750 words: Day 6 – Chapter 3

For chapter 1, click here

For chapter 2, click here

No. 26

He considered himself a good detective. Neutral, methodical, efficient. Not like the others – quick to judge, building full-fledged cases on evidence as feeble as text messages. He didn’t blame them. There were sizeable rewards and media attention extended to officers for detaining suspicious individuals under The Statute of Unity. It was a tricky law. From smuggling arms across the Frontier to making incendiary speeches, anything could be deemed a threat to the Union. It took a discerning, unbiased investigator to filter out the genuine cases from a sea of trifling complaints – anonymous tips, mostly by zealous volunteers who scanned the Interweb for any activity unfavourable to the Union or the Authority running it.

Which is why a “good” detective had to examine every case carefully by running a background checks, rather than directly bringing in all suspected individuals for questioning. His full list of suspects, right now, were the attendees of a meeting. They were students at a local university – a mixed group comprising Hybrids and even Nightwalkers. That was enough to bring it on the radar. But the detective was thorough. He’d been sitting on his desk, for about 9 hours straight, striking off each suspect off the list with a thick-tipped black pen, if no alarming information about them surfaced. Nightwalkers often went back to university for fresh starts. Their presence at campus wasn’t cause for worry – not for him at least. He was sure he’d get weary of police work too if he had to do it for a 100 years. 25 of the participants were crossed off the list so far.

Feeding No. 26’s full name into the system, however, produced a complaint, not older than four years. Relief washed over the detective, followed by the tiniest surge of excitement lighting up his senses, dulled by hours of paperwork and uneventful months without incident. He hungrily tapped, clicked and keyed in passwords to unlock the full report.

The mugshot on the record mirrored the gaunt, brooding, pale-faced quality from the suspect’s social media pictures. Age of turning, was noted as 20. To the detective, he looked like the world’s grimmest 20-year-old. As was the custom for nightwalkers, photos of his prior selves from different decades were attached too. Some of them were black and white. Across all eras, he maintained a clean-shave and an overgrown crew cut further emphasising his sunken eyes and narrow, angular nose. Sharply dressed too. There was a Karakul hat in one of the pictures.

The complainant was Human. Female. She testified to being forcefully drained by the accused. The detective was not naïve. Human blood drinking had been made illegal, but many practised it with the consent of willing donors. The Authority had been coming down hard on even consensual arrangements like this. The charge should have made Union-wide headlines, even if it was disproved later. The detective was surprised that it didn’t. Perhaps because the complainant chose to stay anonymous. The matter was closed when she ultimately withdrew the complaint.

There wasn’t much heft in the evidence that was submitted or at least, available in the case files. There were extracts from long text messages. A lot of them were risqué exchanges establishing that there was indeed an arrangement, which by itself was criminal. The illegal “blood-bag” slur came up frequently. It was actually listed under ‘outrages upon human dignity‘. The detective printed it all out and made notes along the margins with his thick black pen. The chat records ended abruptly over a dialogue that seemed bitter but somewhat sober, for this dynamic.

[Him]:

I know you're here. See me.

[Her]:

If I needed to see you, I'd have personally informed you that I was here. I didn't. Because we know longer share that kind of relationship - there was none to begin with. I thought I made it clear enough. The deal's off.

[Him]: Did you think I wouldn't find out you were here?

[Her]:

I didn't care if you found out.

[Him]:

Open the door. I am right outside.

[Her]:

Jesus, fuck, what the fuck. Why do you know where I am put up? Are you spying on me.

[Him]:

Don't flatter yourself [PROFANITY]

Vedaham samatitani vartamanani charjuna
bhavishyani cha bhutani mam tu veda na kashchana

“I know of the the past, present, and future, and I also know all living beings; but me no one knows.” The detecive Googled the translation. He wasn’t certain if No. 26 was guilty. But he did not like this guy. That, he was sure of.

750 words: Day 5 – Chapter 2

To read Chapter 1, click here

Persuasion

“So what is it that you do again?”

“I told you. I am a re-writer. Mind if I smoke?”
She didn’t wait for her date to respond as she casually pulled out a cigarette and a lighter from her shirt pocket. Rolled up sleeves and a button down shirt tucked into a grey pencil skirt and her long hair tied tensely at the back, hinted she’d just been relieved from work. They sat outdoors on a cool night so perhaps she wasn’t feeling warm enough to wear a sundress like the other girls at the bar. She looked a little older than the pictures on her profile, which stated she was 28. Perhaps it was the bags under her eyes – common for those who worked night shifts, at open-minded workplaces that made provisions for nightwalkers.

“For a ‘writer’, you’re very, very vague about your job,” he continued probing in a tone he hoped sounded good-humoured.

“For a musician, you’re very, very curious,” she mimicked him crudely. To his relief, she smiled this time. “And my job is very dull, in comparison to yours. Wait, let me try explaining it in a way that sounds fun… Yeah, ok got it. I am something of a script doctor. I’m hired by clients to recycle someone’s image or an incident by rewording the inconvenient stuff and spinning it into something positive. I’d revise a bad memory into a good one. It’s sort of a persuasive skill.”

“Like PR.”

“Not exactly. I do it on a more… private level. Not all my clients need rewriting of their public image. Sometimes it’s real personal stuff.”

“So what, people actually pay you to paint them in better light for exes who’ve blocked them.”

She took a longer drag, like she was tasting a memory. “You’d be surprised at how many requests are for just that. But they are mostly business partnerships going sour, disgruntled employees about to press charges, family feuds – usually parents who don’t want their love-struck kids marrying outside the sect.”

