One dark night- Part 1

The frequency of writing has been woeful. But now with the pesky exams outta the way :P, hopefully I can change that. Here's a story I wrote recently. Felt very nice to write this one. Hope ya'll like it and can understand what I'm trying to convey. It wasn't easy writing this one. 

Business was good. I was in the one profession that did not know recession, that never had a slack in demand. As long as little boys would need a place to lose their innocence, perverted youths would need a practicing ground, and married men would need their demands satisfied, our business would run. As long as the male animal’s veins would run with unending lust, our impartial trade would have its arms open to all. I always marvel at how, no matter how much they are given, men always come back for more.

There are the first timers, full of excitement but equally nervous. They need to be guided around, and they don’t get a hang of things until the first few times. You want to make sure though, that their ignorance does not cost you. On the other end there are the married adulterers. All the experience of marriage combined with its frustrations, so they know what to do and want it real bad. Their first digression from their wives always has them being very furtive and guilty about it. But I’ve seen that flame of guilt in their eyes reduce slowly over time, as their marriage dies over time. I see it in their eyes when I’m staring at them as they’re over or under me. I stare so I don’t have to think too much, for madness lies that way. I hate the fact that somewhere I too am responsible for that, and I hate men for being this way. But hey it’s a living.

Then there are the regulars and the deviants. They come back for more, and ask for outlandish things to be done with them, demands getting more twisted by the day. But essentially men are simple. There’s a very specific button that you have to press and he will never return dissatisfied. I am even on first name terms with a few of them, and know exactly what they like done. That does not mean that I’ve built any kind of relation with them. No. Apart from a couple of my colleagues, I have no friends, no family, and no ties with this world. My emotions are non-existent and my tears have dried up. You do what we do, see society in its barest and most ruthless form for so long, and you either have to shut off your mind and soul to all of it or risk losing them.

But then one night I met him.

Business was slow that day. It was Diwali and many were with their families, their parents or their friends. A few of us had gone to the temple, bought a new dress for ourselves, and tried to celebrate it as best we could. I had bought myself a new book; I do that every year. Someday I wish to educate myself enough to get out of all this. That day will never come I know. But even a foolish wish costs you nothing. Or perhaps everything.

I was sitting by the side of the road, near the pan shop, dragging on a cigarette. A saw a man approach me. He was of medium height and build. An unremarkable face, except for eyes that seemed to gleam with intelligence. He did not look like he belonged here. Nonetheless I got up and walked towards him too.    

‘How much?’ he asked me. He cringed right after saying that, realizing how bad that had sounded. It was evident that he didn’t do this a lot, but I didn’t mind what he said. He was sorry. Men have treated me worse and have been unapologetic about it.

‘It’s hundred for the hour. Extra if you want things other than the usual.’

He looked at me for a moment. ‘Is it?’ He asked. ‘All right, one hour. Follow me, I have a place nearby.’

I walked five paces behind him as he guided me to his room. Then, looking around to see who was watching, I entered. He followed right after me. He closed the door and turned to face me.

‘All right then, let’s get started?’ I asked, reaching for my hook.

‘Please sit down. I, uh, have something else to ask you.’ He continued once I sat down. ‘How much would you charge me for the night?’

I got up instantly, alarmed. I’d had such an experience before. Right then I had thought it was a deal I couldn't let go. Someone was paying for an entire night, so there was assured income. But it had turned out to be a nightmare as the man had done all sorts of things to me. That incident gave me a first glimpse at the monsters that disguised themselves so well in society.

I walked up to this man and asked him in a harsh tone. ‘Why what’s the idea?’

He looked at me for a very long time, trying to gauge my thoughts. In time he saw my alarm, he realized what kind of person I thought he was. This seemed to hurt him, for he looked down, and when he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. I was surprised.

‘I don’t want to do anything with you. I will not harm you in any way. I just needed company for the night. The loneliness is getting to me.’ Tears flowed a little more freely from his eyes. ‘I know, it must seem weird. You must be thinking, “Doesn’t he have a family, or friends? Why has he come to me when he’s lonely?” Aren’t you?’

