Surprise Me, Gentlemen!

By Amitabh Manu

An old, bored and disabled dictator, who misses waging wars of extermination, cooks up a bizarre recipe for his amusement. He arrests twelve writers from his state for the worst nightmare of their lives. They must write a story each. And that story must have a twist at the end, a climax that's truly surprising. The award for the best surprise ending: nothing. The award for the worst: death. Welcome to an overdose of surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9789358561234

Book preview

From a dark corner of the large room, the Dictator watched them being brought in blindfolded through the heavily panelled doors. His men, dressed in military uniform, led them to their position around a large, oval-shaped conference table.

A case of the intelligentsia being led by the lackeys, the Dictator said to himself with a sinister glee.

The captives were forced to sit with their hands stretched over the armrests of the specially designed chairs. The chairs were placed impeccably around the conference table.

Muted gasps escaped their lips when their arms and legs were clamped to the chairs with the metallic clicks of fasteners. One of the men handed the Dictator a remote control and, as ordered, left the room. The other men followed him. The Dictator pressed a button on the remote control and the lights went out. With another click focus lights illuminated one of his captives and his hands were released. As the captive reached behind his head to untie the knots of the blindfold, the Dictator leaned forward, eagerly waiting to see a look of terror in his eyes. His smile widened when he saw what he had anticipated.

Another click and the lights again went out completely. A moment later, the next captive was bathed in light just as her hands were released. The Dictator’s eyes watched with glee when her panic-stricken irises came into view.

And so it went on, one by one, till the Dictator had seen each one of the dozen pairs of mortified eyes, like a predator surveying its prey before going for the kill. His captives knew nothing but fear. They were quiet for some time, filled with apprehension and confusion. Then one of them mustered enough courage and spoke up. He stammered that it was a ridiculous prank and demanded immediate release. This emboldened the others and the room was echoing with their vociferations in no time.

It was time for the Dictator to reveal himself.

A click on the remote control flooded the room with a blaze of lights. The captives’ instinctive response was to protect their pupils from the painful glare. And when their eyes, haplessly searching for cues to make sense of the forced captivity, could peer out from beneath their palms, the sight that revealed itself served only to heighten their confusion: the mahogany table, the absence of guards, it was all very unlike any imprisonment they had imagined. The lull that followed consisted of confused glances trying to comprehend the situation.

When they heard the distinct metallic whirr of a motor some seconds later, they turned their heads to see a man moving towards them on an automated wheelchair. Although an incapacitated body covered in a glorious military vest, he was an intimidating presence whose remarkable face displayed an immense pride. Using a joystick attached to the right armrest of his chair, he moved to the head of the table.

I know what you are thinking: is this a nightmare? the Dictator said, leaning forward and watching them intently. No, it is not. The nightmare is yet to begin. You have all been, let’s say, invited at my behest. He sat back in the chair and continued, "When the lot of you was somewhat younger, from out of nowhere rose a man who had an unquenchable thirst to be the leader of the masses and who possessed an unrivalled genius to realize this dream. It was a time when the salt and pepper of democracy and communism were suffocating the slug of absolute leadership to death. In the time I am talking about, computers spoke with a lisp and their disks were floppier, the phones had a dial and communication was choppier.

"The man, whom I am forced to call a man for there is no higher being but the great Lord Himself, was not your everyday mortal. Superior in stature and marvellous in magnificence, no king more befitting ever sat upon a throne as august this nation’s.

His was a ministry of fear. His greatest strength was his ability to make the commoners believe that he was their saviour. He could give them hope, make them worship his idea of justice, and inspire them to give up their lives for him. Whom do you think I am talking about? Can any one of you guess?

No one spoke. Absolute silence pervaded the room.

"So, you’d rather be safe than sorry. Wise, but disappointing. I would have thought that my introduction of myself was remarkably accurate. But I am willing to pardon your reluctance to speak, assuming that you are awed by my presence. Yes, I was the indomitable imperialist with a mission to dominate the world. I had uranium in my cranium. I was the duke of nukes."

The wheelchair creaked as he tilted his weight to the other side. The effort raised the tempo of his wheezy breathing. Time had ravaged his once-fabulous form. His limbs were debilitated; their strength had been sapped out. He had difficulty swallowing; eating had become a liability. He even seemed to be losing his faculty of speech, his larynx perhaps corroded by its own causticity.

"As you can see, I can no longer amuse myself by fighting wars. I have left that to my sons, unworthy heirs who have forsaken my grand ambitions and are busy waging petty wars. I need to find other means to dole out justice, to amend the cruel ways of this unjust world. Though my body is confined to the mechanical movements of this chair, my mind remains alive. A thousand ideas buzz in my brain. One of them—a brilliant brainwave—has brought you here.

You see, I have always had a penchant for clever fiction, and you all are the cleverest authors of different genres of this state. Yes, you are all authors! Not necessarily the best, as there is no such thing, but certainly the cleverest in the way I like.

This discovery of being amongst other literati would have been inspiration enough under normal circumstances for the writers to jump into an intellectual warfare. However, in the present situation, it only served to mystify them further.

"My idea of a perfect story is one which ends with a surprise. I long for denouements that are so unanticipated that I am simply blown away. The story may take me through whatever journey of whatever thoughts and feelings over any land or terrain, I don’t care much about that. What really makes me applaud a tale is when its ending is truly clever. And with you as the ingredients, I have concocted a perfect plot for my amusement. I am a dictator-turned-director.

