AN INDIAN VAMPIRE

There was a Vampire on my veranda.

"You're a writer, aren't you?" He asked.

I nodded, stunned by this strange apparition on my balcony. He was a tall, pale, gangly youth. I could make out tiny, pitted acne scars on his cheeks, bloodless lips. There were bags under his eyes, and lines etched across his forehead.

"I need you to write my story," the Vampire told me. He paused, and looked at me shyly. "Please?"

I frowned. "Why?"

He smiled, baring his pointed, gleaming canines. I shuddered, and a look of fear must have crossed my face, for suddenly his smile drooped.

He sighed. "It isn't like they say it is. All these hollywood blockbusters portray Vampires to be these good-looking, sexy blood-suckers, living the good life. You know - like Underworld Evolution. Or, like in Interview with the Vampire." His shoulders sagged. "Pretty girls, palatial mansions, a garage full of flashy cars, truckloads of money. If f life were anything like that, I bet the majority of the human population would be queuing up tomorrow to join the vampiric species."

I felt a little sorry for him then. "What's it like then? Really like?"

"It's dreadfully hard to be a vampire in the modern age. I mean, it's not too bad if you've already been alive for a century or so - that's a decent span of time to have picked up a decent bit of cash. But unfortunately, this isn't the case - at least not for us, the younger vampires. The old guys have it good - they've got that old-world charm that attracts legions of admirers willing to slit their throats and pour out their blood into crystal glasses, and most of them have managed to pick up that palatial mansion and swiss bank account somewhere along the line. But for the average vampire like me, it's a different story."

I was intrigued. "How so?"

"I still have to work and that's always a drag." He sighed. "You see....I live with my parents...."

"What do you mean - you live with your parents?" I was surprised. This was the first I had ever heard of a Vampire living with his parents.

The Vampire explained. "For all practical intents and purposes, I'm still legally alive, even if most of my biological processes have stopped. I could still drop off the radar, pretend I'm dead - but my parents would have been devastated by my loss. Not to mention, if I was actually dead, they would have had me cremated by hindu funerary rites - and that would have finished me off for good." He shuddered. "What would have been the point of becoming a Vampire then?"

I was puzzled. "But...you know...all that stuff about sunlight begin fatal to Vampires - what about that?"

"It's true." Another spasm of regret crossed his face. "No more sunsets or sunrises for me."

"But you work? What do you do?" Something else struck me. "Why do you work?"

"I have to work." He replied. "Otherwise my parents would have nagged me to get a job. Luckily, the BPO craze has hit India bigtime - and the night hours suit me perfectly, working a 9 pm to 5 am job is absolutely perfect when you're a vampire, and have nocturnal habits."

That made sense.

The Vampire continued. "On my salary, I'm hoping to get my own place. I still haven't found a decent apartment, but I'm sick of living with my parents. I still haven't told them about the whole vampire thing, I think that would be too much of a shock for them. You see, I come from a Tam-Brahm family. At home, we are completely vegetarian."

"That must be pretty difficult for a Vampire," I joked.

The vampire nodded sadly. "Eating any sort of food gives me chronic indigestion, my 'dead' system can't really take it. But my mother lurks in wait for me, a plate of dosas or idlis in hand. "Just one tiny bite, darling" she says, "just try this. It's so tasty. I made it just the way you like it." The Vampire shuddered. "The very idea of a dosa makes me sick. I try desperately to fend off her attempts - and now she thinks I'm turning anorexic. Sometimes I have to submit, pretend to swallow a handful of dosa, and then rush to the bathroom and vomit." He patted his stomach. "Loose Motions all the time."

"It sounds awful," I said. I really meant it. "A living hell."

"It wouldn't be so bad if we were non-veg, and I could have the ocasional rare steak, streaming with blood." He salivated at the thought. "But my parents are so vegetarian, and so absolutely brahmin, the very mention of a dead cow can cause them anguish."

I nodded. I could understand.

The Vampire continued. "So I'm waiting for the old folks to drop off, take off to Hollwood with my savings, and then pretend to pop off. They'll put me in a cemetery, and then in the dark of night, I'll climb out of my grave - and finally - I'll be free!"

There was a soft smile on his face, a dreamy look in his eyes as he contemplated his future freedom. "Hollywood, here I come," he whispered. He pulled out a grimy, folded piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to me.

It was print-out of a Craig's List announcement. "CEMETERY LOT FOR RENT" The auction notice read. "IN WEST HOLLYWOOD. EXCELLENT VIEW OF BRAD PITT'S HOUSE." I perused the rest of the sheet, another Vampire was sub-letting his coffin for six months, while he took a holiday to Bangkok and visited relatives in Transylvania.

I folded back the sheet and handed it to the campire. "Why Hollywood?" I was curious.

His voice was soft, and full of hope as he answered. "It's a land of dreams, a land of opportunity." He licked his lips. "They're some pretty hot vampires in LA, I hear. You know - the extras they used in Interview with the Vampire and Underworld: Evolution. Real sexy ones."