I nodded faintly, but said nothing.

‘My family has forsaken me. I am their prodigal child’, he said, with a smile playing at his lips. ‘And sure, I know people and meet them often, but I cannot call these people friends. People, who laugh at me behind my back, people who judge me. I live by myself, and I have no complaints about it. But sometimes I just get lonely. Tonight it got to me. I just wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t judge. Who would just be. But your eyes just spoke otherwise. I’m sorry. I’ll pay you for the hour, you can go.’

I got up slowly. My mind was in a tizzy. Never in the many years that I had been doing this, had anyone ever come across this way. Of all the men I’d met, few even bothered to ask my name, let alone talk about anything other than what they wanted to do. I did not know how to respond to a man seeking my companionship and nothing more. A man who looked at me as a person and not a body. It was disconcerting. I did not know how I could not possibly comfort him; my empathy and compassion had long been stifled to death. But I decided to trust this man.

Pogo The Clown

Ah Hiatus Hiatus; what a long time its been since I wrote, anything. I've been writing only for competitions of late. But I hope to soon get back to the real pleasure of writing. The activity itself :) but the order of the day are the impending semester exams! Everything else later. However, something that I wrote recently...




The doctor was lying in his chair on a slow day,
When in came his very first patient, and sat.
‘Good morning sir and what ails you?’ he asked away.
‘I have no reason to live doctor’ said the man to that.

Alarmed, the doctor leaned forward, brow creased.
‘What is the matter with you son?’ gently he said.
‘All the light in my life has long ago ceased.
‘There is perhaps better in store for me when dead.’

‘But what of family, and love, and earthly ties?’
Asked the doctor, unnerved by the man’s hollow gaze.
‘No one cares about me; there isn’t anyone who cries,
‘If I’m gone there will only be another to take my place.’

‘Isn’t there anyone with whom you’d like to grow old?’
Beseeched the doctor, trying to inject some reason.
‘The only one I loved laughs at me for what I do’ he told,
‘No one thinks of my sentiments when they’re having fun.’

‘This is a case of depression I say, and a solution is in town,
‘The Gemini circus is traveling and they are here with a show.’
‘Go watch a show; they are famous for their Pogo the Clown,
‘He will make you smile, you won’t feel as low anymore.’

The man smiled sadly and said, ‘If it is as you speak’,
‘Then I’m afraid my chances of survival are slim.
‘This heart-warming clown that you wish me to seek,
‘This Pogo the Clown, I’m afraid I am him!’ 

....- 2

a did realize halfway through that my story was turning out to be a hashed mix of catcher in the rye and dreamcatcher :P...but it feels nice to write this way, so i will. In fact i'll just get that damn reference outta the way :P

I search for my cellphone in the folds of my jacket. My phone does not have a wallpaper, because I have nothing to say. I suddenly have this flash of a thought, and I feel like that protagonist in this book I read a few years ago, 'Catcher in the rye'. What was his name? Holden Caulfield, yeah. That story did not end too well, I stop to wonder how mine will.

I shake the thought off, and get to the contacts. There's his name, one of my two best friends. I dial up and wait. I get a busy tone.

I begin to wonder when it was that the three of us separated, when we got too busy for each other. I guess it was right after graduation, which was probably our last hurrah. Then each went to do his masters, MBA and whatnot. Then jobs, and the endless drag of daily work. Somehow all of that just didn't seem reason enough, and I felt a plummeting sense of despair course coldly through my insides. I tried to shake it aside, and not think about it.

I could blame fate, blame our lucks, maybe even blame God. But what was the point? Oh yeah, I believe in God. Bet you didn't see that coming. Yeah well, what I think is, if there's nothing to believe in, life gets boring. That's the only reason I believe; because there's nothing better to do.

I call again. This time it rings. He picks it up at the third ring.

'Hey man it's been so long! How you been?'

'Yeah man I'm good, how you doing?' I ask.

'Same old, same old. So what's up man, we should meet up sometime.'

