Sunday, September 21, 2014

The Mystery Of The Ghost Writer And The Wheat- Part 12

Team Name: Blogstirrers

You can read Part 11 (Click Here) which was written by Jaideep Khanduja for Game of Blogs by

As the door closed, Tara breathed a sigh of relief. Picking up the intercom, she called for a coffee, and then walked to the window. The ground below flaunted green, as the sky rumbled in the distance, eerie, grey, and scary. The sky was such a contrasting entity; it could be calm at times, and at times, so tormenting; just like her heart.

A month ago, she just had love for Shekhar, but now, she just didn’t know what she felt about him. Was it love, or sympathy, or care, or hate, or anger, or remorse? She just didn’t know it. Where was he right now? And where was Roohi? The questions in her mind just kept increasing, and there were no answers seen. Shaking her head, she walked back to her desk, as Shekhar’s words came back to her.

He had said that he would come back for her, and that Roohi was safe; that he was being framed. But by whom? And why?

“I can’t find a motive behind framing Shekhar, but then if he was being framed, why did he run? And if he’s innocent, then what about the evidence which Cyrus showed me,” thought Tara to herself.

Photos could be tampered with, even videos. Was that the case this time with the clip Cyrus had showed her?

It was all a muddle in her head. The word muddle struck a chord in her head, and she remembered one of Shekhar’s pieces, one which he had written when he was between jobs.

A jungle, this life, dense,
And bushy, with a P, so pushy,
Ways too many, but to few, none,
To depend, to hold onto, to give,
Support, to prop up, someone, no,
It’s a muddle, a bundle, a heap,
Of too much, in too few, disarrayed,
Unarranged, random, this life.

The words played back slowly from the time when he had read the whole composition to her. Her trance was broken by a soft knock on the door which signaled the arrival of her coffee. Slowly sipping her Latte, she reignited her thoughts about the video and images Cyrus had shown her. Most of them had not had Shekhar’s face, but his posture and figure seemed to be there in them. She shook her head, and switched on her laptop.

She went to the news section on the internet, and as she scrolled to the bottom, her face grew grim. It seemed so tough for him to get out. And if those photos found their way to the media, Shekhar was as good as dead. On the side of the article, there was a solo of Shekhar, and its resemblance to the image Cyrus had shown her clipped her attention.

“Maybe I shouldn’t trust anyone. I’ll begin with Jennifer and Cyrus, then move to the top.”

As the search engine unearthed Cyrus, her mind wavered slowly to one of Shekhar’s poems.

Time is present for the believer,
Time is future for the achiever,
A friend, an enemy, both together,
Time is everything, but a healer,
Wounds spurting, and squirting,
The pain of being, human, we are,
Trust we do, especially mistrust,
Belief is good, above all disbelief,
But the worst of the lot is misbelief.

You can read the next part here.

“Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at #CelebrateBlogging with us.”

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