Saturday Sample: White Moon by Mehreen Ahmed, chili smoothie

 

I sat here, like a loyal friend, by her floor bed. Waiting for my owner, Samira Khan, to wake up. She did in a while. I saw her frowning and looking groggy. Laying on her pillow, she reached out for a wooden box which held her medication. Last night, like every other night, she’d filled up her small pitcher and placed it beside her bed. She took out a pill blister pack, pinched one out, and popped it into her mouth. She swallowed hard with some water from the pitcher. With a sigh of relief, she lay back on the pillow. She looked vaguely at a pair of pants hanging from a hook on the bedroom door—not hers. The morning was dull and dreary with deep, hanging clouds. She pushed and rolled herself out.

A vegetable vendor was shouting on the street. Just as well, I also heard his croaky voice and readied myself. Samira was going to run downstairs. He always came along with his cart at this time of the day. My owner slid her feet and rested them roughly upon my tongue. She checked her vegetable basket, and decided to buy some potatoes and green papaya from him. She craned her neck through the window and told him to pack her one kilo of potatoes and one medium sized papaya. Quickly, she picked up her purse and climbed down the stairs. On the street, the vendor had wrapped her potatoes and green papaya in an old, crumpled newspaper sheet. Samira opened her purse and gave him the money for a kilo of potato and a green papaya. The vendor took the notes with a polite smile, but said that the price had gone up because of inflation.

“Since when?” Samira asked.

I listened.

“There’s an inflation, didn’t you know? It was in the news?”

“I know. High electricity bills, petrol price hike, and what have you? How much?”

The price had doubled. Samira frowned and looked into her purse. There was no money left.

“Stay here, I’ll have to go upstairs to fetch the extra some.”

“Okay. Please don’t be late. Time is money. I got a family of five to feed.”

“I know.”

Samira smiled and left as he hung around in the dull street. She went upstairs and searched for money. She went through all her purses, scrambling for coins and loose notes here and there. She gathered them in a rush and sat down to count them. It was barely enough. She took it all and raced downstairs to the waiting vendor. She gave him all she had. Mad, she had the right amount
— somehow. As she turned around, I felt a pressure pain and I caved in a little long.

“Uff,” I uttered.

Thumbing her temples, she slowly came back up the stairs. She would have to get dressed in an hour to go to work. The bus-stand, thankfully, was not far. She went straight into the kitchen, grabbed a peeler off the rack and began to peel the potatoes and the green papaya. She mixed it with turmeric, red chillies, oil, and a dash of salt. Turning on the stove, she placed the pot and reduced the heat. While it cooked in the gentle flame, she went into the bathroom to take a bucket bath. Her feet released me. I felt relieved.

>A few mugs of pail water down her back; after the bath, she dried herself with a towel and put on a cotton sari, combing her long black hair. She added some lipstick to her pale lips. The curried potatoes and the green papaya were cooked by now. She sat down in bare feet to have her meal in the kitchen with a couple of dry chapatis (?) left overnight. There was no time to make tea. She washed her hands, picked up her purse, and slid her feet into me. Off she climbed down the stairs again. On the street, she hurried towards the bus-stop. But her bus had stopped and left
: she was late. Her jaw fell. She called a passing rickshaw and got on it. I felt rested. Just then, she realized that she didn’t have enough money to pay him. Which meant she would have to borrow from a colleague once she reached her office? Unless she went into her bank first. She asked the rickshaw to stop in front of the bank. She told him to wait here. The man wiped off his sweat with a soft towel around his neck and inclined against the passenger seat where she had been sitting. Samira crossed the street. I was her sturdiest, best pair of sandals she ever had, which she had been wearing for donkey’s years. She crossed the street and entered the bank. A quarter of an hour passed, she returned. Her rickshaw was still there.

At the office, she not only paid fare to the rickshaw-puller but also some extra tip because she had made him wait. The man took it happily: not everyone was fair. Most people haggled. But Samira didn’t, not even with the vendor this morning. She walked over five high steps, dipping her weight duly into me and entering the office building where she worked as a secretary. It was awfully noisy today. What was wrong? She asked a colleague. The colleague replied that the company was folding. They were all out of jobs.

What? Out of job meant no pay. She saw how the other girls were behaving. Some screamed, some even fainted. Others sobbed silently. She dug her toes deeper into me. She offered them no consolation; soberly, she watched them despair. This level-headed person—my owner–chose me as her sensible sandals. In all the world, I could never fail her, nor cause her to break a bone or cause her to lead an invalid life by tripping her over. Such a long journey she walked in me, while I had her back all along: I didn’t fall apart. I knew that she felt strangely secure with me— her trusted sandals.

 

 

Samira thought of bootstrapping as an alternative mode. Typically, the vendors were the real battlers of struggle streets: they were her real heroes. They grew and sold their own vegetables. In her view, they never made boots for the kings. Samira decided to strap her boots and invest in a start-up business. She thought of selling jewellery. She took out money from the deep pockets of the pants hanging on her door. She bought jewellery from craftsmen and decided to sell it in a shop. She needed to find a shop. I took her on paths, she never thought of traveling—to walk her walks. Without wasting any time, I took her to a developer. She asked them if she could rent a shop in their newly-built, glamorous building. They promised her one. They said she could. On that promise, Samira went ahead to a jeweller and made a deposit of 20%. In one short month, she picked up the jewellery and had a whole load to start her business with. However, when she went back to her developers, they told her that the new shop wasn’t available for rent. This was a setback. It disappointed her. She asked, “Why not?” They told her, because unless all the other new shops were tenanted, she couldn’t have hers.

