Four dots

       Jose woke up from his bed completely drenched in sweat. Except for a ray of moonlight that escaped from the half closed window, his room was completely dark. His thoughts wandered back to the dream that woke him up.

     He had often had absurd meaningless dreams and horror nightmares. But this was nothing like those. He saw something that happened years ago. It was like a replay from the past. ‘Funny! I didn't even remember that happened until I saw this dream.’ he thought wearily and fumbled from his bed for a glass of water.

     Almost eight years ago, after his high school graduation, he joined a summer camp to perfect his writing skills. There was this girl named Adeline. She, on the account of her weird behaviour and dark makeup, soon became the detestable thing in the entire camp. People made fun of her every time she passed. The worst part was, she sat beside Jose in class. Just for a day. The very first day. The camp lasted for almost a month and she attended the camp only one day. And not a single soul missed her after that. 

     Jose drank his water, wiped the sweat off his face, opened the window completely, stared at the moon for sometime and came back to his bed.

     The dream continued. A tall bearded man maybe in his late sixties walked into the classroom. Except for a tuft of black hair on his forehead, his head was a complete silvery grey. His clothes were neatly ironed and tailored to fit even his paunch.

     “He looks full of wisdom! What do you think?” said Adeline unable to contain her excitement.

     “Huh?!” said Jose unable to find any word to reply.

     “It is my esteemed pleasure to meet the writers of tomorrow. In order to induce a regular writing habit, we will ask you to submit whatever you write on a daily basis. We will evaluate it and give away prizes as an encouragement at the end of the day. So, if you have any articles penned by you on an earlier date, you can feel free to submit it here. We will let you know what your weaknesses and strengths are so that you will be able to make yourselves better.” he said.

     The first to rush to the dais was Adeline. Soon the entire class was there except for a few shy ones.

     “Mine is called as Four dots.” started Adeline “What is your’s called?”

     Before Jose could answer, she continued again.

     “I actually conceived that idea in my second grade.” she said as she tucked her dirty bangs behind her ear. “I wrote it down in my third grade. ‘Four dots’ you know, in the form of a square?”

     She drew four dots on the paper in front of her. Maybe she took Jose for a dunce.

     “The speciality of the four dots is that, you don't connect them.” she gave a half laugh. “You probably know that already. They are the second perfect thing in the world. The first is a circle - way too obvious! The circle is the embodiment of perfection. No beginning and no end. Unlike the circle, the four dots have got a major problem. They are not connected.” she laughed. This time it was a complete laugh. It somehow sounded more genuine than the last one. “But I would say this is where the perfection lies. They are not connected by a visible line yet they are connected. Just like our souls. They mean more than we actually see or perceive. They run deep. Deeper than one can ever imagine. You can never ignore or deny the presence of the four dots.”

      Jose snapped back just in time as she finished her lecture. He felt like a dimwit sitting right in front of Socrates, trying to comprehend but still unable on the account of his simple understanding.

     “But why four? Three is also a good number I think.” he stammered.

     “Of course not!” she replied in such a tone that made Jose feel as if he had offended her great grand ancestors. “Three is an odd number first of all. Secondly, it is not a square number. But four on the other hand, is a perfect number. A perfect among the perfects. Yet again, you cannot consider one as perfect because, one is the square of one. You get the flow, right?”

      In his dream, Jose fell into a dark pit filled with fours and squares. And four dots, of course.

      The next teacher came in and started the grammar class.

      Classes continued but his dream skipped all those and came right to the end of the day. It was as if somebody had a dream machine in their hands and controlled what should be played next.

      Once again, the bearded man came. He announced the prizes for the day. Adeline was visibly disappointed that she did not win any.

      The bearded man continued. “I also have these articles as an example of how not to write.” he showed a bunch of papers. “The first one is called ‘Four dots’ by Adeline Edelweiss.” Adeline’s face was visibly flushed as she stood up. At the very sight of her, the class was in a laughing fit. The teacher continued. “‘I am Bobby Marker. But I am not a marker pen. I am a detective. I find bad things.’ seriously Adeline? Couldn't you find a better way to start?” Adeline was in the verge of tears. “I was in my third grade.” she muttered under her breath.

       “Third grade? What do you think we are doing here? Teaching toddlers?” he continued. “Now we will read something from the middle. ‘He received a letter. It had four dots. It was not a square but it was a square. It was a murder note. He was murdered tomorrow.’ Murdered tomorrow? Four dots? You couldn't possibly think of a better murder plot?” the class was laughing hysterically as the bearded man mashed up the paper and aimed for the trash can. Adeline ran to the bin and pulled the paper out. She straightened it as she walked back. Her face was now a complete mess with all those tears mixed with her makeup.

