Tailored to Fit

Characters:

. Rani, a psychotic tailor

. Jhumpa, the concerned friend

. Mr. Ezekiel, a black suit

. Mrs. Senpai, a kimono

. Thumri Kakkar, a kurta punjabi

. Guria, a six-year-old’s ghagra

. Vijay, the apologetic visitor

Scene One:

A tailor’s shop – the roller shutters are drawn shut. Rani is sitting at her sewing machine. There is a constant drone of the machine – it is the only sound that can be heard above the traffic outside. The wall of the store is lined with clothes on hangers. Glitzy shiny stuff – it’s December, and close to festival time.

A huge pile of cloth lies like a mountain of multicolor downstage right. Stage left is devoted to a tiny bed and a small dresser.

Rani: It’s lonely in winter. All year around you don’t notice it so much. But when winter gets around and everyone’s getting ready to put up their Christmas lights all over the place – and there’s enough work to do to keep you from getting out – but not enough to lose yourself in – Pujo’s better – at least there’s so much to do then that you’ll never finish on time. I miss Abba.

Girl(Voice from outside and a rap on the shutters): Rani! Rani! You forgot again, didn’t you!

(Rani gets up from the machine and rolls the shutters up – just a little so that the girl outside can come in. You get a glimpse of the street too, when she comes in – and it’s all bright lights and festivity.  Walking feet pass by, in glittering shoes. The girl’s about the same age as Rani, but dressed brighter – as if she’s just come in from the street outside)

Rani: Forgot what?

Girl: We were supposed to go to the ghat today – have phuchka? (she looks around the shop) Dhurr – you’re going to say there’s too much work again, aren’t you.

Rani: He’d die again if he found out I was going out with all that left –

Girl: Who? You’ve been talking to yourself again, haven’t you?

Rani: No. I mean, I really don’t have the time, Jhumpa, I have too much to do.

Jhumpa: Well, it’s not as if it’s Eid or something. 


Rani: It's Christmas!


Jhumpa: Ok, ok – I get it, I’m going. Vijay’s waiting for me anyway. Worst thing Mr. Akhtar ever did was to leave you his shop. It’s not like you need the money – and you’ll graduate soon enough! (Rani gently pushes her out and rolls the shutter back down on her) Why can’t you just sell the damn thing?

Rani: Bye, Jhumpa. 

(she turns around and, staring at the cloth pile, sinks to the floor)

Rani: Mr. Ezekiel knows, don’t you, Mr. Ezekiel?

(the pile of cloth on the floor shifts slightly – and a child crawls out. She’s about thirteen, and looks exactly like Rani. She’s dressed in a ghagra that’s way too big for her and is trailing on the floor. She turns around and drags out a black suit from the heap. The last bit comes out loose suddenly – and she slips and falls on her back. She gets up and arranges the suit on a low stool just upstage right of the cloth pile. Arranges it so that it looks like a person’s sitting there. Then she laughs and disappears.)

Rani: How are you, Mr. Ezekiel? Too many years under Mrs. Chatterjee’s petticoat? That can’t have been fun. How does it feel to still be here after ten years? Has it really been that long? Has it? Oh yes – oh my god yes – ten years. Do you feel like a smoke, Mr. Ezekiel? Do you feel like you need a drink?  It’s winter, you know – not so difficult to find rum in winter. But you can’t drink, can you, Mr. Ezekiel? Because you’re not really Mr. Ezekiel. Mr. Ezekiel died on the way back to Lindsay street after he gave Abba his measurements – and never came back for you. Are you lonely, then, Mr. Ezekiel’s suit? Did you curse Abba for not cutting you up and making you into tiny little mourning suits for Mr. Ezekiel’s sons? Did you want to visit the funeral? Do you want to run away? Do you want to run away away away and never ever have to come back to this little shop where you were made – with those very needles over there – and those reels of thread over there – and that old machine over there – and those hands…

Or do you want to stay here forever, Mr. Ezekiel? With Guria and Miss Senpai and Thumri and those clothes over there that’ll you’ll never get to know because they’ll all be on their way before the season turns – and those scraps over there that you had a little fling with in the summer who will all be leaving you for a patchwork drapery for a wedding hall. All the things you know and the only things you know.

Jhumpa (outside the door, crying): Rani! Raaani! Open the rollers.

(Rani jumps up and lets her in)

Jhumpa: Oh Rani! I saw them together at the ghats. Vijay and Jasmine. I didn’t know what to do! Why didn’t I see this coming!

Rani: Come in and sit down.

Jhumpa: Rani, I’m such an idiot. I don’t want go back home – can I stay with you to – (sees Mr. Ezekiel) ohhh. Who – oh. Oh, it’s just a suit. What the hell are you playing at? I got so scared!

Rani: It’s alright, Jhumpa. You can stay here tonight. Do you want some dinner?

Jhumpa: No – oh Rani – I’m so stupid. (starts crying again)

Rani: Sit down – I’ll get you something to drink.

(exit stage left)

(Jhumpa sits on the bed – her eyes keep straying towards the suit on the stool. She gets up once or twice and looks for Rani near the left wings – and keeps turning to look at Mr. Ezekiel. Then she looks back at the open rollers, shivers, and lowers them down. As soon as they shut – the lights go off – and Jhumpa screams in the dark.)

Scene Two:

The same. In the dark, the clothes look sinister – especially the suit propped up on the stool. The heaps and piles of cloth here and there create eerie shapes. There is hardly any light – just a soft glow from within the left wings.

Rani: Jhumpa, I’m here. I’m coming – don’t worry.

(She enters with a candle and sets it down centre stage.  Jhumpa is crouched against the rollers)

Rani: Sit on the bed, Jhumpa. Don’t worry – there’s a load shedding at this time every other day. It’s usually not so bad during winter, but the power will be back in about an hour or so. I can roll the shutter up if you want – but there’s no light outside, either.

Jhumpa: NO. I mean, do you have any more candles? I hate the shadows. The place looks so damn depressing. Especially the suit. Will you get that off the chair?

