The Calming Rain at Night

He wondered if the extra second that it took for him to break his reverie allowed the man to escape. Two gunshots from some distance away pierced through the gloom of the cloudy, still night. Having heard the sounds many times, he recognized the sound of a police held Glock pistol immediately. And in the seventy one seconds it took him to reach the alleys around where he judged the shots were fired, jumping from one roof to another, he had figured eight possibilities for the gunshots in that area at that ungodly hour of 2am. The thought if there ever was a godly hour also had crossed his mind. But what was at the forefront of his thoughts was the worry that out of the eight possibilities, only one of them involved the shots being fired from a policeman and he’d assigned that a very low probability.

A very quick surveillance of the alleys, still from rooftops, couldn’t reveal the nature of the crime that he suspected to have been committed. There were no policemen around, and even from his vantage point, he hadn’t noticed a speeding vehicle or a dispersing crowd. He couldn’t spot a burglary, nor could he spot a corpse. Intercepting the police radio, he figured that the detectives were on their way. He didn’t have enough time to scour for the ejected shells. He didn’t need to, anyway. As always, he’d get the results of the forensic firearm examination through his friend in the force.

Retreating into a dark corner of the roof on which he currently perched, he began the evaluation of the seven remaining theories. Three of those theories were around the mafia that was speculated to be building around the Congressman Theodore Koppel. It had taken him months of research to see the connections between the goons and their employer. His interrogation methods still yielded better results compared to what the cops could achieve, as his name still breathed fear. These methods aided him to see the thin threads connecting the various crimes to Koppel. The evidence he’d uncovered was certainly not sufficient and barely admissible in court. Yet, there were patterns that he couldn’t ignore. And today, he’d need more evidence before he could theorize further.

As a light drizzle set in, he hoped to hear the police sirens soon, before the scene of crime was washed clean. Even after all these years, the sound of two isolated gunshots rattled a deep nerve within him. Sights and sounds from his childhood had started resurfacing, igniting a sense of fear. The pattering of the raindrops though, adding to the ebbing din of the city and the wailing blues of the guitars he heard from the house below served to compose him. He felt the fear turn to anger, and the anger soon turned to determination. The city had to be cleansed. And now as the rain grew strong, he’d do just that.

The police sirens in the distance announced the arrival of the police. Through the intercepted feed, he had gathered that homicide detective James Hardy was on the team, and so was forensics expert Irene Lawrence. Both were new to the city, but they came with great repute. He knew of Hardy’s resolute work in the Todd double murder case which had brought him fame, while the untiring Lawrence’s temerity and keen observation skills had established her as the best among the forensics detectives. Mentally he made a note to thank the Commissioner for bringing in the best detectives to the force. With them on the case, he was certain of quick progress. He felt calmness arrive, as the rain beat down on the city and the detectives got to work.

Every night, as the tired city turned to find some rest, his prowl started. He had salvaged the city nights from thugs for years now. The night belonged to him. His was a sight that spelt terror for the unlawful, a sight that caused their knees to shiver and crumble. People still spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices contagious with fear. And for those who deserved his care, his reign of night was calming. Yet, the unlawful didn’t stop breeding. They sneaked around the city like roaches in the dark. They were the city’s stench. And they would continue to breed if someone didn’t put a stop to it all. He’d be relentless until he uprooted them and weeded them out. The city would one day be clean. The city would one day be glorious.

Commissioner Gordon’s men continued their work in the torrential rain as the Batman spread his cape and leapt to another rooftop to follow a lead in a different case, vowing that he’d keep Gotham safe. He would take Gotham to glory.

Rock the Cradle on

‘Ma, he looks cuter than my Sophie!’

Arya’s little brother was just nine days old. Wrapped up in warm tiny cloths, he was a picture of serene, sleeping in his mother’s arms. Five year old Arya, who had come bounding back home from her Montessori, had gone straight to her mother’s room. To Arya, her doll Sophie was the most beautiful person in the world. But now she put into words what she had felt ever since she saw her little brother: that he was the most beautiful person in the world.

