Another story that never went anywhere

He awoke, the scent of sweat heavy in his nostrils, the taste of cigarettes lingering on his tongue. Awakening again, here, in this small dark, stuffy room. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, hoping that the darkness would fade away, dissolve into something else - a woman, a bollywood mansion, trees...something else, but not these grimy, crumbling walls.

Anything else.

He turned, and grimaced. The pillow still smelt of her. He traced the wrinkles on the greying sheets, imagining the curve of her hips, the twist of her lips as she smiled at him.

But she wasn't there. She had left days ago, stuffing her clothes and cosmetics into a battered, grey suitcase. She had paused, and they had stared at each other, minutes dragging by. She stuffed her last pair of panties into a sequined handbag, and then turned, curls cascading over her shoulder, and marched out the door.

Or had she? He frowned. Had she been less than a memory? A figment of his imagination?

His cellphone was ringing. "There's a story - you better get there at once, the van's waiting," the grating, nasal voice on the phone informed him. "Some big car accident. A big actor too, don't know who as yet...he's been rushed to the hospital - could be dead." The voice paused, speculating the outcomes death could bring . "If he dies," the voice continued in an awed, hushed tone, "it could even be a headline piece."

He pulled on a shirt, a pair of trousers, slung his bag over his shoulders, and headed out to the van.

On the way, he leaned out the window, feeling the wind whip through his hair. The clouds were gathering over the sea, and he spied a tall, slight, figure, negotiate the treacherous rocks of the Bandstand Beach. Her white sari flapped in the wind, a radiant, blinding white - the dazzling, ethereal shade of detergent commercials. A smaller figure, a child, waved to her from further off. She smiled warmly, tenderly, back. He turned away, as the van wriggled through the throng of traffic. But he still felt the brilliance of her smile, her dazzling white smile, warm on his face.

He dozed, and dreamt of his own mother. He had always been embarrassed by her - by her gaudy nylon saris, haphazardly worn, splattered with sambar and chutney stains. By her bra-strap, poking out underneath her ill-fitting blouse. By her feet, rough and callused, and her thick, ungainly ankles. He had been relieved when she had died, finally, after a long illness. Even then, she died indecently, clinging onto life - long after any decent, self-respecting person would have. She had been stubborn, for his sake, she had whispered, on those long hospital nights, as she lingered on.

He awoke, as they arrived at the destination, and quickly clambered out of the van. He spotted a fellow reporter, puffing on a foul-smelling beedi. "No headline story here, yaar," the reporter informed him, "actor is expected to make a full recovery. Page 4 or 5 news, at the most."

Damn, Veeru thought, just my luck. A headline piece, almost, on my hands, and the bugger decides to live. Damn it.

Later at home, he dreamt of his imaginary paramour, of her wicked hips and bee-stung lips. He awoke, sweating and hot. It was time to start hating her, she was taking over his mind, he thought as he opened the door of the ancient fridge, but there was nothing there, save for a solitary milk bottle, half-full of curdling, yellow milk. Instead, he lit a cigarette, opened his notebook and began to write.