I wrote this piece a long time ago. It's part of my Google document list, but I think it's one of the better things that I've written when it comes to fiction.
Take a look and review:
I work alone and am best at the job. I work for everyone and everyone comes to me. They know that I am the best in the business. They pay me well. Money doesn’t interest me. I give most of it to the people who give me information. They get 80 per cent of what I make. I live well off the 20 per cent I make. Like I said, money isn’t what matters. It’s more the secondary aspect to my job. What I love doing is shooting someone’s head off. The sight of a single bullet going through someone’s forehead gives me immense pleasure. I know it’s a job well done because I’ve either killed my victim or made them a vegetable for life. I feel no remorse. I’ve grown up surviving so I’m always cautious, to the extent of being paranoid. I feel that everyone should be a survivor. Nobody should take anything for granted, especially your life. You never know what will happen next second. You could be dead. It’s as simple as that. But people take their lives for granted. I particularly hate those rich brats, who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. They feel protected all their life. They feel they can do whatever they want. So when I am told to take them out, it gives me some sort of vindictive pleasure. It’s the only time I have some sort of job satisfaction. There is justice after all, I feel I sit waiting in a room for another victim to arrive. I’m given an assignment to kill a member of the underworld. I’ve done underworld killings in the past, but since I work as a freelancer, I’m not affiliated to any gang.
This underworld member plans to stand in his area as the local government representative. I laugh at the thought, but it also gives me insight. If he wins, he would have been voted by the people. That’s the beauty of a democracy. It gives everyone a chance. It’s given me a chance to live my life. I think that if I were born and brought up in a totalitarian state, I’d be dead by now. I would be tracked, traced, tortured and murdered before I had a chance to take up any sort of arms. Then again since I’m such a good shooter, I’d be a soldier for some army in the state officially taking lives of intruders. It’s a thought that I have considered several times: joining the armed forces. Redeem myself. Officially blow off someone’s head. But then I love the sense of anonymity that I have as a contracted killer. Nobody has seen my face. Nobody knows what I look like. I come and go as I please. The money, despite me taking so little, is good. Plus, the secrecy excites me. It gives me a perverted sense of power knowing that I’m an urban legend. My sources, barring one, do not know me at all by face. The one, who did, died of natural causes and he was the closest I had to a friend. After that, my sources usually leave a note under a stone at several parts of the city that had been told to them by my late friend. I pick up the note, agree to do the job and get paid. My sources are happy to pass on the information, knowing that they get a cut from it. However, my sources are not like the police and underworld informers. They’re usually the guys at the top of the food chain. They’re the masterminds behind the plot and they’re very happy making good money. That’s the thing. The poor man isn’t greedy. He needs the money to feed his family and ensure that his children have basic education. The rich man doesn’t want any of these. Even without making the extra cash, he can give his family of all these, but the extra money will make way for that ugly crystal horse that is prancing near his front door. I guess dirty money invariably lands up bringing dirty purchases.
I wait patiently. It’s part of my job. The heat is unbearable. It’s something I’ve realized about Mumbai. Every year, summer gets worse. Two years ago, it was dry. Last year, it was humid. This year it is humid, but the temperature has gone up by 2 degrees Celsius. I smell rain somewhere and hope that it is the beginning of the monsoons, as crowds slowly gather to hear what their would-be leader is going to tell them. He is scheduled to arrive in half and hour, so there is a small crowd at the moment. Suddenly, there is a cloud cover coming. I can sense the rain. The rains are always special to me. Monsoons are the only time I feel free. The sound of thunder gives me a sense of competition. It’s like the heavens are taking aim to shoot. Every year, I hear of people dying because they’ve been struck by lightning. The lightning bolt is like a celestial bullet, I reason. If the heavens are okay with killing people, then I have every right to do the same. Like the heavens, I hold no personal grudge against my victim. It’s just something that has to be done. It’s my 9 to 5 job. As I sit back and wait, I ponder about what brought me to this job profile.