       Jose felt as if he sat next to an ugly toad. He cringed away as if she had a contagious disease.

       The class was over and Jose walked away as soon as possible. Adeline stood there as the rest of the class passed by, making faces at her.

       Jose woke up from his sleep. He had had the worst dream ever. He felt pain in his heart as if it had been connected to Adeline’s soul. It was after all Adeline who told him that souls were connected.

       Jose glanced at his watch. Half past seven. He tried to forget his dream as he got ready for work.

       He fixed his breakfast and switched on the TV.

       A pretty girl was in the middle of her report. “...he was an octogenarian writer living alone in his villa. He had penned several award winning articles…” The face was immediately recognisable. It was the same bearded man from his dream. “...nothing suspicious was found at the crime scene except a piece of paper with four dots marked in it…”

      Jose was shocked beyond words. His immediate thought was to report it to the police. But again, he thought the better of it. He thought it would be fun to watch the investigation progress and get to know if the police found the real killer or not. He was proud of his own ingeniosity.

      Jose entered his office with a smirk pasted to his face.

      The office boy came rushing towards him and gave him an envelope. It was not addressed. Inside, there was a dirty paper with four dots.

Living house

       As a civil engineer and as a being with the sixth sense, I have my own little theories. Theories especially about houses, stack of houses, shops, in general almost all buildings. I mostly avoid discussing it with other people lest they enquire about my mental well being.

      Being a civil engineer in a non metro city tends to leave one jobless whenever the economy goes down or stagnates or whenever the people in it are content. In order to overcome this joblessness, I started working as a broker, helping people to get houses for rents, leases, or forever. This way, I came to know about houses of all age groups and kinds. Young, old, too vintage, too old to be demolished, half demolished, somewhere in between, keeps updating, retains the the way it was built, seen many wars, withstood many dynasties, seen too many good occasions, seen too many bad occasions, took many years to build, was built too quick, young and foolish, old and wise, economical, prosperous, killer ones, nature lovers, nature haters, only trees tolerant, full of creepers, human haters, non occupant haters, open book, anything you name it. So, whenever I suggest a house, I try my maximum to match the house with it's occupants so as to reduce the conflict level.

      It is my belief that, as long as the connection between the living mother Earth and the houses exist, houses too have lives. The have their own feelings. They have creaky wooden planks that can never be set right, windows that cannot be closed, chirping of insects at night, damp walls whose water source can never be found, hollow tiles, holes whose origin and depth can never be contemplated, above all these, the smell. Yes, smell. Smell of the house is something one tends to notice immediately. Most of the time, it smells like it's occupants. Just shut the house for a few days and you will know the real smell of the house. The smell of it's original inhabitants. Maybe it's of the early owners or the ones who built it with their sweat and blood.

      Almost a month ago, an old lady in the neighbourhood passed away. I was there at her funeral. I pitied her much. There was not a living soul of her blood who attended the funeral. It was said that her two sons were abroad and there was no way to contact them. The old lady was very respected in the city and so it was surprising that she maintained no contact with her sons nor they with her. After the funeral, most of her belongings were auctioned except for the house and the furniture. There was quite a lot of toys. Most of them from the 50's. Rubber toys, dolls with rubber face and plush bodies, hand stitched dolls with scary faces, mechanical toys, rocking chairs, the entire potato head family, mechanical music boxes, slinky dogs, barbies in plaid skirts, and many more. More surprising was the fact that they were all in good condition. I thanked my mom within my heart. If it wasn't for her yard sales, I believe that, at day of my funeral, there would be another coffin besides mine for all my broken and disfigured toys! After the auction, the keys to the old lady’s mansion was handed over to me. It was decided to use the revenue from the mansion for the well being of the city's inhabitants.

       Months later, a considerably young fellow came to the city on the account of his job. As there was no house at hand, I had to take to the old lady’s mansion. We passed through the overgrown lawn into the house. As I opened the door, I felt a wave of awe pass through me. The house smelled old and of roses. Maybe the old lady’s favourite perfume. I toured the house for my client. I was extremely surprised by the stillness of the house. It felt as if the house was holding back it's breath. It made me wonder how the house was going to take it’s new inhabitant. I have it as my policy, not to speak of the previous owners to the succeeding ones. The fellow liked the mansion. And so the deal was made. The transactions were complete. Still, the stillness prevailed. I watched him for sometime as he unpacked his belongings. Then with a word of goodbye, I left.

      The very next day, he called me, the first thing in the morning. I rushed there immediately. His eyes showed every sign of sleeplessness.

      “Did an old lady occupy this house before me?” he asked way too anxious.