Rani: Oh, you mean Mr. Ezekiel?

Jhumpa: Oh my god.

Rani: Don’t worry about him – he’s been here forever. He’s not the only one. There’s Mrs. Senpai.

(The child walks into the room again while she speaks, dragging another garment in with her. She sets it up on a hanger – and hangs that against a wall with the glitzy new costumes. It’s a bright red kimono.)

She’s getting old. She used to belong to a famous actor – Rina Brown, have you heard of her? Took them more than five years to film that Tokyo movie. So long that she needed some loosening at the waist and the hip – well practically everywhere along the sides. And then she just got left here. Maybe she got so fat that they couldn’t do the movie anymore. I don’t know – it never came out. She’s around here somewhere. (moves around with the candle and finds the kimono)

Here she is. Isn’t she gorgeous?

Jhumpa: I wish you’d get more candles.

Rani: And there’s Thumri Kakkar. He’s not as old as the rest of them – you’ll quite like him. He’s tall and handsome and makes the strangest comments at the strangest times.

(The child walks in with another garment, and sits it up against the rollers this time)

He came with a bunch of other wedding clothes the groom had worn – to cut up and create babies’ blankets from – god knows why they’d want such uncomfortable babes’ blankets. Anyway, the baby died, I think – and they got divorced. And when he came back to pick all his clothes up – he wasn’t very calm you see – and he left poor Thumri behind. I don’t know when he’d worn Thumri – his wedding night – or the following morning – god knows. But I bet Thumri’s sad – to be made for such happy family occasions and then discarded after a single wear. Here he is, see, sitting like he’s about to fall apart at the seams. Poor Thumri Kakkar. Do you want some dinner, too?

Jhumpa: RANI. Candles!

Rani: Oh, sorry. I’ll get some more.

(exit stage left)

Jhumpa: Leave me your candle!

Rani: Sorry!

(Rani comes back and leaves her a candle)

(Jhumpa walks to centre stage with the candle and does a few double takes. Mr. Ezekiel, Mrs. Senpai and Thumri Kakkar have all shifted their postures while she wasn’t looking)

Jhumpa: RANI! Come back quick!

(She inspects each of the garments closely with the candle and prods the pile of clothes on the floor. When she looks up, the garments move synchronously and jerkingly.)

(Rani walks in carrying a lit candle and a packet)

Jhumpa: It’s Mr. Ezekiel – (she points at him)

Rani: Mr. Ezekiel, have you been moving again?

(Jhumpa shrinks away from them)

Rani: Oh Jhumpa, it’s nothing to be worried about. He keeps doing this, the stupid adorable little man. I mean, suit. Oh, I mean – Mr. Ezekiel tell her. Tell her it’s all alright.

Jhumpa: No, no, no, Rani – it’s alright, I’m alright, I don’t want him to tell me anything – I –

(she drops the candle)

(Mr. Ezekiel gets out of his chair and picks it up and holds it out for her)

Mr. Ezekiel: Fire’s dangerous, didn’t you know?

(Jhumpa shrieks and runs to sit on the bed)

Mr. Ezekiel: Do you want help with those, dear?

Rani (lighting the other candles): Oh no, thank you. You might catch fire. You know how clumsy you always were with your sleeves. You keep Mrs. Senpai occupied – I think she’s trying to get at Jhumpa’s hair.

(Mrs. Senpai is indeed reaching out towards Jhumpa)

Sorry, Jhumpa – she’s a bit senile – and she misses her own hair you know. Try telling her she’s never had any – and you might just get scalped!

Mrs. Senpai: I beg your pardon? Me? I’d never.

Mr. Ezekiel: Why don’t you come here and sit with me, Mrs. Senpai – we’ll watch the candle flame flicker to and fro.

(He goes and helps Mrs. Senpai out towards the audience, sits with them and they watch the nearest flame with the utmost concentration)

Thumri: You’re sad. I’m sad. I can tell.

(Jhumpa stares at him)

Rani: Be nice, Jhumpa. I can usually never get him to talk.

Jhumpa: Hello.

Thumri: Never say hello to somebody. They’re going to leave you anyway.

(Jhumpa looks like she’s going to cry again)

Mrs. Senpai: There, there dear – Thumri, you rascal, who told you to say such unpleasant things? Talk about something nice – something you know about – like zippers and buttons and hooks!

Jhumpa: No, no, it’s alright. I’m sorry about that groom of yours.

Thumri: Well, he wasn’t my groom.

Jhumpa: (laughing nervously) I like your kurta – I mean, I like you. I mean, it’s a nice colour. I mean, is it grey or blue or purple – I can’t tell in the dark.

Thumri: I don’t know. But thank you. I like you too.

Jhumpa: Oh.

Thumri: Do you want to light a candle with me?

Jhumpa: Oh. I mean, I’d love to – but Rani said that –

Mr. Ezekiel: You’ve got a sane head on your collars. Listen to her Thumri, it will do you some good.

Thumri: It’s a beautiful head. I wish I had a beautiful head.

Jhumpa: I wish you had one, too. I could practically –

Mrs. Senpai: Oh, but we do have heads, dear, who told you we don’t? Look at us again!

(Heads peep out from the collars of the three garments – hands from the sleeves, and feet from the legs)

Thumri: You could practically what?

Scene Three:

Rani: Someone’s missing.  Where’s Guria?

Mr. Ezekiel: She must be talking to the shadows again.

Rani: Well, that means it’s dinnertime. Shall we have a candlelit meal?

Mrs. Senpai: I must get ready for it then – Rani, can you get me something for my hair?

Rani: Something for your – Mrs. Senpai! NO – but I think I can get something for – oh wait, I have just the right thing – what a change it will be - 

Mr. Ezekiel: Please don’t change her again, Rani, I couldn’t bear it if she changed.

Rani: Mr. Ezekiel – it’s just a bow! There – how’s that Mrs. Senpai?

Mrs. Senpai: Is it new? What did I have on before?

Rani: Mrs. Senpai! I must do something about that memory of yours – do you think – yes, I think I should stitch some satin into your head – or maybe a quarter meter of muslin would do the trick – what do you think, Mr. Ezekiel? 

