Not a True Story IV

Attachment is self defeating. It is what divides the real from the surreal. For a moment, he felt on top of the world. He had the ideal life. One that might have been called enviable. But such a life leads to strings. Strings all over the place.

In the middle of the night! A loud crash and bang deafening and cruel. What could have been that noise? He did not want to wake up but that beating on his door would not stop. He rolled over and tried hard to not wake up. Damn these people. Why did they follow him upto the house when he made it very clear that he was not going to be part of the show? They were not going to leave him alone.

"Go away!" he shouted or so he thought in his half asleep state.

And then he woke with a start. He had been dreaming. The people at the office did not want him to choreograph the fashion show in the annual company day celebrations. And that banging was no knock. To his horror, it dawned on him that someone was trying to break in, albeit loudly, into his house.

He was up with a start. He knew how to remain calm. He sat up on his bed and listened again. There! That bang again. Slowly, he got out of bed and struggled with his slippers. Then he walked towards the living room. Funny, he had left the lights on. He was normally very careful. How forgetful! At the door, he paused. There was silence on the other side. Then all of a sudden, someone shouted and he heard footsteps scampering up the stairs near his door that led to the terrace. He dared not peep out of the window. They might spot him. They could be armed. They most certainly had to be armed. And they seemed like a lot of people. That was a strange way to burgle.

At these times, like many other times before, he had that defeated anger at his neighbours because they were really a 'good for nothing' lot. Even if his neighbours had heard the noise and commotion, none would venture out. The sissies. He reached for his cell phone and at the same time rushed to see if the balcony door was locked. To his relief, it was closed. They could not enter from there. And they could not peep in because the blinds were drawn. Funny, he never drew the blinds at night. He tried to recollect why he had gone to sleep without switching off the lights and also drawn the blinds. He switched on the cell phone but it would not switch on. The lousy thing! The battery must have drained. He went and called from the landline. First he called Aslan, his friend. He could not reach him. Then he called Lama. He was unreachable too. Must have switched off their phones. At that moment, someone landed with a thud on his balcony and started scraping at the sliding door.

He rushed to the balcony door and then stopped short. It was locked. They might break the glass! He stepped back as some more people landed on his balcony. Damn the top floor. His mother had cautioned him and had asked him to get a trellis fitted in the balcony. He had not paid attention saying it would spoil the look.

The scraping increased. Someone shouted. Was he under attack? How bizzare. At this point he panicked and reached for the large chef's knife from the kitchen counter and waited, poised, at the balcony door. Some more confused voices. Someone was saying he could not see a thing. Then a sharp buzzing sound and then a crash. The glass pane had been breached. A dark gloved hand reached in for the latch and then opened the door. All the while, he stood still, poised and ready to spring at the first being that entered. It was his house. One he had painfully constructed and put together. He was going to defend his demesne.

But when the first figure entered, he could not believe his eyes. There, poured in, one after another, four uniformed policemen. They rushed into his bedroom almost without looking anywhere. He followed them. There, they turned the sheet over the bed and turned away. He looked at the bed and something inside him turned. He lifted the knife but noticed his hand was empty. Leaning forward, he stared, in disbelief, at his own decaying corpse.