'I called for the same reason. Let's meet up. The same old park in an hour? Can you make it?'

'Sure I can. What about him? I'll call him, I'll make him come don't worry.'

'Yeah sure. So I'll see you both at the park in an hour. See ya man.'

And that was that. Easy as pie.

He hangs up, but not before I can notice the sunniness in his voice, hear the spring in his step. I can tell he has been wanting this just as much as I, maybe more.

So I'm going to meet them again. I wonder why I didn't do this long ago. But it doesn't matter. It's been many long months since the three of us met. There will be a lot to catch up on, a lot to laugh over. I smile, a genuine smile. What can I do? Its wrested out of me.

As I walk under the streetlight, towards the park, the warmth I feel is more than it radiates. I walk slowly, the gait of a satisfied person.

I get this feeling, that maybe life isn't meant to be all that great, maybe it is just meant to be lived. But as long as you have your friends, everything becomes just about all right.

An Inheritance- part 2

every time i read Stephen King's prose, I'm struck by the numerous phrases of power that he churns out. Phrases that make you step back a second and think, pause to reflect. I try to blatantly imitate and incorporate that into my writing. Well, I try :P...anyways, back to the story.

The letter went thus:

'Dear Son. I know you do not know me well, and your last memory of me is one that I'm shameful of. But that life was a stifling existence. I was not resilient enough to continue even for your sake. In many ways, your mother was much stronger than I can ever be. But I have remembered you everyday in my prayers, never having the courage to reach out to you.

Also, there is something you should know...Oh god, it is so liberating to tell everything, knowing you won't be around to face the consequences. But do not judge me too harshly son. I was there at your graduation, hotel inaugurations, even your mother's cremation, only always watching from afar. I was always, but not quite, there with you.

Anyways, back to what I had to tell you. There is another family I had, from my second marriage. I have a daughter. She is eight years old. They have no one else besides me. With you being a successful man now-oh yes I've heard of your story-I only die with the worry of what will happen to them. I hope you will find it in your heart to at least meet them once. I wish I could ask you to take care of them, but I have no right to tell you anything. I've written them a letter too, telling them about you. You will find them when you come here to read this, for they will too.

I hope you will forgive me, at least in death.

Your father.'

Vineet put down the letter. He had nothing to say. He was numb with the shock of the revelation. At first he felt revulsion towards his father. Contempt for the man's cowardice. But then he realized, this was just a weak man, unable to cope with the world. He decided he would not come to any conclusions, until he met the second wife and the daughter.

'Vineet?' a weak voice called out his name. He turned around to see a woman in her late fifties, entering through the door he had. So there she was. She looked around ten years younger than his mother would have been, but worry and sorrow had aged her a lot in the last 24 hours.

'Yes. How are you?' not knowing what to say, he reverted to polite inquisition.

'I'm good thank you. I read his letter just now. I don't know what to say, how to say it. I'm as much at sea as you..' just then, her daughter came into the room. She was around 17 perhaps, a teenager. Very beautiful, she had her father's eyes, just like he did. Her name was Priyanka, she mumbled.

A long moment passed between the three of them, where he looked at the two of them, and despite them being strangers, felt a kind of warm affection towards them. Maybe it was the fact that he had been living alone for so long, something that he had willingly chosen for himself.

He looked at them, and said slowly, 'It's going to be all right. Let's go.' He ushered them out of the room, and they walked down the corridor.

That's when he realized that you didn't end up becoming your what your parents were. You always had a choice.

I'm going to be the father figure to Priyanka that I never had, he thought.

Living a life alone didn't seem all that alluring any more.

An inheritance- Part 1

can you love someone you've never even seen? someone who is your own but yet a stranger?

'Mr Vineet Mishra, we regret to inform you of the death of your father. Nobody knew much about his personal life, but our registry has you named as his next of kin. We request you to come and collect his remains and effects.

Signed, M/s Kanoria Industries.'

Vineet put down the short but informative letter. It had come in his office mail that morning. He sat down slowly and leaned back in his chair. Looking at the ceiling, body numb and mind racing. He found himself trying to remember the last time he had seen his dad.

