Within Her Threads

By DORA GRACE

Neil has dropped all communication with his sister for last two years. However, when she turns up one morning uninvited, he relents and accedes to bear her for next three days. But something is amiss. His sister's behaviour is unusual, she is cold and has a very strange vibe around her. But before he could figure out his father calls to tell him that his sister is dead. 'Shuchi died in a car accident.'

 

But how can it be possible when he had been fighting with her ten minutes ago in his London apartment, how can the police fish out her body, several miles away in India. But Neil had to believe the unreal when his father sends him the picture of the dead body of his sister.

 

Shocked beyond words, Neil somehow reaches home where Inspector Bhaskara was waiting to tell him- 'Your sister was probably killed.'

 

Lies, deceit and darkness. This story entails the beautiful relationship of brother and sister with numerous twists and turns. In the world, where we don't forgive people easily, can Neil forgive himself for neglecting his sister for two years?

• Language: English
• Publisher: DORA GRACE
• Release date: May 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393777724

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DORA GRACE

IIॐ श्री गणेशाय नमःII

IIॐ श्री मात्रे नमःII

I bow to the divine mother.

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Jai Maa Saraswati. Everything I do is because of divine mother's grace. Nothing is mine. Everything belongs to you, o maa.

WE ARE ALL WAITING TO BE FOUND.

Present Day

La Vida Homestay  28th February, 2020 

Ooty  Thursday

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It’s five o’ clock in the morning. The candle is burning low. Though it’s still dark outside, the sound of the temple bell is booming loud and clear. I’m sitting in front of a large square window of my room, overlooking the vast gardens of La Vida Homestay.

La Vida, a beautiful bungalow sprawled over the greens, in the midst of Western Ghats, has been recently converted to a homestay when its present owners couldn’t afford to manage the property solely on their private income. It was formerly known as Anand Bhavan, named after the wealthy farmer- Anand, who with an extraordinary vision established the mansion with the view that one day his sons and grandsons would just like him toil in the farms and would be satisfied with the sweet fruits of labour. I guess he didn’t comprehend that hard work is not everyone’s favourite flavour.

The original name was given a French twist when the owner’s grandson propounded that an exotic name will attract more customers. Well, donno how much his theory worked! But, this was definitely not the reason why I booked the whole place for two weeks. I wanted peace and solitude and this place had it in abundance. For miles there are no houses or shops and the only companions I find solace with are trees, birds, inconspicuous house staff and my very own deluge of thoughts. Every day I listen to the melody of the birds, the rhythm of the wind and the bell of the small temple which is built on a knoll, a few meters away across the homestay; but...nothing has managed to bring you the stillness you’re seeking. Right?  I have been enjoying the spring blossoms for last one week but out of the blue, it has started raining in the month of February. Now I’m not critical of rain but I like to have it in its own season, not out of it. Someone is knocking on the door. Must be room service, I asked for more candles.

Now you may think that I am one of those inconsiderate people who would wake up others at five am just for candles. But the truth is that the whole house is awake for last two hours. The incessant rain has disrupted the daily routine of the quiet villa and from what I overhear, there are people running with buckets to third-floor rooms as they have discovered the leakage in the newly prepared Maharaja suite. Thank goodness, I chose the ground floor suite, I’m safe; but the lights are out coz of which I have been awake since one hour.

Writing this at five am, wasn’t part of my plan but Jay, my friend who has recently started a publishing company called last night and impelled me to finish the story (I promised to give him), I’ve been working on for last three months. So here I am holding the pen, writing the story about the incident that changed my life forever. Whatever happened....how it happened... 

But before I begin, let me introduce myself. My name is Neil, Neil Sharma. I am an Indian by nationality, an app developer by profession and a tennis-player by hobby. I am not a writer. I have never written a single paragraph other than school essays throughout my life and I never thought of writing this....but Jay (as I mentioned earlier) insisted that people should know my story. ‘It will be a sensation dude. You just don’t know yet,’ were his matter-of-fact words. 

Now I’m not a strong admirer of his counsel and as a faithful friend, at first I scorned at his suggestion and bluntly rejected the idea but eventually my tenacious mind badgered me to act upon it. I don’t know if it happens with you or not but my mind is super-talkative and pushy for which reason I have not been able to omit its regular, most of the time inappropriate insinuations which it proposed to me during the given circumstances. Having words for every occasion and suggestions for every situation, my mind is my friend as well as foe. Well....I hope you’ll forgive the shortcomings of my writing and probably as Jay said- take something from my story.