Mr. Ezekiel:  Oh but – Mrs. Senpai’s perfect! You’re the finest seamstress in all the land, Rani, but –

Rani: Alright, alright, Mr. Ezekiel – I must get some dinner now. We’ll talk about this later.  (exits)

Jhumpa: Do you need help? 

Thumri: She’ll manage on her own – Rani always does. 

Jhumpa: Oh. Good. 

(The child runs in, picks up some clothes off the shelves, and tries to set them up standing against the bed.)

Jhumpa: Who is that?

Mr. Ezekiel: That’s Guria.

Jhumpa: What is she trying to do?

Thumri: Get the clothes to talk to her. 

Mr. Ezekiel: It’s what Rani used to do – a long time ago.

(The clothes keep falling off.)

Jhumpa: Why won’t they talk?

Thumri: Not everybody wants to talk.

Mrs. Senpai: It just isn’t time yet.

Jhumpa: What does that mean?

Mrs. Senpai: What, dear?

Jhumpa: What you said just now… when do the clothes – when do you start talking?

Mrs. Senpai: Is that what I said? I don’t remember. You have beautiful hair.

Mr. Ezekiel: Sorry, she forgets things sometimes. 

Thumri: But you do have beautiful hair.

Jhumpa: When did you start talking?

Thumri: Rani thinks it’s when she stitched me a voice.

Jhumpa: She can stitch you voices?

Mrs. Senpai: She thinks she can.

Mr. Ezekiel: She can stitch anything.

Thumri: I would have talked to you even if she hadn’t stitched me a voice.

Mr. Ezekiel: No you wouldn’t.

Thumri: Mr. Ezekiel, cloth boxes don’t make us talk. 

Jhumpa: What makes you talk, then?

Thumri: What makes you talk?

Jhumpa: Oh. But I’m not like – I mean – I can talk because – I – can’t say.

(Guria tries to prop the clothes up against something else – the roller shutters.) 

Mr. Ezekiel: They’re just very new clothes.  Rani just finished stitching them. 

Mrs. Senpai: She stitched the collar half a centimeter tighter than it should be. She does that when she’s stitching clothes for people she doesn’t like very much. 

Mr. Ezekiel: That’s not true, Mrs. Senpai. Rani wouldn’t do that. 

Jhumpa: Who are these clothes for, then?

Mrs. Senpai: I don’t remember. 

Mr. Ezekiel: Vijay. It says so on the bill.

Jhumpa: Who?

Thumri: Are you alright? 

Jhumpa: I think I’ll go see if Rani needs help. (exits)

Thumri(looking after Jhumpa): Rani really can’t stitch everything, you know.

Mr. Ezekiel: Thumri, what do you think would happen if someone took a large pair of scissors and cut us up?

Mrs. Senpai: Mr. Ezekiel! What a horrid thought! Why would anyone do that? And even if they did – Rani would just stitch us back up again.

Mr. Ezekiel: Do you think clothes go to heaven?

Thumri: Do you think she ran away? I always scare people off. 

Scene Four:

(Rani walks in with a tray, followed by Jhumpa, with glasses.)

Rani: We’ll need some more candles. Where is Guria?

(The child runs to them and blows out the nearest candle)

Rani: Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s Guria. That ghagra – that’s mine. From back when I was six. Guria, what are you doing?

(Guria blows out a few more candles and runs to Rani and whispers something in her ear)

Rani: Oh. She says there’s someone standing outside the shutter who wants all the candles off.

Jhumpa (whimpering): No. Why?

(Someone bangs on the roller doors from outside. Guria blows off the candles one by one, as Ezekiel and Senpai and Thumri walk to their original positions on stage)

Rani: Don’t worry, dear, let me see.

(There is only one candle left now, in her hand. She rolls up the shutters and a man bends and walks in, completely drenched. Jhumpa whimpers softly)

Rani: Vijay! You’re completely drenched! What are you doing here? Is it about that shirt and pants that you wanted. They’re stitched and done. I’ll fetch them for you?

(she walks off to the right of the stage, looking for the clothes)

Vijay: No – no – I came for Jhumpa. I – I – there she is – I came to say I’m sorry. About letting you down like that. With Jasmine, I mean. I’m really sorry. I should have told you. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that there – at the ghat. Me and Jasmine – we’re both very very sorry. She wanted to tell you too – but it’s just that I can’t find her. I can’t find her anywhere. I’m sorry –

Rani: That’s so strange. I can’t find Vijay’s clothes anywhere.

Vijay: It’s alright. I don’t need them now. I’ll go look for Jasmine now.

(he blows out the candle)

Scene Five:

The lights come one – the same room. Everything in the same place. All the people are also standing exactly where they were – except the garments are just garments now, sitting/standing in their original positions and places. And in place of Vijay, there is a shirt and a pair of jeans propped against the roller.

(Jhumpa sinks into Mr. Ezekiel’s lap)

Jhumpa: It was so dark – so dark. I didn’t mean to. I got so angry, seeing them together that I just lost it and flew at them – and before I knew it they were in the river – and I didn’t know what to do – I’m so stupid. So stupid. (she breaks down)

Rani: Oh. There they are. Vijay’s clothes. I finished making them a while back. I was looking for them, you know.

You can come visit him whenever you want.

END

Woogally in the Lair of the Beasts

Happy Birthday, Woogally!!!

Open publication - Free publishing - More ally

Fingers

Mr. Fingers had a pretty wife. She never got out much but you could see her face pressed against the attic window all afternoon on sunny days, her unseen but presumably dainty little fingers working on something intricately – something just below the window seat – so Ben could never see what that thing was.

He used to walk across the street every afternoon at four – on his way to the river – where he’d meet his father at the little jetty where the fishermen lounged about all day. He’d throw up his brown switchblade into the air – and catch it again with his deft fingers, feeling the snag in the metal where Bessie’s dog Susie-Ann had bit into it. A picnic five years ago when Ben had been seven and much too young to run up Nail Hill after a crazy dog.

