son orders a regular Margarita along with a portion of garlic bread and a coke and lemonade.

Next day in school:

Anirban after finishing his class calls Maya to the staff room to have a word with her. In the staff room, Maya knocks at the door and asks for permission to come in. Anirban with her assignment in his hand asks her to come in with a worrying smile on his face. Maya comes in and is extended a chair to sit.

"Maya! What's this?"

"Sir! This is my assignment!"

"Oh, thanks for explaining that!"

"I mean what is such a gruesome picture doing in your assignment?"

"Sir, your assignment was to have us find the most passionate display of art, right?"

"Yes!"

"So, here I am. This is what I consider as the most passionate display of art"

Maya makes this statement and walks off the staff room and leaves Anirban in great dilemma!

15 days later:

The police station is flooded with journos and worried civilians. Every single mike is being shoved at the face of the case-in-charge and the cameras go on a flashing spree. The news – 2 items… One – another murder happened – the pattern similar and also the left overs… this time the body was also painted using paint brush and blood being used for colors. 2nd – the suspect arrested for the first murder had been released because the finger prints were not matching with his and besides he was still in the custody while the murder had taken place. To the cops this certainly appeared to be another one in what was to open up as a series of killings… and the only thing they had in similar was the way in which the body was left behind… Nothing else!!

The Statesman had again carried the story as a lead one on the front page. Cops called the lead journalist who had penned the story. In a crowded office, a phone rings at a perfectly carved wooden desk. The name plate reveals the name "Pankaj Bhardawaj". There is a collage of snaps of what seemed to be a family album. The family picture revealed a snap of a small young girl "Maya Bhardawaj".

Though nothing was audible in terms of what transpired as a conversation over the phone between Pankaj and the other person over the phone, Pankaj immediately leaves his office and goes back home.

That night after dinner when Pankaj went to sleep, his phone suddenly buzzed. He almost woke up in cold sweat to reach out to his iPhone and checked whose message it was… It was a message from an unknown number and it read "There is an envelope in your post box. Do check it ASAP." He gets up from his bed, steps out to check his mail box and opens the envelope. He goes back to the kitchen, switches on the light and fills a glass of water for himself. He sits on the stool and opens the envelope. He is startled to find the photograph. Again it's a photo of a dismembered and a severely disfigured body. The body was chopped fine into pieces and painted artistically with blood.

Pankaj is all confused and helpless. He tries to figure it out for himself as to why is it that he has been chosen and why it is that he continues to receive all the couriers and the snaps of the murder scene. He somehow pops a couple of pills and goes to sleep.

The next morning:

While Pankaj is traveling to office, he is questioned by his little daughter…

"Dad, there seems to be something going on in the city! Is everything ok?"

"Yes darling! All is fine. Why?"

"No! I mean there are murders happening in the city and the pictures are published in the newspapers and there is fear in the atmosphere."

"Honey, trust me! Everything is fine… Don't you trust me? Don't you trust your dad?"

The car is traveling through the semi-flooded streets while splashing water across. The day just gives a feeling of opening up and brightening it for everyone, but then again the loud scream of the clouds unleashes the cloud cover. It goes gray again. In sudden burst, "Dad! Is there any limit of displaying passion?" asks Maya.

Pankaj is surprised. This question brings back the memories of the pictures he had seen thus far and had also published in his newspaper. He snubs the question under the rug and drops Maya at her school. He now turns around and speeds towards his office. He parks the car at the basement parking and then gets out. He takes his laptop and rushes towards the escalator. He catches the lift and goes up to his floor. The sign board reads "The Statesman". He walks into his cabin and he dumps his stuff on the messed up table. 15 mins into his cabin, he gets a call from "Prakash Yadav" the case in charge. He is the cop that is investigating the serial murder case. He calls Pankaj to his office for a meeting. Pankaj hangs up the call and drives to the City Police Headquarters.

At the Police Headquarters:

"Hi Mr. Bhardawaj" - Inspector

"Hello Inspector" – Pankaj

"You had told me you have identified something serious regarding the killer and that you need my help in catching him and bringing him to justice" – Pankaj

"Why don't you take a seat" – Inspector

Both guys sit and have a glass of water and order a cup of tea each.

After 45 mins of conversation, Pankaj goes back to his office. At night around 7.30, he goes home.

2 Days later – 11.30 pm

Pankaj's phone buzzes and he is sweating. He reads the message… "Why haven't you published the pictures still? If you do not do as I say, the consequences shall be dire…" Pankaj gets up and calls the cop. "Sir, you asked me to not publish the images of the murder and the story. Now he is threatening me that if I don't do as he says, then the consequences will be dire." What shall I do?"

"You can't give in! He needs you precisely for this! He seeks publicity! He is a man deranged… And if you don't give him what he needs then he will perhaps do something that gives us the chance to take him down."

For almost 1 month – the city is calm and there are no murders.

One night: Somewhere on the streets, a young girl is captured and she is taken to a rotten street that is decaying. Water drops are falling off the roof and trash lying around here and there… This young girl is taken there and made to lie on the ground and is silenced by first breaking the neck. The moment the neck is broken, the girl is dead. The captor then unleashes his butcher knife and then sits around her. He starts to chop her limbs patiently. He cuts both her limbs one-by-one and chops off all the fingers… He then beheads the girl and lays it on the ground. While he is doing it, he is constantly wiping the blood off the floor. He then rips the body open and then dips the brush into the pool of blood and then paints her face… After 30 mins of patiently disfiguring the girl's body, the killer stands over the body and clicks a Polaroid snap. He then goes off to the police station.

Next Morning:

Headlines in the Statesman

"Journalist's Daughter Killed. Painter-cum Teacher Confesses!"