OS: A (modern day) Christmas Carol

It was the night before Christmas. He was in a two-bit motel room where the sheets hadn't been changed in ages. The carpet was a faded brown. It was filthy, and the fortunate choice of color hid the dirt well. The walls were painted neutral beige. They at least looked like they'd been painted over fairly recently. Except a long crack on the ceiling, right above where he lay. He fixed his eyes on the crack and willed sleep to take over. The pitter pat of steady rain falling outside didn't help. He disliked the rain. It made everything cold and wet. He hated both. He pulled the comforter over his head and ignored his shivering toes. For Rs.400 a night, this was the best he could get in the Delhi winter. He had had to come here. Now that his paying guest days were over, he had to find somewhere to spend the night while pretending he was away on business. After tossing and turning uncomfortably for 20 minutes he gave up disgustedly and shoved the comforter away. He lit a cigarette and rested his head on the headboard of the bed. He took a long drag, and let the smoke fill his lungs. At last, peace. Nothing ever soothed his seething brain like a cigarette. He'd been trying to quit for years. He never could quite succeed. A hollow laugh escaped him. "A running theme in my life!" he thought. His shady business dealings had never helped him make more than a few Lakh at a time. His mooching off his wife was even less productive. Several thousand at a time, at best. "A failure at business", he thought grimacing slightly. And Khushi, the girl he wanted, she hated his guts. "And a failure in the love department too" he sighed. He stubbed out the half smoked cigarette and pulled the comforter up again. This time, sleep crept over him easily.

About 3 hours later he was roused by the persistent feeling that he was being poked. "It's nothing!" he told himself, turning over. The poking persisted, and this time he felt a light finger digging into his back. He sat up very quickly, suddenly afraid. A little girl stood in front of him. She looked to be about 6 years old. She wore a white lehenga choli encrusted with pearls. A gold dupatta was pinned neatly to one side of her blouse. On her feet she wore silver anklets. Her hair was lustrous. Inky black and long, she wore it in 2 tight braids that hung to her waist. She had a shiny silver bindi on her forehead. She looked strangely familiar to him. Before he could say anything, she held out a hand to him. "Come. It is time," she said smiled.

"Who are you? Why are you here? And I'm going nowhere with you." He said, feeling strangely afraid of this little child who'd managed to steal into his motel room in the dead of the night. The girl smiled again at him. He knew that smile, he thought. That smile kept him up at nights. "Was it Khushi?" he thought uncomfortably. It didn't make any sense to him. Khushi was 18, not a child. He shook his head as if to clear the mists that seemed to could his judgement tonight.

"I am she," said the child in a silvery voice.

"Who? What do you mean?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Khushi. To you, I am Khushi, as she was in her childhood. But in truth, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Now come with me. We have plenty to see." Her eyes sucked him in. He'd never seen such luminous eyes in his life. They shone with a fire that scared him. A light way beyond her years. He put in his hand in hers wordlessly. A gust of wind swirled around them. He opened his eyes slowly, to a familiar scene.

A woman stood cowering in front of a man. He was tall and hefty. She was slight. A little boy hid his face in the folds of her saree. "Don't. Don't hit him. Please. He's done nothing," she begged. The man lurched towards her, losing his step. He was obviously drunk. She caught him, and steadied him to his feet. His eyes were bloodshot. His teeth stained brown with many tears of chewing tobacco. He wore a torn shirt and loose white pants, also stained with tobacco and paan.

"He took my money!" the man thundered. "I'll kill him tonight!" he pushed the woman aside and caught hold of the boy's collar. She dragged his hands off the boy.

"He's done nothing. He didn't take the money. I did. We needed it for his school fees." She said somberly.

"School! Why does he need school? He's old enough to go to work. At the construction site, they're always looking for young boys to help out. He's going with me tomorrow." Said the man sternly.

"My son will not lift bricks for a living. My son will be an educated man. He will have a good job," she said lifting her head proudly. She got slapped across the face for it. She looked up, a flash of anger in her eyes that she damped down quickly. The boy closed his eyes. He'd seen this happen before. It happened almost every day in his house. The arguments over money. The beatings. The cut lips. The black eyes. He saw it happen every day. And he could do nothing. He was 8 years old and petrified of his father.

