The Backslide

She might have been a blonde, and she must have been beautiful. She and her consort had chosen this place to celebrate their heydays of youth, when the climactic point of all dreams you cherish since the teenage becomes tangible. They had been lured by the glittering neon lights and dappled plush plexes. But they were not conversant with the dark by-lanes whence the murky eyes of the place stared. They were just supposed to tread the lightened paths, but they were scuffed into the dark alleys...

Place: Bangalore, sometime in the mid 90s.

It was the usual vernal brimming of the tourists, the time when Bangalore was a balanced mélange of sumptuous streets and verdant environs. The footfalls from abroad were on a rise, it was a high time for swindlers, and those eyes furtively glanced the backdrop.

Afternoon time, the glare of noon was closing in on cerise mildness. Traffic was buzzing on the MG Road. On a lane at a point, people had thronged around something. Shoveling and jostling the crowd, it was hard to manage to reach the front, and it was hard to make out anything from the hubbub.

There was that lady- withered eyes, wizened face, and in terrible fluster. Her hair was ruffled, clothes ragged, unaware of her presence, petrified by the milieu, and lost.

The throng was dispersing gradually. It was the man in uniform, hurtling the crowd away. There she was- she turned back, she grunted difficultly, her throat was visibly dry, her eyes deeply searching someone, she tried to stay in her senses, but then, she stumbled on her knees. She removed her eyes from the horrid sight, looked upward, and then came a shriek- one that lost itself in the cacophony of the city, but it resounded somewhere, with a mark. Her eyes, so keen to figure out someone out of the dull shades, had run dry.

The man took her away. Then arrived the grapevine.

The prowling eyes had finally pounced on the prey. Her husband had been abducted. He was heaved in quickly while she managed to haul herself out of the van. And there she was left, bereft, vulnerably exposed to the dirty streets of a beautiful city.

It was as if she had suddenly unraveled the true lineaments of the city, and removed the veneer of leniency. People chose this place to pass, and make some memorable moments here, with an idyllic scenery in their eyes, when they would be on the moon, all their plans and aspirations put in; and the depraved, debased cognomen of the miasmal society would pick out one, fiddle with his fate and show them the stark reality of the dystopia which reigned here.

A Week Later:

She was caught in an impasse. All she could do was wait and watch. But the play was soon over, and with a drastic end. On the outskirts, his body was found. He was strangled, and filched. They had left no scope for ransom.

A month later:

They were caught. But she was gone. The whole city had known her story, but none had listened to her jeremiads. It wasn't sure if she had come to know of this. She had now lost the local media limelight, so the matter was becoming impervious. But still, somehow it was heard that she had dabbled into the matter and left.

It's been more than 10 years now. But the images are still vivid. Not the exactitude of her lineaments, but her gestures. Her face has been hazed by the timeline, but not her frantic gesticulations, and her shriek.

Her demure mien is still expressive. And remains unparalled.
The city still beckons. And remains unfazed.