I was born to survive. My parents abandoned me when I was an infant outside an orphanage where I was raised. I would often cry myself to sleep as a child, questioning the empty space around me why I’ve been dealt with so unjustly. The children around me are bigger and stronger. I was always the runt in the group, which made me the easiest target. The favorite playing game would involve assaulting me. Initially, I did not know how to retaliate. I’d run, but they’d be faster than me. They would catch me, pull my hair, slap me, throw in a few punches until I started coughing out blood and then go away when they felt satisfied. The staff at the orphanage wasn’t helpful to my cause, either. They’d accuse me of doing something to provoke the bigger boys. If I tried defending myself, I’d be hit on the posterior with a cane. One of the physical education teachers made it a point to strip me down and continuously lash my back with a leather belt. It made him feel powerful, he’d say, as he’d grab my face and pinch my chest. If I attempted to scream, he’d gag me up and threaten to kill me. By now, I had run out of tears and I was in my seventh year at the orphanage. My prayers were never answered and so I lost faith in everyone around me. I lost faith in God and was beginning to lose faith in myself. The only thing that I have realized about me is that I’ve lost, along with the tears, my sense of pain. I no longer feel any pain – physical or mental. I’ve become as cold as stone and there is nothing that can stop me. As part of venting out my frustration, I would resort to exercise. There was a ground in our premises and I would run around everyday to increase my stamina. I’d also do a lot of basic calisthenics and pull-ups
We were shown movies at the orphanage, the only thing I looked forward too. Most of them were not meant for children, as the wardens and teachers would usually watch movies to amuse themselves. One of the movies (I don’t remember the name) was about a prison break and it inspired me a great deal to know that I could do this at some point of my life.
The opportunity came to me six years later, when I had just turned 13. My birthday coincides with the beginning of the rains. I’m sitting on the grounds, as the rain begins to fall on me. The other kids are playing and they leave me alone. I’m no longer the runt that I was and they think that I am freakishly strong for someone my age. The teasing had stopped a couple of years ago when one of the boys tried punching me and ended up with his shoulder dislocated in the process. The people around him saw the calculating way in which I snapped the bone out of the socket leaving him to howl. The staff never found out that it was me. The boys were too scared to tell, in case I killed one of them. They see the look in my eyes and get scared. They see no emotion in my eyes. They just see coldness and death. They’re not worth my attention actually, but I enjoy the fact that they are afraid of me. That way, I let them mind their own business and they let me mind mine.
My physical education instructor comes before me. He is a big man with a moustache and a large stomach. He has abused me sexually several times and I have hated every minute of it. However, today things are going to be different. He tells me that he knows that it is my birthday and he wants to give me a birthday gift. I politely decline to which he slaps me and tells me to follow him into the basement or die. I slowly get up and look into his eyes. He doesn’t seem disturbed by the look of absolute loathing that I give him. In fact, he seems to like it. He tells me that if I repeat what he does to me to the other teachers, then he will torture me. He describes his torture as administering electric shocks on my genitals.
The basement is dimly lit. It is a small room with a few sport’s equipments and old answer sheets. There is an old music system that is playing music that Bollywood starlet Helen used to dance to. He asks me to start dancing to the music, which I refuse to do. He attempts to punch me. I move out of the way. He smiles, accepting the challenge and attempts to lunge at me. I move out of the way again and look at him. He is not smiling anymore. I am defying him. He threatens me with death, but I’m not scared anymore. He grabs my face and puts his hand over my mouth, but I am ready now and I bite his finger as hard as I can. He howls, but the music is too loud for anyone to hear him. I lift my let and hit him down below. I know that I’ve stuck gold because he is on his knees screaming in pain. I know that this is my chance to escape, but I have other ideas. I see a hockey stick on the side and pick it up. There is 10 years of anger inside me. I owe this to myself and I know that this will bring my self-confidence back. I strike his head repeatedly. The aim finds its mark. I feel no emotion. This is cold-blooded murder. I feel strong; I feel powerful; I feel an adrenaline rush going through me. I also know that it is time to escape.
I come out of the basement and by now it is pouring. The boys are a distance away and nobody saw me go in with the instructor. The rain hits my face hard and the blood that is on me is washed off. I see the security guard off duty. He’s probably gone to take a piss, but I don’t care. I look at it as an opportunity to escape, which I manage to do.
However, once I am out, I don’t know which way to run. There is open space and I can run in any direction to safety. I rely on gut instinct and head to the direction of a train that I see in a distance. I have no money. I didn’t think these things over and I don’t want to go back. I run towards the station.
The station is massively crowded, which I am grateful for. I am wearing a pair of short and a white tee shirt that is slightly torn, but right now I don’t care. I see a train moving and look at the sign. It says that it is going to Delhi. The only thing I know about Delhi is that it is the nation’s capital city and it’s not a place I want to be right now. I’d rather be lost in a smaller town, but right now, I have no option. I run into one of the compartments and escape.
I sit in the room pondering my life. Do I have regrets? Did I do the right thing by escaping the orphanage? Was my killing of my teacher justified? I remember that the story had come in the news and there was a search for me, but nobody could find my whereabouts. According to the article that had been published, I was a deranged and dangerous 14-year-old. I was in need of psychiatric help. Today, I feel that the world is in need of psychiatric help. Everyone’s a nutcase. Everyone has issues to deal with. Some live in denial and some work on improving their lives. Me? I won’t call myself demented. I’m just doing my job. It’s the only thing that I know how to do. I’ve tried my hand at everything, but failed so I took the gun. I learnt to shoot and boy was I good.
