The Great Scientist ( short story)

CHAPTER 1

"Thats what they look like."

CHAPTER 2

"That's what they look like." said Dinkar, looking out of the window. We both looked at him, carefully observing his movements, while he was involved with his work in excitement. The excitement which an astronomer goes through at the sight of a new planet; the excitement you will have at finding the treasure box thats been hidden in your backyard for years.

"What is he writing?" I inquired, " Or, is he drawing something with the pen?"

"Dont you know, he must be writing some new formula. Something that will lead to an invention," was the quick reply from Dinkar, "All great scientists look the same."

May be Dinkar was correct, but i was not sure. He did look like those weird scientists unaware of their long ugly hair, who dont have time to shave, and if you ask them when and what they ate for the last time? They will stare at you with a blank face.

The only movement he made was that of his right hand, and his head moved as he occassionally looked at the passers'by, sometimes with a smiling face and sometimes perplexed, but most of the time looked down at the notebook on his lap. And he worked like that.

"May be you are right!" exclaimed I, "Just see his face, it looks as if he is trying to solve the toughest of the problems in this world." I still had doubt in what i said, but to an extent i did believe in it.

He was not the scientist who sits in his laboratory - like the one you might be imagining - with so many chemicals of various colors contained in flask about him, mixing them, with his face covered in a mask, and noting down the observations. No, he was not like any of them.

He was clad in an muddy old rag, torn at various places, and thick enough to hide his body features. His dirty brown hair came down well below his chin, and covered more than half of his face. The only part of his that was visible was his face through his hair, and his fist came out of the muddy rag as he worked.

The traffic started to crawl, and we kept looking out at him through the open window frame of the bus. Here was the inventor, the creator of new things, walking on the pebbled road. The only thing I could wish for him was that had he got a proper education, had he got noticed by the scientists community. But, here was the genious walking down the road of truth of life. And dont know how many theories and invention would go with him to the grave.

He looked towards us, with intent of smile, as if he heard my wishes and thanked me for that. I smiled back, though it was soon clear that he was not looking at anyone in particular. I kept looking at him as the bus moved on, and soon lost that photographic frame in the past, through which i had looked at him.

CHAPTER 3

The only thing that remains with me now, is a vague image of his, with blurred outlines, which always changes with time.

Whats There in Name?

Name!.....Image!

You live for the Image; not for yourself, not for others, but only for the image.

As soon as you are born, you are given a name. A Name, that becomes your identity. A Name, by which everyone knows you. A Name, which means you.

Everything you do- whether its good or bad, right or wrong- you are identified with a Name. Imagine what would happen if you dont have any name. You would be like a blade of grass- amongst thousands in the field, a ripple in the river, a leaf on the tree, a sand particle in the desert. Have we ever tried to Name them? You could be a charming person like a rose, but still you are not unique- there are thousands of roses. You could carry urself in a dignified manner like a ripple, but you are not unique. You could be the creator, but you are still a blade of grass.

Have we ever tried to Name them? Imagine a poor child who begs at the red signal at the crossroads. Have you ever thought what that childs Name could be? What about the butterfly which appeased you with its vibrant color? Is there any Name for the drop of water which quenched your thirst when you were walking alone in the desert. What was the Name of the person who showed you the path way back home? Definately i would never know his Name. But he left an Image with me, which had flown down the river of time.

Then what is it thats more important? The Name or the Image? ....

Anyway only for the Name that we do what we do. We want everyone to see as someone big, i.e. our Name should mean something big. We always want to grow and struggle to achieve higher goals. So that others can say that He/Name is doing good, is growning. Imagine, will it all happen if there is no Name. We wont try to grow, as it wont be recognised. So for an individual the Name is more important than his Image. In a way we can say that Image is a subset of Name. And for a person who doesnt know our Name its the Image thats important. According to the situation, the thing by which others identify us is important.

The Murder (story)

The dark trees went past my car at the speed of more than fifty miles an hour as I drove it on the empty road in the night. The streets were empty, except the stray dogs lying on the sides of the street. The wind was bitter outside, but I was sweating in my leather jacket.

The headlight swept across the dense houses as I took the turn at the corner of St. Anthony’s public garden, and braked it along the gardens wall with a squeaking sound.

My cigarette grew brighter than the moon as I puffed it in that dark night, still sitting there in my car. I opened my jackets top buttons to loosen my throat and took deep breadths before throwing the cigarette-bud out of the car window.

I walked forward with heavy steps, leaving my car behind under the shade of the dark trees. I took the first turn which led into a narrow passage. It smelled of filth as some tin cans passed under my feet. I was still sweating under the coat. There came few howling sounds from the other street and I paced up. I felt the metal of the revolver which was kept under the coat on my chest. I wanted to have another cigarette before entering the third house on the right. But there was none.

I jumped in through the window, and stood there motionless. The things in that room started becoming clear after some time as I stood there trying to calm my heartbeat. There was a marble statue of naked women with a pot beside me, just a foot away on my left. Her body was cold and soft, softness which I had never felt before.

Just ahead of me was the staircase, leading up into the darkness. With the softness of the statue I walked towards the door upstairs.

The door creaked as I opened it slowly in the stillness of the night. I looked inside through the partly opened door. As I stood there trying to hear any movement inside the room it was only the faint long howling of dogs coming through the thickness of the wall that I could hear. I slipped inside, pointing the gun, raised, in front of me.

It was a small but comfortable and warm room. Cool breeze was coming through the open window on my left, and diffusing into the warmness of the room. The street light coming through the window casted shadows on the wall opposite it. There lay a bed below the shadows. And there he was, sleeping like a baby lost in the dreams beneath the dark blanket.

I sat on the rocking chair near the window, facing the bed. With my back resting on the chair I hummed my favorite song as the chair rocked back and forth, lost in the softness of the naked women. How sweet were those days when we used to sit together on the beach and she used to hum my favorite song along with me. On those evenings, when the waves came and touched our feet, it was like they asked for our blessings, giving us the feeling that our love is eternal. As if our love will live more than the life of the ocean.

Tears trickled down my cheek as I hummed that song in the stillness of the night. The revolver in my hand was now lighter than earlier. He moved in his bed like a snake. And, just with the pull of the trigger the snake was dead, shot on his head.

The sound of the shot blasted in my head, and I woke up sweating in my bed under the shadow on the wall. I was shaking. Strong cold wind was flowing into the room through the open window. And the chair near the window was rocking.