He was eight years old back then. His mum was a schoolteacher. His dad worked as a system mechanic in an electrical components company. His parents never smiled or laughed, and never seemed to enjoy each other's company, or anything for that matter. Life was just work, the nine-to-five rut, coming home to do your duties, and starting all over tomorrow. Dad would come late some days but mom never even showed concern. Vineet always wondered whether life had to be such a compromise, and vowed that when he grew up he would be the most cheerful person on earth.

One day his dad just left. No note. No explanation, no forewarning. He left the front door unlocked and ajar, and had worn his favorite pair of loafers as he left with a small bunch of clothes. That morning his mother had shut the bedroom door on Vineet's face, but came out half an hour later looking perfectly composed. Vineet was scared, angry, confused and hurt. He didn't know what was happening or what would happen. His mum held his hand and dropped him to school. He walked home a little slower that night, apprehensive. He came home to see mom set the table like she did everyday, and he sat down to dinner. And just like that, they'd reached an agreement to never discuss his dad again, and face the world as two people now instead of three.

Ten years passed in the same grind. His mom meant the world to him and Vineet wanted to have no close contact with anyone else. He did not trust people. Now Vineet was joining college but to supplement his mom's earning he worked at a restaurant as a waiter and lived off his earnings. The tips he earned, he put aside for future plans, although he didn't have too many of those. He worked hard, and observed everything that happened at the hotel. Four years later, he finished his graduation in hotel management and had become a qualified chef. Those saved-up tips of his had accumulated enough for him to buy a small hand-cart off which he sold various confectioneries. Money came up as word of his food spread far and wide, and the hand cart became a small stall, then a dinghy hotel, to finally a fine-dine location. His rise was the stuff of inspiration.

Yet on the day of the hotel's inauguration, he found himself strangely devoid of emotion. He found only that his mind was thrumming with the numerous tasks he had to take and distribute among his subordinates once the hotel opened. That was when the thought had hit him like a thunderbolt.

He had become what he vowed he would never be. He had become his parents.

He carried the realization with him as a burden, but there were too many things for him to do to sit and mull over it. He got engrossed in the running of the hotel and he turned it into one of the city's finest gourmet places. The day a very imporant food critic had awarded his hotel five stars, he brought the paper home to show it to his mom. Only he found her stationary, head slightly tilted to the left and lips slightly apart. She had suddenly and unexpetedly breathed her last.

He felt like his connection with the rest of the world had been severed. He wanted nothing to do with other people anymore. The ones that were necessary in his work, he interacted with. The ones that gave him business, he smiled and talked with. But no one slept a more lonely man every night than Vineet.

And five years had passed thus. His restaurant had now opened branches across the city, and were soon going national. People just couldn't have enough of his food. But he still didn't have any of him to give to any person.

And now this. This letter. Vineet didn't know how to feel. He figured he should just go and do the necessary, and finish it.

But as he left to get his father's remains, he felt this growing pain inside him. Only he didn't understand why he was feeling sad; he didn't have reason to. It was almost as if he were an outside observer to someone else's pain. He trudged upto the receptionist at the company, and found out where he had to go.

He picked up the urn containing his father's ashes. Vineet found it difficult to objectify those few memories he had with his dad, the entire entity of that being, as a jar and kept it back down, feeling too many things at once.He rummaged through the effects, looking to see if there was anything about him. That is when he found a letter addressed to him. He opened it and started reading.

The Balloon Lady- part 2

sorry for the long delay in between parts, i myself have forgotten half the story by now :P had my exams in between so...anyways here's the rest of it. I didn't know whether to end this story happily or not, cos either one is feasible. I'm gonna write both the endings, the sad one marked alternate. You can choose :P

A million questions ran through her head. Whose was it? How did it get here? How much was it worth? Could she sell it? Should she sell it?

She sat down in a quiet place and thought. No one seemed to have come back to search for it. She kept throwing furtive glances in that direction, looking for a concerned face, a figure bent over, looking for something. But there was no such thing. She probably figured it was someone so rich it didn't matter to them if they'd lost a diamond ring. Just a diamond ring after all.

