A Strange Story Indeed

The French Open final was the next day. He had decided to let nothing stand between himself and the match. This was Federer's chance for sure. He somehow knew it in the deepest of his hearts.

There were people around who were writing his idol off. But for his manically depressed personality, the tennis of Roger Federer was the only medicine. A Federer backhand, what many said, and what he did not believe, was his worst shot, was all that was needed to raise his spirits.

He was extremely tired from the heavy work the past few days—it was as if he was working at morning and night. But what? This was what he lived for. He would not let even so much as a moment's blink to ruin his experience.

While watching a tennis match, those around him were at times surprised—his voice would change from a sober supporting repetition of Federer's name to a devotional chant, at times so fervent and feverish that some of them would leave the room due to a discomfort not very different from fear.

Tomorrow would be the day of revenge. How could someone possibly write off Federer - the definitive God of Tennis? The man with the best forehand, net-game, anticipation and what not?

Federer's game was like music to him—Nadal's was like Noise.

He had tried many times to guess at what Federer would do next, in a point. He used fall off mark heavily in his initial attempts.

But by now he had internalized all the notes of the Federer Symphony. Even so, his estimates would be beaten at the last moment by a never seen before flick of the wrist or a sensual sweep of the feet.

Federer was...


The day had passed. And he had witnessed what had broken his heart. How could God falter again and again?

His wounds were deeper than ever this time. What sort of a world was this? What were beliefs worth when they were invariably proved wrong? What was life worth when one could not believe in anything?

He would take revenge - for his idol. Nothing had occupied his mind for the whole match. But suddenly he remembered his room-mate.

His room-mate had just joined him a couple of days back, or rather was forced upon him by his landlord, after he had failed to pay his rents on time—"If you cannot pay, you either get lost, or adjust. Two can give me a one and a half that I could get from you."

Now he hadn't even seen this fellow. He had assumed that his "companion" used to work night shifts while he worked during the day-time. At any rate he had not wanted to meet this "Rafaelite"—this sonnova-bitch had Rafa's posters among his things. It would only be a matter of days till they went up on the wall.

Like a man who had made a decision, he sprang up from his reverie and searched frantically for that bottle he had hidden somewhere in the house. Having found it, he went into the kitchen, and returned after five minutes, the bottle emptied.

The action seemed to have calmed his nerves. He went out abruptly—he did not want to be home this Sunday and meet that bastard that day—not on the day his idol lost. Anyway he would have his revenge alright!

I woke up from my meaningless dream, and went about the tasks of the day. On my return from work, I bought some fruits at a market close by. As I was unwrapping the contents, the following passage in the newspaper that the fruit-monger had used to pack, caught my eyes : -

...June 8, 2008 : On the morning of this day, at around 9:00am, the Police discovered the dead body of the lone occupant of Flat No.013, Riversdale Apartments. The unfortunate young man seemed to have been poisoned...

The rest was torn off. Wasn't the French Open Men's Final on that day?

Was it a murder or a suicide? Definitely an Oxymoron!