The Curry

I always thought that killers would naturally have a tangible aura of detachment surrounding them. A shield, perhaps, slowly strengthened with each drop of blood spilled.

How strange it was to come face to face to my executioner, only to find that his eyes held the warmth of kind grandfathers. How strange it was to not feel fear as I inched closer to Death's bosom, instead finding myself intrigued by this supposedly evil man. I wanted to be held by him and I wanted to listen as he whispered the secrets known only to the oldest of trees and the heaviest clouds.

He circled around me in silent contemplation; his footsteps and almost inaudible breathing blending into a melody that accompanied my bleak fate. Round and round he went, eyes partially closed, waiting for something. A sign? Divine intervention? Had my killer developed a conscience at this crucial point?

No. No, I convinced myself. Behind those eyes, those warm pools of brown, there was discipline. The old school, no bullshit, get in get out, at any cost type of discipline. Doubt, conscience and second thoughts are merely dried leaves that could do naught but flutter around the steel monument of resolve. He was going to kill me. Somewhere in the universe, my name was being slowly erased, letter by letter from the massive stone tablet called existence. The hour drew closer. I could feel its breath upon the nape of my neck.

The only question that remained: Why?

What had I done? What had I not done?

As I began poorly enumerating the possible causes of why an individual would have me removed from the surface of the earth, the footsteps stopped and the breathing deepened. He was right behind me, with a gun to my head, I'd wager. And then he spoke, voice as deep as the oceans.

"You do not know why you are here." Clear and smooth. There wasn't a hint of stutter. "In accordance to my employer's wish, I must ask you a question. You are to be given two choices. One guarantees you your life and obvious compensations while the other will lead to your swift and almost painless demise. If you understand these conditions, please nod and say 'Yes, I understand'."

I nodded. I told him I understood.

"Very good, sir. The question is as follows."

Inhale. Exhale. I knew I could do this. There was a long pause, it was as if my angel of death was giving me a grace period to make peace. Here it comes.

"Babas or Alagappas?"

I had a second to frown before it all finally made sense. The curry obsession. My flirtation with the two brands. My infidelity. My refusal to admit one is better than the other; not because there were equal endearing qualities to both but simply because it made me seem more intellectual. My mouth went dry. They found out. I tried to speak, to explain but my throat refused to move its muscles. A dry hiss instead of an explanation.

"You have ten seconds," my dear gunman said. There was no impatience in his words. Simply business.

Think, THINK! 9... Where do I start?! 8... Babas? Should I go with Babas? 6... But Alagappas... 4...

3... 2... 1...

I screamed out my answer, screamed as hard as I could till the heavens shook from my conviction. I kept on screaming as I waited for the bullet to silence me. My throat burned, my lungs deflated, my gut rigid and only then did my screaming stop.

"I'm sorry, Sir, that was the wrong answer."

It was almost painless.