“What? What a crazy idea? You are breaking your promise.”

“Well, it’s just a promise. No legal paperwork was in place.”

Sure, the kiosk wasn’t the best option. But the market was changeable, too. And she also wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. This, her meal ticket, was as real as the cart was to the vendor, and the rickshaw to the puller. Days went by, months and then a whole new year had gone. Samira sold a lot. She bought and she sold. After about a year and a half, the developer came to her and offered her the shop she had desired. She couldn’t believe this. In those same loyal sandals—me— she moved her trinket boxes to the shell of the shop which was now going to house her big dream—all done. I did my diligent miles—the dirt and the grime were now hard-pressed on my tongue, mapped out a grim, grimy destiny of strife.

 
 

Then one night, Samira came home late. She took me off and placed me in my usual place by the bed. She curled up under the blanket. I shivered and sentineled. When she woke up the next morning, she didn’t look at me even once. Neither were those familiar male pants hanging here anymore. I realised my days were numbered. Where was I? I was right there, where she put me every night. I had done my hard work, bore the brunt of it all without a hitch like a silent sole “scream” painting on a wall. I flew her out on her whimsical air; the promised shop or not, her sandals were I, worn out but undeterred. Who took a whole gamut of the idiosyncratic business world in my stride? My tracks marked a solitary, but a solid pathway— she was successful. Just as those pants were gone, I was made redundant too, without any consequence to her. I heard her suppress a giggle and mumble—“funny, this love? You have to have the looks too for me or anyone to love you so?”

Old shoes, she cast me aside like a pair of disposables. Flat on my face, I saw that she took out another expensive pair from a shoe box. She despised the idea of making boots for the kings. Really? In those new shoes, she’d be doing just that. I was morose—someone else’s pants hung on the door.

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About the author

Mehreen Ahmed grew up in a family of two voracious readers, her Mother and her Father were both well versed in multiple languages. She believes that this has played a pivotal role in her formative years in establishing a relationship with books that she too developed a reading habit from a childhood in at least two languages, Bangla and English.

While in Bangladesh, she received her first university degree, an MA in English literature from Dhaka University. Here she read literature which covered vast periods from Anglo-Saxon language and literature Beowulf, Chaucer, through to European and American classical, neo-classical, romantics and the modern eras. This overarching exposure bonding her to books even further, now she began to entertain a desire to become a published author herself.  However, it didn’t happen until much later when she completed studies toward a second MA in linguistics, specialising in Computer Assisted Language Learning from Queensland University, Australia.

In the summer 2012, she started to write her first novel, The Pacifist in Australia which Cosmic Teapot Publishing published in 2017. The Pacifist is a historical fiction set in the 19th century Australian Gold Rush period. Then she wrote a novella, Moirae in stream-of-consciousness style and a travel book Snapshots. Bridge House published her first collection of short stories, Gatherings in 2021. Her second novel, Incandescence in 2023, is set against the backdrop of Bangladesh independence war of 1971. To date, she wrote ten books.

 The Midwest Book Review acclaimed Mehreen as one to possess,”exceptional flair for narrative storytelling,” when reviewing The Pacifist. The latter  was also selected as a Drunken Druid Editor's Choice in 2018. Her short stories have been nominated for the prestigious Pushcart, James Tait and Best of the Net awards. They were also best ofs and top ten reads multiple times on many online literary magazines. The Phases of the Moon, won first prize in the Academy of the Heart and Mind Mayflower contest, 2022 and Dolly, was one of the winners of Waterloo Short Story Competition, 2020.

Her many experiences in life and her travels prompt, her creative writing which sets her mind free. However, she has also published articles and reviews on Second Language Acquisition, inspired by Chomsky’s works. They have been published by Routeledge, Cambridge University Press and University of Hawaii.

Her stories are available online in Cafelit, Litro,
Chiron Review, Perception Magazine (Syracuse University), Straylight Magazine (Wisconsin-Parklan University), Visual Verse (Panaorama) and The Journal of Travel, Place, and Nature. Many of Mehreen’s workshave been selected for podcast. Reedsy, selected Juliet’s Song to be podcast, a story included in Gatherings (Bridge House Publishing).

Her books are available in paperbacks, hardbacks, ebooks, and audio books which have garnered pleasing   reader reviews, too. It took her while to pen her first work, but since then her interest has never diminished. She considers herself a late bloomer: no telling, when it will all end for her because her best work yet to be composed.

 

           

             

 

Satruday Sample: Gatherings by Mehreen Ahmed, summer wine,

 

The Black Coat

One black, wintry night, Piccolo-Xavier bumped into someone while crossing the boulevard Peripherique. Once he was across, the person he hit was not visible anymore. It seemed as though, in this Parisian dark alley, this someone simply dissolved into thin air. When he peered further into the darkness, his gaze shifted towards a shiny object that appeared on an uneven, asphalt footpath. He picked it up and thought he must return this to its owner. But since the black coat was long gone, he would step up his pace and look for the person. Piccolo-Xavier had a glimpse of a shape in a black coat, fast disappearing around the corner. He stepped up his pace until he found himself running. However, the more he ran, the further the person moved away. Breathing heavily, he stopped to rest.

