I Still Don't Know

When I died, I wasn’t surprised to be escorted in to the gate that read:

Welcome To

where else

Hell.

Death leaves one with the bitterness that can't be cured. No one recovers from the humiliation. Building heaven for the dead is like building a machine that snatches the eye balls out of a man and gives him tickets to a silent movie in return. The “Where Else” made a lot of sense. Everyone goes to hell; because wherever one goes, there is hell.

But there is order in hell. Hell is divided into many large halls. (You don’t see any fire or demons; the memories of your death are torture enough.) Which hall you go to, depends on the way you died.

A hellboy appeared.

“This way, Sir.”

He looked exactly like me.

“We’ll have to pass through a few of the halls before we reach your deathbed.”

“So, I get a bed, eh?” I was lame when it came to small-talk, even in death.

In the first hall, some beings were standing, some were sitting and some were lying on their beds. Those who were lying on beds cried the loudest.

“Sir, if you sit on your bed, you can never stand again, but you may lie down. And once you lie down, you can neither stand nor sit.”

They all kept repeating how they died in between their sobs. This hall belonged to those who died a natural death of old age.

We entered the next hall. This hall had lesser lethargy but more gloom than the previous one. It belonged to those who fell victims to fatal diseases before they could grow old. I looked for my dog.

“Sir, the animals are immediately recycled back to earth.” Hellboy knew it all.

The third hall belonged to those who were quashed in accidents and natural disasters. The tone of weeping had stronger sense of wrongdoing and uneasiness about it.

“Sir, please brace yourself. We are about to enter the most hostile hall in hell.”

We stepped in to the next hall. Men were bawling violently. They were trying to talk, but midway through the sentences they would turn away and begun wailing and stomping their limbs.

“What kind of deaths did they suffer?” I asked apprehensively.

“Sir, they all died in ridiculous fashions, and for little fault of anyone.”

“Shouldn’t they be in the Accident Hall then?”

“Sir, there is a difference between being run over by a car and being asphyxiated to death beneath a fat whore.”

“You see that man, sir? He died of shock because he mistook his kid’s belt lying on the floor for a snake. And that man died of a bullet fired up in the sky by one of his wedding party reveler. These men are so embarrassed of their ways of death that they can’t speak about it and so the sorrow lingers on and becomes more and more severe.”

In one corner of the hall, I saw a room with its door locked. Hellboy was leading me to it. I could hear horror filled yells from within the room.

“Sir, the man in this room had his balls eaten of by his lover’s dog. The dog had never seen a naked man before. This man has been the most severe case of embarrassment we have had in recent times.”

Hellboy proceeded to open the door of the room. The man inside ran to me and held me tight and opened his mouth to say something, but voice escaped him. He was asked to go to a nearby bed.

“Sir, may I request you to please proceed into this room.”

“What! Did I die such a sorry death?”

Hellboy stayed mum.

“Am I the dog that choked on his balls? But I would have been recycled then!”

Hellboy continued staring at the floor.

“Won’t you please tell me how I died? I don’t seem to remember it.”

“Sir, we don’t tell anyone how they died. They all know it on their own.”

Saying so, he shut the door on me.

The Restaurant

I picked up the menu card. The first page said ‘For Gents’. A bit odd, but you never know with these upscale restaurants.

“Can I have My Youth Back?”

“A bit late for it, sir. We don’t serve it after 5 PM.”

“How about My Fair Lady?”

“Out of stock, sir. We don’t compromise on quality and all the good ones are taken.”

“Can I have It All?”

“I am afraid, you flipped over to ‘For Ladies’ page, sir.”

“Oh right. Well, I’ll have two of What He Is Having."

“We can’t serve two of that, sir; defeats the purpose.”

“To hell with this menu. Why don’t you being me any salad and we just get over with it.”

“The Food-section is upstairs, sir.”

“And what section is this?”

“Silly Desires”

“But why do you list the items as dishes?”

“Sir, it’s a clever signifier for wishes.”

“I wish I had never come here.”

“Sir, before you leave, here is something for you. It’s the most recommended dessert from our menu.”

“What is it called?”

“Sir, Be Careful What You Wish For”

The Usual

So this guy walks into this pub. With swagger and all.

Looks around. Three chicks drinking. None good enough for him.

Goes straight to the bar.

“The usual.” He says checking his watch. It’s 4:58 PM.

Bartender gives him the glass with a nod of bitter familiarity.

He empties the glass in a single gulp and walks out. No payment needed.

Checks the watch again. Has the smile of a conquerer.

5PM is always the right time to have your fifth glass of water.

Unborn

Before she died, she had one last look at the sky. She has been sleeping since then, only to keep waking in another dream.

Now she found herself on an island with no trees and three crystals. The crystals were the shiniest she had ever seen.

“Do you like them?” said a voice which came from nowhere.

The sparkles told her that she wasn’t in a dream. Nothing so pure can be untrue.

“They were sons of the same mother.” the voice continued.

“Sorry??” she mumbled, uncertainly.

“I’ll explain. What was Newton’s greatest accomplishment?”

“Calculus? Laws of motion?”

The voice smirked.

“No, child. Newton became ‘The Theory of Relativity’.”

“So, the dead turn into theories or crystals?”

“Yes, they do, into ideas, into events, into all things that are beyond the realms of meek, the living beings. Mona Lisa, the Ninth Symphony, Zero; each one of them came into existence after centuries of suffering of the dead. ”

“What about the beginning, when there was no one to die?”

“No creation is free of the guilt of destruction.”

“Then who died for Big Bang? Was it God?”

“A force more potent.”

“What was it?”

“Loneliness.”

Even the waves paused for a moment.

“Nothing else explodes with such magnificence.”

And then the voice disappeared. And the crystals melted into tears and were stolen by the momentary breeze before the sand could swallow them, leaving her alone on the island of melancholy, till the day she turns herself into lyrics, yet unsung.

(My entry to the contest here . 250 words-limit and the story must be based on the image above. The contest is still open July 28.)

The Oversight

“The Consultant”, read the board. An arrow mark on the board pointed to the first floor.

One might mistake it to be an arrogant declaration of unchallenged supremacy. Yes, the consultant was arrogant and supreme in his own ways, but the reason for putting no other text on the board was to remain as general as possible while attracting clients.

His office had a bed and a chair. Clients were always made to sit on bed. That suited his methods. He believed in attacking the roots of the problems without worrying about the details. Clients were barely allowed to finish telling their troubles. He would talk of fundamentals and show remarkable understanding of time and space and all things wrapped in between.

Crucial to his work, there were notes stuck on the wall. They read:

“This is not your problem. This is not your problem. This is not YOUR problem. Truth be told, this is not even a problem.”

“Lament not. Have a massage if indulge you must.”

“By the time you finish reading this sentence, four humans would have died. Go on, read it again. Eight more will be dead by then.” **PS Footnote at the end**

“Measure yourself not with what you can do; pleasure yourself with what you can get away with.”

“Who cares?” There were four notes with this caption.

