Story Time!

I have not written stories for a long time now. Ever since the story I considered my masterpiece (comparable to Chekov’s, I thought) was given a universal MEH!, I have not dared go into the field. Stories need to make sense. They need to be interesting, captivating. They need to end when they should. They pose far too many constraints for a buffon like me who does not want to write at all. Only after I recently started considering writing to temporarily make money, did I decide to abide by the rules and start improving my writing. Here’s the practice story. I might continue writing stories for some time, and make it another series of posts, but that really depends. If you see that the next post is a story too, you might want to expect a few more stories after that, otherwise fiction writing will be for another time.
This story is as cheesy as it could probably get, specially because of all those stupid CID episodes, but it's a start!

***

Avinash had never understood why Sitasma was so fickle. One day, she would want to go to Manakamana immediately, the other day she would be too tired to go anywhere ‘for another year’. Her wardrobe was a rainbow of different colours, designs and patterns. She had worn the expensive red Sari only twice, the second time Avinash had had to blackmail her into wearing it. A lot of her clothes and shoes had to be given away every six months because she would never wear a blouse or a Kurta more than twice unless she really liked it. And then there was the liking. When she did like a piece of clothing, she would wear it until it wore away. A sleeveless that had become her favourite had to be thrown away only after a month after it was bought: the colour had faded after thirteen washes, and the elbows already had tiny holes.  She would just not let go.

He had learned from her parents that she had been so compulsive since childhood; they fondly recalled the time when she had cared her pet bunny to death. She did not wish ill—she could not control her emotions, and even when she meant well, her compulsiveness would always cause harm one way or the other.

They had met at college. He had joined to become a ‘business consultant’; she had joined because after returning from Singapore with her parents, there was no better place. Her company was rich spoiled brats, his friends were people working in NGO’s and INGO’s who aspired to lead international conglomerates and agencies. By some strange stroke of fate, they had clicked together while organizing the farewell for seniors in their second year. They were together on and off for the next two years, until her parents were fully aware of the situation. It was the best chance they had, and they did not let it go—they insinuated that she should propose to him, and later offered more dowry than he would earn in two years. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. They were married in an extravagant ceremony from her side, and a ceremony that mostly said he-would-have-gotten-a-better-one-if-he-had-concentrated-on-career-but-who-are-we-to-say-its-his-life from his.

So it had come to this.

There was nothing he could do. It had all been her doing. She had moved the pieces, and he was just the pawn.

In chess, sometimes you have to give your queen away to their pawn to win the game. Perhaps she had wanted this and planned it all along.

She would become herself.

Not only did she cheat him, she would do it so blatantly, and with no hint of regret or fear. It was the third year of their marriage, and he made it abundantly clear that he was aware of her escapades and wanted them to end immediately. She would pretend not to understand. He had to be with her because divorce after three years was not going to look good for an aspiring National Director of an international agency that focused on children and family values. She did not care anymore, he had given her what he could, and there was nothing new there.

So he got rid of her—permanently. Her saris and expensive crockery finally came to use. He choked her to death, took the dead body to Pokhara, dumped her in the Fewa Lake, and reported her missing. The police caught an Indian gang who had called for ransom immediately after Sitashma’s disappearance had been reported, and with all the kidnappings already upon them, the police refused to believe that they had not taken her. A cleaning crew in Pokhara found the body two weeks later, decomposed but recognizable, and police started searching for the remaining gang members who could have murdered her.

No one ever found.

***