It all started a few months ago...One night, in Old Grange Street...  

1. THE DREAM

Thump! Toing! Crash...... ‘Aayi! My bums!’ I swore as my back hit the floor. It was the third consecutive night when I had fallen from my bed. It had never happened before. I never fell from my bed even when I was small and used to sleep on a bunker-size bed. But for last three nights.... ‘Maa!’ I groaned, as I rubbed my spinal region. ‘This will surely give me back problem,’ I mumbled. I picked up the sheet from the floor and tossed it back on the bed. The sound of a distant siren floated in through the window as I squinted at the clock on my bedside table. ‘This is crazy,’ I said. ‘Just like yesterday and day before yesterday....I have fallen at exactly the same time...four-o’clock in the night and...,’ Ahem! ‘...Fine! Four in the morning,’ I grumbled when my mind corrected me. Can’t believe it; even at this ungodly hour my mind is correcting me, I thought.

Ungodly did you say? My mind became fully aroused with a hand on its waist.

For your whole life, your grandfather taught you that the ideal time to wake up is four in the morning- Brahmamuhurata- the auspicious hour, favoured by devatas (gods) and here you’re scorning and desecrating all.... Fine! I got up from the floor, flung the pillow back on the bed and flopped down on it. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Weird glimpses, unhealthy thoughts flooded my head. I turned and twisted on the bed, determined to get back to sleep but then tired of the activities of my peppy mind which had started to hum- Luis Fonsi’s Despacito, I conceded defeat. The time was five o’clock. One hour! Has it been one hour already? I wondered. Well, you can work on your HR project, my mind suggested sagaciously and therefore deciding to dedicate my time in some fruitful work, I left the bedroom.

At seven o’clock, only in my pyjamas, sitting by the kitchen counter, I was vigorously researching for my project. A cup of black coffee was placed on the kitchen table but I had forgotten all about it as soon as my mind got occupied by the project. Presently, my phone rang; I picked it up on the second ring.

‘Good morning baby,’ a dulcet voice greeted me from the other end.

‘Hi Meghna,’ I said in an off-handed tone.

‘Don’t tell me you woke up again before...,’

‘I did,’ I cut shortly.

‘Neil is it because of the...,’

‘Same dream? Yes.’ God! Why did I tell her?

‘I think you should see a doctor.’

‘Meghna, for a freaking fever the GP gives me an appointment after a week and you think they will indulge their time to check on my dreams.’

‘Don’t shout on me like that,’ said Meghna in a vexed tone. ‘I am just trying to help. You need to...,’

But I couldn’t take it anymore. At seven in the morning, I didn’t want her shouting and screaming instructions in my ears. I hung up, pushed the laptop aside and closed my eyes. I hadn’t noticed it yet, but the line of my eyebrows had been aching for some time. I ran my thumb over the curve of my eyebrows to curb the pain but it didn’t help. Maybe a hot shower? my mind proposed in a tone of a devoted butler. I tried to avoid the suggestion but my body suddenly started pining for a warm shower so with a grunt of assent, I trudged to the bathroom. 

As warm water cascaded down my midriff, I closed my eyes and before I could stop I saw it again. It had been three days...for three continuous days I was having the same vision about me getting stuck in a pool of muddy water. In my sleep, during meditation, whenever I closed my eyes, I saw this pool of murky water; my flailing arms trying to get out of the pool but every time I reach the surface, I am pulled down by some unknown force. What does it mean? I googled, consulted my physician friend in India, spoke about it to my girlfriend- Meghna (which was the worst move) but none of it helped in subsiding those visions.

Perhaps we can visit a GP, my dear mind suggested but I rejected the proposal by shouting- ‘nonsense’ in the confines of the shower. It wasn’t that I was scared of seeing a doctor, but in London the process of seeing a doctor was a comprehensive one. I distinctly remember the two occasions when I availed the medical system of one of the world’s most famous city. In the first incident, I had incurred the infamous flu for which when I visited the doctor, was asked first to register with the local GP and when I made the necessary arrangements was given an appointment after a week. The restless night I had spent with acute cold, choked throat and body pain was by far the worst night of my life. It was the night when I missed my mother the most. How she would have ministered me with warm milk, good food and medicines, had I been home. But the night compared to the day when I had dislocated my shoulder was a five-finger exercise. It was a beautiful sunny Friday afternoon when one missed shot of the football and simultaneous crashing into a pole lead to the dislocation of my shoulder joint. My friends took me to the emergency but I saw the doctor after two painful hours of waiting. No amount of requests or pleads would budge the nurse or the receptionist to quicken the process. ‘There are eight people waiting ahead of you,’ was her only answer. These two incidents cautioned me to be extra careful with my health in London because of which for last eight months I didn’t suffer even common cold. 

