Shade Behind the Glass - Illusory Sensation

[aries]

Vicky questioned his reality: "Is this truly happening, or am I just being paranoid? How could she do this? She’s innocent, like a blossoming flower. So pure that it feels sinful to think ill of her. She remains the loving, caring wife she was five years ago when we married. Perhaps my inability to give her the greatest gift—a child—is driving me to madness. Last night, Raju must have been waiting for me. Sarita was probably changing in the other room. When I got home, I saw Raju on the couch and Sarita in her petticoat and bra, and like a paranoid fool, I jumped to conclusions.

But what if Sarita truly was unfaithful? What if my best friend Raju had betrayed me? Why does Sarita always act flirtatiously around Raju and others? Why were they so startled when I came home early to celebrate our anniversary?

I need to shake these thoughts away. Sarita would never betray me. Look how my suspicions ruined a perfect evening. Our anniversary is gone forever. Now I must seek forgiveness from my beloved wife. Yes, I should return home early tonight and plead for her mercy for my rude behavior last night. I need to show her that my love hasn’t withered away like the flower discarded last night."

Vicky deeply regretted his actions from the previous night when suddenly, the heavy hydraulic press caught his unmindful hands between its mechanical jaws. He watched as the rotating gears tore through the ligaments of his hands one by one. Vicky could see his white bones snapping before his eyes but felt no pain. He heard his colleagues shouting frantically around him. With a loud hissing sound, the giant wheel stopped as someone pressed the emergency button. His severed hands dropped to the ground one by one. Vicky tried to pick them up but realized he would never be able to grasp anything again.

Vicky opened his eyes and closed them again as the bright light of the hospital room blinded him momentarily. As his eyes adjusted, he saw whiteness surrounding him like death. He was sweating heavily and struggled to free himself from the sheets but found it impossible.

When Sarita and the attending doctor entered his room, Vicky stared at the emptiness just below his elbow. His face revealed no signs of panic or pain—only utter surprise. Sarita was silently crying; she must have been doing so for quite some time, as her swollen face was red with anguish. Vicky felt nothing; he simply looked away and closed his eyes.

Both the doctor and factory supervisor believed they were sharing valuable information with Vicky, both wearing fake smiles as they delivered their news. The doctor lectured about advancements in prosthetic arms nowadays, while everyone present looked at Vicky as if feeling sorry for their own hands, thinking how fortunate he was to be receiving two state-of-the-art artificial arms—perhaps even better than the real thing.

The second piece of news from Vicky’s boss made Sarita so happy that she almost kissed the manager in gratitude: Vicky would receive twenty lakhs from corporate insurance as compensation for his lost hands—ten lakhs for each! Of course, some formalities needed to be cleared first, and both amputated hands had to be preserved until the inquiry concluded.

“Where are my hands? Can I see them?” expressionless Vicky asked politely.

“You bet you can! After all, they are yours,” replied the doctor lightly. Everyone in the room chuckled at this sense of humor and looked toward Vicky with hope that he would join in their laughter. The doctor felt disappointed that he couldn’t make Vicky smile with his joke.

“Well, Mr. Venkatesh, I’ll instruct the nurse to bring your hands near your bed. Now if you’ll excuse us, visiting time is over.” The doctor turned toward the gathering while Sarita leaned forward to kiss Vicky on the forehead. He felt an urge to hold her tightly after such a long time—a longing that included many moments before he became crippled. Sarita left the room resting her head on Raju’s shoulder for support.

“Don’t you think my hands are fairer than the rest of my body?” Vicky asked this question to nobody visible as he held a large glass jar on his lap filled with formaldehyde solution, as the doctor had explained. Inside rested his pale, yellowish hands—once part of him just days ago. The lid was tightly closed, yet a foul smell mixed with chemicals and decaying flesh filled the room.

The nurse entered his cabin to inject antibiotics into his saline drip when Vicky asked her directly, “Sister, do you think my nails are longer than before?”

“What kind of question is this?” The nurse looked at him with utter surprise.

Vicky gazed at his jar with a vision comparable only to a loving mother watching over her sleeping baby. He looked at it with sincere affection; despite being preserved in liquid, necrosis was evident as reddish substances oozed from the meaty ends of his hands.

The nurse silently left but soon returned with the doctor.

“Anything wrong, Mr. Venkatesh? Why don’t we set your hands aside for now and let me check your wound?”

“Doctor, why do I still feel pain and itch in my hands? Do you think my hands are in pain inside that jar due to this strong chemical?”

“Keep your mind out of it, Mr. Venkatesh. It’s a very common phenomenon called phantom sensation; it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. Once your wounds heal, we’ll give you your artificial hands. With time, you’ll get accustomed to them.” The doctor sounded like a salesperson from an artificial hand company.

Vicky wasn’t listening; he continued staring at his rotten hands inside the glass jar and said, “My hands are full of wrinkles; they’re drying up! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Please change the liquid, doctor.”

The doctor shook his head in disgust: “Damn it! We should have disposed of those hands long ago! What on earth is this insurance company going to do with severed hands from this poor man?”

Sarita switched on the light inside Vicky’s room. Vicky sat in a wooden chair, a look of utter helplessness on his face. His trousers were soiled, and he missed his hands more than ever.

“What the hell?! I pay for a maid with all our hard-earned money to take care of you, and she’s not doing her job! She left early today?”