He had a large sheet titled “On this day…”, which typically looked like:

Year 2040984 BC- The first ape to walk straight fell off the tree. Humanity set back by a thousand years.
Year 1330 BC- Tutankhamen did not like his oranges.
Year 1941 AD- Some president signed some bill to attack some country.
Current Year- Mr. Client has a problem.
Year 4918 AD- Planet Earth splits into two.
Tick the odd one from the list above.

His business thrived. Folks from all walks of life found solace in his office. Many revisited. A few competitors tried to copy his model, but none of them had the combination of the conviction and nonchalance. It stemmed from what he called “The Japanese-Man Wisdom”.

Some said the wisdom was better than Zen; it filtered out only the grief and let the fun be with you. It was the ultimate tool he used if nothing else worked. It went like this:

Client1: I bought five shirts in a sale for the price of two.
Consultant: Congratulations.
Client1: I didn’t notice that all of them have a hen painted at the back.
Consultant: So, what’s the problem?
Client1: My colleagues make fun of me.
Consultant: It shouldn’t matter. Do you remember what your colleague wore a year ago?
Client1: But what about the present?

Now that the temporal shift technique hadn’t helped much, it was time for using the Japanese-Man wisdom.

Consultant: Look at it from the third person’s perspective.
Client1: He too will ridicule me.
Consultant: I am not done yet. Look at it from a fourth person’s perspective; from the fifth; from the sixth. Are you with me?
Client1: I suppose.
Consultant: Let’s keep going. From the seventh; go beyond your neighborhood; cross the borders; look at it from the man-in-Japan’s perspective.
Client1: He can’t even see my shirt.
Consultant: That, my friend, is the point. When in trouble, you must look at yourself from the Japanese man’s perspective and everything will be alright.
Client1: Profound. Thank you. Here’s your fee.

Let’s take a look at how another client was satisfied.

Client59: Do I invest in commercial real estate or keep my money in stocks?
Consultant: Doesn’t matter.
Client59: Would you care to explain?
Consultant: Look at it from the third person’s perspective… Look at it from the man-in-Japan’s perspective.
Client59: Brilliant. I would rather blow it all away in Vegas. Thank you. Here’s your fee.

And so it went. Until one day, when Client666 dropped in.

Client666: I think I am in love.
Consultant: Good for you.
Client666: I haven’t met her yet in person. But we talk everyday.
Consultant: What’s the problem?
Client666: Should I propose to her?
Consultant: Doesn’t matter. Look at it from the third person’s perspective…from seventh...Go beyond…Cross borders…Are you now looking at it from the man-in-Japan’s perspective.
Client666: I am. I am.
(Client 666 sounded awestruck. Consultant waited for the Japanese-Man Wisdom to deliver again; always has been his rock.)
Consultant: So???
Client666: I don’t think Mr. Tomiro Nakagawa is going to like that his wife is being proposed to.

That was the death of the consultant’s conviction. Client667 never happened.

____________________________________________________________________

** Footnote**
1.8 humans die every second on an average.
Average reading speed is 300 words per minute.
The sentence had 13 words.
Number of deaths have been rounded off to the closest integer.

Three silly, but very short stories

1. Droplet
"I would prefer a blackhole to a sponge", said the suicidal droplet. A river devoured it.

2. Shoes
Twins. Both one-legged. One had the left leg, the other didn't have it. Bought a pair of shoes. They split the bill.

3. Grapes
"The grapes are sour" said the fox. A squirrel climbed up the tree and ate them all.

Eight Seconds

“Not much of a hobby mate.” Johnny whispered loudly through the bushes.

“Ummm?” said Pete distantly. His eyes fixed on the sky, as always.
Always.

“Bird watching. Not for our kind.” Johnny stepped back; now better hidden.

“Look, how she glides! Such grace! She would back-flip one day. I know.” Pete didn’t budge as the predator approached him. “It’s a kite.”

“And you are a rat; a fat one at that.” Johnny found his humor as the claws flew past Pete, leaving him untouched, unfazed.

Pete was indeed fat. He never had to run.
No one knew how old he was. They said he lost his death with his tail.

At times he would be on the farm road and trucks would pass over him, depriving him of the sky above for a moment or two.
The limping cat didn’t bother him anymore. Once, she stepped on burning wood while chasing him.
Some rats got their tails castrated. The kite tore them apart nonetheless. But not him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A day dawned. The kite picked him up and soared high. Pete looked down at the world below. No feelings. No thoughts. No glory.

Eight seconds later the kite dropped him. Too heavy for the claws, probably.

And then:
A truck turned menacingly.
A hungry cat limped ahead.
A kite did a back-flip.
A rat closed his eyes forever.
But the eyes closed before the kite flipped back.

The tombstone read:

HERE LIES A RAT WHO HAD NO TAIL

NO FEATHERS EITHER

PS : This is my entry to the contest held by Jason Evans here.

Her Diary

Everyday life for a female is never easy in a conservative society. Being a werewolf doesn’t help.

Waking up naked beneath the park benches, even if only twice a month, belongs firmly to the class of experiences better not had. Digging out the box of clothes and dressing up while lying down on the ground can’t be excluded from that category either.

It all began six months ago. On the first such full-moon night, I was lucky to have slept with door bolted. Rinku was too keen to get a second opinion on his guitar skills and mom-dad were out of town. In the morning, my bed-sheet and nightgown was shredded to threads, the door was scratched (a SRK poster hides the nail-marks now) and the room smelt of poop, which lay on the carpet. I cleaned all that up before parents returned.

“Didi, this is not fair. I played the guitar only until 11 and you howled throughout the night. But I’ll throw away the guitar if you teach me how to howl like a wolf as good as you did last night. It sounded so real, though you overdid it.” Rinku complained later.

Since then, on every full-moon night, I go to the park with a box (to keep my clothes), a couple of horse-tranquilizers, and no make-up. At around 11.30 PM, I get undressed beneath a park bench, put my clothes in the box and bury it in the ground before taking two shots of the tranquillizers. The tranquillizers keep the wolf-me drowsy and inactive; or so I think, because I can usually recollect only hazy memories of the night once I wake up in human form again.

Despite all the careful planning, at least one murder can be attributed to me; it was committed when in human form. Four months ago, when I woke up in the park, I found that the wolf-me had torn apart all my clothes during the night. There was no way I was coming out from below the bench, stark naked. Luckily for me, an early jogger came and sat on the bench. I pulled her leg and when she looked down, I hit her head with a stone with a force of magnitude that was more than necessary. I quickly changed into her clothes and jogged my way back home. There were reports later “Woman killed in park. Her torn clothes found nearby.”

Thereafter I bury the clothes in the box before having the shots to keep them out of harm’s way. Also, have changed the park after that incident.

Apart from such hazards, too many lies have to be told to keep this affair concealed. Firstly, I have to tell my friend Sheena to give me a missed call on certain nights so that I can tell my parents that office has called me for the night shift. Sheena has been told that I need her help to sneak out for my fictitious boyfriend Raj. So as not to let her observe any pattern, I ask her to call on normal nights too sometimes.

