Illecebra- A Short Story

The Beginning

I was earning well, had a good life, both professional and personal but there was an abyss of nothingness filling me up inside. I was rich but not wealthy, successful but not contented. Monitoring the whirling of market figures was a reason to protect my pride but I needed a reason to protect my peace.That feeling of curtailment suffocated me in my own lair. So I broke off all dungeons and set myself free once again.

Four years flashed by furiously quick while working in that wormhole and I announced my permanent retirement at the age of twenty five. Writing my thoughts in my diary, penning poetries was something that helped me heal from the trauma of my family and finances. So I chose to become a writer. Quitting the job at the peak of my successful career, another terrible decision? Maybe or maybe not.

Listening so far, I can bet all of you must be sharing the same presupposition "How crazier can a person get in one lifetime?" If you're still willing to hear my story then let me tell you I will redefine all your presumptions about craziness at the end of my recital.

The only thing that I loathed the most was the pain that came with pretence. Pretence of having loving parents, pretence of having a happy career life. And I have been running from the beginning to find a permanent solution for this pretence. I needed something real, something that I can feel and touch. So in search of that reality, I fled to the mountains with a vision of having a fresh start. Who knew that fresh start would come with a bag full of crazy surprises?

October last, my fingertips traced the tarnished iron fencing, feet trampled over remnants of what one would call floral growth of spring. My legs hauled me through that eerie neighbourhood that had become a part of my address so zanily. Marred road signs, broken street lamps and mauled public transport suggested that those uncanny streets of Bilaspur were somehow the hangout spots for vandals all over the nation.

"Why Bilaspur?" you may ask, well the answer is as quirky as the question itself. As a fresh writer with feral behaviour, I find solace in solitude and what place on earth could best serve the purpose other than the abandoned hills of Himachal Pradesh?

But all the expectations I had about that supposed cloud cuckoo land were shattered in no time.

After a brief period of limping in the potholes, I stood before this decent looking, pearl white, five storeyed building. 'Hakhtar Apartments' was printed in black bold letters on a board that was once white but now red with stains of betel nut juice.

A middle aged woman, somewhere in her forties, greeted me with a smile wide enough to show her tobacco afflicted teeth. Those red tinted teeth made it evident where all that betel nut came from. I guess you can tell when you're in the suburbs once tobacco becomes a predominant form of intoxicant among the people.

I greeted her back nevertheless and finished all the formalities. All this time, I can swear her smile never did waver for once. It wasn't even one of those smiles that would make you feel warm and home-like but it was something threatening, as if it was the very first indication of what was to come ahead of me.

Alas! I did not pay any heed to that and turned my heels in the direction where I followed her lead to my new home. Shrivelled hair, parched skin and exhaustion overfilled; ironically that was supposed to be a fresh start of my life.

On a brighter side, I loved the ambience of that threshold a lot. Little porch that was full of artificial greens seemed so metaphorical. Just like those affected leaves, my existence had been a lie up until then. I had been feigning to live a life that was never my ideal type.

The quaint infrastructure that showed off amber coloured hallways and crimson velvety curtains was so fascinating to watch. At one point I found myself gawking at the finesse of timber, lining the curvatures of antique figurines. That panorama presented a caricature of medieval art and craftsmanship.

"That's your apartment madam." The same betel nut lady said as she stood in front of an old-fashioned, grotesque yet intriguing wooden door that read Nineteen in gilded carvings.

Out of all the vivid whim-whams adorned around the dining room, the very first thing that caught my eye was a trinket, a painting in particular. It wasn't anything like other ordinary paintings. What caught my eye was it's theme. It showed a fully grown up woman in a romantic set up with a frail, young boy. There was pure adoration in the eyes of the woman as she held the little one in her arms.

If only I analysed that painting with more precision at that time, I could have saved myself with lots of troubling thoughts later.

The betel nut lady introduced herself as Kanchan and we had a small talk as she helped me familiarise with the apartment.

Before shutting the door a ball came rolling and gently hit my toe. It wasn't a usual ball, it was a wooden ball with size of a fist, rough edges and uneven surface. It was dirty green in colour and had some gibberish embarked on it.

A teenage boy came running to me and grasped the ball before my fingertips could gash against the jagged thing.

That boy looked so inexplicably attractive when he locked his eyes with mine. Even today, I can clearly recall the magnificence of those azure eyes. They had some mystical aura that made me lost into the wilderness of his charm. They looked clearer than all the oceans, brighter than all the jewels and purer than all the ice.

I had never seen something so ethereal as him before. I was so tempted to his immaculate skin that I wanted to caress every inch of it ever so gently. The tenderness of his fluffy hair left me craving to run my fingers through them.

Who was he? What was he? Nothing could serve justice to that enticing sorcery other than the word Illecebra.

To be continued...