That brought into contrast her own situation. Poor starving, with nothing in lieu of raising her soon-to-be-born child. At that moment, she decided. She was going to sell it. It wasn't fair that someone be so rich they didn't care, while someone else sat here thinking what the right thing to do was. She was going to get her own.

She got up, careful not to put too much strain on her abdomen. She gripped the ring tightly as she walked towards the nearest jeweler's shop. She stopped looking at the place where she found the ring. Even if that certain someone did come, she was going to continue walking. She entered the store, 'Vishwas Jeweler's'.

The owner was sitting behind the counter, fitting the stereotype jeweler's image completely. A dull white silk kurta, a cap on his head, lots of gold around his neck and on his fingers, and a betel leaf in his mouth. She would have to talk her way to a good price with this one. He looked at the unexpected entrant in his shop and was about to shoo her away, before which she said,

'I have something to sell.' He looked at her ludicrously, as if expecting her to call off the bluff any moment. When she didn't, he decided to shoo her away anyway, until she showed him the ring.

'Where did you get this? Tell me!'

'It is the only thing my dead husband ever left me', she lied. 'I am now in no condition to keep the ring and want what I can make from it. So tell me what I can get for it.'

He extended his hand, and she placed it within his fingers. He took out his magnifying glass and observed the ring under the light for a few seconds, until he put it down with a snort.

'It's a fake. Your husband didn't leave you too much I guess.'

There was a ripple of anger that passed through her when he said that despite the fact that her story was a fabrication. But it was overshadowed by the waves of sorrow that engulfed her a few seconds later. It was a fake! For so many thoughts and ideas to pop into your head, to face so many possibilities for the first time in your life, only for them to be snatched away from your fingers. It felt akin to being punched in the gut. But then she realized, maybe...

'How can I know its a fake? Why should I believe you?' she asked aggressively

'Here I'll show you. Come here, look into the glass. See how the light seems to be spreading all over the place, how its lost its sharpness? A real diamond has very high refractive index, it reflects the light back cleanly. Glass creates a whole lot of diffusion, that is the spreading of light. Besides the linearity of the edges, or how straight they are, also seem glass like. Now do you see?'

She stepped back and nodded slowly, head bowed. She could not believe her luck. She would have been better off not having found the ring at all. It was one thing to not dream at all, but to dream and then lose those dreams? It hurt.

Try as hard as she might, she could not hold back her tears. Her eyes felt pregnant with them, and they spilled out hot and salty. She walked towards the door, about to make her way back to her sordid world, when the jeweler called her. She turned around. His features were set benevolently, and he smiled and told her to come back.

'You didn't listen to me entirely. I never said that artificial jewelery does not have any value of its own. Here, this is easily worth three thousand rupees. Take them.' And he thrust three thousand rupee notes into her hand. Both of them knew full well that it did not cost as much. She wiped her tears and gave him a genuine smile. Not one of those do-you-want-to-buy-my-balloon-child smiles. No these she reserved only for moments of true happiness and gratitude. It lit up her face and for a second she looked prettier than she actually did. She took the money and thanked him. He just smiled.

She walked out into the street. The breeze seemed to blow cooler, the afternoon seemed like evening, and she felt like she was walking on clouds. Alright, her mind ruefully thought, so I didn't find an actual diamond. But I found a genuinely good human being, something rarer than diamonds in today's world. And I got three thousand, which might not be a fortune, but its enough for some hope. Surely hope has not become that expensive yet. There's always that.

She looked up at the sky and smiled. Thank god for small favors.


XXX--ALTERNATE ENDING (Basically just adding two more paragraphs :P)--XXX

After she left, the jeweler chortled silently for a while and then hailed his wife. He told her what just transpired, how he had sold the poor woman something about smudged light and linearity of edges and whatnot. The poor illiterate had bought it hook, line and sinker. Then just to sweeten the deal and clear any last vestige of doubt in her head, he called her and gave her three thousand rupees. The diamond was easily worth three lakhs. His wife just listened to him and went back in. She had learnt long ago to silence her conscience, for it was of no use with her husband.