Another niggling problem is the increase in expenses on waxing. On normal nights, whenever I look at the moon, my body-hair grows at a faster rate. I have to keep visiting different beauty parlors to avoid suspicions. Don’t advise me “Permanent Hair Removal”; therapy. A skinned wolf would never make for a good sight.


Before I whine further about more troubles, you might be curious as to what caused this werewolf phenomenon. I say, ask who first. He (may be she) calls himself Dr. Why. I got to know about him only last month on the day of Rakshabandhan.

While having lunch on that day, Rinku began recounting a strange correspondence that started many months ago. He received a post from a certain Dr. Why. It contained two tablets wrapped in a five rupee currency note. On the note, it was written “Eat these”. Rinku threw the tablets away, but kept the note. A few days later, he received a letter asking him to return the five rupees since he hasn’t eaten them. Horrified at Dr. Why’s knowledge, he posted a five rupee note back to the address where the letter came from.

Two weeks later, another post came, with two tablets, but in a ten rupee note. This time Rinku flushed the tablets at midnight. Once again a letter followed, some days later, demanding the ten rupees back. Rinku obliged.

This continued with fifty, hundred and then a five hundred rupee note. Rinku never ate those tablets and kept returning the money. But every man has a price. Teenage boys have even lower. Rinku gave in when Dr. Why sent him the tablets in a thousand rupee note. He dropped a tablet in my tea (that was the only day in my life when he has brought me tea from kitchen).

No letter came for weeks after that. But four days after I had my first transformation in the park, Rinku received another thousand rupee note on which was written “This is even better”. Rinku never understood that Dr. Why must have seen his sister naked in animal and in human form. On the day of Rakshabandhan, when I tied him Rakhi, he gave me a thousand rupee note and the explanation of where it came from. Mom just slapped him on his head. “Naughty boy”, is all he got. Rinku says he doesn’t remember where the other tablet is.

I went to the address where the letter came from. No one was to be found.

I keep my ear open for any footsteps that might follow me on full-moon nights. Haven’t had any luck till now; but the day I find Dr. Why, he would be torn apart.

Meanwhile, the immediate concern is Karwa-chauth. Mom wants me to fast the entire day, which I can manage. But the looking at moon on a full-moon night might result in shortening of the life of the wives on terrace. I am yet to find a solution for this one.
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To be continued: (The intent is defintely there)

PS: This blog has been nominated in the “Best Personal Blog” category for 2008 by Indibloggies. Kindly vote for me (How shameless have I become!) here. You would find Brown Phantom in category 16, the last on the page. Thank you all :).

Coming Back To Life

I’ve been rediscovering myself for the last few days after the stay with RCB in Windsor Manor got over. Following facts have made themselves clear:

1. No magical powers are working for me in the background. When I return from the office, I find that the bed is still not made, the towel is still where I left it and the mirror in bathroom still has traces of splattered water.
2. When I am hungry, I need to do a little more than picking up a phone beside the bed. The terrible truth, that something as basic as food isn’t free these days, is yet to sink in fully.
3. While creating the rules that govern the universe, God was sloppy enough to allow temperatures to vary outside the range of 22-24 degree Celsius.
4. On stepping out of my house I am more likely to meet a cow than bump into Rahul Dravid.

Co-incidentally, my Mom too discovered that her “Sarvaguna-sampanna, Ram-avatar” son isn’t quite a teetotaler:



Grappling with so many changes hasn’t gone down well with my brain. I was going to write a story which begins with an introduction of a seventy year old Afghan whose wife disappeared forty years ago. But the structure and flow isn’t coming naturally in the writing. I wanted the story to raise your hair with horror. The title would have been “Raven”.

As the story would have moved further backwards in time, you would have learnt that Noor Mohammed (henceforth referred to as NM) lived near railway tracks when he was a kid. Being a lonely child, his favorite time pass used to watch vultures and eagles eat away the bodies of cattle that came in the way of trains. Through a series of events, the story would have shown the possessive character of NM. In the end, the reader would have been left to connect the dots, which when done correctly would have pointed that NM grew into a cannibal and ate his wife for infidelity.

In an attempt to add to the shock value, I would have revealed that the story is loosely based on my childhood experiences of watching scavengers doing the same thing to the unfortunate buffaloes and goats. Our house isn’t far away from the railway tracks. I was seven when we were the first family to move in that area, which now doesn’t have any open spaces left.

Although I haven’t demonstrated any inclination towards cannibalism, the smell of rotten flesh, whenever encountered, brings back fond memories of a silent childhood. Those vultures looked so huge that I used to hold my little brother’s hands fearing that one of them might snatch him and fly away.

Relying on a meticulously planned inactive weekend to restore normalcy.

Tina

Damn the vulnerabilities of daily existence. Just when I was going to coin the term Pseudo-Swines for those who were cashing in on the flu-mania to stay away from office for trivial reasons like running-noses/headaches/body-aches, I was hit with a viral fever, harsh enough to warrant a sick leave. Laziness crept in thereafter and I rediscovered the joys of sleeping for over ten hours a day. It took me two days to get rid of the virus, but the fungus of laziness stayed on for three weeks. Hence the prolonged absence and probable rustiness in the current write up.

Having justified the procrastination, let's talk about the fictitious time when a young NRI girl named Tina was traveling alone for the first time in a second class train compartment in India. I was going to pin her age at 20, but am in a generous mood; you may choose the age, but kindly keep her young. I'll go a step further and let you choose her attire as long as it is not on the lines of a bikini or hot pants. Please dress her appropriately enough for an Indian train journey. No more interactive participations for the readers in the story.

Tina was traveling from Calcutta to Delhi. She chose this train journey as a way to get in touch with her roots. Her intention was to see the forests, the villages, the simple and unassuming people, the real India as she perceived after reading many travelogues. In doing so, she ignored the warnings of dacoits on the route that the train took. There had been three such incidents in last couple of months.

A few hours into the journey, she wasn't sure about the strength of her choice. She had somehow managed to squeeze into her place by the window. A man sat next to her. His wife and six year old son sat opposite to her. The other seats didn't have permanent occupants. Until then, she had underestimated the abilities of six year olds to embarrass the fellow passengers. The son kept staring at her. She forced herself to ask his name. Bittu looked away. The parents didn't encourage him to respond either.

She wished for some conversation between the husband and wife. But the wife looked resentful. For a change, she took a trip to the loo. Looking at the graffiti inside the lavatory, she was thankful for her illiteracy in reading the languages that accompanied the sketches. When she returned to her place, she found that the husband and wife had swapped their places. The man wasn’t very pleased, but wife seemed contended that her man is away from the stranglehold of another female. The wife now talked eloquently about how mean and miser the husband’s relatives were and recounted stories of being shortchanged on every occasion. “I got her daughter a set of ghaghra-choli and my Bittu didn’t even get a full pant”. Bittu immediately wore a look of victim in his half-pant as he put his hand on the uncovered knees. Tina now knew the kid’s name.

