So another year is all set to welcome us. I should have written this note earlier. But I am often consumed by procrastination. Someone who procrastinates on New Year eve is really crazy. But I take pride in being known as a crazy one in a land of crazier people. So here I am on a beach in Kochi. People surround me. They are all ready to paint the town red! 2016 was a year that literally shook our country. Demonetisation! I have never been familiar with the jargon of economists. But my profession certainly involves monetary deals!
I haven’t slept a wink for last few weeks. Trust me I am not exaggerating. It all began when I was assigned to kill a billionaire somewhere in Bangalore. Yuck! Yet another story of business rivalry. I did the job neatly and got paid decently. My client left a good amount in my money bag. Ten million rupees. So on a cold night I set out from my dwelling to pull out some cash. A light pocket is a heavy curse. The ATM in my locality had a small queue outside its door. I waited for my turn. I got into the ATM counter after five minutes of waiting in the cold air. I secretly pressed the four digits to dispense ten thousand rupees. Twenty crispy, fresh 500 notes came out as if the ATM gave birth to twenty infants. An ant cried when I stamped my foot on him out of excitement while getting outside the ATM. Poor soul!
‘A whisky, on the rocks,’ I screamed at the waiter at 7 Nights. The green dimly lit walls of 7 Nights were adorned with LCD televisions in each corner. The minute hands of the clocks were pacing toward midnight. A white bearded greybeard appeared on TVs and addressed the country. He was grave and sounded polite.
‘My beloved countrymen,’ he began his speech. I didn’t bother to listen to his weak rhetoric. Who else on Earth wanted to listen to an old man’s speech in the dead of night? I asked the bartender to change the channel. The greybeard on TV was replaced by semi-nude blonde girls on Fashion TV in a blink! And genuinely it felt better.
The bill arrived in four digits. The four digits that could feed a family of empty stomachs. The four digits that could buy the toilet papers for the rich. The four digits that could force a farmer to kill himself. The cashier at 7 Nights threw a greedy glance at me when he saw the crispy notes emerge from my wallet.
‘I am afraid we can’t’ accept the currencies you gave,’ said the cashier.
‘You have pretty other things to be afraid of in this city’ I said gripping my pistol.
‘You just saw that on TV right? The PM slams the country with demonetization,’ he said.
‘Demon..what?,’ you can’t just understand such terms when you’re dead drunk.
‘We can’t accept the notes you gave,’ he shouted. It took a bullet to silence him. I fled the scene. The last sight I had was the fountain of blood emerging out of his head, thick and red.
‘MAN SHOT DEAD IN BANGALORE’ said the newspapers. Well, some filthy journalists misspelt my name. Some even went on to the extent of digging the rivalry between the killed and killer. The truth in news might have sensationalised to death. My reputation tarnished. I ran and hid and ran and hid. I reached Kochi after a few weeks. I don’t know why I killed the cashier. Had my clients been aware of this low-profile crime, I would have been out of their A list. Disguised as Santa Claus, I strolled along the narrow lanes of Fort Kochi. The place fascinated me deeply. It is the best place for a person living with an ocean full of mysteries. Children approached me for gifts, smiling. I gave them what I could. Books. The pages that bore tales of betrayal and vengeance. The pages that bore flesh and life. Let the children grow. They no more need lullabies. Neither do they follow the twinkling stars. Youngsters thronged Fort Kochi beach to witness the burning of papaanji . Also people were also queuing up to dispense cash from ATMs. I hate seeing ATMs since that night. Maybe that’s the only time I felt aversion towards myself. A trained killer claiming a common man’s life in a sudden gush of anger, driven by alcohol. It sounded cheap. It sounded mediocre. I am not meant to be known like this. A boy had been noticing me. He was following the killer Santa. He might have been mistaken. I was not his kind. The sun dropped into the sea. The festive air was fortified with the pleasure of celebrations. The boy was still a few steps behind me. I caught a glimpse of his face. Perfect for lullabies!
People gathered around papaanji to burn him down and greet the New Year with flames of ecstasy. I took the Santa mask off my face. The boy approached me. He gait was stern.
‘Are you the man I am looking for?’ he asked me. A lightning struck.
‘Who do you think you’re?’ I hurled a question at him too. The flames caught papaanji .
‘Your attire and tone are contrasting. I have never seen a Santa like you before. A Santa who gave books as gifts,’ said the boy.
‘Why can’t Santa present books,’ I asked him, sipping tea.
The crowd cheered in distance. The police had a Herculean task managing the crowd.
‘I am not a bibliophile,’ he said.
‘Okay. Then what do you like?’
‘I want to listen to Santa's New Year resolution’. papaanji was now burnt to ashes.
I thought of a New Year resolution. Finally I resolved to take a bold, somewhat foolish decision.
‘Let me live peacefully,’ I chanted my resolution to his little ears. But I knew it sounded grave.
‘Means?’ the boy asked me, confused.
‘I had a habit of killing mosquitoes in one blow. Now I won’t kill them anymore,’ I said and pondered over my strange decision.
A sharp, incisive thing pierced into my flesh. It went deeper. I was backstabbed! To kill a killer isn’t easy.
‘I would like to tell you what Caesar had told Brutus. But I hate Shakespeare.’ I stammered.
‘Let it be a mosquito bite!’ Whispered the boy. The beach was abandoned. In my fading vision I saw him disappear into darkness. My heartbeats dipped. The Inner Me disembodied and followed the boy. He was sitting beside a framed photo, panting.
The photo bore the face of a mosquito I shot. The cashier! My murder was justified. My soul still keeps wandering and would share this tale with anyone it came across. Still I am in queue, dead and decayed, in the hope of dispensing fresh notes from ATMs, unable to avenge my death! My soul, in pursuit of the greybeard who shattered my life.
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