Your shackles will be opened soon and you will be escorted to your quarters to be confined for the next three days. There, each of you will compose a story, to the best of your abilities, with an ending that’s truly surprising. In three days time we shall gather here in much the same manner and each of you will read out your story. After each story, I will give you all some time to deliberate up on it. After all stories have been told, we will determine the story with the worst ending, and I shall have the author of that story executed. Yes, executed. Beheaded, electrocuted, poisoned . . . oh, I have not given a thought to that.

The shock wave that went through the captives was palpable.

"To be fair to you, I have decided that it will be all of you as a group, and not I, who will select the story which will kill its composer. I think it will be more amusing that way. Once all the stories have been narrated and deliberated upon, each of you will cast a vote for the story with the worst climax. I’ll have the votes counted. The author with the most votes would get the reward of an early dismissal from his or her earthly duties. Your legs are now about to be set free. Do not try anything stupid. Oh, how absurd of me! How could I possibly suspect that a bevy of writers will dare do anything audacious! Off you go to your quarters. Immediately get down to your work.

"Oh, one more thing: do not think that since I won’t be the one choosing the story with the worst ending, you do not have to impress me. Please note that your first job is to impress me, because if I do not like your story, I will have you killed alongside the writer voted out."

As he spoke the last words of the day, the Dictator’s mind arrived at the height of rapture. He clicked a button to call for the guards, and, when they were about to usher the twelve terror-stricken authors, he whispered in a cold voice: "Folks, now your nightmare has begun."

Ah! The kindred souls have returned, the Dictator exclaimed upon seeing his twelve captives being brought into the dreadful chamber. But why do you look so depressed? I assure you that we shall all have an exciting day. Then, after a long, suspenseful pause, he added, All of us but one, that is. Or maybe more?

The prospect of imminent death had made the authors push themselves to their limits, and they had poured their hearts out into their work during the past three days and nights. If their lives were at stake, so was their honour. Nobody likes their work being adjudged worst, let alone being killed for it at the same time. They all sat motionless, with their work lying in front of them, anxiously waiting for the Dictator to initiate the proceedings.

Before we start, let me remind you of the rules. We’ll go round the table with each of you reading his or her story. Each story will be followed by others commenting on it. After all the stories have been read, each of you will vote for the story you think had the worst ending. Your judgement should be dispassionate and objective. Quite naturally, the one voted out shall have to die, along with all others whose stories I do not like.

What will happen to the rest of us? the Crime Writer spoke up. He was the only one who possessed enough self-assurance to put his thoughts into words.

That information will be provided only on a need-to-know basis, the Dictator replied, staring back at them with the pallid fixtures that were his eyes.

But we all need to know, so why not tell us, persisted the Crime Writer.

Not all of you, I’m afraid, the Dictator replied. You see, one of you, or maybe more, will soon be dead. These unfortunate souls do not need to know what happens to the others after they’re gone. When they are dead, the rest of you will be informed of your fate.

If he could, the Dictator would have rubbed his hands with irrepressible glee. Since he couldn’t, he continued, his palms itching, For now, let it suffice for you to know that you all shall survive for some more time, some more hours. But why must we dwell on the fate that will befall the rest of you when we have not even determined who will be the ones to go? And why must we tarry so? The time is as auspicious as it could be. Let’s not lose another moment.

Now whom shall we start with? Why, it’s a countdown to death; we’ll go counter-clockwise naturally. Pointing to the author sitting to his right, he said, We will start with you, Mr Mystery Writer. I trust you are comfortable with that? Yes, of course you are. I might even suggest that you have been eagerly awaiting this opportunity. Hmm, yes? No? Who cares? You don’t have a choice. Let the game begin.

The mysterious Mystery Writer, unsure of whether to stand or sit, looked around. All eyes were fixed on him. He decided to remain seated, gathered all the papers in his hands, and nervously started reading out his story.

Ratin woke up with a terrible headache, a pain that was splitting his head into two halves, one so awful that he swooned back onto his pillow as soon as he tried to get up. He could hear someone’s feet pattering about the room. The light hurt his eyes when he tried to open them. Stinging, piercing sunlight was ricocheting around the room, giving everything an uncomfortable glint. He buried himself under the protective cover of the comforter. The feet stopped pattering and were replaced by hands knocking about. Hands folding linen, patting pillows back in shape, putting everything back in its place.

Ahh! Oh God, this pain is going to kill me, a gruff sound came out from his parched throat as he stretched to unlock the cramp in his neck.

If that does not, I will, if you do not get up right now, his wife said. Do you know the time? It’s almost noon!

Suddenly something crossed her mind. She cuddled up to him and began stroking his head. Listen, I am sorry about yesterday, she said. His eyes were hurting way too much for him to manage an immediate reply. He cupped them with his palms and sat halfway up.

Are you still cross with me? she asked, her voice seeped in appeasement.

He shook his head as far as his stiffness allowed.

I knew, she cheekily said. That’s how you men are. One fight with your wife and you run away from home. By the way, I know exactly how you spent last night.

He opened his eyes in a flash at this and was relieved to not see seriousness on his wife’s face. Those were ominous words, uttered through smiling lips.

What did I do? he asked with as much innocence as he could muster.

You went out pub-hopping, I’m sure, she replied, to his enormous relief. You threw up all over the floor as soon as you came in. I spent half the morning cleaning it. Now get up and go to work. Get your half day at least.

Is the water hot?