Having given up hope of any fruitful social interactions, she tuned to the moving world outside the window. “Wouldn’t it be great to see the glory of the land which nurtured a billion lives, which gave the world so many Gods and wise men, which had a history beyond the time?” Three excreting human buttocks caught her sight. The owners of the organs were having a chat; perhaps discussing the weather, just like she did with her friends as they sipped coffee in Starbucks.

It was with relief that she noticed the family preparing to get down at the next station. Her anticipation for a better company, however, couldn’t have been more ill founded. In place of the otherwise harmless looking husband-wife and mildly irritating Bittu, now sat two shady looking middle aged men. I go back on my words which prohibited any further participation from the readers and allow you to choose the number of hair in their mustaches.

In contrast to her observations on Indians in general, she found both the men to be too animated while talking. Tina picked up the word “Pistol” during their conversation. Were they the dacoits she was warned against? The only comforting factor in such situation was a hint of eyeliner in the otherwise hardened masculine faces. She kicked herself, metaphorically of course, for not heeding to the warnings. The fantasies of deep forests and simple beautiful people were now replaced with thoughts of getting robbed at the very best.

Things took a more sinister turn when one of the men opened his bag. She spotted blood stained clothes and a shiny long dagger. Tina gasped in horror which was noticed by both the men. The man quickly zipped the bag. The men exchanged the looks and their lips curled; Tina could tell that both of them read each other’s mind.

“Let’s finish it off”, one of them said.
“Patience.” said the other.
“Do you think they suspect?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“True, doesn’t matter.” They laughed devilishly.

Tina’s heart was pounding by now. She feared that a reaction in the form of a scream or trying to run away would only hasten the inevitable. She just sat there, waiting for things to happen. Certain adventures are not worth taking. Right now she could have been served a sandwich by an air-hostess. She would have ordered an orange juice to go with it. The pilot would have been announcing the landing shortly.

Cursing her romanticism, she peeped outside. A small town was approaching.
“An excellent opportunity to slip out, if I survive till the station.” Hope hadn’t given up on her.

As soon as the station approached she stood up to go to the door. Both the men left their seats too.
“Have I seen more than I was supposed to when the man opened the bag? Are they going to 'take care' of me for doing that?”
She jumped out of the slowing train and walked as fast as she could. She turned back and saw both the men following her. She ran frantically outside the station and into the streets of this unknown town. Three bystanders simultaneously expressed the opinion that she ran faster than P.T Usha. None of them had seen a deer running when chased by tigers.

She sprinted until she could run no more. She stopped, panting for breath. The two men were nowhere in sight. She turned her head towards a long boundary wall. And there they both were. But, in a poster. “Are these two wanted men?” She couldn’t read what was written in Hindi below the poster. Then she spotted another poster. “What are they doing dressed like ancient warriors with swords in hands? And why are there wounded men lying around them?” She got hold of a little boy and asked him to read what was written below the posters.

“Twin Girls. Uttejak nazare, dekh mere pyaare. Shankar Cinema Hall.”, said the seven year old who looked a lot like Bittu.

“Not that one. The one above that.”

“Bharat Nautanki Group. Roj 2 show. Lal Maidan ke pass.”

Many realizations dawned upon her. She took a rickshaw back to the railway-station. Next train wasn’t until the next day. Buses were on strike. The taxi-wallahs of Madanpur had never been propositioned with an offer to drive till Delhi. Tina’s only option was to take the most expensive hotel in the town for a day.

Once in the hotel room, she took a bath and reflected on the happenings of the day. A little later, she found herself picking up the phone and asking the receptionist “How to reach Lal Maidan from here?”

The Alchemistress

Stella was on the hospital bed. Her left leg plastered. This had to be the worst day she has had in years. She slipped over the stairs as she was leaving the school after checking out the result for a test which was very important for her. Her mind wandered to the scene in canteen two weeks before the accident:
_____________________________________________________________

“Not that trash again”, said Allan dismissively. Steve nodded in his support.

“Cynical fools ! I've experienced it before. Twice. The world did conspire against all odds to give me what I desired from the heart.” Stella was adamant in her reverence of Coelho.

“You fall too easily for selective statistics. For every successful person in favor of whom the world conspired, there are hundreds more who, too, were wishing from their hearts. But no one interviews all the failed ones.” Allan always caught the finer points.

“Maybe their desires weren’t strong enough. And abilities must justify the aspirations too”. Stella tried to spin the argument.

“That’s doublespeak. What’s left for the world to conspire if the need for ability is acknowledged?” Allan said impatiently.

“Cool it down guys. We have the test for the exchange program with the Paris school coming up in a week. Stella, you are dying to be there. But Allan is clearly the favorite to ace the test.” Steve intervened.

“That’s right. I want it so badly that I am sure luck shall take me to Paris. Allan you would be rotting here while I’ll be sipping the wines there”, Stella replied over-excitedly.

“I was planning to miss the test anyways. Got my band here. Paris is for the old hags anyway.” Allan said .

“NO ! I’ve been working my ass off for the test only to outdo you and others. Tell me what would make you sit for the test with all its seriousness” Stella spoke challengingly to Allan.

“Hmm..I love my band. We were planning for a few jigs during the summers. Hard to beat that. Let me think” Allan paused and then said as offhandedly as he could “If you promise to give me a lap-dance in case I top, maybe I would give my all for the test.”

“Done” Stella said resolutely.

“What!!! Are you nuts? No trip to Paris and becoming a Lap-dancer for the one who robbed you off the trip. That’s what you face if you lose. Screw Coelho.” Steve tried to put some sense into Stella.

“I have worked hard and I want the trip more badly than anyone else. Even more than a pervert’s desire for a free lap-dance. That’s all I know.” Stella looked possessed.

“I’ve already begin to appreciate Coelho. The deal is on.” Allan said slyly.
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A knock on the door shook Stella out of those memories. Allan and Steve entered the hospital room, both grim faced.

“Hey Stella. Everything OK ?” said Steve sheepishly. Allan had his eyes on the floor.

“Thanks for coming guys. I’m good. They’ll discharge me tomorrow.” Stella did put up a brave face.

“Great !” Allan mustered enough courage.

“Yeah. And good luck for the trip to Paris”, Stella couldn’t hide the envy in her voice.

“I don’t think I’ll go. And that deal is off too.”Allan blurted out quickly.

“Thanks Allan. You’re such a sweetheart. I finished third. So the guy who stood second gets to go there.” Stella says.

“Yeah, that would be George. We have a party this saturday night in the school backyard. I got hold of a fake ID to buy the booze. You would be able to make it?” Steve changes the topic.

“Three weeks before the plaster is off. But do toast a drink for me, will you?” Stella says smiling. Her eyes twinkle.

Allan & Steve left after a while.

The Saturday night party was a riot by midnight. And that was when the students heard the siren. It was only the third time in five years that the high-school party with booze was busted. Cops took the students into custody for the night and let them go in the morning.

School authorities however were not that forgiving. Punishments followed. George was caught too. His Paris tour was cancelled which meant Stella goes to Paris. Allan and Steve agreed that the world really conspired to make Stella’s dream come true.

Stella returned to school after a few days. That day, just before leaving the school she caught hold of Allan in the empty corridor.