But Mrs. Fingers would never look up. Ben didn’t know why he wanted her to – except that Ben liked people to look at him.  He’d whistle while he walked down the street all the way to the jetty, a peppy tune from the latest picture, so people would look up at him as he jaunted along, playing with his knife. Everyone except Mrs. Fingers. Either her closed window didn’t let any sound in or she was always at work on something far more interesting than Ben’s famous tunes.

Jimmy Fingers went to school with Ben. Jimmy was a quiet boy with a small mole on the back of his neck. He sat at the corner desk in the front row, with his very dirty fingers spayed greasily on the table in front of him and looked ahead all the time – giving Ben a full view of absolutely nothing of himself – except his hands and his little mole. Ben liked to look at people – just as he liked them to look at him. He’d stare at them as if he was memorizing everything about them, as if he was a portrait artist who needed to go back home and start painting what he’d seen. But all he could remember of Jimmy Fingers was his mole and a set of ten very dirty fingernails.

One early Tuesday afternoon, Ben and the boys had been idling about near the jetty, having skipped school and feeling very pleased about themselves. The boys were sitting facing the sea – watching their fathers’ boats bob up and down on the waves far away near the horizon. All except Ben, who was staring at the tiny flash of light from Mrs. Fingers’ window, a row of houses away.

They were playing rock, paper scissors. Absentmindedly. Rock bashed scissors, scissors sliced up paper, paper stifled the rock, over and over again, as the light in the attic window flashed in and out of the sun.

“There should be more to it.” Ben said, sitting up. “To rock paper scissors.”

“You mean like how we’d tried lighter bird gun last Christmas and ended up with matching black eyes each over whether the bird flew away with the paper or choked on it and died?”

“No. Something else. Closer to home. What do you think Mrs. Fingers has in her fingers?”

All six heads swung in unison towards the attic window.

“A needle? I don’t get it.”

“It should be a surprise. It should be something no one knows about. Like a trump card. Or an ace up a sleeve.”

“But it’s definitely a needle. What else could she be doing all day?”

“But what kind of needle? It’s an awful idea of Ben’s – playing rock paper scissors x – but Mrs. Fingers could be doing anything beneath the window. Knitting needles wouldn’t catch so much light – crochet? darning?”

 “She could be stitching up dead bodies of birds. Stuffing them – what’s it called? Taxi-dummy?”

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

“And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

“Or plucking out their finger nails to use because she doesn’t have her own.”

“Maybe it is a needle,” Ben added,“and she’s stitching up Jimmy. A new version of Jimmy Fingers everyday, complete with the mole for id. And sending the stitched doll to school. And that’s why he’s so quiet – because he’s not human.”

There was a quiet whimper in response to this statement – behind the rocks they were sitting against. Everyone shut up – and turned to look. Everyone except Ben, who continued to speak, because he was enjoying it – and thought he sounded very clever, even to whoever the person was listening behind the rocks.

“And that’s why none of us can ever remember what he looks like. Because he doesn’t have a real face.”

An unreal face raised itself from behind the rocks, very slowly, quivering red in a very real way. The boys were deathly quiet now.

“Only real fingers, that she stitches on to each new doll over and over again. And that’s why they’re so dirty. Because she keeps re-using those fingers over and over again.”

This was said directly to Jimmy, because Ben couldn’t bring himself to stop. He was feeling awfully sorry now, but the momentum that had pitched the story forward was in full swing – and it lashed out at the unreal boy, like a fist to a face.

And it was met with the same. Or would have been, if the other boys hadn’t caught those very real fingers in time, and held them back.

Ben laughed. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t, not now.

“Well?” He asked, as Jimmy Fingers quietened down under ten sets of stronger fingers. “Which one was right?”

Jimmy Fingers grinned. Very white,very unreal teeth flashed for a brief second behind those parting lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

Ben shrugged. “Actually, yes. Will you settle this over a game then? If you win, I’ll say sorry. And if you lose, you’ll tell me what your mum’s doing behind that attic window.”

“Ben, that’s not – ”

“Shut it,” the twelve-year-old hissed. “I’m asking Jimmy. Let the doll decide.”

Jimmy’s grin froze – for only a split second – and then grew wider.

“Sure. Except, if you win, I won’t just tell you what my mum’s up to, I’ll take you up to the attic and show you. And if I win, your fingers belong to me.”

There was another one of those funeral silences. Ben broke it, laughing shrilly.

“You’re bluffing, but I’ll call it. And I suppose you’ll want to play a game that matches, too. Stabbing knives between our fingers – or throwing them at apples in our mouths – or something.”

Jimmy was still grinning. “Sure – if you say so – rock paper scissors would do just fine for me.”

Ben grinded his teeth. “Fine then. Since you’re too scared to put your fingers on the line. Rock paper scissors it is.”

“Can I have my fingers back first?”

Ben nodded. In unison, the boys let Jimmy Fingers go. The two faced each other against the blue waves and sky, tiny boats bobbing up and down in the horizon. Ben called – or Jimmy called – or both of them called together – it didn’t matter which.

“Rock.”

Jimmy’s eyes were roughly where Ben’s fingers would be – behind his back – as if he could see through the cloth and bone.

“Paper.”

Ben’s flitted briefly away from Jimmy’s face – to the eyes of his comrades, standing at aslight angle behind Jimmy. The boy shook his head, ever so slightly.

“Scissors.”

He’d let him draw once.Together, they drew out their fingers, index and middle cutting outwards.

“Rock.”

Second time round, and Jimmy was fighting now. Ben could tell in the way his smile was faltering under those furrowed brows.

“Paper.”

Ben glanced towards the boy behind Jimmy again, as the boy shook his head.

“Scissors.”

Both scissors again. One more draw for credibility.

“Rock.”

In the light of the concentration on Jimmy’s face, his features looked very real in the afternoon sun right then. This was how they’d all remember him – a small sharp nose, and a chin whose all-but-absence was more than made up for by the desperately calm determination in the eleven-year-old’s eyes.

“Paper.”