“And these are consenting adults you meddle with-“

“If you’re a lawyer, you defend who you’re hired to defend.”

“You plant false memories in people’s heads.”

“Are we playing judge tonight? Come, let’s listen to all your music and I’ll judge your work too,” she squeaked girlishly, as she stubbed her cigarette and pulled out her phone to search for his discography. He yelled a theatric “No,” and protested feebly, but she’d already plugged in her earphones, holding a finger to her lips and jokingly mouthing, “Shh.. I’m listening.”

She listened for a few more minutes, while he ordered their second round of beers. “OK, I tried being hard on you, but I just can’t – this was actually nice.” She took just the right length of pause before stating the verdict, looking moved enough by the music as she held his gaze.

And just like that, she’d changed the conversation. The rest of the night, he spoke about his passion, his tastes and what he liked most about her – her eyes (“There’s too much honesty in there, man. They can’t lie even if YOU do that for a living.”) and her hair. She untied and let her hair down so he could see it better. He said it reminded him of his ex. She’d cheated on him and he wasn’t quite over it, he confessed. It’s amazing what people are willing to ignore or divulge to you as long as you let them talk about themselves and seem interested. She wasn’t on the clock but the instincts she’d honed for her craft kicked in at all hours.

Two hours later, he offered to drop her home. She had just had the two beers but he insisted. He was being a gentleman. She let him play the part so he’d leave pleased with himself – he’d be more amenable to a second date if he felt that way. She liked him

She was home just in time to be picked up for work, which she’d had the good sense to be dressed for. She had five hours before dawn – enough to get a confession; a sign on the rewrite. Hopefully, they wouldn’t need to bring in torturers at sunrise this time. She kept the silver rings on. Removing them in front of the undertrials when inside the cell was a good way to earn their trust. All persuasion begins with trust. She won’t smoke in front of them this time – it hurt their eyes.

750 words: Day 1 – Melancholia

I am supposed to write 750 words everyday. Over the last one year, I tried to explore what I must do to keep myself afloat and it seems, the secret to happiness is an endless cycle of very pointless activities one must repeat, day after day. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel your feet touching the ground. Spend time outdoors, only to come back inside again. Travel, only to come back home. Express gratitude to a cold, listless universe.

I wouldn’t dive into the details of what’s “wrong” with me but I have a certificate and a formal diagnosis ready to explain why I sometimes disappear, switch off or disengage entirely. I am going to refer to this as the perpetual, Infinite Sadness that hangs over my head, and of all the subjects I speak, write and joke about, this Infinite Sadness is the one that makes me most uncomfortable. I deferred this “mindfulness” writing exercise because, as with most pointless activities to unlock happiness, my mind shuts down, and I decided I’d watch Melancholia until inspiration strikes. I am only 63 minutes into the film and I’ve paused it just so I can pen down my first 750-word piece and kickstart this exercise with why I need to carry it out in the first place. If you want to know more about Lars Von Trier’s cinema, there are plenty of places to read about it. This, over here, is not it.

What hits homes about the Infinite Sadness portrayed in Melancholia is the sheer selfishness of it all. There are too many dishonest depictions of very hot, very tragic people, being gaunt, selfless and heroic in their melancholy. That these people are poorly socialised, is a grand lie lesser movies usually sell to you. My friends and I, from the Great Infinite Sad, comics and non-comics, are all very gracious, gregarious people on the surface and you’ll want us at your parties. Kirsten Dunst’s Justine in Melancholia nails that part. But she takes breaks. Plenty of them. Those moments she steals away from what is supposed to be the happiest day of her life feel very personal. They reminded me of all the times I’ve walked out immediately after seemingly successful shows and parties. I don’t draw energy from large groups and that’s inconvenient if both your professions depend on commanding the attention of people – during a show or a pitch. And that need to be alone immediately after feels like you are being thankless. God knows there are countless people not as lucky as me to have jobs they actually like doing. And I have two. One that pays occasionally, but it matters to me because I love it. And yet, at its most high points, I am far from ecstatic. The high of a good night is short-lived because the Sad rushes to the surface and then there is the vicious circle of berating oneself for not feeling as happy as one is expected to be.

The brief scenes between Justine and her brand-new husband Michael brought back memories that I have been ashamed to admit – and such thoughts are few and far between for people like me who’re usually mining trauma for “content”. It’s just a lot easier to maintain the funny narrative of being the toxic ex in a relationship. Comedy doesn’t allow me the luxury of detailing as to why I am the toxic ex. I lie awake at night – after the meditation, the gratitude affirmations, the hot baths, the sound baths, the Tibetan singing bowls. I’ll drop off the face of the Earth and zone out for ages and you won’t know what you did wrong. The whole time, there is guilt that washes over me, about not being “grown-up” enough to carry out the duties of a significant other. There are good days too, sure, and that’s exciting to look forward to, but it’s exhausting. And you’re never sure of why I won’t feel joy and you get tired of blaming yourself for it, while I feel like I am being criminally ungrateful.

It’s been 9 years. It’s ironically a twisted form of indulgence where indulging parties don’t really enjoy themselves. They mope about in bed. They cancel plans. They cut off good friends. I’ve got a set of rules that I try my best to adhere to – I don’t cancel shows, I honour commitments and I’m honest with friends and colleagues. It helps. Just like this seemingly pointless exercise of hitting the magical 750-word count.