“I got to confess this to you. That night, I called the cops.” Stella said that in a single breathe.

“You are a super-bitch. Aren’t you!” Allan couldn’t hide the shock in his voice.

Stella stood silent, ashamed.

“That’s ok girl. You actually did a favor to me. I was having a hard time to explain the abandoning of trip to everyone. And look, you did get what your heart desired.” Allan continued with a chuckle.

“Really? So you are not cross with me?” Stella was so relieved.

“Of course not! I never wanted the trip anyway. You know what my heart desired” Allan let his eyes roam as he said this.

“And that desire shall be fulfilled. Who am I to falsify Coelho?” Stella pushed Allan into the abandoned classroom. Het top was off before Allan’s bottom touched the chair. The dance was without any music, but Allan didn’t mind this conspiracy of the world at all.
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PS : I am cleaning up a few old drafts. Please bear with some average posts as mentioned in the previous post. I got to get a clean slate before fresh ones start coming.

Truth in Wine

A life’s work continues to conjure questions well past the funeral. Take Arthur’s case. His son was convinced that trash-can is the rightful place for his late father’s poetry while his wife didn’t see any harm in keeping the papers till the winter; the pile was large enough to keep the fire-grate burning for two nights.

Up in the sky, his afterlife trial began.

“My Lord, Arthur wrote too many lies. Take his poem ‘Post-Big-Bang Symphony’:

Eve had to eat the apple really soon
Adam was keen to sleep with the moon

Liar is a sinner. He belongs to Hell.”

“Romanticism needn’t be a sin. He was a kind fellow. Didn’t even pluck a flower after he turned ten. Let him be in Heaven please.”

Romantic souls were always hard to place. God adjourned the court for a break.

Post-break, God announced, “I’ve put Arthur’s words in that locker”.

The locker was labeled ‘Truth In Wine’ and carried five glasses of red wine atop it.

“To open, drink the glasses in a magical sequence. Else the wine gets refilled”.

No one, who managed to read his words, judged them lies.

Statistics reveal a 65% rise in romantic population in heaven after the T.I.W. constitutional amendment was established.

Back on earth, Arthur’s poetry was rescued before getting burnt. His grandson smuggled the stack to his school. That year, second-graders had paper boats whenever it rained, or as Arthur would have put it, whenever Juliet shed tears in heaven.
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PS : This is my entry to the Clarity Of Night Short-story contest(click here). 250-words limit was a challenge.

VAT 69

Centuries ago, strange events occured in abundance simply because there was no one to report them. They laid the foundations for many anomalies we observe today.

So when a wise sage informed Rameshwar and Revati that extraordinary things would happen in their family once they give birth to a pair of twins, Revati believed him and resolved to name them Karan -Arjun. She had fed on Mahabharata stories since she was five and was a big fan of these two sons of Kunti. However, the twins were born under very ordinary placement of planets in their horoscope, which foretold no special qualities in them. A disappointed Revati named them Nakul and Sahadev.

But the wise sage wasn’t wrong about the extraordinary part. Immediately after the twins were born, dreams of twenty-first century started haunting Rameshwar in his sleep every Saturday night. In his dreams, he would always be in Betty’s room invisible to the inmates of her room. Betty was a regular American girl and a cheerleader. Rameshwar would watch her TV when no one was around, else he would simply be the invisible voyeur until his dream broke to the cries of their pet cock.

Rameshwar kept his dreams to himself but he did claim of having visions of the future. He figured out that in times to come, Indians would be ruled by foreign invaders since they would be busy dividing themselves into castes and regions. He taught the English Language to Nakul and Sahadev, hoping that his descendants would be in a strong position to get clerical jobs when times come. To his dissatisfaction, Sahadev was growing up into a cynical sadist while Nakul was becoming a romantic wannabe.

I shall burden you with just one more character: he, who must not be named so soon in the story. He lived near Rameshwar’s house and was a compulsive peeping-tom. Although a thoroughly straight guy, he enjoyed watching Rameshwar bathe every Sunday morning. Rameshwar had guarded his secret well, but like all other mortals, he needed an outlet. In his nearly open bathroom, he would practice the way Betty’s boyfriends would impress her, he repeated their dialogues. And even though Rameshwar had a good grasp of Sa-Re-Ga-Ma and the ragas and a great deal of respect for the Shastriya Sangeet, he couldn’t help humming PussyCat Dolls numbers when alone, presumably of course, in his bathroom. The peeping-tom memorized most of the acts, even though he couldn’t understand the words.

Years later, Rameshwar confided in the wise sage and on his advice went on a pilgrimage to Himalayas. Nature has its way of balancing.Immediately after he left the village, Betty evaporated from her cheerleading act for her college football team (which led to a minor injuries to the girl she was going to catch) and got transmitted in Rameshwar’s village, centuries behind.

Understandably, she was quite confused in the beginning but figured out that she is in India. What she failed to notice was that she had also time-traveled since everything around looked exactly the same the way they show India to be on TV: poor people living in huts, excreting in open fields and no signs of development, scientific or otherwise. She tried communicating with some but couldn’t overcome the language barrier. No one understood the signs of a telephone or a plane; but they all agreed amongst themselves that she looked stunning in the tiny red skirt.
Wandering along in such sorry state, she saw the twins, Nakul and Sahadev coming her way. All Indians looked the same to her, but these two were simply indistinguishable. They too were checking out this beautiful white creature.

“Piss off, you jerks”, Betty stil hadn't got used to being stared at.

“EXCUSE ME…” Sahadev talked in English for the first time outside his family.The twins were pleasantly surprised to know that their Dad wasn’t fooling around with them for all these years. English really was a language spoken by humans. Betty figured that these two must be working in one of those call-centers and was relieved to no end.

“Hey Guys,where can I get a phone and a bus or anything to get to the airport. I am stuck here since days” Betty got to the point without much fuss.

“I am sorry ma’am. Never heard about these things. Why don’t you come and stay with us?” Nakul cooed. He saw this whole episode as providence’s way of gifting him this lovely bird.

“Are you nuts? Stay here in this shit? No phones!! No electricity!!Haven’t you guys ever done anything worth speaking of?”

“We Indians invented Zero.” Nakul came back.

“I am sure you did. How could you not? Just take a look around”, Betty said. Beneath the red top, she had a heart capable of sarcasm. Nakul let his eyes wander and noticed that there indeed was quite a bit of whole lot of nothing around them. He got her point.

“We invented Yoga too” Nakul wasn’t going to give up so easily.

“Oh! Would you please teach me that before I leave? I need to get in shape” Betty moved her hands around the fatty parts of her body.

“Yoga is supposed to awaken the Kundalini. Is that how Yoga is sold in your part of the world: A butt shrinking exercise?” Sahadev was not too keen about her. Betty let her hands hang on her sides.

“Is there no way I can go back home?” Betty showed first sign of sadness.

“Throw a penguin in the desert” Sahadev replied with conviction.

“How is that going to help?” Betty regretted asking that, that very moment.

“In the same way that the sacrifice of two buffaloes last year finally led to good rainfall” Nakul tried to explain. Betty had a blank look on her face.