      “Yes.” I replied with a doubtful tone.

      “Thought so.” he murmured.

      “Is something wrong, sir?”

      “Everything is! This house behaved like a monster. Drafts of air came in from all directions. Insects were chirping inside my ears. Above all, I had only a few minutes sleep. Even in that, I kept seeing a faceless old woman!” he uttered in a single breath.

       I had to make him some coffee, cool him down, talk to him as scientifically as possible. (Yeah, I do not bring my personal beliefs into business. I tend to keep them separate.) I convinced him at last. Wished him the best and walked towards the door. The house was somewhat normal in comparison to the previous day. A gentle breeze blew through the house.

     As I opened the door, I heard the soft music of a mechanical music box. I somehow felt like patting the house and whispering to it, ‘I know how it feels, I have lost my dear ones too. He will take good care of you! Don't cry.’

    I didn't do it as it would be considered ridiculous. I walked towards my car with a heavy heart.

End of the day

What do we live for? What do we strive for? What have we attained at the end of the day when we lay down our heads at our not so soft pillows?

Do all the tears we shed, reward us with what we want? Do we receive all the love that we labour for? Is it all but an illusion? The love that we dream so bad?

If so, what do we toil for? What do we shed our sweat for? All so that we may have a moment's peace when we receive a meager of the love we dream so bad of?

The dragon slayer

How difficult is it to trigger depression? An old foe who lies asleep in the bowels of our darkest secrets.

I wish it was harder like the older times. When I had no worry for what I ate or wore. All because, I had a money tree in my house that always gave me how much ever I wanted. It was until my school days.

Now, I have reached the point in life where I have to be my own money tree. So, how do even people make money? Why do some make more and some less?

Why does a piece of paper bring so much with it? Why is everyone so much obsessed with it?

Turns out, you need it to survive. And much more of it to thrive.

Hmm. So what would be the easiest way to make more of it?

Here I am reading about a small boy slaying big dragons and finding hordes of treasures. Sounds amazing. So let us now find dragons and in turn their unsaid treasures.

I went in search of dragons in places high and low. Lo and behold, I found many a dragons. I tried fighting the bigger ones thinking they had the biggest treasures. My wounds also turned out bigger. I couldn't kill them. Nor would my wounds heal.

I learned my lesson. Let us start with smaller dragons. So I went in search of smaller dragons. Turns out, I couldn't slay them too. But the wounds they made were much deeper and close to my heart. Ouch. My heart aches as write this.

After many unsuccessful attempts, I learnt a few tips and tricks. The foremost of them is, everyone is fighting their own dragons. So, if you are friends with many, you tend to learn a lot about these dragons. If you are already friends with slayers, oh my friend, you are in luck. If not my friend, it takes you longer to learn the tricks of the trade.

But I must warn you of the naysayers. They are worse than the dragons. They make you leave the battlefield. They even make you feel like they did you a favour.

Secondly, you should be aware of this one person. The one that no one talks in the daylight. He is whispered only in the depths of the shadows. Mr. failure.

Maybe I should have said about him in the first place. Well, I had my fair share of dealing with him.

After three long unsuccessful years, I finally slayed a dragon. I held onto it like a trophy. Even though in the bottom of my heart, I knew, it wasn't enough.

Well, this dead dragon of mine, happened to be guarding a goose that lays golden eggs. The problem is, it lays only one gold egg once in a month. I have to wait till the next month to get another. Apart from this, I have to tend to this golden goose everyday from morning to eve as perspiration sweats from my brows.

If not, this goose will refuse it's golden egg. The truth be told, I got bored of this goose sooner. It left me tired all day. I felt bad that I couldn't find any bigger treasures. Not even a money tree.

So, let us get back to square one. To fighting dragons. I told myself, let my fight the infamous sister of my slain dragon. Somehow, she didn't seem as difficult as her brother. It was maybe because, I had grown stronger after all these years?

The sister dragon also happened to guard a golden goose. This goose lays eggs slightly bigger than my goose (still once a month). Some say that you have to tend to it much longer and harder. But the deal was, I have to let go of my older goose. I decided to continue with my old goose.

I started dragon hunting again. This time, I aimed for a hefty dragon. It took me more than a year to fight him. The goose he had lays two eggs a month. All golden. No doubt about it. With the same tending period as the sister dragon's goose.

Now, I should be happy, right? Happy and content. But somehow, I ain't. I am still searching for dragons to fight. The dragons that guard the gateway to Ali Baba's cave.

In the long and narrow thorn laid path, I somehow awakened the old foe. The depression. He mocks at me ever time I fall. Every time I stand. Every time I talk. Every single minute.

So, who is the real dragon I am fighting in here?