"He'll never be anything. He's my son. The son of a bricklayer with a shrew for a wife. He'll only ever be a bricklayer," said the man staggering out of the room. Drunk he might be, but he knew he'd get nothing tonight. There was no money for drinks at home. "I'll have to put in on the tab again!" he sighed. After he left, the lady hugged the boy to her chest. "Don't worry Shyamu. I'll never let him touch you. He'll have to kill me before he can touch you." She said tightly. He relaxed his tiny body as he clung to her. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she held him close. He inhaled that special perfume of hers. That scent of the food she'd cooked that day and the soap she washed her hands with a million times a day. Medimix. That cheap bar of raw Sodium hydroxide with its overpowering odor. But he loved it. For it was hers. And it was familiar. He inhaled that much loved scent deeply. He felt happy. Cocooned in her embrace, the world seemed a safe place. When that smell seemed to overpower his senses almost completely, he felt faint. And a little hand crept into his. "Enough. We are done here." It was the little girl again. "Come, we have more to see before the night ends."

It was an awards function at his school. He was 12 years old and so proud. He wore his shabby, much darned uniform proudly. His mother held his hand tightly. She looked so pretty tonight, in her pink saree. With the strings of jasmine in her hair. They sat together. When his name was called, he ran up to the stage lightly. Everybody was clapping. "Shyam Jha." Said the teacher's enthusiastic voice. "Principal's award for best overall Academic performance, 7^th Standard." He took the certificate from the Chief Guest's hand. His eyes searched for his mother's frantically from the stage. There she was. Clapping furiously. Tears running down her cheeks. He smiled at her, and walked back to her proudly. And then they were back home, after she'd treated him to ice-cream for his success.

"Look what your son got at school today," she held out the certificate to his father. He glanced at it. "What is it?" he asked indifferently.

"It's a certificate Dad!" he said excitedly. "I got it because I came first in class this year." His father ripped the certificate in two. "Congratulations, Son." He said, laughing at his wife and son's horrified faces. "I need money," he said to his wife. She handed him a note wordlessly. He snatched at it and walked out quickly. She picked up the 2 pieces of the certificate.

"I'll fix it Shyam. Don't you worry. We can glue it together and it will be good as new!" she said brightly to her Son.

"Yes, Mother," he said quietly, a blinding rage seething within him. Tears welled up in his eyes, but before they could spill out, a small voice spoke. "Not yet." And then the scene changed again.

He pushed open the door of his home excitedly. "Amma!" he called. "Amma. I did it. I won a full scholarship to Law school. Amma, I'm going to be a lawyer," he called pushing open the door to her room in their little shanty house. His father sat there on the floor, weeping hysterically. His mother lay on his lap. Blood trickled down the side of her forehead, pooling on the floor. Her skin was ashen. He'd never seen anyone that color before.

"What did you do to her?" he yelled furiously at his father. He knelt by his mother, trying to rouse her. But she didn't wake. He patted her cheeks, her arms. He cajoled, he cried, he screamed, he begged. Yet she slept silently.

"I didn't mean to do it. It was a mistake. I just pushed her," said his father, sobs racking his body now.

"You bas***d. I'll kill you for this," he said. He pulled his mother away from his father's lap and onto his. He hugged her tight and rocked her back and forth. "I got into law school, Ma. I'm going to be a Lawyer." He whispered into her ear, "Aren't you proud Ma?" This times the tears spilt onto his cheeks and he dashed them away, almost impatiently. "So, my mother died. So what? I don't care anymore." He told the little Khushi in front of him. "It was a long time ago." He said loudly.

"I know," said the child. "So long ago that you had forgotten. But you musn't you know. You must never forget." She said. She waved a hand in front of her. A fog enveloped them. A minute later it cleared. He was in a courtroom.