“You see, the logic is simple. God is kind and powerful, but he remains busy as hell while trying to serve billions of prayers. So he prioritizes based on the severity of the requests. When the villagers prayed for water, they still had wells to drink from and food to eat, although not in abundance. God had more important things to do meanwhile. What does a child do if mother doesn't listen ? He cries. The villagers cries however wasn't audible to God because they were not heart wrenching enough.

So the villagers cut the head of the two buffaloes and in their dying moments the buffaloes yelled out to God in an agony only dying ones can. God left creating new species which could survive on mud and rushed to the buffaloes which by that time were dead.

'Who on earth did this?' was the next logical thought in his mind and the answer was we, the villagers. Having captured his attention, we were already standing there with hands folded and being the good-natured almighty, he gave us the rain and took the buffaloes to heaven. Some said the rain smelled of Buffaloes’ pee but you got to take it anyway.” Sahadev finished his theory with a convoluted nose.

“Can’t she simply sacrifice a goat instead of finding a Penguin and the desert?” Nakul wanted an easy life for Betty.

“In case there are many Gods, the God in charge of displaced beings would be the first to rush for the Penguin and there our Betty’s plea will directly get serviced without much bureaucracy” Sahadev always had solid reasons to back his words.

Betty wasn’t even listening by this time. Someone doing a hip-hop dance caught her attention. It was he, who shall be named shortly. She walked towards him ignoring the twins.

‘I got real big brains, but yaa lookin at maa...” sang he with a pelvic thrust. Years of peeping at Rameshwar was finally paying off as Betty started grooving with him. He followed that with a few more moves that Betty’s boyfriends used to impress her. She was bowled over by his charm and chose to stay with him forever.

There was never much verbal communication between them. Their bodies talked to each other passionately. She taught him different ways of making love. The sexual positions he learnt from her were too many in variety and number than what he had observed while peeping around in the village. He finally decided to write a book on those artistic positions. She used to call him Vat; it was difficult for her to pronounce his full name, Vatsyayana.

Careful With That Axe, Eugene

Carla, the cat, was having a bad tail day and to top that, no one had noticed how well her new green nail polish went with her eyes. Being an Animal-Resource Executive in Nandan-Associates hasn’t been an enviable job over the years, especially with a Manager as obnoxious as Eugene, the fox, and an aging whimsical owner, Shamsher Singh, the lion. Reflections on her miserable life were interrupted by the phone ring. It was Eugene.

“Sweetheart, could you please bring the list of Employees to my room? It’s time for you to make those three-meow calls.” There was wickedness in Eugene’s voice.

Three-meow-call is a practice followed in Nandan-Associates at Shamsher Singh’s behest. Anyone about to be fired gets the call from Carla in which she asks the employee to visit the boss and then she meows thrice before ending the call. Why so? Well, Shamsher’s step-mother was a cat and she used to meow thrice each time before thrashing him when he was a naughty boy. So, this was his way to revenge the world.

“Here’s the list, Sir”. Carla enters Eugene’s room without knocking.

Eugene stops picking his nose and smiles, “Carlaaa, please have a …Oh you’re already sitting. You see Carla, all of my friends are busy laying-off their juniors. I don’t get to tell any stories over the game of golf. Besides, this is recession and we must be doing something terribly wrong if we don’t feel the need to cut down.”

“Eugene, is it really necessary?”, Carla says casually tapping on the table with her nails.

“I must axe somebody before this weekend; do you have any idea how it feels to be left out? Daniel, from Champak-Sons, fired four rats and a hen last week. What about that dog Moti we hired last month for managing the Asia-pacific account? I can’t stand his smiling face.”

“He is doing a splendid job. Shamsher looks very pleased with him”

“I noticed that too and that’s another reason I want him out of this place. You know how tough Shamsher is while interviewing. But his interview with Shamsher lasted just 10 minutes and he came out without a scratch on his body. I guess maybe because they both are Indians. But you can find something on him. Does he surf net during office time ? Any personal calls from the office phone?”

“Nope. He is clean as a dove. Always on time and is friendly”

“I see. Carla you need to do me a favor, dear. You know what I mean...” Eugene says in an overly suggestive tone.

“Eugene, I get it. You don’t have to be so animated. But remember last time you asked me to seduce Jack. He is now ..” Carla was interrupted here.

“Don’t remind me of that parasite again. He belongs to that disgraceful jackal race.”

“He is now my husband; how many times I have to remind you.” snarled Carla.

“And that is why he is still in this office. I’ll handle this myself. Call Moti right now.” He pushes the phone to her. She dials the number.

“Moti, Eugene would like to see you. Meow, Meow, Meow” Carla feels like an idiot yet again.

Moti enters the room in a very cheerful mood. He knows nothing about the three-meow theory. He is holding a red colored card in his hand.

Effervescently smiling he says, “Hi Eugene, What a coincidence. I was about to come to your room anyway. I am getting married next month. This is my wedding card. And Carla, that nail-polish goes really well with your eyes”.

Carla is speechless. She looks towards Eugene with accusing eyes and rushes out of the room. Moti senses the unease in the air.

“Many Congratulations! Moti.” Eugene is stumped too. This wasn’t going to be as much fun as he had imagined. He doesn’t even glance at the card and puts it close to the phone.

“Eugene, I know you would come. I am having the time of my life”

“I am afrai ,Moti. I won’t be able to make it. Listen, I need to discuss something very important with you. I hope you understand that this is nothing personal. The whole economy is doing pretty badly and we need to downsize. We are cutting down the Asia-pacific accounts and you are an unfortunate victim of this global phenomenon. Today is your last day at Nandan.”

“Hang on Eugene. You must be kidding. Asia-pacific accounts are doing much better than Europe and America. You are joking right, because you saw the wedding card so you are just being funny, right.” Moti is smiling once again. There is an air of invincibility about him.

“Moti, Your marriage is your personal problem. I don’t indulge in bullshit. You may leave now with your belongings” Eugene is visibly irritated.

“I am pretty sure Shamsher Sir doesn’t know about this decision” a confident reply from Moti. He is finding it hard to stop smiling.

“Are you his pet? Shamsher is an old imbecile. Don’t challenge my decision. I never liked dogs anyway in this firm. If I had my way I would have put ‘Dogs not allowed’ outside the gate. Get lost now, will you.”

Moti bursts out laughing. He leaves the office and is laughing his ass off over a phone-call. Eugene can’t stand this any more. He dials the security and then slams the phone back. He sees that stupid wedding card and is about to throw it in the dustbin when something familiar on the card catches his eyes.

Moti (Son of Colonel Sheru Daga )
Weds
Mohini (Daughter of Mr. Shamsher Singh)

The date was the first of next month and the venue was Nandan-Associates’s huge sprawling garden.

Eugene is out of his senses when Ganpat the hippo, knocks on his door.
“You called security, Sir” says the guard who hailed from Shamsher Singh’s village.

Eugene’s face is colorless by now.
“Get me an Orange juice, please” says Eugene meekly.