He realised that he held a locket with a broken clasp in his palm. In the insufficient light of the streetlamp, he saw that it contained a picture of a girl. This object could be of sentimental value. However, there was no way he could return it to its owner now.

Back in his apartment, looking at the girl’s picture in the locket-frame, the thought of the elusive, dark figure provoked all kinds of questions, where did the bearer of this object live? How far away was he or she from him? And who was this girl in the picture? Piccolo-Xavier began to imagine the wildest of dreams about the bearer of the locket, who was perhaps the little girl’s mother, father, or even an older sibling. 

It gave him immense pleasure to think that it could be an attractive young woman, with whom he could form a relationship. Flashes back to the encounter encouraged his fantasy. It seemed that this mystery person had a woman’s gait rather than a man’s. She was elegant, slender, and tall. He envisioned that short dark curls framed her face. Her tilted nose rested just above full, red lips, and an oval-shaped chin. Her tiny, dimpled cheeks came alive every time she grinned. A ravishing set of white, even teeth flashed across the rounding corners of her lips. When she looked up at him, it was an indifferent gaze; her large, greenish-blue eyes peeped through the long curly lashes of partly opened lids. She was a poet’s inspiration.

Piccolo-Xavier felt dizzy. He could not think any longer. He went into slumber, shallow and peculiar, somewhere between real and surreal. A woman of this description existed perhaps, but was it only as a figment of his imagination? Could she appear in person, someday? He looked at his girlfriend, Lorna, lying next to him, and thought about her reactions if she heard about all this. He wandered off to a land full of dreams and even more visions. 

For breakfast the next morning, Lorna bought two croissants from the bakery downstairs, from the other side of the alley. She made fresh coffee, poured him a cup, bit into her croissant, and watched him help himself to milk.

“You were restless last night.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you not well?”

It was frustrating to think that he was participating in a conspiracy against himself, against them. If Lorna knew the truth, the entire truth, would she be able to trust him, again? 

“Oh, a bad headache and general nervousness about my exhibit, I’m afraid.”   

“Have you thought of anything yet? You do have a deadline, yeah?” 

“Yeah, I do. Haven’t really done much and that’s bugging me.”           

The thought of the deadline and the woman in the black coat merged seamlessly. They were entangled in a way that made him more pensive than ever. Lorna did not press him for an explanation. Whatever was going on in his mind was only his to share with the muses alone, and not with her. 

It had always been like that. Lorna was able to see the end product only, the art itself, but never partnered his stream-of-consciousness. She loved him regardlessly for the person he was. And for the artist that he had aspired to become one day. Critics always found his portraits two-dimensional: dim eyed wooden bodies, flat personalities, without a perspective. Through it all, he persevered.

Lorna cleared the table and went into the shower to get dressed for work. Deep character lines appeared on Piccolo-Xavier’s forehead. He delved into artistic thoughts. On his way to the studio, he took a train. He came into the station before the train had arrived. He stood on the platform momentarily, looking at all the women in black coats. They came in all shapes and sizes. His dream woman from the road was not amongst them. But then, he didn’t even know what she really looked like.

                                                     

When the train rolled in, he embarked. And walked towards an empty window seat. He closed his eyes. There she was, again. This woman appeared in his mind; the face he had been painting since the saga of the lost locket began. He started dating this lady through fragmented snapshots; holding hands at the park; kissing her full lips beneath the weeping willow tree; making passionate love on the snow-white sheets of heavenly bliss. It now hurt. She was there, and yet, not close enough. Was he cheating on Lorna? Being this way? Thinking this way? Could he help himself? Now, there was a thought; this newfound dark lady consumed him. He couldn’t block her out of mind. He didn’t know why or how this unseen woman came to invade his thoughts.

The train stopped at the central station. He got out on the platform. He knew he wasn’t going to forget her anytime soon, a mere stranger, a faceless phantom with whom he conversed, loudly at times, had dinners with at twilight, drove out together into the sunset, and danced with her in the silence of the night. He looked into her deep eyes and kept looking. Someone honked; he snapped out of thoughts. He had left his studio far behind. He retraced his footsteps, brooding that he could do so much better with Lorna, if only he could love her as passionately.

Piccolo-Xavier forgot to sleep; he forgot to eat; he even stayed away from making love to Lorna. He felt somedays that he was completely in the grips of this phantom. Who was she? An idea perhaps, an idea of abstract love. One which shackled his mind. He was not in the possession of it anymore. It belonged to some else. He began to paint isolated images. First he painted eyes, nose, and mouth, then hands, a rounded elbow and bony knees and knotty ankles, legs until a slender shape took form. It didn’t look like a real person, but a bit like cubism perhaps. Eventually, a  curvy figure emerged. He scowled at it, holding his chin on the left palm and the paint brush in the other hand. He added more colour to the eyes, making them to penetrate.

This portrait looked quite surrealistic. All the more, because the model was a delusion. Every detail, as far as his imagination stretched, was done to perfection, down to the unclasped locket dangling from her tapering fingers. The life-like portrait of the little girl peeking through the locket frame had not gone amiss either. Shrouding it with a black coat, he winked at it, and named it, Le Habit Noir.  