“She hasn’t turned up at all today. She told you yesterday that she wouldn’t be able to come. I thought you would return early, and I would manage. I tried to control it, but even the toilet was locked. You should have returned earlier; you should have remembered.”

“What are you talking about? You know very well I was following up with the insurance company!”

Sarita shouted angrily, her face drawn close to Vicky’s. He could smell alcohol on her breath, a scent reminiscent of formalin mixed with rotten meat.

“Calm down, Sari. You know very well that official hours ended at least four hours ago.”

“What more do you expect from me? If I had lost both my hands, would you sit around me all day? I’m doing a lot for this house, and now you’re accusing me, you crippled worm? You disgust me!” Sarita rushed out of the room without doing anything. Vicky felt pinned to his seat as warm tears rolled down his cheeks. He realized he was gripping the chair handle tightly, so tightly that his fingers began to ache.

The lunatic sound of laughter became unbearable for Vicky. It went on and on. Sarita was having a great time with Raju and another friend downstairs. They must have been high, laughing uproariously at every word exchanged. Vicky could tolerate it no longer; it was still his house after all. It was still his family. He may be crippled, but he was not dead. Vicky came out of his room and walked downstairs toward the source of the laughter.

Sarita lay on the couch with her head in Raju's lap. The upper part of her sari lay on the floor; she wasn’t wearing a bra today, and her nearly unbuttoned blouse was too short to cover her modesty. The other person present in the room was playing with Sarita's feet, his hands occasionally slithering upward through her legs. In front of them stood a whiskey bottle and three glasses decorating the scene. Vicky paused for a moment, spellbound by the audacity of these bastards in his own home.

“Aaoo Thakur, aaoo aaoo,” one man—whose name was unknown to Vicky—mocked him upon noticing his presence. Laughter erupted again.

Vicky kept his cool and tried to sound as authoritative as possible. “Sarita, what are you doing? Don’t you think it’s too late? Why don’t you ask your friends to go home?”

“Chill out, Vicky. You’re right; it is late, and we should get going. Come on, Sunny. Let’s leave these lovebirds together.” Raju attempted to diffuse the situation with more words but failed as he was too drunk to do so. Sunny turned toward Vicky and said, “Why don’t we shake hands with the host for his wonderful hospitality?” Again, they burst into laughter as they departed.

Sarita was no longer laughing; she hissed like a poisonous snake, ready to bite. She could barely keep her eyes open and gave Vicky a burning glance before collapsing onto the sofa.

Vicky was dreaming. He could hear Sarita moaning with pleasure downstairs. She must be with Raju. Vicky left the bed and walked toward the closed door in his room, opening it with both hands.

Yes, his hands were back in their places. Vicky looked at them with love. His hands were pale yellow, wrinkled, and dripping with formaldehyde solution. His nails had grown long and sharp, almost resembling claws.

He left the room and found Sarita alone on the sofa, sleeping like an innocent baby. Her sari was not properly covering her, making her partial nudity more alluring. Her breasts moved rhythmically with every breath. Vicky felt an unstoppable urge to kiss Sarita, to hug her, and to rest his head between the valley of her breasts. He wanted to smell her; he wanted to make up for lost time. Just then, Sarita opened her eyes, like lotus petals parting, and asked, “What do you want, you creep?”

Vicky caught Sarita by her hair, his pale cold fingers digging tightly into her throat. She gasped for air and tried to loosen his grip, but Vicky’s hand kept pressing until her last breath left her.

Vicky woke from his nightmare with a sharp cry as his nurse called for help. It took him a moment to realize his situation. It was morning already, and he was drenched in sweat, still trembling from the fear of the dream. It felt so real! The shouting was coming from downstairs. Vicky quickly left the room and managed to open his bedroom door ajar. He came downstairs to find Sarita’s lifeless body lying just in front of the couch. Her eyes were open, and her expression showed she had been terrified before her death. The unmistakable chemical stink of formalin polluted the air around her. The world around Vicky began to spin, and he soon fell unconscious beside Sarita.

“Any news on your wife’s murderer yet?” the doctor asked Vicky with genuine concern from across the table.

“I don’t know; last week the police said they could arrest Raju as a suspect for the crime while still looking for the other convict, Sunny, who successfully escaped. Raju pleaded not guilty and swore he knows nothing about it.”

“Whatever the case, it certainly created a media frenzy. The police must solve this case as soon as possible. Don’t worry, Venkatesh; the culprits will get their deserved punishment.”

Vicky remained silent, trying to end the topic. The doctor suddenly remembered something: “Oh, I forgot to mention—I got permission from the insurance company to destroy your hands. Would you like to see them one last time?”

Vicky covered his nose with a handkerchief to block out the stench invading his senses. The staff opened a jar containing both hands and placed them on a tray. Despite being preserved in solution, they smelled like a dead body; both hands were wrinkled and almost mummified beyond recognition.

Suddenly, the hospital staff noticed something and muttered in a barely audible tone, “What the hell?”

Vicky pushed past the staff with his shoulder to clear his view and discovered several long strips of human hair coiled around the fingers of his pale, rotten hands. An uncanny sensation washed over him as he tried to shake off the hairs from his fingers but found he couldn’t—he had no hands left to do so; all he had was phantom sensation.