Reality Is Stranger Than Fiction

The balcony overlooking the garden was not the most beautiful part of the house, yet Vikram used it more than any of the rooms. Two rows of neatly spaced pots below the railing made it difficult to stand and watch the society’s entrance. These were not the flower pots that people usually bought to make their homes look beautiful. These were pots with vegetable seeds stuffed in them 2-3 weeks ago. Few were showing seedlings of hope, others looked as barren as ever.

He moved around so that his back was touching the railing now. The opposite wall had two bicycles, he had bought for his kids. It was a half wall actually, the other half was the door that led to his bedroom. The rest two walls were not as neat as written by Soham. He took in the view along with a deep breath. The view was real, much more real than the words which described it. The pots with seedlings were real. The bicycles were real. Even his breath was real, but he was not.

A sad smile played on his lips when he looked at the bicycles one more time. He walked over to them and swiped the dust off the small purple bicycle with his left index finger. He brought the finger near his face and cleaned it with his thumb. He rubbed on his mustache just below his nose and realized it a little too late that the finger was still dusty. The sneezing fit made him jump out of his train of thoughts. He rushed to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. He would have chosen to look at his face in the mirror, but the choice was not his. He would have even chosen to be a good man, but he would have to do a wrong just once to become right in the future. Determined to live his life on his own terms, he left his house to meet Soham.

Soham was pacing the length of his living room, waiting for his wife. He had a brilliant story in mind but was not sure about the climax. His wife always had the key to clear his mind. She had the key to everything in his life. He wanted to be a writer for as long as he could remember. He is a successful writer but there was a time when rejections were more than earnings. His wife was the bread earner then. He is earning millions yet what he always craved for was the masterpiece, which seemed nearer now.

He sprang to open the door when he heard the clinking of keys on his front door. Before his wife had a chance to free her aching feet from the heels, he hugged her and began ranting about his story.

“I need a coffee,” she interrupted him.

“Sorry, I am just too excited about it. Give me 2 minutes.”

He rushed to the kitchen while she went to the bathroom, hoping to buy some extra time for herself. She liked listening to his stories, but today was a rough day at work.

Thirty minutes and a cup of coffee later which included her bantering about her worries at work and him consoling her, she was more receptive and he was even more excited if that was possible.

“I will give you just the outline and not the chapters that I have finished today, since you are so tired.”

She agreed.

“So, the main character of my book is a writer. He has a very normal appearance.”

“Like a boy next door,” she asked.

“More like a man next door. A good 5’8’’ height, normal build, not too muscular yet without a paunch. He is about 38 years old with a wife and two kids - a girl and a boy. Very loyal and loving husband and a hands-on father. Through and through a safe and unsuspecting guy. ”

“Hmm. The way you are saying unsuspecting makes me feel as if he is a serial killer or something.”

“Do not guess. Okay. So this writer is gifted and he knows about it.”

“Gifted?”

“Yes. In every story he writes, his lead character comes alive. Hold on, before you object,” he said when he noticed his wife’s jaw drop one moment and the next moment, her face composed itself and her eyes closed as if rejecting his idea.

“Let me just complete my story and then you can tell me that this is a bad idea. I wrote something on these lines when I was in school and won a competition. I have read a few books where a person in a painting becomes real and all, but I will make it different, I promise”

She said, “Yeah! of course. But first, tell me what is that one characteristic which makes him stand apart in the crowd.” Soham had a habit of giving all his important characters a birthmark, a mole, or an annoying habit that made them unique and more relatable.

“Aaahhh! I love you for asking this. This guy has a habit of rubbing his left index finger on his mustache.”

“Hmmm! Nice. This guy is so regular. Go on then.”

Soham smiled. “So, he came to know about it in his childhood when he wrote a story about a fictional animal, I am yet to decide what kind of animal it is, but this animal became real. He saw it in his garden the next day. Now with his next book, he is experimenting with a human.”

“What makes you think that it would be different from the other stories you have read.”

“It would be an inception type of a story, where he writes about a sculptor, who makes statues of well-known people. Now, he has the power to make these people do his bidding after their statues are made.”

“You are good with mysteries, so I hope it has the effect that you are going for. But right now, it seems too far-fetched.”

“True. I am not able to explain exactly what I have in mind. Let me try again. Our writer writes about a sculptor who makes a statue of a minister. He is an important person but few of his policies do not go down well with this sculptor. After making the statue, he becomes a puppet in his hands. This kind of power is greater than what the writer possesses.”

“So, this writer has a limitation. I would say, think about the details of this limitation before you go ahead,” she suggested.

“Yeah! I will think about it. In fact, I would give a limitation to the sculptor as well. Because I was thinking that in the end, our writer should kill him. But, before he writes that chapter, the sculptor would come to know about it and try to save himself by killing the writer, instead. One of their limitations would make the other win. Now, you tell me whom should I kill in the climax.” Soham took in a deep breath after seeing the look of admiration on his wife’s face. But before she could put her thoughts in words, the doorbell rang. Soham got up to refill his coffee while his wife went to answer the door.

The man standing outside the door looked as familiar as an average Joe. She noticed that he was taller than average but not tall enough. He had a fit physique, but she did not get the feeling that he had seen the doors of a gym ever in his life.

“Yes! How may I help you?” she asked him awkwardly.

“I am Vikram. I wanted to meet Soham,” he said while rubbing his mustache with his left index finger.

She felt goosebumps on her skin. She felt a strong need to close the door on him. “Give me a minute,” she said instead before half closing the door and rushing to Soham.

Soham was standing facing the kitchen counter. He was engrossed in his thoughts and had forgotten that someone was at the door. He turned around when he heard his wife’s hurried footsteps.

“What did you say was the name of the writer in your book?” she asked him in panic.

“Vikram. I have written just a few chapters. I can change the name if you want,” Soham replied seeing the look on his wife’s face.

“No more changes, Soham. Let us just keep it as it is.” Vikram had entered the house without an invitation.