Her little brother had just drifted off to sleep, only moments before Arya’s arrival. Arya’s screamed exclamation could have woken him, but it didn’t. Had there been anyone else in the room apart from her mother, she would’ve had to deal with an earful on how to behave with a baby around. But her mother, valuing the intent more than the act to convey the intent, instead smiled, and said, “He also looks so calm, doesn’t he? And he has just fallen asleep; you don’t want to wake your little brother make him and cry, do you sweetie?”

Realising what she had done, Arya’s dark eyes widened, her smile dropped to a small frown and she put her tiny index finger to her lips, hoping she hadn’t disturbed her brother. Moved by the look of guilt on her face, the mother put her son in the crib and drew Arya close to her.

“It’s ok, Arya, he’s still sleeping,” she said consolingly.

Arya hadn’t taken her eyes off her brother. She had always had a lot of questions and questions about him were on top of her list. She had in fact tried to count the number of unanswered questions about him, but had lost track of her count. The first of her questions was how he ever managed to get into their mother’s stomach. Was she also there, when she was a baby? Nobody could quite explain it to her. Just then, though, she was fascinated by how tiny he was. His tiny fingers, trying to clutch on to the blanket, his tiny bent legs that were kicking around, his tiny eyes closed in sleep, and his tiny mouth, that seemed to be curled into a faint, barely-there smile.

She had many times felt the urge to hold him like her mother did. But she was also scared that she might do some harm to him. Arya felt the he also was fragile, as much as he was tiny. She didn’t like it even if Sophie fell from her arms. She just couldn’t risk doing anything to the precious little kid. She also wondered when he would be big enough for her to include him in her games. She would be the teacher and he the student, she’d be a mother and he her child, she’d be the queen and he her subject. She would also teach him to crawl, to walk and to run, to hop, to skip and to jump and to read, to draw, and to colour.

And until he grew up, she, the big sister, would take care of him in all ways she could. And just then, she wanted him to sleep well. Suddenly, she remembered what her mother did when she wanted him to sleep. Arya went forward to the crib and gently started rocking it. And taking on the softest voice she could, she sang, “Hush little baby don’t you cry…”

The mother, looking at her children, felt delighted in a divine way that only a mother feels. Arya gently rocked the cradle on.

The Big Run

He stood with six boys on his right, three on his left. The chalk line on the ground, which formed ten lanes, stretched ahead of him for 100m. His physical education teacher was making sure that all the boys were behind the start line. The gunshot to signal the race start would soon be heard. He had never felt this excited before!

Seven year old Rohan looked around at the crowd, who were all seated in stands around the running track. He couldn’t tell how many were gathered, but there sure were a lot of people in the ground. The entire school – teachers and students – and the parents of the students were all at the ground for the annual sports meet. Though he tried hard to spot his parents and his brother in the crowd, he could hardly make out the distant faces. But he knew they’d be there somewhere; they surely wouldn’t miss his biggest race yet.

Running was natural to Rohan, like a second nature to him. In every previous round, he had run faster than many boys who were older and bigger than him, and had always finished first. He was looking forward to this day for nearly a month now; a month in which he had run every morning along with his father in his favourite black shoes. Now wearing the same black shoes in the finals of his age category, he heard his name announced, “…standing in lane four is Rohan, from class 4-C.”

Rohan, jumping slightly up and down to keep himself active, couldn’t stop smiling. He had watched such races on T.V before. But never had he thought about being involved in one. He wanted to run the fastest he ever had, just like Usain Bolt (of course he knew that Usain Bolt is the world’s fastest man ever). A thought enters his head. Maybe he’ll even do the Bolt celebration at the end! The name of the last boy in the lane was announced. It was now time to concentrate. The gunshot was just moments away. Then he heard the voice of his physical education teacher from his left.

“On your mark!” Head forward, he got into his stance.

“Get set!” He was only seeing ahead. All his focus was on the stretched finish line ahead.

CRACK! The gun exploded. And so did Rohan.

He has put all his strength into his legs. Madly swung his arms back and forth. Breathing became extremely quick. He was thinking about nothing. The taut finish line was getting closer and closer.