Ben looked at the boy behind Jimmy one last time. This time he inclined his head forwards briefly. This was it. Ben splayed out all his fingers stiffly behind his back.

“Scissors.”

As he brought his paper out, Ben noticed – a split second too late – the expression of the boy behind Jimmy change from confidence to alarm. Jimmy’s fingers shifted just before he drew his hand – and it was scissors again – a short sharp jab that sent a thrill of cold horror down the spines of all the other boys.

Ben drew his breath sharply. And blinked, thrice. And in the face of Jimmy Finger’s grin, defiant and sinister till the very end – Ben bowed theatrically.

“Alright then, Fingers. What do you want me to do now?”

Jimmy Fingers shrugged. “Got your famous switchblade? Hack ‘em off.”

Ben paled, but didn’t falter. He brought his switchblade out from inside his pocket. The other boys made to move towards Jimmy, angry growls in their throats. Jimmy ignored them, eyes on Ben as the latter held out his left hand in front of him – and, with tiny little beads of sweat appearing on his forehead and a visible knot tightening in his throat – held the blade over his fingers gingerly.

He glanced at Jimmy – who made no movement or noise – and then raised the blade, gritting his teeth.

“Or, actually, wait.” Jimmy said. “Since that game wasn’t quite fair, since I knew you were cheating and planned ahead – maybe we should both pay up.”

Ben was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a sore loser. “Why? Even if you knew I was cheating – I was the one cheating.”

“Call me generous,” Fingers grinned. “I think I’d like to show you what my mum’s doing up there after all.”

Then he paused conspiratorially, leaned forward and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear: “And then – let her use your fingers.”

“You little – ” Ben started, and then stopped himself. In spite of himself, he let curiosity get the better of him, and he nodded.

“But just you,” said Jimmy Fingers.

The two boys walked back to the Fingers’ house, as the others waited by the shore uneasily. Their little fists were bunched up and raised in front of them – and the two of them who had tiny knives in their pockets had their fingers clenched tight around them.

Ben followed Jimmy into his house and up the single stone staircase.

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

His friends’ voices were playing over and over in his head, like a dull recording he desperately wanted to shut off.

 “And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

His fingers were trembling as he laid his hands on the dusty banister.

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

There was a dull ache in their joints – that was more fear than pain – and his heart throbbed loudly against his rib cage, even as his steady steps followed the younger boy up, up, up towards the attic, his eyes transfixed on the mole on the back of his neck, his face pale but straight.

 “Or plucking out their finger nails to use because she doesn’t have her own.”

There was no door. The staircase led straight into a small room, with one large window spilling warm late afternoon sun onto minimal furniture – a bed, a cupboard, a potted plant by the door, a chair by the windowsill and a low desk beneath the window.

Mrs. Fingers was sitting at the desk, her light hair falling in thick curls over one shoulder, the desk in front of her crowded with little clear bottles all filled with red liquid that glittered quietly in the sun.

She turned as Jimmy walked in and smiled lovingly, holding out her hands. A glass mirror in her right hand caught the sun as she moved and flashed briefly. The fingernails on her left hand glinted blood red.

Jimmy went up to his mother and kissed her. Mrs. Fingers reached out for one of the bottles in front of her, held her son’s hands out in front of her, and started painting his nails.

“She’s been like this for five years,” Jimmy said quietly to Ben, who stood still, framed by the doorway. “She was trying to save her sister’s dog from swallowing some switchblade she’d run away with. She ran up Nail Hill after the dog – and tripped over a tree root and fell rolling all the way down, hitting her head against the rocks below. She hasn’t spoken since, and she doesn’t understand what we say either. She just likes to sit at her window, and paint her nails.”

Mrs. Fingers let go of her son’s hands and turned to look at Ben.

“It’s ok. You can come closer, she’s harmless.” Jimmy said, walking over to the potted plant and digging his fingers in the dirt to hide the pink colour on his nails. “And you promised you’d let her use your fingers.”

Ben let Jimmy’s mother pick a nice bright scarlet from amidst the bottled nail colour and paint his nails with it.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke – but he had to get it out.

“It was my switchblade. The one she was running after. I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore,” replied Jimmy Fingers.

Mrs. Fingers heard nothing, and went on painting, her smile quiet and empty as always. And when she finished, she patted the boys on the back and sent them off, each with a set of dirty fingernails, smearing bright red over their sleeves and pockets and trailing messily on the floorboards behind them.

The Clockmaker - a Very Old Obsolete Puppet Show

SCENE 1:

Clocks ticking rhythmically, clockmaker (CM) enters, begins working on the clock, hums a little tune.

Customer 1 enters.

C1: I have a problem with my clock.

CM: Let’s see your clock…yes, I see. Leave it with me for two days- I’ll have it ready by Friday.

Customer leaves.

CM goes to his bedroom, lies down, clocks keep ticking(sound becomes louder)

Light swings to large wall clock behind audience and follows hand movement, clock ticks rhythmically.

SCENE 2:

Clocks tick, CM walks in and for a second clocks stop ticking and then they start ticking again normally. CM looks around still confused and sits at his table, goes on working on the clock.

Customer 2 comes in, calls CM once or twice before CM realizes he’s there.

C2: What kind of clocks do you…(fades out and ticking becomes louder)

CM shakes his head.

C2: I was thinking of an alarm you know.

CM stares at C2 without responding.

C2: Hello? An alarm clock? Hello? (waves in CM’s face)

CM keeps staring at him.

C2: Freak! (and walks out)

CM goes to his room and sits on his bed. He hums his tune… it becomes faster than the ticking of the clock and he loses the beat. He stops and begins humming again along with the ticking but again he loses the rhythm and becomes faster. Then the ticking of the clock increases speed to match with his humming. He nods and goes to bed.

Light swings to large wall clock at the back, which makes rhythmical noises and lights swing with clock hands.

SCENE 3:

One or two clocks are slower/faster. Some are going anticlockwise but most are fine. Two customers come in C3 and C4, C4 is a shadow person.

C4: Is my clock ready? The one I asked you to fix? Clock maker?

