The Last Kiss

He looked at the creature for four minutes straight. It was writhing on the ground, ebony skinned with a boil ballooned up from its calf. It smiled with its mangled teeth as light gleamed through the shutters. Skin folded upon itself like a tortured accordion with the frame hunched over in knurls like a failed contortionist attempting to manage inside a pitcher. 

It should be tied to a post. Or put in a sty. Chetan thought as he stared at the bête noire - “the beast with two backs”. He glanced at the affiancer and Murty gave a reassuring look speaking in Hindi: “Haa haa isaka bodh hay…” (Yeah it has sense.)

Murty herself was 10 years older than him with three marriages under her…shawl, so to speak. And now she got involved in this business after her realtor stint didn’t work out. A rather fortuitous meeting at a Starbucks at Long Beach caused them to meet and pretty soon the plot was being discussed.

Chetan himself was an IT specialist but after the telemarketing business tanked, he found himself grabbing at any opportunities to stay afloat. Although 27, he still had his life ahead of him. In fact, he himself migrated to SoCal marrying Shirley and divorcing her after 4 years. Of course, Uber only paid so much, so he figured this new opportunity will open up another couple of streams of passive income.

Although it was a Zoom call, he still needed her consent. “What’s her name?” he whispered. 

“Shanti.” 

Shanti was in her early 20s and lived in a small village in Uttar Pradesh. Her father lived by agrarian means and with a solid transfer or US $3,000 the marriage was easily arranged. In return, the family would lay no claim on her after the marriage certificate was forged. 

Chetan knew it would be a massive burden. But once he brings the thing from the airport and gets her settled in his apartment, the levers and gears would be set in motion by itself.

And yes, it was a thing. No human can possibly look at this thing and come to the conclusion it shared the same genes. It was a botched Basquiat painting. Its face, or whatever the distorted version of teeth jutting out from the corner of its lip consisted of, appeared more to somehow have survived a trainwreck than anything.

Three months later, all papers were signed and Chetan went to LAX to pick her up. An attendant with a sign on the wheelchair rolled her to the front as he showed her the documents and helped her to the back of the van that already had the proper hydraulics fitted. He secured the brakes, went to his seat and turned off the emergency lights, and sped away towards Howard Hughes.

After an eternity of nine minutes, Shanti finally spoke. “Thank you for bringing me here.” She said softly. Chetan didn’t reply. 

And it wasn't the first time he wouldn’t consciously acknowledge her. It was best to think of her as a tattoo or a limp that one grows unaware of over time.

Chetan rolled into his driveway. It was a four unit apartment complex. The math was simple. He would get $973 or whatever for SSDI for her and as a live-in caregiver another $1200 and whatever he would grab all day driving Uber would help him pay off his rent, utilities, and food leaving enough for the hookers at Vegas every Sunday.

He honestly didn’t know what to do with this thing at first. He wheeled her into the room, which had no furniture, and slowly closed the door. Shanti suddenly realized how thirsty she was. Although the ladies fed her timely throughout the whole 28 hour journey (the best Chetan could do for the cheapest fare), an unease made her throat dry.

“Abey chup. I feed you when I want and give you water when I want.” His tongue lashed like a whittawer’s belt.

And it wasn’t a notion entirely wrong. Every morning he would throw some cereal packs and had her fill the bowl on the ground with milk. Shanti was always supine. 

She felt it was also easier for her to stay lying than climb up the chair for no reason whether to go to the bathroom or not. If she needed to relieve herself, she would knock on the door as Chetan would open it and she would crawl to the restroom to climb up the commode with the boils dragging behind her like a ball-and-chain. 

#

A year passed. Chetan would gradually relax the locked-door policy. By now he was a full in-house caregiver and received her disability checks every month. Of course, since he was busy all day driving, he hired one lady (who herself had no papers arriving from Guatemala) from CraigsList to take Shanti to a nearby park every Sunday, which had a small lake that wasn’t visible from Harnbury Drive.

Universe either gives few passes or full carte blanche to go satanic all-in. Karma however reluctantly intervened this time.

Chetan was idling to pick up a passenger from Church’s Chicken. Of course, the moment the big, black, bulky guy in his security guard attire hopped in, he had a bad feeling. The man had tattoos in Old English script from his neck up with a teardrop and spelled trouble. 

“Drive”, he said.

But even before he could react, a thick Latino accent strung out as if on cue: “What’s up nigga, messin with the treses again huh?”

A figure in glasses and white paisley bandana in Packers jersey pulled out a 9mm from the side of the rear right window. Chetan of course knew nothing about guns, but before he could process the whole thing, two events occurred at rapid intervals.