He stood back and stared at it for a long while. His eyes wishing to see more than what they could. He put the brush away on a round table beside the canvas, a radiant smile spreading across his lips. He cloaked the painting and deemed it ready for the exhibit.

On his way home, he went to the same road where he had picked up the locket. His eyes searched for this fantasy everywhere. It left him empty when he felt that he knew her somehow and could even vaguely smell her perfume in the thin air. He sat down on a bench by the lamp-post. His  elbow was on a hand-rest, and palm on his forehead. It started to drizzle; rain followed soon, skewing down the street-lamp under the dark, starless sky. 

Soaking wet, he walked back home hoping that one day, maybe, he would meet her in person. The exhibit was only seven days away. He waited impatiently to show his dark lady to the world. On the day of the exhibit, Le Habit Noir hung on one of the walls of the Taiss gallery; people were milling about and looking at this art. Some sat down in front of it, lost in quiet musing. It was hard to know from their expressions what they were thinking. Some smiled, while others frowned at it critically, but generally speaking, surrealism sat well with art lovers. Then, serendipitously a girl cried out in the midst of this urbane, arty crowd. People looked at her sharply. Piccolo-Xavier startled. He stood frozen in the middle of the room. Time had suspended. 

All those compliments people paid, the well-deserved attentions, the autographs that fans desired, or even the potential buyers who flocked towards him, didn’t seem important anymore. At that moment, what had mattered was this resounding cry cutting through the space of that room. This was not a dream. The lady in the black coat and the little girl, from the picture in the locket, stood in the room. There they were. Right here before him. The girl’s lips had parted, while her adult companion stood pointing her index inadvertently, towards the painting, her lips rounding in total amazement. She did not have dark hair the way he had imagined. It was much longer and flowing. The gaze was not penetrating. Her eyes were, small and beady. She was attractive too but not exactly the image he had imagined. Disappointed? No, he was not. He proceeded towards her thinking that he owed her an explanation.

“Hello,” Piccolo-Xavier said.

The lady turned around, taking his hand into hers and said,“Hello.” 

“I am Piccolo-Xavier. You must be wondering where I got all this.” 

“Actually I was, and this picture, it’s not me, but she is.” 

She blurted out in a shrill, angst-ridden voice, pointing at the little girl.

“I know,” he replied. 

His chest heaved, but his speech was measured.

“Would you care to join me for a coffee? I fear I have a lot to explain.”

“Sure, where would you like to go?” she asked.

Piccolo-Xavier led her to the Jewish café, the Boulanger Patissier, right across the road from the gallery. It was popular with artists and poets. What an incredible moment for Piccolo-Xavier that he held the arm of the woman in the black coat? She showed up at last. They sat down, at a corner table.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours?” he asked, as they sat down.

“It’s Julia,” she said. “And this is Chevon, my own.”

“Hi, Chevon,” he smiled. 

They ordered two short blacks and a milkshake for the girl. Piccolo-Xavier noted silent wonderment in the girl's wide eyes. He handed her the drink. An odd feeling came over him. He had the most unusual emotional transformation as he described the events of that night to her. Strangely, he felt more connected to the faceless black coat than this woman, this young, attractive woman sitting before him. The affections he had been harbouring hitherto were then for whom? 

“What do you do?” asked Piccolo-Xavier.

“Oh, I’m a student of visual art at the Academy of Fine Arts. Did you try to look for me?” 

“Yes,” he answered.

They sipped their coffee. Neither of them knew what to say next. Then to break this, Julia looked up and said in all sincerity.

“I feel like sharing something with you.”

“What might that be?” he asked.

“We broke up.”

“How do you mean?” 

“My partner and I, of course.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Piccolo-Xavier.

“Well? Aren’t you going to ask why?” 

“Not really.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not my place, I guess,” he said, quietly.

“Why don’t we have dinner together one evening?” 

“Maybe.” 

“How about next Sunday? My place.?”

There was an element of almost juvenile candidness in her behaviour. Julia was taking him for granted. He felt rushed, pressured. The conversation was not going anywhere, really. This left him disenchanted.

“Look, can we talk about this later?” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want.” 

She scribbled her phone number and her name on a serviette that she’d pulled from the silver holder. Handing him her details, she suppressed a giggle like a cheeky teenager. However, he didn’t notice her amusement because his thoughts roamed elsewhere, back to the dark lady. He realised that the magic, as far as Julia was concerned, was lost. It was far too mundane, far too sullied, for his artistic taste to carry on this affair. He had Lorna in his life too.

“Call me,” she said as he nodded.

They rose to leave. They exited the cafe together, smiled at one another, and went their separate ways. Piccolo-Xavier walked aimlessly down the street; the thought of the phantom crept. He wondered if he had committed himself to unrequited love, because in the lead up to the exhibition, he couldn’t forget her even for a moment. She followed him everywhere. Even at this moment, he had a mad desire to woo her right here on the street. But he continued to walk and returned home to Lorna instead; a woman of flesh and blood waited. When night fell, they went to bed.