C3: Do you buy old clocks?

CM: Yes.

C3: Oh, good. I have this 19^th century piece belonging to my father.

CM: But there’s still a problem.

C3: What?

C4: With the working?

CM: No, I’ve fixed the gears. The paint is chipping off the dial – if you don’t change the dial soon, the hands will wear.

C3: What the hell are you talking about?

CM: Wait your line, sir; can’t you see I have another customer to attend to?

C3: What? The man’s mad!

He leaves but his shadow stays on. More and more shadow people come in and stand around the CM. The ticking becomes faster, one or two clocks start shaking. The shadow people start whispering: “tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock”.

CM gets scared and runs into his room, jumps into his bed and then he realizes that the shadow figures have followed him to his room. He starts whimpering and the lights fade out.

Light swings to the large wall clock which makes rhythmic noises, light follows hand movements.

SCENE 4:

The clockmaker is already in the clock room. The clocks are shaking and spinning, and the speed of the ticking is very irregular. CM behaves strangely, random gestures, picking up things and keeping them back. He’s humming with the clocks, stopping suddenly, starting suddenly, speeding down and slowing down.  Flashes of colour on the screen behind (?)

The shadow people are larger, and blurred with the clocks on the background behind, “tick-tock, tick-tock” One comes forward.

Shadow: Tick-tock, tick-tock clockmaker. Mad, mad… you’re going mad.

A whisper is taken up by the shadow people. “mad, mad the clockmaker is mad.”

CM: (laughs) Mad? So is that it? I’m mad?

The whisper grows louder, the ticking slows and speeds with the whisper.

CM: You think I’m mad? And you? (to the audience) Do you – all of you – think       I’m mad, too? Because I hear things you don’t? Because I see things you don’t? 

       What… do you see?

The light swings to the large wall clock behind the audience, and whirls around it. Coloured lights (?) The ticking is as loud as possible and very irregular, the light whirls across the audience as the ticking rises in a crescendo sharply till it seems like something big is about to happen – and the room lights come back on, with the puppeteers visible and the puppets only wood and cloth and string lying in a lifeless heap on stage.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Crowned

Here it was – all of it – stretched in front of him like some giant monster, quelled and overcome and surrendering. All of it – from the twin peaks in the east, where he had watched the sun rise so many eons ago, to the echoing range in the west, touched by the dawning darkness. There was hardly the tremble left – in the red limbs of this tired beast; the night was coming.

He could trace it in his head now, the undulating anatomy of the rugged hills – the contours that he’d drawn and redrawn and dreamt about every waking day. He’d memorized every rock on the abused parchment of the map, and traced every stone with the sharp edge of his sword. And now here it all was – the valley and the hills and the far horizon – from the cradle stone, the heart and crown of all that it could see.

He turned his back on it now, and strode towards the old throne, the tip of his sword dragging a thin winding line amidst the cold hard stone – a long quiet scratch on the grey. They’d told him that it was alive – the land – a breathing monster that would awaken from sleep and swallow him whole if he ever tried – but he had, and here the monster was, docile and dead – like the trees that refused to grow on its dry slopes, and the water that refused to breathe in its empty valleys. And the gold that breathed in the heart of the stone – the only breath that could be felt through the clammy soil – a dead breath, glistening and cold and odourless – lifeless.

His people were shouting conversations in the valley – as they covered up the dead in the deep pit they had dug that evening. They were mindless conversations – anything and everything to pass the time – to draw away from the dead weight of the bodies in their arms, the cold stares of the vacant faces. Loud and drawn, to drown the silence of the valley, the screaming silence that clawed at their armour and stifled their breath.

Easing himself out of his ruddy armour, and letting it fall unceremoniously to the dust, he stood before the rough-hewn throne. They’d carried her away not two hours ago – her limp fingers circled around the hilt pressed against her stomach – the lines on her face drawn into circles of rude disbelief. As her feet had dragged across the earth, the crown had fallen off her head – and rolled to his feet. A crown of bright gold – heavy, ugly and precious – a crown that sat on his head now. As he would sit – on her throne.

Would? The empty stone seat stared up at him, it’s crude workmanship wheezing dust and bloodstains in the descending twilight. He had never been afraid of stories – but there was something unnerving about the throne. He would rather it was the fatigue than the stories – and rather the stories than the guilt – that made him hesitate from using it. There could be no guilt – that was not the way he lived.

And there should be none – it was the way of the people who he had just driven out of the valley – driven out and driven under. For all their wealth, they had been imprisoned with it – the queen with her crown and her throne and the people with their shovels and ropes. Hacking away at the heart of their land – and hacking away at the farms and the green wealth of his people – from the neighbouring hills.

She had treated them with no guilt and he had answered with none – from his artful pretence of false friendship to the hilt of his dagger peeping out from between her bloody robes. There could be no traces of guilt now – staining the cold throne.

And yet he shut his eyes as he finally sat, his fingers barely brushing against the armrests, still clutching his sword, as if afraid of the blood-debt that was etched into the stone – through ages and ages of fallen kings and kingdoms, of superstitions and stories, of greed and treachery.

And night fell, cascading darkness on a dark dull terrain – on men sitting atop freshly dug mounds, silenced by the sudden completion of labour, on a king in a stone throne, his head bowed by the weight of a heavy crown, on the dust that settled and rose – in inane circles – on and off and on and off.

His body was heavy, weighed down into the stone.

The gold would change the lives of his people. It would all be worth it – all be justified in the end. They wouldn’t have to live like they had lived for all of their squalid history – they would be real people now – real men and women who mattered in the world.

His heart felt heavy – no, that couldn’t be right – it was his head, and the bloody crown that adorned it. How had she managed? How had they all managed – the long line of tyrants that had claimed the crown before him?

It didn’t matter – he was here. He remembered his childhood, in these very mines below his throne, a dark life with glimpses of treasure none of them were ever meant to own. He had known her since the day he was sold into the mines – they all had – a beautiful queen whose voice was so dear that they’d give her everything – they already had – their lives, their days, their sun and their sweat. All for a beautiful queen with a golden crown.

