"Life is the price we pay for running away from death "
































































I watched him with overwhelming sorrow. With its every beat my heart was pumping fear, more than blood. There was a quivering sense of helplessness that ran through my veins as I watched his frail body lay morose on the couch, his eyelids twitched occasionally and he shuddered in his sleep now and then.
She sat there by the window sill, as usual resting her head on the grille, with that sullen hard stare into nothingness. Her personality was so morose, so wooden, that even though I had lived-in with her for a few months, I had not managed to start even a basic conversation with her. Yet I was not gonna give up. I sat right there, day after day, on the couch opposite her, and ogled at her for hours at a stretch, wondering which would break first: my reticence or her hesitance?
I reposed in my armchair, and peeking above the rim of the newspaper I fixed my steely gaze upon the young lad who lay so heedlessly and arrogantly upon my couch. His mother - my wife - had beckoned him a dozen times to have his dinner, and look at him! lying there in utter disrespect.
"I need to decorate my puja room. Can you buy me a glittering picture of Lord Ganesha?" asked the mother.
O dear breast of a woman,
Oh! you,
gentlest of God's creations,
How do I sing your ode?
JC sat under the tree in his classic pose - the pose that almost everyone recognized him in, the pose that was, so to say, his trademark. His long silken tresses dancing to the afternoon breeze, his kind eyes half-opened looking gently down upon the lamb that he, ever so delicately, caressed and cajoled. It was a picture postcard of love, compassion, and motherly affection. The lamb seemed to have a subtle smile on its face, like it felt safe and secure in JC's arms.
While Sarnath lay on the couch watching his daily dose of late-night news, he stole a moment to glance at his lovely wife. She sat there, reading a novel, unmindful of the two men seeking her attention - one, the newsreader blaring on the television, and two, her husband ogling at her. Sarnath watched her satin nightie complement every juicy curve on her body, and couldn't stop himself from moving close to her. He flung an arm around her, gently resting it on her bosom. And cupped his palm on her breast, like an emperor clasping the jewel of his sceptre. Sarnath liked to feel that sense of owning her - it always turned him on.