In the early hours of the morning, Lorna and he lay entwined, like a pair of Siamese twins. Lorna had Piccolo-Xavier all to herself. He was a celebrity at last as she had imagined him to be. In a way, she was famous too. Her exultant pictures splashed across the newspapers on this momentous occasion; yet, the muses smiled at her predicament. 

 

Julia was quite taken by his charms. His non-committal responses made no difference. She was not dissuaded when they said goodbye. A few days later, she went to the Taiss gallery, to look for Piccolo-Xavier. He was not there. But, she was able to get some information by showing them her Student ID card. Now that she knew where he lived, she decided to pay him a visit at his apartment on 57 Grand Avenue. Piccolo-Xavier made no attempt to contact her; he did not even know that she was seeking him. 

The next day he left for the studio, steeped in drunken enchantment and still under the spell of the dark lady, in body and in spirit. He grew paler by the day and gradually lost his appetite. Had Lorna not noticed, it would have been different. But since Piccolo-Xavier’s malady was starting to show, she could not help but become aware of it. Nevertheless, she could not give him a remedy either. His constant distractions were impinging on their relationship. Every attempt she made to ask him about it, failed, simply because he brushed her aside and gave her a broad smile, telling her that it was nothing too serious. Lorna did not believe him. She thought that the malaise, if anything, was not physical, but mental. In her wildest imagination, however, she never thought of the existence of a phantom. 

That morning, soon after Piccolo-Xavier left, the bell rang. Lorna heard it from the shower. She quickly came out and wrapped herself with a towel. She thought maybe it was Piccolo-Xavier, come back to pick up something. He had been increasingly unmindful lately. She walked through the scantily decorated lounge-room and looked through the peephole, but had not recognised the  person standing outside. She opened the door, anyway.

They eyed each other up and down. After a quick bo’jou, Julia asked if she could speak to Piccolo-Xavier. Lorna told her that she just missed him. 

“Would you like to come in?” Lorna asked.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No, of course not, it’s my day off,” Lorna said.

Who was this woman? Lorna thought. What did she want from Piccolo-Xavier?

“I’m Lorna, Piccolo-Xavier’s girlfriend.”

Julia grimaced, sizing her up.

“How do you know Piccolo-Xavier?” Lorna asked.

“It’s a long story. I’m an art student. And, after that smashing exhibit, who wouldn’t know him?”

“So true. Did you want me to give him a message?”

Lorna could have easily given her address to the studio. However, she did not feel that this person could be trusted.

“Yes, that would be great, actually. If you could get him to call me?”

“May I have your number?”

“He has it.”

“He does?”

“Yes, I gave it to him at the café where we had coffee.”

“You had coffee together?”

“Oh yes, didn’t he tell you?”

“No. What’s there to tell?”

“Why, the story of course?”

“What? What story?”

Lorna was fidgeting. She tried to stop it. And suppress the anxiety in her voice.

“Oh look, I shouldn’t tell you anymore,” Julia said, looking at her obliquely.

She grimaced again and said she would be back soon to have a chat with Piccolo-Xavier. Then, she turned towards the door. 

“But, what was your name?” Lorna asked.

“Please tell monsieur Piccolo-Xavier that Julia dropped by. He’ll know.”

“Really? How does he know you, again?”

“Ask him,” Julia said. “Au revoir.”

“Au Revoir.”

Lorna pursued the conversation no more. She felt hot, in spite of the shower that she had a short while ago. A brook flowed nearby; its lilting murmur gave her no respite. She wiped off the perspirations springing on her upper lip. She wanted to know more about this woman. She thought, what was she doing, meddling in their life? Who was she?

Julia stepped outside. Devious as it was, she entertained the sadistic pleasure that Lorna was perturbed. Suppressing another giggle, she felt she had done enough damage for one day and she deserved praises. This was a brilliant plan. Once Lorna moved out, Julia with Chevon could move straight in.

                                               

In the studio that morning, Piccolo-Xavier tried to clear the phantom out of his head. He painted one picture after another on different canvasses. They were images of faces and images of faceless bodies; singular portraits at times, and other times dual, the dark lady and the artist. He decided to call her, Eve. On one canvas, a story started to emerge as he painted a collage of pictures. Eve was in the brawny bind of a serpent which tried to devour her. Piccolo-Xavier painted himself as Eve’s saviour trying to rescue her from the serpent. The painting was like Michaelangelo’s Creation of Man in the Sistine Chapel. Eve stood out as an emblem of chastity whom no evil could touch, gazing at him with a shy smile.

Eve haunted him. His paintings in the studio revealed how he was gradually becoming mad. The studio had become a rendezvous, the playground of the lovers, in which he had Edith Piaf records singing Les Amants De Paris. Besotted by the melodic passionate crescendos, the mad ariste did everything with Eve and painted her as he wished: nude lying on the sofa, seated, or standing up. He painted her fully dressed and dressed her up and down, sometimes in short skirts, sometimes in frocks, pink, purple, and brown. With or without an umbrella on morning’s afterglow, here she was with the sun streaming in through the picture window. On wintry evenings, she was covered in the black coat, alongside the fire, mellowed. It was quite mesmerising. But, she was his lover, the model, and his life. There was no other life apart from her.