When my body started emitting steam, I switched off the shower, wrapped the towel around my waist and went out of the bathroom. Should I call mom? my mind asked. But the answer came swiftly and forcefully. NO. Not unless you want her to be here on the next flight. Dad?....Not a chance. Firstly, he will not entertain it and secondly, he would divert the course of conversation to his favourite topic-settle down. No, I needed a balanced person, someone who would listen to me without much ado, won’t display anxiety after hearing my problem, keep the things to himself and would guide me in the right direction. I knew who I wanted to call. Her face sprang up immediately in my head but how to call her was the question. I hadn’t spoken to her in last two years after that incident. So how can I call her now? Would she even pick up my phone coz I didn’t when she called, several hundred times.

Shutting people away was always your problem, my mind chimed in. I put on a white sweatshirt and a set of tracks from the wardrobe. It was true, I admitted that I had little tolerance for other people’s shortcomings and flaws; perhaps zero tolerance for other people’s attitude and I always avoided people who didn’t converged with my ideas. But in case of Shuchi...

To be honest, in case of you, Shuchi has always been patient, my mind cut in again. I closed the door of my wardrobe and my eyes inadvertently fell on the bed stand. I opened the upper drawer and drew out an upside down frame of a young girl and a small boy. The boy was me and the beaming girl with her arm around my shoulder was Shuchi, my elder sister.

A smile crossed my lips as I remembered the occasion when the picture was taken. How Shuchi had darted out of the car when she saw the sea for the first time on the Veraval beach, how I had scuttled behind her blindly and how our mother mad with rage and stress, as none of us knew swimming, had shouted herself hoarse after us, not to mention chase us wearing a saree. Our father, safely perched on the road by the car was not even brave enough to come down to beach as an astrologer friend of his had told him to stay away from water- as far as possible. My grin widened as I remembered how we- the brother-sister duo were giggling throughout our mother’s high-pitch reprimand.

‘Like a wild horse you sprinted down to the beach- as if it is the first time you have ever seen water in your life. And you, laddie-,’ my mother turned to me, ‘what were you thinking, following her like that? If she jumps in a khai (ditch), are you going to jump as well?’ Before I could response in a positive yes, Shuchi said– ‘Mom, I didn’t asked Neil to follow me.’ ‘Yes, but you know he follows you wherever you go. Not thinking for a second whether you’re going in a well or in a jam-packed stadium.’ At that time, I was six and Shuchi was eleven years old. It was true that I followed my sister without questioning even once and I did follow her to the stadium of her school when her name was called for sack-relay race. I did, whatever she did; I ate, whatever she ate; I went, wherever she went and I had to have things whatever she had. There was no discretion between us. Then where did this wall came from? This invisible wall, because of which you haven’t talked to your own sister for last two years. Where is she now? What’s she doing? What’s going on in her life? You don’t know. What’s more surprising is that you don’t even care to know. I put down the frame again in my drawer and went out in the sitting room. If there was a machine to shut the blabbering of mind, I would have bought it at any cost.

It had been almost two years since I moved to London. As an app developer, I was the most sought out professional in my field. After graduation I was flooded with offers. More than ten companies wanted me to work for them in India but I chose Zircon- a London based IT company who though offered me less salary than the Indian companies gave me a full-time working visa and relocation opportunity. It wasn’t like that I possessed a fascination for working in foreign lands but two years ago I wanted to be alone, away from my family, friends especially my sister. So I travelled to London. London was good to me, in fact had been very rewarding to me. My work, office, friends, weather, food- everything treated me exceptionally. Meghna, my girlfriend worked in the same office. She was also from India, but on a post-study work visa, which was due to expire in three months. She had decided not to extend her stay and we had mutually decided to end our relationship after the time frame. It was good. It was fun, but we were not up for long-distance relationship. I didn’t want to go to India....not right now. It’s not like that I didn’t miss my family, I video chatted with