"This court sentences Satishchandra Jha to 30 years in jail for the murder of Sumati Jha. " read the judge. He tuned out the details of the verdict. Which Jail. When it would begin. Parole eligibility. He didn't care about those things. The old man was 50, but he'd drunk himself to liver cirrhosis. He'd never last another 15 years, leave alone 30. He felt waves of joy overcome him. His first case as a lawyer. And he'd won it. He felt he'd done his mother justice that day. "You'd be so proud Amma," he said, kissing her picture. He drank an entire bottle of Old Monk that night. And yet, he wasn't drunk. His walk was steady. His head amazingly clear. His thoughts razor sharp. And his belief in the law, unswerving.

"That was a good day," said Shyam, turning conversationally to little Khushi. She nodded happily. "I know. And I'll show you another happy day," She said.

He lay on the green grass of a large meadow. She lay beside him. They'd been together for 5 years now. And he loved her madly. He threaded his fingers through hers. "Let's get married," he whispered softly.

'What, today?" she asked laughingly.

"Not today. But soon. I want you in my life. Forever." He said, looking into her clear brown eyes.

"OK." She shrugged. "Let's do it."

"Are you serious?" he asked, a smile breaking out on his face. ''

"Never been more serious." She said, smiling at him lovingly. He leaned over and kissed her.

"Stop, don't show me what's next. I don't want to see!" said Shyam, throwing his hands in front of his face, as if blinded.

"You need to see it." Said an implacable voice that suddenly didn't sound like the child Khushi, but very much like the adult Khushi. He looked at her startled. The little girl was staring at him, a grave expression on her face. "You need to see it all," she repeated.

They were in a restaurant. He didn't know she was there too. She was talking to two of her friends, sitting at the bar. He was about to walk up to her when he heard her say, "He thinks I'm going to marry him," in a snide tone to her friend.

"And you're not?" the friend raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not. He's poor. It was just a college fling. It's over now. We're grown ups now. And Daddy has millionaires lined up for me. I can't marry the son of a bricklayer whose father murdered his mother, no matter how brilliant he is. Besides, I don't love him." She said stonily.

"Then why were you with him for 5 years?" asked her friend curiously.

"I need a man in my life. I hate being single. For law school, he was an excellent choice. He did my homework for me. Helped me study. And he's not bad looking, you know," she grinned. "He's just not, husband material," she crinkled her nose as if he smelled bad.

"When are you going to tell him?" asked the friend.

"Tomorrow," she said her red nails curled around the stem of her wineglass tightly. "I'm telling him tomorrow.

"She was my first love," he said ruefully, looking at the child Khushi. "And you never loved again," said Khushi softly. "Come. My time is over."

Shyam sat up in bed. "That was some dream!" he said to himself. "I really need to quit smoking." He glanced at something shining at the foot of the bed. A single pearl lay there, on the edge of the comforter. He picked it up. It looked exactly like the ones on the dress the child Khushi had worn. He looked at it reflectively for a moment. Then he put it under his pillow and slept again.

An hour later, he felt the room shaking. He sat up, wondering if it was an Earthquake. The glass on the nightstand fell and shattered to pieces. The crack in the ceiling above him widened alarmingly. And through it a form emerged. Shyam cowered under the comforter wondering who it was this time. The blanket was snatched out of his hand, leaving him shivering. He looked up into staring, broody black eyes. His eyes, in fact. He wore a light blue shirt and grey pants. His hair was slicked back with gel. "Before you ask, Yes, I am you. Your present self, in the other worldly sense, so to speak. And yes, I am also the Ghost of the Christmas Present. Now, would you please come with me? I have much to show you." He said speaking easily. It was slightly creepy to follow himself out of the room, but Shyam shuffled out hastily. His other self held out a hand. "Hold on now!" he said warningly.

He stood outside the Gupta house. The ladies were in there, busy preparing for Payal's wedding. He pressed his face to the window to hear them speak. His other self gave him a little push. "Go on in. They can't see you," he said. Shyam walked in to their living room.

"Jiji's wedding is going to be so much fun. I am so excited!" said Khushi, smiling broadly. Payal smiled demurely. Garima and Buaji looked on fondly. "I only wish your father was in good health!" said Buaji. "he would have liked so much to be a part of this. To plan his daughter's wedding," she sighed. Garima's eyes filled with tears. "Yes. But at least he is here. He can see everything happening. He can watch us plan and shop and do everything for Payal," she said softly.