When the artist was in the thick of it, there was a sudden faint knock on the studio door. It disrupted his lovemaking. First, he thought he would ignore it. But he couldn’t, because the knocks were becoming more insistent, loud, as if the knocker was going to rip the door apart. Reluctantly, he rose from his stool and disengaged himself from the canvas portrayal of  Eve’s red, pouty lips.

His held the brush handle between his middle and the ring finger. The paint from the brush touched his palm and smeared it. He saw it; it was milk and honey. He walked up to the door, droopy eyed. His lips were parted; there was also a noticeable bulge in the crotch. He opened the door and saw a woman. Not just any woman but … it was her, the phantom, his Eve. She stood here  in the light of the sun. Eve smiled and walked right through him while he watched her.

She took his hands in hers.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment! You came. You finally came!”

Piccolo-Xavier whispered into her ears. His words dribbled out of his lips inaudibly like sleep talk. His eyes were half-closed in a trance.

“Yes, I have,” Eve said looking at him.

“But for how long?” he asked.

“For as long as you want,” she answered. “Breathe with me, my love.”

Her long gown fell to the floor. Piccolo-Xavier sat down near the hem of her dress. She sat too, by his side. He looked up at her quivering red lips and her swelling breasts. It was her, Eve, the phantom in the flesh. She bent down and kissed him with her full, sweet lips. Once that prolonged kiss was over, she cupped his face in her palms and placed it gently on her lap, caressing his cheeks. She stroked through his hair with her long tapering fingers. He felt her breathing soft on his face. His fantasy and reality were fused. Piccolo-Xavier felt no anguish. He was one with his dream. 

“Sleep, my love,” said Eve. “You and I are one now

 

Mowgli’s Mother

by Mehreen Ahmed

bitter lemon 

             “What a strange name? Mowgli’s Mother,” Brenda Braidy said.

            “Yes, very strange, ” said her friend Frieda Jane.

            “But do you know what?” Brenda asked.

            “What?”

            “What’s even stranger, is that no one really knows, who she is? She’s a mystery.”

            “Gosh! What do you even mean?”

            “She was called by that name, Mowgli’s Mother. But no body knows why? Because she was childless. Everyone thought she couldn’t bear any children.”

            “How extraordinary? Frieda cried. “She told you that? How do you know?”

            “Well, I asked where her son Mowgli was? She said she didn’t have any. She was always known by that name, nonetheless.”

            “Wow! That’s mad!

            “Ye. That’s what’s most puzzling. This has also puzzled the police,” said Brenda.

            Brenda Braidy runs a corner shop on Paddington Street. She is meeting her friend today, Frieda Jane in Cafe Boulevard just two blocks up the street. She is describing to her about a missing person by the name of Mowgli’s mother.

            “Did it ever bother you? That kind of a name, when you hired her? Did it ever occur to you that it could be a false name?”

            “Yes, it did. But then when I asked her, she smiled and kept quiet. Her qualifications were okay, so I thought I should give her the job. I didn’t want to discriminate on the basis of her name. Her passport and references checked out. It was just that name. But since neither of her previous employers bothered, I didn’t give it much thought. I gave her the job.”Brenda explained.

            “Hmm, this is kind of strange, though,” Frieda said.

            “What is?” Brenda asked.

            “That name,” Frieda said. “How long did she stay?”

            “Oh! Less than six months. Not even a year.”

            “I find it a bit odd that this person has a track record of moving in and out of places in less than a year,” said Frieda thoughtfully.

            “It is a bit odd, isn’t it? And this time she didn’t even ask for a reference for her next job. In the last ten years, she has had at least ten jobs.”

            “How old is she?”

            “According to her passport, she is thirty.”

            “That’s pretty young.”

            “Yes, police don’t even have a clue to her whereabouts. When they searched her place, everything appeared normal. She didn’t take any belongings with her. Not even her clothes. Her closet was full of clothes, but surprisingly her fridge was empty. There was nothing. Not even milk. Her larder was empty too. It seemed she lived on air.”

            “That’s so strange that she were to disappear in thin air too, huh?” Frieda added.

            “Hmm, I guess, I don’t know, we just have to wait until the police find something.”

            “I guess, hey?” Frieda said. “Anyway, I got to go, really! I am so late. Catch you soon.”                               Frieda said goodbye and left in a real hurry.

            “See ye’ I’ll call.”

            “Bye.

            Brenda, sits thinking about the odds of finding this person, Mowgli’s Mother. Her passport says, she is from Asian background, who has seen a bit of the world, and has lived in various places. In Athens she sold flowers. In Madrid she worked as kitchen hand, and waitress; nothing illegal, or abnormal. She seems to have received the right kind of visa and work permit too. But on her passport, her name appears as Mowgli’s Mother and authorities don’t seem to think anything wrong with it.

            Brenda decides to carry out her own investigation. She doesn’t know the full picture, yet. She only knows what Mowgli’s Mother has cared to show her. The passport, visas and the work permits and all that. Brenda wants to know more. More about this person who has simply just vanished cluelessly. She decides to visit the immigration office one day. The immigration officer, reluctant to carry out a conversation with her, let alone give any details, finally agrees, when Brenda tells her that it is a dob in.

            “Who do you want to dob in?”

            “This woman who calls herself Mowgli’s Mother.”

            “Is that the name she goes by?”

            “Yes, that is the name on her passport and on all her reference letters.”

            “Hmm, odd. Very odd.”

