Sun Signs

The harried soul wanders within and without. Anxious, he desists thinking what may unravel before him. Like a fugitive, he runs, he fears, he is uneasy.

He turns the key to his old white ambassador, as he steps outside his office. Three failed attempts and a jump start later, the engine starts whining. His thoughts and car are now running in opposite lanes.

Harshit Sharma was a sharp, quick-witted and suave minister in the cabinet. The kind who go to fancy French restaurants to eat Foie gras or Foie de veau, learning the phonetics of which, is an art of its own, billing it under the government was another art he picked up along the way. He was an optimist too, or so it seemed from his statements to the media, one being “A stopped clock is not right twice a day, it is right throughout the day. It tells you the time of every country in this world, once” on the recent embarrassment when a clock tower was not working, where foreign officials were inspecting preparations for Commonwealth Games. The failing of the clock was rather ironical, given the CWG Committee was running behind schedule, way behind. Opportunism, however, was his piece de resistance.

Harshit checks the time in his Rolex Cestello. Seven P.M., as he misses the clutch again. He tried best to allay his wife’s myriad fears. He was doing a shoddy job at it. Clutching the wheel tight, he thinks of all the good times he spent with her. The unerring choice he thought he had made. How they would live happily ever after, the delight with which he applied vermilion on her forehead the first time. He clutches his chain, with the picture of him and his wife. Sudden outburst of angst engulfs him; he stops, near a field.

The sun in the background, paints the sky orange, retiring for the day, tired and gloomy. Harshit stares pensively at the dwindling sunrays, trying to find the answers. Meanwhile, Sorghum dance to the tunes of his confusion, next to his feet, tickling him uncomfortably, much like his vile and malicious neighbor Member of Parliament, Mr S.V. Verma.

He looks at the sun again, watching it set. A wry smile shines upon his face. He hears the sound of wind gushing, and watches the birds flying hastily back home, the ever changing pastel colors, red, orange and now violet like a developing photograph, it switches colors. The emulsification not just restricted to the sky. Cartwheeling perilously between good and bad, he is lost. Estranged memories from the corners of his cerebellum now crawl slowly in.

1984. Around that time, Harshit was a young blood. His kurta, clean,well creased and crisp, much like his character.

“Why waste the youth growing up?” He used to chuckle.

He was rather unworldly, in that sense.

13^th June – His father was assassinated. In a rather unfortunate turn of events, right after he had stepped down as home minister, an Indian made rifle’s bullet found its way to his heart. The panic after the riots had barely receded, when his sudden demise, the second shockwave, hit the country. The storm hit Harshit hard; the sudden transition was exemplary, as he took baby steps into manhood, becoming the only breadwinner in the house. Once in bed till late evenings, he now saw the first sunrays every day.

Over the years, he became worldly wise. Numerous opportunities came knocking on his door, even if they didn’t; he made them knock on his door and his door alone. He was a quick learner too. He grew self reliant, self centered in many ways. Entering politics, thus, seemed like a foregone conclusion.

Back in May ’82, he married his father’s friend’s daughter, Gita. Gita was earmarked for a glorious husband. She was pretty, educated and polite. Harshit would go on rallies all over the country, accompanied by his wife. Over the years, though, they grew distant. She suffered a miscarriage in ‘87, through which Harshit was busy working on political campaigns. She stopped accompanying him after that and he wasn’t bothered either, as getting ahead in career was the focus of all his energies then. She, however, did keep a dignified silence throughout.

Woken up by a cold wind, swishing past his ear, he gets up and shakes his head. He collects and arranges his thoughts and gazes at the sun quickly, as his brain starts talking again.

“The funny thing with the sun is that it never really sets. It just moves from one place to another. Sunset is a misnomer, in that sense”

“It is never loyal to anyone in particular.

If it were to be loyal, it’d burn him.”

Sudden rush of blood, brings him back to his usual unequivocal, devilish self. In a jiffy, he buttons his shirt, hand combs his hair and pulls his pant up, although not necessarily required.

“Fidelity is so passé”. He laughs heartily.

Empowered by his ruminations and the deeply fermented drink, he lays all his fears to rest, peacefully. He runs to his car, rummages through the pile of clothes, papers and tools, to finally unearth the finest bottle of Single malt scotch whiskey. One of his idiosyncrasies was drinking only Single malt scotch, it made him feel rich and powerful and part of the crème de la crème of country’s riches. After a couple of mouthfuls, he places it back, opens his collar button, and folds his sleeves in repose.

He smiles in silent lucidity, his thoughts clearer than ever before, his vision not so much. A light shines up on his face, as he sees before him a knife placed callously. .

“It is incumbent upon me to kill her.” He says in his coarse voice.

He turns the key, the engine moans and starts, without needing a jump start, this time.

A man with deep seated issues, when he gets into deep deliberation, he rarely notices what’s in front of him visually. He fails to see a speeding truck behind him. It hits his car once, twice, he growls, shouts. The ‘99 make Ambassador twitches, meanders and slows down. He tries to start it again, confident that it will. It hits him again, and the car is crushed.

A lady jumps out of the back, salivates money to count it. Ten thousand.

She is relieved, Harshit’s fate was sealed by the negatives of him and his secretary together, she positively felt. She drops the photographs and the necklace with Harshit’s and her picture in it carelessly, but then picks it up quickly. Rejoicing the deliverance from misery, she looks particularly happy.

The sun is completely set, and the moon begins to smile nefariously.