That Saturday Night

The only thrill about wearing the white uniform on Saturdays is that it means a shorter time at school is followed by a Sunday. Not that I hate being at school – it is fun to discuss the last day’s TV with my friends. Though cricket is our usual talking point, we also enjoy discussing TV shows - especially the Hindi-dubbed re-runs of old English comedies. The collective crush among us boys was Brenda from Bumpy Road. Though these talks made school bearable, this Saturday had turned out to be the worst.

Our tuition teacher had freed us just so close to school hours that we had to cycle in a rush to make it inside the school gate in time. But then, my old school shoes had proved so useless on my run up the school stairs. I had hurt my knee after a stumble. That meant just watching my friends play during the games slot while I sat on the sidelines with a dressed-up knee.

Then, our Science teacher had distributed our Unit Test answer sheets. While both my desk mates had scored more than 15 out of 20, I was at a dismal 11. Could this day please end?

At home, mom saw my hurt knee and scolded me for being so careless. But, in the evening, she gave me a plate full of grapes while I watched TV.

“Did you get the remaining Unit Test answer sheets?” she asked while I was lost in a TV show episode.

“No, the class teacher said we’ll get them on Monday,” I had lied effortlessly.

We must get our answer sheets signed by our parents. Going through Grade 1 to Grade 10, one thing I have learned is to delay the news of a bad score as much as possible. It helps in making the weekend a good one. I was wondering if mom would let me watch TV till late tonight.

“No point waiting for the other papers. Your scores in this Unit Test have been terrible. From tomorrow, wake up early and start studying for the next exam. This injury won’t let you play anything anyway,” mom had my Sunday planned already.

I hated this Saturday. No, I hated this life! I switched the TV off and stood next to the window. My fascination for watching the cars’ headlights as a kid had continued to this day. I loved how the cars raced by while the bikes stayed behind, and the pedestrians lost the race easily. In all my sadness, I wondered how wonderful it would be if, like a car, I could zoom past the upcoming Monday. Why just the Monday? I could zoom past the upcoming Unit Test as well. How amazing it would be to get past this entire phase of tests and education. Maybe I’ll be happier after 20 years. And happiest after 40 years? I may have smiled unknowingly at this distant happiness.

“Enough of daydreaming. I will serve you dinner soon. Study a bit, then go to bed,” I heard mom saying. She had stopped working as a math teacher after her marriage but that had not deterred her from being a disciplinarian at home. I realized how my studying made her happy and, honestly, that was my only incentive. But it was beginning to get tiring. I needed a break… or just a time leap.

After dinner, I got into bed and quickly finished muttering my prayers. My thoughts soon went to Brenda from Bumpy Road. How beautiful she was! My mind soon diverted to imagining her in an Indian outfit. She’d look so good in a peach-coloured kurti. And with this thought, I drifted into sleep.

A Little Hell-ping

I was never one to get excited about receiving gifts. I always thought they would be a massive inconvenience to the gift giver. Besides, in my twenty-six years of existence, I had never received anything worth getting excited about. From toddlerhood colouring books and teen years pens to twenties perfumes, all my gifts just told me how clueless people were when it came to gifting. I was quite unemotional about all my gifts. Until now.

Seated at my desk, I could not help but take turns staring at the note and the gift. The note simply said, “As requested. From S.” Could this be Shalin, my old roommate? Or maybe Suparn, my nephew? I had not received a gift in a long time now. Living alone in a city distant from my hometown, I was still at the mercy of my parents. And they had never cared to drop in a gift – just comfortable sending money to cover my expenses. Puzzled, I had unwrapped the shiny black wrapping paper and the gift had just rolled out on the table. A small black cauldron. ‘A free gift never hurts, as meaningless as it may seem,’ I thought as I kept the cauldron next to the other items on my desk – a cutesy cactus, a bobblehead Batman, and a prism paperweight. Sure, the cauldron was a total misfit but this was not the time to pay attention to my desk aesthetics.

With Christmas just a week away, today was the deadline for submitting the New Year special cartoon strip to Raman. But I was not too enthused about it. What was the point even? Raman got the credit for the strip, a New Year bonus and, of course, followers on social media. Meanwhile, all I got was peanuts. It was time to send that job application to that comic strip app startup, Comicoo. A job still meant getting peanuts but it came with getting rid of that terrible feeling of earning Raman free credit for my creativity. But then, a job would mean no freedom. Ugh, why does everything have to be a decision?

'To launch the sketching app or to compose the email,' – just as I was lost in this thought, I heard a gurgling sound. I looked around and realised that it was the cauldron. I picked it up and saw a dark liquid brewing inside it. The cauldron felt warm to the touch. A hissing sound accompanied the swirling liquid and I heard an incisive instruction, “Drink.”

I narrowed my eyes and kept staring at the shiny dark liquid. Should I really? What if this is all mischief? A decision to be made again. In sheer frustration, I gulped down the liquid in one swift swig. My throat immediately began to sting with a burning sensation. A violent bout of cough followed as I felt myself collapse off my chair. I was such an idiot… such a fool! My attempts at grabbing the table failed even as darkness clouded my eyes.

I opened my eyes with a struggle. Someone was working on a computer in the darkness of a room. He had his back to me and, so, obviously, could not see me. Curiosity made me approach his desk – one step at a time. The man looked lost on the screen. Another step. I saw that the man was busy on the sketching app. The ashtray full of cigarettes, the man’s skeletal build, and his frequent mutterings collectively pointed at the enormous stress that he was reeling under.

Another step and I recognised the workplace - the Comicoo office. I had been there just once – but its fresh airy interiors had now been replaced by humid, peeled walls. I looked at the man again. Then it dawned upon me. The droopy-shouldered, talking-to-self man was me.

Darkness loomed over me as I felt losing myself to time. As I opened my eyes again, I had to rub them to get a better sense of where I was. In my room. In the present.

Coming back to my senses, I immediately returned to the desk, completed the Christmas special sketch, and dashed it off to Raman. That Comicoo job spelled hell. As I closed the lid of my laptop, it all came back to me. 

The cauldron. The liquid. I realised, no… I remembered what the gift was. It was all thanks to indecisiveness, my companion since childhood. I ran back to the treasure stash of my younger days. It was a rusty old trunk that housed my past. I had to get rid of the heaps of comic books, hurrying to get my hands on what I was looking for.

And after a brief struggle, I found it – a letter that I had written years ago.

“To learn sketching or piano? I am so confyused Please tell me. All I want is the gift of making the right dicishon.”

I read the childish note again and hovered my eyes up to check the date. It was written exactly thirteen years ago. And then I saw it. A typo. The note was addressed, “Dear Satan…”