            “I think so too. There’s something going on here.”

            “Let me check.”

            The immigration officer, types the name Mowgli’s Mother on the key-board. Nothing comes up. She tries again. Still no results. Then suddenly, the computer crashes. She is forced to log out. She looks at Brenda suspiciously. And Brenda looks back at her. There is definitely something wrong somewhere. That morning is completely wasted for the officer as well as for her. Brenda takes her leave and returns to her shop.

            Weeks go by, days and months, still nothing. No news. Her friend Frieda Jane is also worried. By now, there should have been something, some news on this missing person. She is a well traveled. A women of the world, who has traveled the world with legitimate passports and visas. Brenda thinks, she needs to contact immigration again to check if anybody has left the country, by sea, land or air. Investigation reports have already stated that the missing person has not been found.  Could it be that she has been murdered and dumped somewhere? Maybe, who knows?

            Next morning. Brenda takes off early on bus straight to the immigration office into the city. She waits for an officer in the waiting room. As she waits, she sees an ambulance come around and parked up-front. Then there is a commotion and the receptionist walks up to her frantically. That the officer she is to meet today, has had an unexpected seizure. She needs to be taken to the hospital in that ambulance. This gets Brenda very worried. First the computer crashes, now this; a healthy person becoming ill. There seems to be a series a mishaps and obstacles related to this case. What is this deterrent? She tries to understand. She calls her friend Frieda, but her mobile is switched off. By now, all this is really starting to frighten Brenda. Since, this day is wasted as well, she heads back to her shop.

            As she gets off the bus, she sees smoke coming from the direction of her shop. She walks faster and arrives at her shop panting. But there is no shop. The shop burnt to cinder. “Oh no,” she gasps and sits down on the side of the road. The fire-fighters try relentlessly to put out the fire. The ambulance, the police, everyone is here by now. They want to interview Brenda. The owner of the shop is on television. She is telling them about the curious case of Mowgli’s Mother. She is telling the world, the freakish chain of events to the lead up to this. Her shop has now been burnt down. Something or someone is trying to sabotage her attempts to find this person, known as Mowgli’s Mother. That is how it all feels at least. As though the disappearance isn’t enough, now this? Just then an sms shows up on her screen. It is from an unknown number, “Frieda Jane in hospital, a heart-attack.”

            “What?” Brenda screams, and then faints.

            After twenty-four hours, Brenda wakes up in a hospital bed. She sees herself, waking up and walking through a white corridor wearing a white gown. Everything is so white that it hurts her eyes. Then she sees something flying towards her, a spirit, a phantom. It comes closer, and she looks at her intently, “Mowgli’s Mother? Is it really you?”

            “Yes, it is. Stop looking for me?”

            “Who are you? What are you, a phantom?

            “Think whatever you wish, but know this that Mowgli’s Mother doesn’t exist, never did.
            “But, but?”

            “No buts, the papers you saw? The passports and the visas are a lie. You saw what I wanted you to see. There are neither any passports, nor visas, or any references of my existence anywhere in the world. You saw me, a person, a living person of blood and flesh, does not exist. Like I said before, I am a phantom. I am here. I am nowhere.”

            The doctors at her bed-side are trying to resuscitate her. She regains consciousness. She feels anxious, doctors running around the room, this hospital clinic. A nurse smiles at her and says,“you will be okay. Not to worry, dear.” While still there, and she receives an sms from Frieda that she has been released from the hospital. Soon there is another sms from immigration.

            “We checked. There are no records, nationally or internationally, matching with this person’s details. Case closed.”

            About the author

amazon.com/author/amazon.com.mehreenahmed

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5267169.Mehreen_Ahmed

https://theeditorschoice.wordpress.com/

https://novelwritingfestival.com/?s=Mehreen+Ahmed

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Juliet’s Song

by

Mehreen Ahmed

 coffee

Juliet worked in a cafe up the road. Her pretty smile was something to see first thing in the morning. But she didn’t know that. She worked her shifts around the clock, being nice to the lovers of coffee, serving them, and taking orders. Juliet was stringent with her time, however, occasionally, she would spare a few moments to chat at the till. That would be generous on her part. No one knew what went on in her head. No body cared to find out, what her thoughts were. And that was how it was; strictly professional.

            One morning a lady by the name of Rita Chowder, a regular at the cafe, came in and sat down at a corner. It was a quiet morning at the cafe that day. In fact, Rita was the only customer at the time. She finished her first cup of coffee. Then she waved at Juliet. And when she came by, Rita asked her for another shot. Juliet brought it over to her. As she took a sip, Juliet noticed tears.   “What’s wrong?” she asked. A frown appeared on her smooth forehead.

            “What do you mean?” Rita asked.

            “Are you crying? Are those your tears?”Julia asked.

            “Yes,” Rita said trying to hide them by lowering her head.

            “Why would you be crying?” Juliet asked.

            “Oh it is a long, long story. I think, I am about to lose my house to the bank?” she answered.

            “That’s no good.”

            “I have been frugal all my life. Worked hard and drove second hand beat-up cars. I always dreamt of buying a new car one day. But that just never happened. I just couldn’t save up enough, always behind, no matter how hard I worked.

            “Oh, no,”

            “Turns out, that’s the way it was all going to be.” Rita concluded.