He looked happily at the figure in tattered clothes, walking away from his shop with a smile. Some days were just much better than the others.

Thank god for small favors.

The Balloon Lady- part 1

i just saw this pregnant and poor lady trying to sell balloons near Jayanagar 4th block last week. The image just stayed in my mind, and i'm trying to write something about it.

She hadn't sold too many today. Only six of them since the morning, and the sun was already reaching its zenith in the sky. She needed to sell a few more to eat her meals and maybe save some money for later. But it was harder to walk around with a pronounced and rotund belly, and with the extra pounds of another life taxing her already frail body. She would have to sit down every once in a while, and take a few deep breaths. The baby had started kicking now, it wasn't too far away. She walked with a tired and resigned look on her face, feet dragging and posture limp. Things had gotten harder since her husband had died.

It was never expected of her to run the house selling the balloons. Her husband used to be a handyman at construction sites and got daily wages. They used to run a happy, content household with it and were looking forward to their new child. But a mishap at the site took her husband away from her. She didn't even get time to grieve properly since she had to get back to earning money. Not knowing too many other things to do, she continued selling balloons by the sidewalks, and got more judicious with her money. She was somehow getting by but with the baby coming, she did not know what to do. She used to trudge through her days and cry through her nights.

The honk of a passing car made her snap back to the present. She looked around and saw a couple of kids coming towards her with their parents. She forced her business smile upon her face, and went to them with her balloons, as though selling them made her happy enough to smile that way. The little ones were instantly interested, but they did not hold enough sway over their parents to get them to buy one. But she was used to it, that was the case nine out of ten times.

She glanced at the traffic cops stationed at a nearby intersection. Hawk-eyed, they watched every passing vehicle, ready to pounce at any indiscretion. While she watched, they stopped a passing goods truck and asked him to show his permit. He handed over everything to them, and disappointment was writ large on their faces when they saw everything was in order. They were about to let him go when they saw the truck's broken rear indicator. They immediately stopped him and abused him for not bringing it to their notice earlier. They called him outside and read out to the him his offence and how much he was liable to pay for it. The man meekly said he did not have that much, and asked them if a settlement was possible. They looked at him for a long second, and directed him to their superior sitting on his bike in the shade of nearby trees. Two hundred rupee notes passed hands and the driver was let go. Two hundred accounted rupees, that would never reach the government coffers.

She shook her head as she looked at this routine occurrence. God only knew how much they made every day. The other day she had even overheard them talking about how difficult it was to stand waiting till someone could come for them to catch. How they were being overworked for their money. She walked away, disgusted at how people could take their good fortune for granted like this. From what she had seen, they were the most shameless, amoral and unprincipled people she knew.

She looked around her. People all dressed up, buying things they probably didn't even need, shopkeepers haggling with customers, smug smiles on their faces knowing that they were cheating them, young boys staring at women walking by, whistling and hooting, and suddenly she was overcome by a wave of hate, disgust and nausea. She felt faint and sit down right where she was standing. How could such a society co-exist, so full of evils and treachery?

Swept by a wave of hormones so common during pregnancy, she felt wave after of despair, and anger and hurt, and started crying. But no one made any move to help her or ask her what happened. She banged her left fist on the ground, overcome once again as she remembered her recent grief. That is when her hand fell upon something sharp and small. She yanked her hand back in pain, and then saw what it was.

It was a diamond ring.

Someone had dropped their ring on the sidewalk and it had lain there, unnoticed. She picked it up and looked at it. It looked shiny and very attractive. Also very real. She wondered how much she would get if she sold it. And then she pondered the question.

What was the right thing to do? What was right in such a world anymore?

Stop Running

its just that phrase that came into my head first. then i thought of writing about what the poem surmises. That sometimes, you don't have to fear...

He walks, glancing back now and then, he walks,

Echoes terrorize him, as to himself he talks.

He doesn't want to know what it is, doesn't care,

All he knows is that he wants to get out of there.