The hippo stands confused and just then the phone rings on Eugene’s desk. Eugene does not move. The phone rings once again. Ganpat walks over to the desk this time and hands the receiver to Eugene. “Your phone, Sir”

“Hello Eugene.” It’s Carla at the other end. She savors a pause. Eugene stays mum.
“Shamsher would like to see you in his office, Eugene. Meow, Meow, Meow.”

So Far Away

Beautiful Joanna lays naked on the beach, sipping her Pina-colada from the crystal glass. Sky is blue and the water green. Waves come and go, and theirs’ is the only sound to be heard; cool breeze blows silently.

“Ain’t this lovely, Sammy?” Joanna chirps as she takes the last sip. She lets the empty glass roll over by her side.

“Sure is, honey” comes the voice from between her toes. Sam continues to pedicure her.

“I wonder how far away I am from my natural self, the pure untouched soul, once born with only the basic instincts. I so wish I would know” her drunken words dream aloud.

“Ouch..SAMMYY!!!!”, she squeaked as Sammy pulled her toes, not gently at all. He pauses to think for a moment.

“You’re hurting me, Ouch …Ouch!! Stop it you monster, will you!! ” are Joanna’s angry pleas as Sam twists her feet.

Sam waits for less than a second this time and then he pricks the pedicure knife in her long pink toe.

“EEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH” Joanna screams, louder than an animal, at the top of her voice as Sam leaps forward to shut her mouth.

“SHHHHHhhh” Sam looks in her eyes and slowly slides his hand away from her mouth.

Joanna watches dumbstruck as tears roll down on her sunscreen covered cheeks. Her toe is bleeding.

Sam picks up the crystal glass and let Joanna’s blood drip into it, drop by drop. Bleeding stops after a while, sobbing too.

Sam shows her the quarter filled glass. Red looks good in crystal.

“This far away”

Joanna smiles and pulls the towel on.

"Ascension" Short Fiction Contest

There's this cool short fiction contest going on here. You'll find some fantastic works there. None of the stories are more than 250 words; short flings you wouldn't mind indulging in.

Yes, there's an entry from BrownPhantom too here. He is the new kid on the block and it's his first attempt at writing. And it shows. I think the underlying idea is decent, but the composition is crude and technically weak when you compare them with some excellent contributions there. Still, have a look at it; you would have read a trashy post on this blog anyway.

It was an interesting experience with unique challenge of keeping within the word limit. I first wrote the piece and then counted the words to be 400. So I had to eliminate a few points and chop some of the sentences which sort of left me with the same feeling that girls have when they are smitten with that expensive dress near the window but settle for the one kept back in third row that lies within their budget.

I realized that I should have always kept the word-limit in mind and paced the piece accordingly. What happened was that I invited the whole group for a ride but the driver later on brought a smaller taxi; unwilling to deny any of them a place I requested each one of them to adjust which led to every one's discomfort and two of them left fuming.

All said and done, I enjoyed the experience and am already waiting for the next one. Also, couldn't stop reading the other stories. It's a great display of varying perspectives that human mind conjures from a same source. It is surreal. Thank to Jason Evans who is the creator of the blog and the contest.

Dilli Ka Thug : Part 1

This is the first anecdote in the series “Tricks of trades” introduced in an earlier post. Part 1 describes the incident while Part 2 would be analyzing it.

On a cold winter night in Gurgaon around five years ago, my office cab stopped near the apartment I stayed in with friends. The driver passed me the register to put an entry for the trip. All this while, my eyes were fixated on a poor family sitting below the street lamp : two men, two women and five children out of which two were in their mothers’ laps; the children were crying and didn’t have any winter clothes to cover their body with. The family didn’t look like beggars though; they appeared to be villagers. I signed the register and got down the cab; the wind was quite chilly that December and I felt guilty wrapped in my oversized leather jacket which, friends now tell me, used to make me look like a goat in sheep’s wool.

As I walked towards the apartment, the elder amongst the two men (must have been around 35) asked me in broken Hindi whether I understand Marathi to which I replied in affirmative. He thanked Devi for that and then told me in Marathi that they were from a village in Nasik and that they were visiting a Devi’s temple when someone fooled them in train and took all their suitcases & money. A young one in his mother’s lap started yelling harder to which the man responded by shouting at his wife to keep the baby quite. I asked him whether they’ve had any food and learnt that the kind-hearted shopkeeper on the other side of the road gave them a packet of bread which, I suspected, must have been stale. Police just took their report, but didn’t help any further.

By this time I was feeling really sad for them and wondered with anger about the wicked ways of the world. These simpletons had come to visit a temple (the only form of tourism known to most of the Indian villagers) and someone was wily enough to put these men with women and little children in such a sorry state. On further enquiry, he told me that there’s a train tomorrow morning and he would forever be indebted to me if I could lend him 500 Rupees for the tickets. He had a lump in his throat as he said this, his eyes were watery and hands joined together. I put a hand on his shoulder to give him some comfort and nodded in agreement.

We both then walked towards the ATM. I was feeling quite proud of myself and magnanimous by now. I thought that I have lost count of how many thousands are there in my bank account, and what a great deal of difference just one of them would make to this bloke’s life. What good a man’s life is if it couldn’t help the ones in need: my conscience gladly told my mind to which a compassionate heart agreed heartily. I gave him 1000 Rupees to cover the tickets and buy some warm clothes and food for them. The man said that he doesn’t regret missing on the visit to temple as he met his God in me. I dismissed this foolish flattery with great disdain.

While on our way back from ATM to the place where his family was waiting, he noted down my address to which he would send the Money Order after reaching his village even before he drinks a drop of water. He was glad to meet a Marathi-manoos is such distress. I sort of scolded him for thinking that only a Marathi man would help him; I would have helped him even if he wasn’t Marathi (I really was getting too filmy by now). He asked the children to touch my feet when we reached there but I jumped back and then bid adieu to the family wishing them luck and instructing to not to trust anyone so easily now in the train.

"Abe badaa late ho gaya ! Kahaan fuss gaya tha saale. Aadhe ghante se wait kar rahen hain. Chal dinner karte hain fatafat. " one of my friends greeted me as I eneterd the flat.

"Kuch nahi yaar! Wo gaadi waala pahle Sector 7 le gayaa tha ; ladki thi saath me to uska last drop nahi ho sakta tha" I said in a resigned voice.

Some lewd comments followed about how that girl must have molested me throughout the trip; they blamed the winter for her high libido.

We sat down to have the dinner. Two of my friends started the routine bickering about the food which I interrupted with a lecture on how so many people die of hunger and that we should be grateful for having this food and a comfortable life.

"Mujhe lagta hain ek nahi 2-2 ladkiyan thi iske saath" was a very well received response.

Weeks past by and no Money order came. I was hurt. When I decided to give that guy the money, I didn’t have any intentions of getting it back. “He shouldn’t have promised to return the money while we were walking back from the ATM. I had never asked for it. Anyways, good that I helped the families reach home. Neki kar, dariya me daal” were my thoughts. I didn’t tell about the episode to anyone.