The thug at the back was instantly dead as the gangster opened fire and when Chetan ducked and opened his left-side door, a stray bullet caught him. Chetan didn’t realize he was shot- because of the adrenaline perhaps- but as he dragged his feet and made a blitz, another bullet caught his thigh - as if the Latino gangster wanted to just rub it in wryly.

#

Four months passed by. Chetan was still bedridden in his apartment. Right after he got shot, Murty would come over and do all the helping such as dishes, laundry, and other chores. She wouldn’t forget to feed Shanti who would still make her weekly visit to the park lake every Sunday morning when Griselda would take her away. Even dogs needed fresh air.

“Hey Chetan, can you hear me?”

“Yeah yeah bolo…” 

“I can’t make it today. I gotta drop off my kids to the badminton club as their dad had to go back to Reno.”

“Oh it’s okay, no worries yaar.”

“You good?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I will just order delivery or some shit.”

“And don’t forget to feed Shanti.”

Chetan was quiet for a second. It was after a long time someone mentioned his wife… that thing by name.

“Arey yaar you worry too much.”

Chetan hung up and sighed. What disturbed him more about the incident was that not only he cannot drive for Uber but neither can he make an income from being her caregiver. He was dealt a double blow.

“Sir….” He looked up. And he stared in disbelief. He didn’t even hear the squeaky wheels as Shanti pushed a carefully prepared tray on the chair to the feet of his bed. 

His first reaction was a frozen look. He was as startled as sensing a foreign smell of a creature in a bedroom. 

“Arey chod, what the fuck are you doing here?” He hissed sharply. But at the back of his mind, he knew why not actually put the thing into business. Relax yaar, I mean why don’t actually make a use of her.

The menu wasn’t anything special. Oatmeal cereal and sliced kiwi with orange juice and some bread and butter. But it was impeccably arranged. Down to the folded handkerchief even.

#

Every morning since then Shanti would wake up four in the morning, crawl to the bathroom, and after making it spotless, she would glide onto the kitchen and make her husband breakfast. Yes, she still thought of him as her husband, even though the man never looked straight at her eyes. 

She would bring carefully prepared breakfast and leave at his feet. Little by little she would get the hang of it and dress his wound - which was still not healed- and sometimes massage him resting her head on his feet when too tired. Of course, Chetan would mildly yank her out. 

It was the 5th of June. Another sunny morning. Chetan was slowly getting better and although he was still bedridden he could manage to move around a bit. 

He was carelessly scrolling some Bitcoin tweets lying on his bed that day. His trance was broken by Shanti’s voice. “Sir…sir.. Happy…”

Shanti never got to finish her sentence. For yet another time Chetan looked at her in disbelief. She was on her knees holding a beautiful decorated cake with candles that she ordered via phone, stealing it when Chetan wasn’t looking.

But that thought didn’t even occur in his mind. “Arey… yaa kya tamasha shooroo kar diya…?” (What kind of mockery is this?)

And then he processed the whole thing. That beast, that disgusting beast with spittles foaming and dropping from its mouth, ordered.. DARED ordered food from his phone using HIS credit card. He thundered as the whole thing dawned on him.

“You wanna celebrate birthday?” He hissed in Hindi… “You wanna eat cake? You wanna eat birthday cake? Haramzade…. I am giving you birthday cake… I will feed you birthday cake. You daughter of a swine. You bitch.” Chetan leapt up and took the plate in whole motion and shoved it on her face. 

“Sir.. sir… maaaf karo…”

Despite her futile protests, he pressed the cake against her, smearing her entire face as the lashes fell rapidly on her. This time it was not that of the tongue.

#

Another two years passed by. The autumn leaves fell crisp and taxes were paid. Thanksgiving was celebrated and the surplus Valentine flowers were being sold the next day. It has been about three months since Shanti passed away from a heart attack. Griselda no longer came to pick her up. 

Chetan was now working from home and receiving checks for his depression for the past several months. And it wasn’t entirely fraudulent as he entirely lost meaning to his life. And the sight of the wretched creature turned his stomach despite it still came now and then and pressed her head gently on his feet. 

She would arrange the medications in the cellular slots for the week and when she would be done with the dishes and the restroom sometimes with his permission she would brush his hair. One day she even found a Ludo or a parcheesi set and would often play with herself in her idle times. By now, Chetan didn’t mind anymore.

Since the cardiac arrest, Shanti was in her room for a week after Murty brought her back in from the ER where she stayed a few days. Chetan either forgot or did not bother to even throw the bags of cereal at her. She was now just a forgotten whisper - a dust of smoke and a wisp of thawing snow on a tulip.