The rain is falling down heavily. Rain gives me a feeling of retribution. It’s the time I freed myself. When I kill someone during the rain, I feel like I’m freeing them as well.
The people start gathering in larger numbers. Some of them are screaming and shouting with the arrival of the rains. I can see them dance. It’s synonymous with the firs rain. Irrespective of the dust, the pollution, the sulfur dioxide and the nitrogen dioxide, people don’t seem to care. They’ve borne the brunt of summer for more than four months (this year, it began in the first week of February) and most of them are baked. There has been water shortage and pipe bursts in the city. People are paying for water. Crowds gather near municipal taps for one hour everyday to collect their water for the day. The water isn’t enough. They fight; they hit each other; some even murder for water. Water riots are very common in the city today. It’s been this way for the last one year. The municipal corporation isn’t able to help upcoming societies. They say that they don’t have enough water for the existing ones and tell them to fend for themselves. Societies then bring in water tankers that are run by the water mafia in the city. They pay them on a monthly basis to get water into their buildings. Some opt for more environmentally friendly methods. They use groundwater management and rainwater harvesting techniques to ensure that they have water for the rest of the year. I don’t know what these techniques are, but I’ve heard about them being effective. My target tonight is going to stress on the importance of water management. Considering that he is an underworld member and a very strong ally of the water mafia, I think that I should hear what he says before I shoot him.
Although it’s raining, the sky isn’t grey. These aren’t nimbus clouds. This is more like a sepia-film like feel to the city. It’s been this way for the last two days. We’ve all hoped that the rains arrive soon, but it’s been playing truant. The weather was unbearable for the last two days. The stillness, the humidity, the heat wave and the absence of water left me wanting to kill myself. But now, God has decided that we’ve suffered enough and decides to do us a favour by giving us rain. It’s like his sadistic way of treating me when I was a child. They say that God helps those who help themselves. I tend to agree. I helped myself by killing my teacher and God helped me escape. Before that I had no faith in him. Now there is some faith. It’s not absolute, but there is some subconscious faith somewhere inside me.
Every time I’m about to kill someone, I wonder if I am doing the right thing. I question myself asking whether I have the right to take away someone else’s life. I feel that since there are so many deaths happening today due to natural disasters, people like me should retire and take up a normal 9 to 5 job. For 10 minutes, there is a battle in my mind between the angel and the devil trying to reason why I should or should not do what I do. Finally the devil reasons with me. He says that if I tried my hand at anything else, I would fail. I shrug my shoulders and load in a bullet.
One bullet. That’s all I need. I’ve never used more than one bullet since I started working as a sniper. I assure my clients that that’s all they need and say that if I use more than one bullet, I won’t charge them. They take my word for it and by the time the cops come to trace the direction of the bullet, I have escaped. It’s been the story of my life surviving and escaping and going back to do the job. My informers have not given me away, knowing that they will be in trouble if they do.
I hear a loud roar and know that my victim is coming soon. I set myself up for the kill. Thoughts of my childhood have, however, made me feel slightly nervous. My hand shakes slightly and I hope that I don’t have to use more than a single bullet. My reputation will diminish, I feel, but I know that I won’t accept money if I use the second bullet. My sources will be furious, so I’ll have to pay them off my own money. They need the money after all. For that weekend cruise with their family; materialistic bastards, I think.
I arrive tired and hungry. I haven’t eaten for two days. While I was focused on killing the bastard, I’ve been having nightmares through my train journey. The rain had stopped ages ago, but my clothes are still wet. I’m crushed between a family of six, who is on their way to Delhi. The mother offers me some food, which I accept gratefully. Although there is no salt in the vegetable that is served to me, I think that it is delicious. I’ve never eaten anything like this in all my life. The mess at the orphanage had two liquid-like things they’d serve us: one was pale yellow and the other was brown. I would call them shit and puke because it would taste like that. If we wasted, we’d be punished. They ask me where I am going and I don’t answer. They don’t bother prying anymore.
The train slows down. We’re approaching a small station that doesn’t look like it has any human habitation. I don’t know why the train is stopping here, but I take a chance. I look out. There is nobody there, not even a ticket collector. I jump off and try running out, but my feet are too tired. I slowly trudge towards the road. It is sometime in the day and suddenly very hot. The rain, which had cooled the ground only 24 hours ago, has stopped and the weather is hotter than normal.