            Juliet listened with a lot of interest. She felt like doing something for Rita. But what could she do? How was Rita, to fight the big banks, and the hiking interest rates? She moved away from her to serve another customer. By the time she came back, Rita was gone. But she noticed, she left something for her on the table. It was a card, with her phone number written on it. Juliet picked it up. She gazed outside through the cafe gates and saw Rita walking away. Juliet thought whether to keep the card or to get rid of it. Clients came and went, everyday, but who cared about their stories. Something told her to keep it. She tucked it away in her apron pocket. When she looked again, she saw the last of her floral dress at vanishing point, behind the garden’s neat hedges.

            After work, that night Juliet retuned to her two-bed apartment, she shared with another girl. She went straight to shower, and wrapped herself with a dressing gown afterwards. They ate some pasta together, which her room-mate cooked, and they both sat down in front of the television. Over dinner, Juliet muttered something which her room-mate didn’t understand. Her name was Kate.

            “Was there something you said?” she asked.

            “Yes, I was speaking to a customer this morning and she was saying that she may lose her house to the bank.”

            “Really? Can she not pay her mortgage anymore?”

            “Yeah, something like that,” Juliet answered.

            “That would be really awful.”

            “Yeah, wouldn’t it?

            “Do you want to buy a house someday?” Kate asked.

            “Me? Ha! Funny you ask. I’m even lucky to pay my rent.” Juliet smiled.

            Kate noted a sarcasm in her voice. She added,“Or get hitched with a rich guy.”

            They both laughed, and finished dinner. They watched the news and saw what the banks were doing and have been doing to their clients. After the news finished, they rose from their chairs, with the plates and dumped them in the sink. Juliet said goodnight to Kate and went to bed. She had an early shift next day. She didn’t go to sleep right away. It bothered her that people like Rita, had to suffer. She thought only people in the developing world suffered like this. She didn’t understand the economics of it at all. However, she took her dairy out of the bedside table drawer and began to write. Most were her own ramblings. But she also penned down Rita’s predicament. It hadn’t dawned upon her entirely, until now that how many people were out there, who tirelessly put uncountable hours into work, for negligible returns. What was it in the end, if they couldn’t even own one house in retirement or drive a brand new car? What was it? Was anything worth? That people had to pay back double, even triple with interest on the principle they borrowed from the banks? That it would take four generations if not more, to pay back. Was it even fair? Juliet contemplated on a lot of questions, but no answers. She didn’t know when she fell asleep.

            In the morning, when she woke up, she had a new resolution. She wanted to smell the sweetness of spring in all its freshness. She wanted to make money, travel, purchase a house, drive brand new cars. Live it up! After all, she lived in a first world country, and she should be entitled to those world class benefits. On her way to the cafe, she went to the news agents to buy a copy of the Sydney Herald. She turned the pages to shares and bonds.

            Investing in shares and bonds was the way to go. At twenty-five, she figured it out. She must tell Rita, too, if she were to save her house. Juliet thought of using her small savings to invest the lot in shares. She was going to buy blue chips. On lunch-break, she went and researched some more to learn about long-term investments; the rises and the falls of share markets. Windfalls, make quick money, while improbable, was not impossible. She called her brokers, and invested all her savings into a diversified portfolio. She felt almost jubilant that she was not going end up like Rita. Where was Rita anyway? She didn’t come today. Thoughts about Rita distracted Juliet at work. She expected her to walk in through those gates.

            After work, Juliet gave Rita a call. Her mobile was switched off. She was just a client in the cafe, who came for a regular caffeine shot. Juliet didn’t even know where she lived or anything about her. But she wanted her to know that there was a way out. If Juliet could sell and buy shares wisely, she could end up with a little pot of gold. That night, she came back from work. It was her turn to cook dinner. She turned on the TV, and took an onion to slice. She must follow the market closely. On the news, an accident was reported. A body was found washed up by the local river bank. Most likely, it was suicide. A name was also released, Rita Chowder. ‘What?’ Juliet was devastated. The knife fell from her hand, and the onion rolled off the cutting board. Rita was no relative, hardly even a friend. But Juliet felt she was so much more. There was almost a bonding.

            Juliet was not sure now. This was puzzling. Her breathing, short and shallow, she struggled to accept this. She had to sit down. The perfect rainbow that she had been dreaming, suddenly took a bad turn and it transpired into something she didn’t think about. This other side of it, she wasn’t sure of. She saw the same rainbow, but in a different light. She saw its reflection on the water. Under wrinkled water, it didn’t look so perfect, but broken along the edges of the arch. That night she could not eat dinner, but went to bed straightaway. A fresh start in the morning, this new day, should bring a refreshing new perspective, she hoped. And coffee shots to give those moods a false high.

It took her good many months for a return on her investments. It wasn’t until the winter months two years on that Juliet was able to sell her shares and turn in a profit. Over the months of July and August, she sold all her shares. And was able to double her savings. Juliet wanted to travel. She wanted to visit the USA. What a lark! No broken wings! This lucky girl was a survivor.

About the author 

amazon.com/author/amazon.com.mehreenahmed

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5267169.Mehreen_Ahmed

https://theeditorschoice.wordpress.com/

https://novelwritingfestival.com/?s=Mehreen+Ahmed