There are no footsteps, and no sound of breathing,

But he is convinced its there, and listening.

He wants to act calm, but then he is shaking,

Trapped in a nightmare from which he's not waking.

Its a long hallway with dark aisles on either side,

And he's fighting through it against the sinister tide.

A book falls somewhere, and his heart freezes,

Yet he walks on till the balcony and then eases.

But there is no fresh air, no liberation of fear,

Then he realizes all the while it waited for him here.

He leans against the railing, pulling back from it,

But it creeps upon him, bit by agonizing bit.

Till he tips and falls, onto the hard ground below,

As the life ebbs out of him, painful and slow.

But then we look for the being that caused his fall,

To see there never really was anything there at all.

That first mystery

i was just reminded of this really funny incident, or rather a series of incidents that had taken place when i used to live in mumbai, or thane, for semantics' sake :P the following story is a mix of memory and a bit of what-it-probably-was...

This happened around the time when CID was actually a good show. Yes really it was! Around the time when detectives were the stuff, so to speak. For the residents of the little housing society of Hyde Park, tucked away off Ghodbunder Road in Thane, this was probably as big as it was going to get.

Someone was stealing the caps off the air nozzles on the bicycles parked in the society garage.

Now, before you pass off the story as a juvenile waste of time, let me say that at the time of its occurrence, I was seven years old. So obviously the situation had stymied me back then. Also anyone who's ever had to fill his tires almost everyday for want of an air nozzle cap will tell you about the severity of this crime. Okay let me just recount to you how we went about the whole thing, so you get a better idea.

It was a warm Thursday evening, and we had all done finished playing cricket in our lawn. We came back to the building, to see one of our friends Srikant looking around his bicycle. We went up to him and asked him what happened.

'I can't find the air nozzle cap man!' Having been victims of similar misfortune before, we all tried to help him, but to no avail.

'Looks like you have to keep filling often till you get a new one man', I said.

He looked around glumly. 'You're right I guess. Damn.'

But over the next few days, everyone started losing the nozzle caps off their back tires and the issue was escalated. We kept buying new ones, they cost a rupee or so hence money was no matter, but it was inconvenient to keep getting them. But they kept disappearing. It all came to a head one day when Rahul, a friend of mine, found a small steel plate full of these nozzles in one corner of the garage. He called us all and showed it to us. Then started the really funny part. Everybody tried to be the Sherlock, only their performances consisted more of imitation gimmicks than any real deduction. I most decidedly remember one guy going home and bringing back a magnifying glass to look for clues. But do bear in mind we were all seven to eight years then..

'Hmmm, whoever stole it, must have left some clue. They always leave clues. We have to look around the crime scene' was what my friend Gullu had to contribute.

'Lets do this. We all take turns keeping a watch around the garage. That way the thief can't make his getaway', was another suggestion.

'That's when Pratik, one of us guys, said the ominous words, 'you know it could just as easily be one of us. And now the person knows our plans.'

Boy did that cause a furore! There were smaller groups within the group now, each divided on their belief of who the criminal was. Plans were made in secret, and pseudo plans were shared when all of us met together. Highly devious behavior for our age yes, but all our plans came to naught. Nozzle caps still kept disappearing with exasperating regularity.

Pretty soon the situation threatened to slip into anarchy, and the growing murmurs within the smaller groups were on the cusp of turning into full-fledged throaty accusations. Our friendship would have been fractured beyond any help, if not for Majumdar uncle, Rahul's father.

He called us all one evening and told us he had solved the case of the missing nozzle caps. Our reactions varied from incredulity to envy to relief.

'This morning I was coming back from the airport and I was getting into our building at around 4.30, when I saw something in the garage, near Rahul's cycle. Curious, I went to see who it was. There was a weaver bird that was removing the caps with its little forelimbs and carrying it away. I silently followed it and found out that it was keeping all of them on the small plate you found. Then it flew with the plate to its tree, and used it in constructing its nest, for some sort of foundation. Frankly I'm surprised to see such intelligent behavior in animals, but yeah, there's your mystery. I suppose it'll stop once its done building. You kids don't have to worry after that.'

