Fly on the Wall- An Excerpt

I have always been fascinated by mosaics and embroidered and woven tapestries or the paintings of the Renaissance period. The skill with which the artist brings together diverse colours and patterns, each scene that looks different when seen individually but takes on a completely different hue when viewed as a whole is something that I find extremely captivating.

I have tried to use the same technique in one of my stories, which is also the one that has lent its name to the book. In this story, there are individual episodes which come together to give a complete picture to the reader. Without all of them together, the story is incomplete; yet each one has its own identity. I had at one time planned to make this the base for a full length novel since the idea had caught my imagination. However, I realized very soon that I did not have the time to devote myself to a novel and decided to keep the story as part of an anthology. However, it occupies a special place in my heart as the book that could have been! An excerpt from “The Fly on the Wall”:

“Today, she felt like the proverbial fly on the wall, her large eyes observing every miniscule movement in convoluted, convex dimensions; every hair on her body stood on end with its heightened sensory perception magnifying the impact of the outside world to painful proportions. She uncurled the fingers digging into her palms and stared at the nails. The brown polish was chipped at the edges. She needed to re-do it tonight. She looked around again. The large hall was half full, the half drawn curtains allowing the fading sunlight to stream in half heartedly. Like Shishir Pande's half lived, too soon terminated life. She wondered how much longer they would wait before the charade began.

****

The gunshot rang clearly in the cool, moist air of Palamgarh, nestled in the lap of the Garhwal region. It was followed by another and then another, the sound ricocheting off the cliff behind the house into the darkness. She waited with bated breath. Six shots. Something was not right. After some time, silence returned with a vengeance, spreading quickly, noiselessly, like an expert swimmer gliding through water. At 5.45 a.m., Shonali Pande awoke, drowned in the pool of silence. Unlike other mornings, when the sound of rough palm brooms scraping the courtyard and her mother-in-law's morning aarti greeted her, today the house was in deep slumber. There was an insistent pinging noise and it took her a minute to realise that it was the doorbell, ringing incessantly as if it had jammed. Rushing downstairs, Shonali hurriedly let the impatient maid inside when she noticed that a deep red liquid had seeped out from under the living room door. She gingerly pushed open the door and entered, trying to desperately maintain her balance on the slick and slippery floor…..”