That day hours before she would pass away Chetan would come to her room as she was supine on the blank carpeted floor. It was the first time he came. How she longed to hold him! A faint smile glowed on her thin lips as she looked admiringly at her husband who stood tall like a daunting fair-skinned prince at her doorstep. Her smile said it all. She knew her time was up and for one last time she wanted to be held by him as he offered her a kiss. 

Chetan knew that was never to be had. There was once this Muslim saint- he heard - who was so pious he wanted to return an apple to the rightful owner of the orchard to which he traced after picking it from a river downstream. As he went to the owner, unbeknownst to him, that person was a saint in even more exalted level. He was so impressed with his righteousness that he decided to play a game. He feigned not to be pleased by his actions and pointed out that indeed it was the most unforgivable sin- stealing- and demanded that he needs to work for him as a slave for the next 5 years, of course, entirely on his volition. 

After five years passed by, the man came and pleaded for his freedom. The imam offered him another condition. He must marry his daughter who was mute, blind, and a lame. The man was driven to his patience and reluctantly agreed.

However the night he went to the wedding bed- he was bedazzled and star-struck as an incredible beauty sat in front of her.

This however was no fairy tale. There was no frog to be found nor an angel. He knew that kiss would never come. Not in this lifetime. Not in any lifetime. Some were destined to be the lint and disfigured mute autistic kids if not vegetables for life. That was their incarnation on this wretched hell of an earth. To be discarded and forever remain discarded. Such was the divine grace. Such was the cosmic game. A Brahmin always stays a brahmin, and an uncouth, untouchable yak always just that.

#

That time of the day came around again. It was his birthday. Oh when was the last time he even celebrated it? Chetan wondered as he chopped some onions and bell peppers for his omelette. 

It was years he even went to Vegas anymore. He thought he would dress up just for the hell of it. As he was pulling a tie from the drawer, he noticed that his ring fell off. Wow. It has been ages. After Shanti passed away, he got rid of all her clothes, which wasn’t much to begin with, as he moved to a new apartment. And he never knew that he kept the ring with him. 

The thought of that day clouded his mind. He wanted to brush it away. But more and more of her memories invaded him as the floodgate started to open. Chetan didn’t know what compelled him but he felt like visiting the lake that she always went to on Sundays. After five minutes of drive, he got out and smelled the fresh breath for a long time. Chetan realized that it was years since he went to a park.

The fresh morning dew-filled scent enveloped him as his trance took him to the same spot where Shanti always came to look at the placid lake for an hour or so. It was her refuge. 

Everything around him that slowly spun reminded him of her. He smelled a pleasant sense of her presence. His heart started to beat fast as he sunk into a severe state of depression. As all her memories filled his every cell, he started to slightly well up in tears. He was filled with an overflowing intangible emotion.

Futile he could resist. The distant sound of cackle grew louder and louder as the Doppler effect of an ambulance breezed to drop into a deafening silence.

The more he tried to push her away, his soul would fill his entire being with vivid flashes of the lifeless nights she stayed by her bed, adjusted the comforter, or would simply just caress his feet thinking he fell asleep. Or when she would sing like a cuckoo on wee hours of the morning like a solemn lament. Or the day he would receive a series of negative reviews and until today he would be in forever denial how her lilting voice sounded like his mother’s whose only memory of his was that of the photo in a red velvet robe.

Suddenly his entire mind came to a still-stop. He was completely overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it all. From the ungainly snail to the fractal pattern of the tortoise-shell on the rocks under the gazebo as jacarandas’ pink confettis filled the undulating bank with her royal cloth perhaps to make Hakuin or Basho pause.

It was becoming dazzlingly bright as the sun now fully beamed, parted by the cloud. As his breath slowed, he could hear every single crisp details from the squirrel ruffling leaves to the pink petal of the hibiscus to the gentle egret that glided to the water as mallard ducks floated towards some wheatgrass looking plants which looked exquisitely green to the crickets or some unknown insects chirping as susurrus hush of a mother comforting her child evaporated in the background.

They say places have energy. At that instant, he wasn’t taking in one of the most breathtaking scenes, rather feeling her spirit. He saw what she saw. His soul merged one with hers as he took in the whole beatific vision. His consciousness became one with hers and Chetan realized how unbelievably, exquisitely, ravishingly beautiful her soul is. His soul yearning one last time to hold her, to feel her, to touch her…

His whole body convulsed, overtaken by all consuming passion for her. He felt as if the devi Parvati came before his presence as he dropped down, buried his head in his lap, and started sobbing profusely.