The weight was seeping through his body – spreading to his limbs – his muscles groaning with the strain of it, sinking into the stone.

The day he’d been sold was the day he’d grown up. When he’d fallen from the riggings and lost his left hand – and his beautiful queen had given him up for a few pieces of gold to a neighbouring village of farmers who were short of manpower. He had cried for his bondage – pleaded to her that he’d work without his hand as well as anyone else – but while the slow line of mules had carried him away to the neighbouring hills, his tears had been replaced by the silence of disillusionment and a quiet aching rage.

His chin was resting on his chest – the crown would soon fall. There was something exhausting about the weight of it – that brought out every weakness in his tired body. He was almost one with the stone seat now – and he wasn’t sure that he could move if he tried.

He had vowed to himself that he’d be back – not in so many words but in his deep-set anger. And he had – if not for himself but for his adopted village. And when he’d thrust his sword into the folds of her gown, he’d seen the glimmer of recognition in her eyes as she tried to grip the left hand that wasn’t there.

The left hand –

His eyes swivelled down to the left armrest of the throne. A hand was resting on it, dark red in the light of the waning moon. A hand with five fingers, a wrist and a forearm, pressed tightly against the stone.

He leapt out of the seat in shock. Or at least, he thought he did. His body, weighed down heavily by the crown, didn’t respond to him. The crown was boring into his skull now – or was it his thoughts? Sinking down from the golden circlet into his head – the deadweight crushing his brain. And all the while – his eyes were transfixed on the left hand that rested on the stone arm of the throne. Five long slender feminine fingers stared back calmly at him.

_____________________________________

The farmers from the hills woke up to the dull silence of the land they had conquered. Their king had been awake since the early hours – long since the first of them had opened their eyes to the new day. They had been farmers the day before they’d set out on their quest, soldiers till the day the old queen had fallen to the sword of their king, grave diggers the whole of yesterday. And today – from today – they’d start being gold miners. Their prospects were good – their king was young and strong in his ideals, and they’d followed him knowing he’d bring them good fortune.

He was standing in front of his throne, his crown shining in the morning sun, his eyes surveying the land that was now his to rule. He turned towards them when they gathered, tired men, fresh from their first disturbed night on a conquered but unfamiliar battlefield. His face – rugged and youthful, looked unusually handsome against the early light. He smiled quietly – and stretched out his arms to his soldiers – the fingers of his right hand splayed in warm welcome – and the broken stump of his left arm also extended – as if it ended in a similarly warm gesture.

As he stood like that, proud and handsome in the morning light, his people forgot about themselves – about their fortunes and their prospects and their gold. All they knew was that they would die for this beautiful man – that they were ready to give him everything, their lives, their day, their sun, their sweat – mining gold to fill the coffers of their beloved king.

And as they knelt before him in awe, for a split second his smile turned cold and superior – and the long feminine fingers of his left hand circled into a gesture of triumphant achievement.

She was smiling. Nothing had changed.

Prelude

It is an old room in an old building

Paint peeling off its walls

Like some giant scaly snakeskin –

The old sandpapered whitewash beneath

Looks ripe and untouched –

A wrinkly newborn untouched.

Little coffee-stained ply board tables for two

Scattered in a seemingly random nonsense

Across the red-cemented floor –

And in the middle of it all –

The dull dusty grand – its broken keys

Juggled in a line of steps – arranged

As an obstacle course for the most daring of pianists –

Waiting for a long-awaited touch –

Any touch – to hear its voice again.

It hasn’t heard its own voice in ages.

It doesn’t know what it will sound like –

Silent, croaky, off or miraculously on,

Muffled, mournful… it forgets.

Like people forget, the colour of their skin,

The colour of their souls –

How their fingers used to move

Across shiny black and white keys

In bright stage light. They will heal each other now –

The little bent woman standing

Against the frame of the old doorway –

And the piano, its tight strings

Tingling with apprehension under its dusty cover.

Between skin and wood, between wait and touch

While the old strings find life – and old fingers meaning

Or the other way around – what’s the difference?

It is an old room in an old building – and it’s singing.

a song found on a bus ride

the morning is breaking its still early yet

but the cogwheels are spinning their rest to forget

the flight and the feather have both left their nests

there's much to be done and much we must get

there's smoke in the sky that's puffing and black

the steels keep on flashing, the grains in the sacks

by cloud or by steam the roads must be cast

burdens are lightest when borne on the back

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

they say roads are long except when in song

remember to walk them before the day's gone

everyone's walking their paths on and on

and i'm just a wanderer a-wandering on

the light and the dark feed many a wick

greased hands and greased feet force along the clock's ticks

by oil and by fire the circles all click

forever and ever, by crick or by stick

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

where's home? the end of all roads and all paths and all streets that I roam

a fire but warmer; a hearth but of some softer stone.

a fairy-tale starts with it's head in the dark

tired feet make good stories, well told and quite stark.

in the thrill and the magic of the embark

the end of the journey is lost in the dark

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

Threat

Had forgotten this existed. Don't remember when exactly this is from - but it was for one of the Cutlet magazine exercises.

“Queen to f6,” the cold voice vibrated across the airtight chamber, and the white walls seem to reverberate with the sudden break in the stifling silence.

If the severe-looking high-backed chair against the far corner of the room had been of less renowned origins, it would have creaked horribly under the sudden jerky shift it now had to bear.

The heavy white shape dragged grindingly across the frozen marble. Its movement was deliberate, prolonged.

The emotions were mirrored on a face across the room, with its back against the near corner. Impossibly thin lips drew back slowly – sadistically – into a half-smile.

The pair of glassy brown eyes opposite shot a half-glance at the smile and looked again at the last three black soldiers, standing tall – but fragile – between them.

The Knight, strapped to the back of a stone horse – a massive brute of a creature, its monstrous head towering high above the delicate human figure crouched behind it.

The Queen. An impassive beautiful face streaked with long-dried tears of kohl. Long white arms bound together excruciatingly.