It feels like eons since I ate that meal, although it’s not been over 15 minutes. The heat is getting to me…I am dehydrated and start feeling dizzy…I am about to collapse…I’m neither here nor there…I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders and heavy movement.
I don’t remember how I got here, but I remember the man, who looked after me. I will not specify much about him in case I say something that is an insult to his memory. All I can tell you is that he nursed me back to health, educated me and taught me how to shoot. He taught me the value of being detached and that my loyalties should lie with nobody, but myself. He gifted me my first gun and taught me how to use it. Over the years, with repeated practice, I became as good, if not better than him. He felt that I could become a sniper shooter. I didn’t even know what a sniper shooter was at that time. He explained to me. He explained the value of the eyepiece in several professions. The microbiologist needs it to see bacteria, the astronomer needs it to see starts, the photographer needs it to take pictures and the sniper needs it to aim at the head and shoot once. For my 21st birthday, he gifted me a sniper rifle. Till date, I don’t know how he managed to. Acquiring a weapon license in India is a big deal. I wanted to ask him, but was too scared to in case he felt hurt. He sensed something was wrong and asked me. He smiled at my concern and told me that he has friends in places, who owe him favors. This happened to be one of them. He didn’t tell me who his friends were or what they did. Coincidentally, these friends became my informers.
I live with him for a few years more. During this time, he falls sick repeatedly and I nurse him back to health. I feel like a son nursing his father and he tells me one day that I’ve served him like the son he’s never had. I feel the tears fall down my face. It’s the first time I’ve cried in a long time and these are not tears of sorrow. I rub my eyes and look at him. He tells me that his time has come and that I need to find my way into the city. I tell him my apprehensions and he tells me not to worry. He has left me a small room in Mumbai. Another favour, I assume, but I don’t ask.
“One thing I wanted to ask you for a long time,” he says slowly.
“Yes?” I say.
“Why did you kill someone at such a young age?”
I’m taken aback. In all these years of looking after me, he had never asked me how I had ended up at his doorstep. I just considered it a stroke of luck and never bothered sharing it with him.
“How did you know?” I say weakly.
“Your nightmares,” he replies.
I don’t have to say anything. I look down ashamed. Not that I was a victim of child abuse, but because I didn’t share it with him for all these years.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” I tell him.
He nods and closes his eyes for the last time. I pay my final respects and go to the station, where I buy a ticket for Mumbai.
I return once every year on this day, to pay my respects. I stay for half an hour and go back home. People would think that it’s a waste of time, but it’s the only place where I found true happiness.
The prospective leader has arrived. He is surrounded by four bulletproof vehicles and cops. I find it ironic, considering that he’s wanted by the police in the first place. But these are elections. In the inquiry made by the election commission, thanks to the model code of conduct guidelines, my victim is guilty on several charges and there are suggestions that he will not get an election ticket. There are protests made by the party he is to represent. They try and pacify to the election commission, whose officials are not swayed by repeated attempts of bribe. The candidate is then asked to stand before court to be cleared of the charges that are placed before him. This is a moral victory for his party, which manages to bribe a few judges to clear him of all charges filed against him. He is now a prospective representative of the people.
He is in a white kurta and a dhoti. He has a thick beard, which is synonymous of several politicians in the state today. The look was originated by the late Shiv Sena leader Anand Dhige, who had and still has a large fan following in several parts of urban Maharashtra. He folds his arms at the public and starts addressing them about what he will do once he becomes a leader. He assures to solve their water problems, promises free education till Class 8 for both the girl and boy child. He assures jobs for locals and immigrants and promises no riots and communal harmony. He is cheered by the thousands of people, who have come to see him.
I am ready.
The eyepiece is truly magnificent. Although I’m nervous, the view through the lens targets my victim’s forehead and he’s talking and shaking his arms a lot. But his head remains the same.
I am about to pull the trigger, when I hear a scream. I watch as his body falls. The cops are looking around for suspects and the crowds have gone ballistic. Men and women, who are his followers, fall on the ground and bang their heads and are howling. There are people running and colliding against each other in this rain and it's a mixture of blood through cuts and the muck from the loose earth on the ground.
I am stunned because I haven't shot. I have failed in my mission. I've been fucked over, but the job has been done. I am supposed to be angry, but I think that since I was in two minds, it's better that someone else killed the guy. I admonish myself and say that I have to be more focused about my work.
I pack up and leave.
I walk in the direction of the crowd running and make my way to the station. I am easily lost in the crowd and look like another frantic follower. I buy my ticket, board a train and get off two stations later.
I go into the nearest bar and grab a beer. It’s another job well done, although it's not by me.
More importantly, the rains are here.