About six months later on a humid evening when I was taking a walk around my apartment, I heard a voice a few feet away: “Aapko Marathi samajhti hain kya saab?”

Pride and Prejudice

I just booked the air-tickets to my place for Diwali. A dozen kilo has been deducted from my credit card. I’ve traveled the same distance in less than thousand not very long ago. Those were the days. I remember my first flight.

Preparations: I was initiated into the flying club with a free flight from Delhi to Bangalore for an interview. Just a week before my flight, my flat-mate Mitra had flew down for his first time for the same company’s interview. Mitra started telling me the questions asked for the interview when I had to intervene: “ Wo sab to theek hain yaar, plane me ijjat bachane ki tips de”. Now, Mitra is a smart punter and we finish each other’s sentences quite often. Turned out that he too had taken “Ijjat-bachao” lessons and then added his personal experience and understanding of my personality to give a detailed step wise guide.

Check-In: I reached airport with time to spare. Unnecessarily put my hand baggage under scanner before taking the boarding pass. Check-in hadn’t started yet. Turned right, entered a room and took a seat which had a good view of TV showing schedules and check-in times. I was chewing gum to look cool. Fifty minutes on the same seat later, beginning of my flight’s check-in was announced. I cursed myself for having stared at that TV for so long.

Boarding: Mitra is a natural when it comes to getting late, so he missed out telling me that I shouldn’t be among the first ones to enter the bus which takes you to the plane. In those days, the boarding pass didn’t mention seat numbers and so everyone used to run in frenzy towards the plane as soon as the bus halted. Intelligent ones purposefully used to enter the bus late so that they could stand near the door; trading 10 minutes of discomfort in bus for a window seat in plane was a wise strategy.
Resigned to my fate of getting a middle seat, I nervously started climbing up the stairs. Air hostesses were greeting each passenger at the entrance. I braced myself. When my turn to be greeted came, the hostesses were still busy coochy-cooing to a chubby kid just before me. I got ignored. Nothing personal here, but it hurt. If you don’t get acknowledged while you are passing through that one square meter area, you are not going to get that smiling “Welcome Sir”. I quickly buried my face in the boarding pass to pretend as if I wouldn’t have noticed the “Welcome Sir” anyway.

Seating: Wading my way through the chaos, I saw a middle seat vacant between a woman and a rich looking young girl. Nowadays, whenever I occupy a seat I always hope, rather pray, that a good looking female come and seat beside me. Only once a female sat beside me, with a two year old kid who is a strong contender for putting his name in Guinness book for yelling at the highest decibels.
At that time I didn’t have the guts to seat near the babe, especially when it was the first flight and I was very much prone to do something stupid. I sat between a suited snob and a simpleton in late twenties who couldn’t speak English. Let’s call him Gopal. He had occupied the window-seat and was fiddling with the seat-belt when I settled myself between the two:

Gopal : Namaste Sir !Ye belt kaise lagaate hain ?
Me : Arre lagaon, lagaon ! Koshish karo.

I quickly picked up a magazine and wore a don’t-mess-with-me look. I should have asked this question to Mitra. Gopal didn’t have any airs about himself and clearly looked at the whole thing as a means to get to Bangalore somehow.

Gopal : Sir, aap nahi lagaoge ?
Me : Haan , Jaldi kya hain. Lagaa lenge.

Thankfully they announced to pay attention. I followed the instructions and somehow managed to tie the belt. Gopal succeeded too. Then they showed how to use oxygen-mask.

Gopal : Sir , kya saans lene me taklif hoti hain upar jaakar ?
I replied calmly that nothing of this sorts happen, it’s a useless routine. The Snob on my right looked at me and smiled at Gopal’s ignorance. I smirked back too.

Taking off: The plane started speeding up on the runway and the moment it took off I congratulated myself for being in air. Gopal turned to me with a delightful face “ Aa gaye hawaa me”. I hmmmed and realized that he was all set to take the charm away. When I was kid, I aspired to become a pilot; that was the only time I had a concrete professional ambition in my life. Here I was, flying for the first time hiding my ignorance from the world, and right beside me was this person putting my feelings and fears into words with raw expressions.

Food: The food trolley came; Deccan used to sell food on board. Mitra had told me “Noodles lenaa; paise ke hisaab se pet bharne ke liye ekdum optimum hain”. It was the same air-hostess who had ignored me. I was nervous once again when she approached our row. First she asked the people seating on other side of the passage; then the Snob who refused to have anything. I asked about the available options and after patiently listening, ordered for noodles. When she asked Gopal, he turned to me and gave me a hundred rupee note.

Gopal: Sir, aapne jo order kiya hain wo mere liye bhi kar do.
Me : Arre tum noodles khaate ho ?
Gopal : Haan sir, jo aap khaoge , mein bhi wahin kha lunga .
Me: Ye wo hain, Chinese type , kaante se khaane waale .
Gopal : Arre nahi Sahab. Kechuli (earthworm) nahi kha sakta.
Me: Tum Sandwich kha lo.
Gopal: Thik hain saab.

Tea: Sometime later, they came with Tea/coffee/cold-drinks on offer. Mitra had advised against taking any of them. But Gopal was in the mood to live life to the fullest. Again came a fifty rupees note to me.

Gopal : Sir, mere liye chai-namkeen order kar do.
Me : Bhai, utar ke pee lenaa. Ye log 30 rupaye ki chaai denge, airport par 5 ki mil jayegi is se achchi. ( I was slighlty irritated by now.)
Gopal : Thik hain .

Sanitary Needs: A little while later.
Gopal : Sir, ye toilet kahaan hain; peeshaab aa rahin hain.
I too was in the same state but was dreading reopening and closing the seat belt. If Gopal had to go then I would have had to do that anyway. I resisted.
Me : Abhi 15 minute me land kar jayegi flight. Badhiya araam se airport par kar lenaa.
Gopal was infuriated.
Gopal : Nahi saab, aapne yahin bol kar chaai bhi nahi peene dee. Ab to mein jaunga hee.
He looked resolute. I let him go and then followed his footsteps a couple of minutes later.

Landing:
Landing was announced and Gopal requested me to guide him out of the plane to the exit of the airport. I generously agreed. When it landed I felt like I was sitting on a tractor; Gopal put that into words too. Halfway through the walk towards exit I saw that the same air-hostess was bidding farewell to each passenger; I immediately asked Gopal to walk right in front of me so that I don’t loose sight of him. Gopal was definitely not the candidate who could keep her engaged long enough to give me a miss.
My heart beat rose as we approached towards the plane’s exit. I was determined. Made eye contact with the hostess. Gopal had his head down when his turn came and looked grateful to be ignored. She looked at me and said “Good night :) . Thank you Sir.” I gave her a regular smiling nod. A much needed conquest and a huge relief, else it would have turned into a phobia every time I passed through that corridor.

I exited with head held high and showed Gopal the way to auto-stand. We shook hands. He said thanks and I asked him not to mention it. My friend Milton came to pick me up. We rode through the streets which were soon going to become all too familiar to me. Next day was going to be very important for reasons that are more than one.