"You're the reason he can't organize his daughter's wedding, by the way," said his voice in his ear loudly.

"I know!" said Shyam irritatedly. He thought his other self was annoying, to say the least.

"Where are we going to find the money for Payal's jewelry?" asked Buaji, suddenly. The little group fell silent.

"I don't need jewelry Buaji. Akashji likes me as I am," said Payal softly.

"Be quiet, girl. You know nothing. Now Garima, I have about 17 thousand rupees saved up. We can use that," said Buaji.

"I have 58,500 rupees in my account, and it's all for the wedding," said Khushi.

"If only that scoundrel hadn't run off with your old jewelry Payaliya!" said Buaji. "They were such beautiful pieces, traditional, yet pretty," she sighed heavily.

"They're referring to you," said Shyam's other self, poking him in the ribs. "You're the scoundrel who ran off with the jewelry. Except they don't know it was you. Just like they don't know it was you who tried to kill Khushi's father."

"Shut up!" said Shyam, "I'm well aware of what I have and have not done!" he said, exasperated.

"Khushi. Did you bump into Shyamji at the Raizada house today?" asked Payal concerned.

"No, thank goodness. He's away on business." Said Khushi shortly.

"I hate that man. I hope he dies a slow and painful death!" said Buaji.

"I agree Jiji. He should suffer for what he did to my daughter," said Garima.

"I just want to stay away from him," said Khushi, looking angry now.

"I think we should tell them!" said Payal.

"No!" said Shyam before he could help it. No one heard him, of course.

"I agree," said Buaji. "We must expose him. He's a cheat and a scoundrel."

"That's true!" whispered the Ghost Shyam to the real Shyam. "Our name should have been Sham, not Shyam!" the other Shyam quipped. Shyam was not amused.

"No. No we musn't. For Payal's sake, No." said Garima firmly.

"I agree," said Khushi. "Besides, I know Anjaliji. She loves her husband dearly. She wouldn't be able to handle this. Not right now." She said.

"Also true. Let's take a look at our wife, shall we?" said the other Shyam in a cheery voice. What?" he said, looking at Shyam's angry glare. "Well, since I am essentially you, she is my wife too. Nothing to get upset about," said the Ghost Shyam reasonably.

They were in the Raizada Mansion. Anjali sat on the bed, in her room. She was calling someone on the phone. Shyam felt his phone buzz n his pocket. He picked it up, to take a look. She was calling him, of course. She had called him 12 times in the last 2 hours, he saw.

"Why isn't he picking up? It' s late, but he always calls me when he's away before he goes to bed." She looked worried. "And I have such excellent news for him too." She said.

"What news? What's the news?" asked Shyam excitedly. The other Shyam nodded his head at him. "Dunno man. I know what you know. I swear!"

Anjali had put the phone away now. She walked over to her cupboard and rummaged around. She found what she was looking for, apparently for gave a low cry of happiness. She lugged a heavy folder to the bed and set it down. It was her wedding album. "Let's see now. Where to begin?" she said, flipping the pages rapidly. "Oh! Here is the sangeet. That's me, with the mehndi on my hands. And that's Chotey there. He looks so handsome in the Sherwani," she said chattily. "And that, that's your father little one. Isn't he a looker? I fell in love with those eyes the moment I met him!" she said patting her tummy lightly. "You know your Dad, he's the strong silent type. So if he doesn't say much, it doesn't mean he doesn't love you or he doesn't care for you. He loves you a lot. He's just not very good at sharing. He's had a troubled childhood, your father. It hurt him a lot. But, I'm sure he will be a wonderful father to you, my baby. Just like he's been a wonderful husband to me," she smiled.

"Our delusional wife is pregnant!" said the Ghostly Shyam, whistling softly.

Shyam's eyes were filled with a softness that hadn't been seen in them for many, many years now. "I am going to be a father!" he said quietly, shaking his head.

Shyam woke up with a start. His heart was beating loudly. "Anjali's pregnant!" was his first thought. He picked up his phone. There were 13 missed calls from her. He began to call her when the phone was snatched out of his hands.

