Skip to main content

Old Crikey Part II

[Please forgive me for not writing the second part sooner! There is more to this. I will come with it soon! Please read Part 1 before you continue...]

The city of London was bustling as if it never slept. The morning air mixed with smog, as Philip and
Carla neared the station. It was the first train to leave for Paris that morning. Last night had been crazy. Lady Victoria, as if in mourning, was being entertained by a bunch of society prudes who came over to be a part of the facade.

“Whoever this Antoine was, he had better bring him home soon!” thought Philip. Thank god, he had a typical father. Carla kept looking at Philip coyly from the corner of her eyes, and whenever they could, they stole a long glance at each other. Carla smiling mischievously and Philip beaming. As a Sergeant, Philip was well respected, and so he could demand comfortable seats on the train. Now, he was travelling with a beautiful lady in a long time!

As soon as the train pulled out of the bustling city, the countryside was a welcome change. What wouldn’t he give to retire in a little cottage in the country with Carla, thought Philip? They could have a small farm and a little orchard in the backyard. Maybe two little brutes too. Beaming, Philip looked over at his muse who seemed to be in a deep slumber. Waking at noon, Carla found a cupcake waiting for her and a smiling Philip. They chatted and chatted, and chatted. She was smart, lovely and wanted to be a singer at one point in time. Perfect! She was an artist at heart too, thought Philip. Maybe they were made for each and thank god that forsaken Antoine was lost.

The day passed in a blur. The shining sun found them on the streets of Paris. The carefully lined streets and lovely cafes and bistros...Philip wished he had brought Carla here for a romantic rendezvous. But Lady Victoria...
“So what was the last clue you found in the room?” Philip asked Carla. “I saw the torn ticket that said Paris,” answered Carla. Their coffees arrived, and Philip bit into his quiche when Carla exclaimed, 
“Maybe Master Antoine is a slave trader?”

“No, No don’t be silly, Carla. He couldn’t be,” said Philip. “What if he could?” questioned Carla, eyes looking into the coffee cup.

“Well, if he were also, how could you think of this? Is there something you know that I should know Carla?”

Carla giggled, and Philip burnt his tongue with the hot coffee. Come with me was all she said. They soon got into a cab and drove to a warehouse. It was this old junkyard, and a few ruffians hung about. “What was this?” thought Philip.

The rogues hooted and hollered at Carla and Philip could only manage to go red in the face. Had they been in London... but where were they headed?

“Carla, please stop! I cannot handle this. Please tell me where are going?” questioned Philip.

“Look, Philip, you are a nice guy, and I don’t want to lie to you. I like you. Master Antoine is a pathetic creature. He kicked up a storm for everything. We had to stitch the carpets, curtains, clean the ceramic pots and what not, daily! He was any servant’s nightmare!” Carla exclaimed.

“What do you mean ‘was’ Carla? He is alive, isn’t he? So what if he was a wrong person, you could not have killed him? Please, Carla? Tell me? I mean to marry you! I cannot have you sent to jail,” a pale Philip asked.

He is not dead. Just kidnapped like the Lady said. But this is not the first time,” said Carla. Philip could faint. He was flabbergasted. Could Carla be a criminal? Oh God no!

Philip? Philip? Called Carla and pulled him closer. “I am not what you think I am! I am not a crook! I love you too! But Antoine...

Comments

  1. There you go again.... pulled the carpet from under my feet :-)

    Ok... look forward to the next installment... sooon

    Meanwhile... if you find the time... please read this little story that I attempted and feedback...

    http://themindmeanders.blogspot.com/2009/06/sweet-taste-of-salt.html

    ReplyDelete
  2. interesting! waiting for more.

    ReplyDelete
  3. @ As the Mind Meanders

    Now did I do that? //winks// Hehe! More coming soon.

    @ Mihir

    Thanks... just hang on for a bit!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Super excellent!

    And I think I understand what's going on! :D :D :D

    ReplyDelete
  5. this is super cool! I want more! :)

    ReplyDelete
  6. @ Himanshu

    More coming up soon!

    ReplyDelete
  7. arrey yaar...not fair at all :(

    just when it got bloody exciting, u put the break!

    pls dont take long for next part...varna...kuch nahi..i'll still read all the parts again!

    ReplyDelete
  8. ohhh nikki
    its awesome story and looking forward...
    i went through your few work you are doing good.
    try professional writing.

    ReplyDelete
  9. @ Kishore Choudhary

    Thank you! I am a freelance writer! Keep visiting! TC

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

GO ahead, say it out loud!

Popular posts from this blog

#Sorry not sorry

I feel sorry for ‘Sorry’ – such an abused term. When you come to think of it, it is just a word, right? It holds significance in some instance and at times, it is a mere excuse. But we humans absolutely love it as an excuse, don’t we? I use this term a lot; I mean a lot! I think of myself as a kind being, and hence, if I happen to push or ignore (deliberate), I say ‘sorry’. I say sorry for things that may not need a ‘sorry’. I say ‘sorry’ to people I am not really feeling sorry for (don’t read this the wrong way). In short, I say ‘sorry’ a lot like I have already admitted. It is my ticket to moving on, a ticket to redeem myself for mistakes and sometimes, tinged with slight sadness (maybe).


But is ‘Sorry’ the right word? Mean, is it even appropriate? Like they say, first you commit the murder and then say sorry. What is the point of it? I would say nothing. Sorry – the term originated from the West Germanic term Sore that evolved to Sarig, meaning pained or distressed. It is also known…

Celebrating Navratri? Stop now as we have no right to worship the female form...

Today my mom asked me to go get fall bidding done for her new saree. Navratri has begun and Durga Pujo is just around the corner. This year we are planning to go Pandal hopping on a Saptami instead of an Ashtami or Navmi to avoid the jams and the crowds. I will wear a saree too and my Punjabi husband will tag along for the delicious food.
In a multicultural household like mine, most festivals are a big deal, especially Navratri and Durga Pujo. But in the hullabaloo of festivities, we don’t stop to think of its essence – why do we celebrate Durga Pujo or Navratri at all. To celebrate Ma Shakti – a prompt answer from my mother. Navratri is a celebration of the nine stages of womanhood – a tribute to the power of the female.But to us commoners, it is a festival of dancing to the tunes of Garba or dandiya or Bollywood music. It is our turn to wear our best clothes, head out in the night, meet family and be merry. And once, this is over, the female form goes back to being what they always a…

I Wonder What Ants do on Rainy Days…

Source: Google Images
On days when the sun has abandoned us, hiding behind the grey, moody clouds. Do they sit inside their hills and wonder out loud? Do they stare outside at the rain, measuring the raindrops, letting thoughts splotch all over? Does the earthy petrichor take them down the memory lane? Or are they content with what nature has to offer? It is a part of their lives, isn’t it? They dredge up foods daily, diligently build their hills, even if it is to serve their queen, only to enjoy it on days like this, no? Maybe they do take stock of things, of their bearings. They ought to sleep it off, take a day to rest or do they lament on the lost time?
Unlike me.
When I gaze out, a gazillion thoughts fly by; some worthy of the pen, some so disturbing that I often question my sanity. I like the grey skies though. They seem like textured canvases waiting for me to scribble something. The lazy raindrops wetting the streets below and casting a temporary stain on window ledges bring a…