I suppressed the urge to comment that the extras were very likely mortal actresses, and not vampires. The Vampire was so very hopeful, it seemed cruel to dash his dreams.

"That's the life," he said, dreamily. "I just have to get to America."

We were silent for a while, watching the monsoon clouds slowly drift across the moon.

"But why are you telling me all this?" I asked.

"You're a writer," the Vampire replied. "You can spin my story into some sort of best-selling novel. You know - the type that'll get picked to be made into a film. Lots of cash - we'll split it 50-50... and then I can fund my trip to America."

This didn't make much sense. "But you're story is depressing. Why would people want to read this?"

The Vampire shrugged. "Spin into anything. The call-center crowd - that's a perfect audience. You know - there's that guy who wrote that book about a call-center, sold tonnes of copies and got made into a film with Salman Khan and Katrina Kaif." His voice turned dreamy again.

I considered this. He was right. The call-center crowd was the perfect audience for middle-brow vampire lit, more importantly, the setting of his story in a call-center, would be a major selling point.

So I wrote the book. But after seventeen rejections from various publishing houses, we finally gave up. Apparently, one Publisher informed me, the book would hurt the sentiments of both Christian and Hindu Groups. "We can't afford to offend both at the same time," the publisher told me. "They'll burn down the office." With that, he pushed my manuscript from his table into the dustbin. And so the book, like my friend the Vampire, never saw the light of day.

After that, we lost touch. A few months later, as I walked through the center of the city, I saw workmen hoisting a new billboard into place. It was an advertizement for a fairness cream for men, featuring a thin, pale youth in a fashionable suit. With a shock I realized that it was my friend the Vampire, whose preternaturally pale skin made him the perfect model for such a product.

His star was on the ascent. He became a regular feature of Page 3 - seeming to grace every celebrity event with his presence.

A year later, I ran into him at the opening of a club that was being run by a friend of mine. The crowd was mostly the usual high-fliers, with a fair sprinkling of foreigners. I spotted the Vampire, attired in a jazzy, flamboyant shirt and a gold Rolex, standing in the corner. A handsome, sharp-featured foreigner stood next to him, sporting a fake tan. The Vampire greeted me jovially, and introduced me to his friend.

"This is Viktor," he said. Viktor shook my hand, and smiled. His lips parted to reveal a pair of sharp, pointed canines.

Another Vampire.

"A friend from Romania," the Vampire added. He led me to a table, and we caught up over a drink.

"I thought you must have made enough to head to Hollywood," I said. It had struck me as strange, that despite his dreams to go to America, the Vampire had remained here.

"I was going to go," he explained. "But then the recession struck, big time. Everyone, especially the Vampires started to come here. The recession bit heavily into a lot of their investments - so they came here, because it's cheaper to live well. India IS the place to be. Plus, the Indian market seemed to be stronger than the rest. So it was a good idea to stay on, and I've made a killing." He guffawed, at his own joke.

I smiled weakly."How?"

"Had invested in a bit of land. Once the foreign crowd started to come, I set up a cemetery, started renting out coffins. And then branched out into importing blood." He handed me the bottle he had been drinking from - it looked like an ordinary beer bottle, but as I glanced at it - the contents were red. "Class A blood, imported from Russia. High Alcohol content. I have a whole range, with various flavours, for every pocket."

"But what about the parents?" I asked. "Your mother still trying to feed you with dosas and idlis?"

The Vampire scowled. "Not so bad now, though. I've moved out - got a penthouse in the center of town. So at least I've got my own space. But..." His voice dropped.

"What?" I asked.

"The folks are trying to get me married." He sounded hassled. "They think I should settle down now, find a nice, tam- brahm girl, have some kids." He sighed. "Not ready for all of that yet. But it's given me a new idea for a business."

"What?"

He handed me a small flier, emblazoned with the letters "VAMPIRESHAADI.COM"

"Arranged marriages for Indian and NRI Vampires," he told me. "We can match you with your caste, gotra, community etc. We should launch next week. Already, we've netted excellent ad revenues."

I was impressed. The Vampire had really come a long way.

He smiled, when I complimented him. "Thanks. But what about you? How have you been?"

I grimaced. "Alright. Could be better. Work's not that great. The recession has hit us freelancers quite bad."

The Vampire smiled, sympathetically, and leaned across the table. "I have an idea," he whispered. "Especially, for someone of your talents and outlook."

"About what?" I was intrigued.

His voice dropped lower, and he told me. We spent the rest of the night talking. By Sunrise I was convinced.

And that's how I too became a Vampire.

Shadows

A shadow follows me. I see it slide across the walls of buildings, over tarred roads blistering in the noon day sun. And when rain comes, clouds clotting the sky, the shadow skitters across the surface of a puddle, and reappears, mocking me, in the scattered shards of a broken mirror.

In darkness the shadow disappears.