"Not so soon Father!" said a nasty ice-cold voice. Shyam looked up to see a young man, about 16 years old, standing in front of him. He was the spitting image of Anjali, he had her eyes, her chin, her nose. "You look like your mother!" he said, reaching out a hand to his son.

"Thank Goodness. I'd have rather died than look like you. Anyway, come along. It is my pleasant duty to show you the future," he said grimly. The air grew very very cold. It was a dark, winter night. They were in an empty alley in old Delhi. A sewage drain ran by the side of the road. "Look. Into it. There!" said the boy, pushing Shyam towards the sewer. Shyam looked into it and recoiled in horror.

"That's..that's..that's!" he said, stammering.

"That's you Daddy dearest. Dead as a doornail. And in a sewer. Where you deserve to be." Said the boy. "Let me cut the story short for you. Your sins found you out. When Khushi told the Raizadas, the shit hit the ceiling. Arnav Uncle threw you out. He made it impossible for you to find work. Not just that, he bankrupted you. You had nothing. No friends. No family. And most importantly, no money. You lived on the streets. And died of Tuberculosis. Untreated. Unloved. And unwanted." He continued mercilessly.

Tears poured down Shyam's face. "Please. Tell me no more. I can't bear it. I can't bear it." He wept. "OK. I won't tell you. I'll show you." The boy swept him off inexorably. He was at the Raizadas again. There seemed to be some kind of party going on. The sound of muted voices talking and glasses tinkling abounded. He saw Arnav right away. He was talking to someone. He had on rimmed glasses. His hair held an edge of grey at the temples. He looked distinguished and handsome. He had his arm around Khushi's waist. Khushi stood next to him, looking spectacular in a pearl grey saree. She leaned into him smilingly. They looked blissfully happy. A brightly lit Christmas tree stood at one corner of the room. There was a clutch of children playing around it.

"They're Arnav Uncle's and Akash uncle's children," said the boy, smiling fondly. Shyam looked at his son. He looked almost transparent. Like he was vaporizing away. "What's happening to you Son?" he asked in a panicky tone.

"It's not what's happening Father. It's what happened! It's what you did to me." Said his son's scornful voice. "Look!" he commanded harshly.

Shyam looked to the sofa where Anjali was seated next to man. They were holding hands. And a 10 year old girl sat with them, reading quietly. Anjali's daughter was shy and rarely played with her cousins. She lived in the US and only visited once every year, so she was still uncomfortable with them.

"She's remarried. Of course. I'm glad." Said Shyam, actually sounding happy. "But where are you my son?" he asked, looking to his side. His son was almost gone now. Only a vague, wispy outline remained. "She never had me. She killed me when she found out who you were. She didn't want a monster's child." Said his Son, voice now sounding feeble. "I have to go now. My time is up."

"No. Wait. She couldn't have killed you. She's the gentlest soul I know. She would never kill you!" yelled Shyam, tears pouring down his cheeks.

He woke up all sweaty and clammy. He touched his cheek to find wetness. He looked at the glass on the nightstand. It was unbroken. He picked it up and drank the water unsteadily. When he had drained the glass, He rummaged around for his phone. He finally found it under the pillow. There were 13 missed calls from her. He called her back, even though it was 3 in the morning.

"Hello!" she said sleepily.

"Anjali, are you pregnant?" he asked urgently.

"Yes. How did you know? I wanted to tell you. I tried to call you so many times." She said, not sounding sleepy anymore.

"Never mind how I know. I'm coming home tomorrow. Anjali, it's a boy!" he said excitedly.

"How do you know?" she laughed.

"I just do!" he said. "And Anjali, one more thing. I love you."

"I love you too," she said happily.

**EDITED**

Nice one Vidhya!!

Shyam had this bad past! For first time I feel bad for him..!😉

It's like all his bad deeds are justified with a good reason now though his actions were bad!

I liked the part where his son showed him the bitter truth..!

Nice virtual travel for Shyam and of course for me too!

Nicely penned dear! Thanks for the PM😊

But I cdnt take my eyes of the story till the end. And subject & writing-wise totally superior...the kind of style which wins accolades.

To cut it short, It was gripping and bloody brilliant Vidhya👏!!!!!!