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 Blogadda.com.

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 BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.”

Unending

I want peace, not piece,

Some time sometimes,

To think over, over think not,

‘Cause it’s all diffused,

And I’m confused,

I don’t know what I should think.

Digressing, remembering,

Reminiscing, time, moments,

Nostalgia, hitting hard,

The past, returning,

The future, approaching,

The present crawling ahead,

Clawing ahead, slow,

A turtle faster, even a sloth,

Than now, but its better,

Than the best, permission,

To live, the moment, to satisfy,

To satiate, the heart, the wishes,

And smile, but unlike ever before.

It’s all happening, together,

Right now, good, or bad,

And I don’t know how,

To accept, to enjoy,

The fact, of life, stay happy,

Is all I know, other than,

The wish, I hope for, that,

I don’t want this to end.

The Mystery Of The Ghost Writer And The Wheat- Part 10

Team Name: Blogstirrers

You can read Part 9 (Click Here) which was written by Jaideep Khanduja for Game of Blogs by Blogadda.com.

The hysterical whimper cracked through the silence and Tara rose from the confines of her soft night abode. Beside her, Shekhar lay snoring, unaffected by the shrill crying of the alarm clock. She looked intently, as her eyes welled up with tears, an aftermath of the past week’s events. It had been pandemonium; a complete catastrophe, something which had taken her life on the edge, and there was no leeway as well. She couldn’t go through this, she would win, or she would die; and she knew this, very well. She was completely entwined in this mystery, and it had taken her life to the extremes- both good and bad.

Today was going to be important; as she would ask for the truth, not a word less or more. As she glanced at the date in the luminous display of the clock beside her, her face lit up in a weak, watery smile, as her eyes began spewing out droplets, slowly, and a trickle soon began down her cheeks. Shifting her pillow into a more comfortable position, she cuddled into a cocoon and held her head in her palms, and the week came back to her.

As the wheels hit the tarmac, Tara was the first one to get across to the door, waiting for the bus which would bring Cyrus out. Cyrus’ message had first puzzled her, but the more she thought about it, the more she felt intrigued about it. She had decided to book the first flight out for him, and now there she was, impatient to hear what he said.

Cyrus had gone on to show her some astonishing pieces of evidence, which she did not believe were genuine at first instance, but when he went into the details, her heart slowed down, and she slumped into a heap. She could not believe what she was seeing, hearing, and getting to know. It couldn’t be him, no.

“It can’t be true Cyrus. He’s always at home, and he’s working or writing; he doesn’t even switch on the television. No, it just doesn’t add up.”

“I’m sure about it, or else I wouldn’t have called you with this. It’s classified, and I’ve obtained it from a high-ranked official under shady circumstances, so…”

“I won’t use it in the news, but still thanks. I think I should head back now, it’s getting late,” saying this, Tara got up from the table.

Without a single look backwards, she walked away, heading back towards home.

That had just been the first turn of the week. As the days passed, the more she was sure that Cyrus’ information was true. She couldn’t believe it, but now, it was high time. She couldn’t stall any more about the information at the news station, and the police would be getting there soon too.

With a sigh, she got up, and slowly walked to Roohi’s bedroom. As she opened the door, the sight of the empty bed made her heart drop. She turned and ran back to where Shekhar lay, supine, in his own delirious dream. As she returned into their room, the door slammed shut behind her, and she felt something cold on her neck.

She turned to face the wrong end of a gun, into the dark void of the barrel, and as her eyes moved upwards, they began flowing.

“How could you?”

“She’s in a better place than here.”

“How could you lie to me,” she asked again, her voice echoing in the small room.

“I haven’t lied. They are all trying to frame me, it’s not true,” Shekhar said, his voice steady.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he went on, “I promise I haven’t lied to you.”

“But why Shekhar?”

Her questions were drowned by approaching sirens, and Shekhar looked around, stunned. Wiping sweat from his brow, he dropped the gun, and walked towards the window.

Turning back, he said to Tara, “This isn’t how I would have wanted this day to be. I’m innocent, and I shall prove it to you. I love you, and I shall come for you again, one day.”

His eyes set, he kissed his wife, and with a tight hug, he walked out, slowly running into the distance.

The next morning’s headlines were, “Renowned writer and his daughter missing. The wheat trail flours on.”

You can read the next part here.

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

A Weird Race

It’s weird, the world,

Strange, and seared,

In a color, too many,

Vivid hues, contrasting,

Coming together, as one,

Unique, different, a race,

Not of life, or success,

But of unity, on this ball,

Our planet, brown,

And blue, and green.

We are different,

From each other,

Quite a bit, a lot,

We fight, we talk,

We eat, we sleep,

Though as one,

Weird we still are,

Here’s some proof,

Here I go, poof.

We have a half girlfriend,

Every hero survives,

And wins at the movies’ end,

We honk on the straight road,

But never at the bend,

We defend, we offend,

That’s what we tend,

To do, always, no change,

We give, but sometimes lend,

But that does depend,

If it’s a friend, close, or enemy,

We try to mend, everything,

Possible, if not impossible,

And plausible too, damn that’s applausible,

That’s not a word,

So this is the end, for now,

‘Cause I’m tiring, but,

I’m still firing, and there’s always more to come.