And the lone Pawn, a head shorter than the rest, pale and thin and drawn.

It was towards the last that the brown eyes now shifted, not daring to look at the desperate pleading gesture in the tense tiny shoulders, the silent whimper in the frightened eyes.

A manic laugh echoed from across the room.

“Come on, come on, we both know answering immediate threats is not getting you anywhere.”

The brown eyes flicked away from the centre of the room to the steady blue ones facing him.

And held their gaze.

The laughter died away slowly. Something changed in the room.

“They told me he was your favourite… they said you never give him up…” The voice sounded nothing at all like it had a moment ago. The cool confidence that had carried it across the room had faded away, as had the mocking half-smile.

“Pawn to d2.” This voice was steady, emotionless.

“But – I thought he was your son –”

The pause stretched threateningly into the following silence.

“King to d2…” The blue eyes lowered, and shut slowly.

“Like you said – answering immediate threats would never get me anywhere.” The wrinkles around the brown eyes creased in a quiet smile as the white king took the pawn.

“But you’d never threaten that pawn if you were playing white – that’s what they told me...”

“You forced me to play black. Play the pieces I’d designed specially for the loosing side. The human faces etched in eternal torment. It’s true I don’t usually take that pawn. He does rather look like my son. I’ve never had to sacrifice him before.”

“I thought I’d threaten your Title…by forcing you to play the losing side of your own chess set…by threatening your favourite piece… ”

“But he isn’t my son, you see. Just like you’ve never really been a threat to my Title. He’s only a chess piece made of stone.

“Queen to e2. Checkmate. ”

And the man with the glassy brown eyes stretched his hand across the table between them, picked up the frozen little statue of the tall brave queen with her frozen stone tears, and took the white king.

the invasion of the dragons

Open publication - Free publishing - More byalakupe

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http://rajaseeray.batcave.net/index.html

Let’s Be Morbid: A Tale of Deathbed Conversations. Scene Two.

Read Scene 1.

Scene 2.

Vince is asleep in a low bed, with a two-thirds empty glass of water on a lamp-lit bedside table. There’s a white curtain blowing in the wind in the background, and a wall full of large colourful butterflies on display. A girl with her hair tied up neatly with two well-sharpened pencils is on the floor, piecing together shredded bits of paper, and taping them together to make a sheet. Vince wakes up with a jolt –and painfully sits up in bed.

Girl: You’re awake. Didn’t think you’d wake up.

Vince: I had the strangest dream.

Girl: Again?

Vince: It was different this time – I did what my therapist told me to – and (he looks around and spots the glass by the table)

Girl: Why’d you put this in your shredder?

Vince: I think I killed myself.

Girl: It’s your suicide note. Why’d I find it in the bin with the damaged butterflies?

Vince: What damaged butterflies?

Girl: What’s in the water, Vincent? Is there anything in the water?

Vince: I think so, Diana. At least, I’m sure there was.

Diana: But your suicide note was in the shredder. If you put something in the water, why’d you put your note through the shredder?

Vince: Monarch butterflies have an ingenious defense mechanism. The toxins from their milkweed diet make them poisonous to predators. Although not poisonous enough to kill large mammals – monarchs are generally avoided.

Diana: Yes, I know. Did you put butterfly poison in your water? Is that why the monarchs are in the bin?

Vince: There is only one living large mammal that is in any way affected by the toxins from the Monarch butterfly. The female Sumatran elephant can crush the toxins out of a captured butterfly and horde it in her trunk, while her body produces boosters that help to coagulate the toxin, also, increase its toxicity. This substance is then used as a disinfectant while bathing her young.

Diana: You’re making up things. And you’re calling me an elephant again.

Vince: What? No. What?

Diana: Stop it, Vincent. I know I’m a bloody elephant in your bloody dreams. You don’t have to keep rubbing it in.

Vince: Di’s a beautiful elephant, but you –

He falls back onto his bed, feeling suddenly very dizzy. The butterflies in their cases stir, flexing their wings.

Diana: Shut up about the stupid elephant! Did you see me put the pills in your water? Did you see everything? Is that why you’re making such a fuss about it?

Vince: But I put the pills in my water because I wanted to be with my elephant. It wasn’t you. Diana, it couldn’t have been you. Why would you want to be with my elephant? No, sorry, the poison’s confusing me. That’s not the way it goes, is it?

Diana: I don’t give a shit about your bloody elephant. Three a.m, five p.m., morning, night, noon, easter – oh my god – elephant, elephant, elephant. I can’t stand that elephant anymore. I can’t stand you. And when we convince you that it’s all wrong – and you decide to chop up your butterflies to make little pills to put in your water – those pills are apparently not enough. Everything you do falls short, Vincent. Every single half-hearted thing you do. I hate you. I hate you so much that it hurts to even look at you.

Vince: Who’s we?

Diana smiles ruefully.

Vince: Where’s Leo? Wasn’t he supposed to meet me tonight?

Diana: He’s taking your place at the Pinball Championship. He always wanted to, you know.

There is a pause.

Vince: I know. But I thought he knew that he eventually would, someday.

Diana: How are you feeling, Vincent?

Vince: I’m sorry about the dreams, Diana.

Diana: Well, they’re all going to be over soon.

Vince: No, I fell as though they’re just starting. Like I’m going to anchor myself to this bed and start molting. Because of all the butterfly toxins. There – there – it really is a lovely bed, you know. And this is such a crucial stage.

Diana: What are you talking about?

Vince: My chrysalis. (He starts molting, like a butterfly, as the butterflies in the cases all around become absolutely frantic. Then Vince – and the butterflies – become absolutely still) I wish Leo was here to see this. It will be the most beautiful dream I’ve ever dreamt.

Diana: What the hell is happening? What are you doing? Vincent! Vince!

As she speaks, the chrysalis covers Vincent from head to toe – and for a brief moment, there is complete silence and stillness. Then the chrysalis bursts open – and all the glass in all the butterfly cases along the wall shatter at the same time. The butterflies fly out and surround Diana – and then disappear behind the white curtain. The open chrysalis is completely empty.