Once, in a dark room, I met a lover. He came from a masquerade, a domino of sequins and glitter masking his face. He pulled me, gently, into the darkness, and then I felt his hands, along my back, tracing my spine. I laughed, and pulled away his domino but - there was nothing there. No one there, just an empty suit of clothes, drifting in the wind, and a blue sequined domino in my hand...and then I heard laughter - dry, mocking laughter. But there was no one there.

There was no one there.

Once, there was the sound of wings flapping, a sudden, small breeze tugged at my hair, drifted across my face. But I saw nothing. Something fell into my lap, I felt for it - I felt the soft fringes of a feather. And then I heard a chuckle - the soft whisper of words - and I knew, there was a God with me in that room. A God with wings, and laughter, a God whose language, whose half-whispered words, I could not begin to understand. I heard this God, I felt this God, but I could not see him.

I saw nothing.

Once, I stood in an empty street. It was dark, at night, and a flickering street lamp scattered a twitching pool of shadows that danced across the empty street. A man stepped out of the shadows, towards me, the light outlining his dark, black form. He stood in front of me, shoulders hunched, tentative.

"Who are you?" I asked, suddenly afraid.

He moved towards me, and then I saw that he had no eyes, no nose, no features. He was just a shape, a vague man-shape. But he had lips, soft shadings of black on black - lips that moved in the darkness, dripping with soft words.

"I am you," he said, and then he reached towards me, with his shadowy hands.

I watched, stricken, as his hands disappeared into my chest. I felt a vague tugging, and then his hands emerged, gripping something. It was my heart, bleeding, in his hands. And even as I watched, those soft lips smiled, a horrible, sly smile, and he stuck my heart into his dark chest. And then, he began to walk away from me, towards the flickering, dancing light - and even as he moved, his form gained substance. The soft, grey lips turned red, the shadowy hands grew into firm, taunt fingers, and flesh wrapped itself across his shadowy form. Eyes appeared in his blank face - eyes, just like mine, over a nose, just like mine.

I looked down then, at my hands, which were fading. My clothes turned to smoke, my fingers and toes curled into shadows, my body blurred.

He laughed once, softly, and walked away - a man, fully formed, with eyes and skin and lips and fingers.

I am shadow now. I am darkness.

I spend the days and light following this man, this man who has stolen my heart, my shadow that has robbed me. I live a half-life now, merging with darkness, sliding across walls and floors, peeping out from glittering surfaces.

I hear nothing, I see nothing.

In darkness, shadows disappear.

I disappear.

The Dream

A dream crept out of my skull, through my ear, staining my white pillow case. I awoke in the morning, after a heavy, black sleep, to find the corpse of a dream, bleeding on my pillow. The blood had crusted and blackened, and there was just the heart of the dream itself, a glass-like shard, made of shadows and rainbows, embedded in the bloody, black mess.

Carefully, I pried the shard loose. It glittered, full of colours, in the morning sun. In the shard, I saw faces trapped and frozen - a princess, with tears cascading down burning cheeks, an ogre, with a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth, a witch, black locks rioting through the air, as she sped through the skies. These things and more, I spied, frozen in the glass corpse of the dream.

I pounded the shard into a fine powder, which I corked in a blue glass bottle. I kept it there, on a shelf in my kitchen. Perhaps, someday, I would have some need of it - perhaps someday, when my craft and skill ran out, I could turn to the powder in the bottle. Or when pain and illness overcame me, I could turn and find release in the magical dreams the powder could bestow.

But one night, I awoke, to hear the sound of a scuffle in my kitchen. I donned my dressing gown, and quietly crept down the stairs. In the dark kitchen, I saw the shadow of a cat against the wall, pulling the bottle out with it's paws. The bottle fell off the sledge, splintered on the floor, the powder spilling out. The cat leapt through the air, and landed on it's paws, to lick the floor of the powder.

Horrified, I watched, as the shadow of the cat blurred and shifted. A sabre-toothed tiger stood in place of the cat, and then, a moment later, a lazy-eyed chameleon, colours shifting across it's skin, slumbered on the floor. A mammooth rose up, tusks piercing the ceiling, and then a snake - with a blue, sinuous tongue, slithered across the floor. But then, the snake shook, a shudder ran through the length of it's body, and it's skin changed into gold, red, blue and green. And finally, the cat, lay again, sprawled across the floor of my kitchen, tongue hanging out.

Minutes passed, and the cat didn't move. I ventured, tentatively across, to touch the cat. It was dead, frozen stiff.

When morning came, I buried the cat in the graveyard.

Days later, I found a hole in the ground, where I had buried the cat. Now, the children of my village claim that a cat visits them in their dreams, a furry, shadow-less creature, with a long blue tongue. There are also reports, of giant footprints in the forest - footprints that belong to an elephant. In my garden, I see the sliding tracks of a snake, and once, the postman found a long, pointed tooth, embedded in my post box.

The dream lives on.