Only a few metres away from the finish line, Rohan gave everything he’d got. He felt certain that he’d be the first! And just when this thought crossed his mind, he saw the finish line slacken. He knew that he was not the first across the line.

His momentum took him another 20m forward. Out of breath, he jogged and eventually came to a halt. There was a numbness spreading through him. A numbness which the gut bursting dash had nothing to do with. He was feeling strange, because he was feeling like he never had before. Hands on his hips, breathing heavily, head bowed down, he realized he’d finished second.

But no, how could he finish second? He was so confident that he’d win. He was always first. Second place now! Was this how second place felt? Didn’t he finish ahead of eight other runners? Did that count to nothing? Was all his training in vain now? Should he have trained harder? Why were his friends congratulating him? Didn’t they see how he hadn’t won? These and many other such thoughts plagued his young mind. He felt extraordinarily tired and dejected. This was something running had never done to him before.

He found a spot relatively free of people and sat by himself. He couldn’t get himself to see the rest of the runs. Not that he wanted to actually see them. He didn’t want to stay there, nor did he want to move from his place. Though thirsty, he didn’t want water. Though hungry, he didn’t want a bite. The confused boy sat there, wondering why he didn’t run faster.

“…in second place is Rohan from class 4-C!” He heard his name announced again. Somehow, that put a smile on his face. He jogged slowly towards the podium. Realizing suddenly how much he likes to run, the jog turned to a run. On the podium, he continued to smile though he wasn’t really sure why. He did not realize that he’d learnt an important lesson that day: that you cannot always be the winner in running. Little did he know that the silver medal now around his neck will serve him as a reminder in the future to apply that lesson to his life too.

Thanks to Shwetha Krishnamurthy for the idea!

Breathe...

The light was fading away quickly and evening would soon be night. Walking around her quiet neighbourhood, the relevance of this on her situation was not lost on her. But no, the light in her life had already faded. The night in her life would never cease. She forced her quick and shallow breaths to change to long and deep ones. Yet, she felt her pulse beat as fast as it always had for the past few days. She struggled in vain to keep those drops of tears from escaping her eyes. Suddenly, she found that she could walk no more and sat down in a heap on the pavement, under the yellow street light.

“I’m learning to walk again...” (Walk, Foo Fighters)

A song on her phone hummed in her ears. The trickling tears were quickly becoming a torrent. Burying her face in her hands did not help. She felt tormented by the emptiness. Where now was his shoulder, upon which she’d laid her head on many occasions? Where now was his comforting voice that had always reassured her? Where now was his warm hug that made him her safe haven? Where now was his sweet kiss that made her feel cared for? Where now, was he?

“My soul yearns for one last look at you...” (Patience, Skyharbor)

Composing herself with great effort - though it still did not prevent her from heaving - she looked up at the sky. The chill wind blowing could not affect her; she had turned cold over the days in his absence. Every second since that dreadful moment was spent in reminiscence of the memories they shared: the cheers and the tears, the thrills and the fears and their dreams and their failures. As she was momentarily distracted from those thoughts by the wind that briefly grew stronger, she realised what she was looking at in the sky. Until then, she was merely looking at it, without actually taking it in. It was the brightest star in the sky, Sirius. The irony, now, of the situation was not lost on her. She had lost the brightest star in her life.

“Always the summers are slipping away… Find me a way for making it stay...” (Trains, Porcupine Tree)

She got up and trudged back home. She did not know why she did any of the things that she did of late. She did not see how anything mattered at all. Surely it will all come to nothing one day! Nothing made sense to her anymore. Living seemed like a burden to her. Just then, a small voice that sounded very much like him spoke to her, inside her head. It filled her with something that made her want to hold on and to carry on. It even wanted her to make him feel proud. His voice had said, “You know this is not how I want you to live right now.” Or was it her own voice? Through all her exhaustion, she couldn’t say. But it had lit the light of defiance in her. A light to dispel the night. Though she didn’t know it, it would soon be morning again.

“And your tears have been worthwhile

They got you through to a different place and time where all is new

To the start of something fine 

Like morning dew...” (Love Will Come to You, Poets of the Fall)