We all sat silently, stunned by who the criminal actually was. A bird! It had been a fun experience; the kind of perverted excitement I had felt when I'd for the first time heard there was a criminal amongst us! The thrill of pursuing an actual case, albeit with questionable methods. All of that. But right now, everyone was feeling a little foolish, going to such great lengths to catch someone who never existed. But we all tried to put a brave face, laughing outwardly at how this had turned out. I guess that night each one of us looked in the mirror, wondering how they could perpetrate such stupidity. I know I did.

Sure enough, the nozzle caps stopped being spirited away after a few days. The simplicity of the whole situation had changed something in us. There were a few other things that happened which seemed inexplicable on the face of it, but this time we never got so involved. Everyone just let it be. We weren't interested in getting excited, we didn't want to fantasize things. There was probably a very boring reason for most anomalies. We didn't want to pursue things, with wide eyes and amazement.

Maybe we were just growing up.

Bottled emotions

emotions bottled up. Something about that phrase made me think. More than anything, I wanted to write this to explore the concept. what if we could drive away our negative emotions just by taking a swig of a potion to induce the feeling we wanted?

I write from my desk, with wobbling hands,

I haven't had a gulp in a very long time.

They say they've run out of happiness,

What do I do till I wait for a new batch?

I'd gone to them not more than an hour back,

Their board claiming they had every emotion.

I entered to see aisles full of labelled bottles,

'Reason, calm, honesty, determination, bravery'.

There was a woman with a bottle of Reason,

Taking a swig as tears ran down her face.

It seemed not enough as she burst out again,

Drinking and drinking but to no avail.

I wondered what her sorrow was as I looked,

As eventually she grew stoic, and left the place.

And the bottled emotion did its trick again,

With another unwanted emotion driven away.

Another man who was shaking with anger,

Hurriedly paid for a bottle of Calm.

And only to gulp it down at once, too much,

Then sat down right there in a silent trance.

Its funny how long it has been, so long,

Since we were helpless to feel like we did,

But no more of that, even that has a cure,

'Bottled Emotions' give you what you want.

I went up to the counter and asked the man,

If he had any happiness for my depressions.

A string of failures getting me where I was,

I wanted to make the sinking feeling go away.

But he said he was out of its stock,

As happiness was the fastest selling item.

He said people horde him for it, as seemingly,

They don't get any of it on their own now.

What was I to do now, in the meanwhile?

I haven't had to face sadness in so long.

Well I guess I just have to sit in the corner,

Tide over till my rescue comes in that bottle.

the folk-ish poem :P

i was just listening to some Eluveitie music and this came into my head...

The pipe wails across the empty marshes,

On which once stood many castles proud.

It further erodes the once mighty turrets,

From which the archers rained their hell.

It is but an echo that the wind brings now,

Of the once mighty bellows of the victorious.

The thud has been reduced to a mere tap,

That which was the sound of an army march.

Fast and strong, in throes and throng,

Bunches of wild-haired men, they charged.

With no armor on them, save that of courage,

They ran with a guffaw, right to their deaths.

Blood and sweat mingle, as blades cross,

Curses fly across the field, it’s all a din.

Every man here in the quest for glory,

Hoping his song is sung for many years.

If you knock on the stones, you can still hear,

The ancient history seeped deep in them.

As they now stand still, silent witnesses,

Of a glorious era that once was.

Inexpensive innocence

there's a little patch of slum dwelling near my apartments and the other day while I was walking back from some work in that area, i just happened to observe some of the kids over their, playing. It was that vision that makes this poem.

There, right by the side of the busy street,

Lies a tiny patch of Peter Pan's Neverland.

Where throes of laughter echo unburdened,

From the happiest shining faces I've ever seen.

They're tiptoeing on broken bus benches,

They're jumping on each other and bumbling.

There is constant chatter in shrill voices,

With complete ignorance of the shabby environs.

There is one more, pouring sand into a bottle,

Only to throw it out and start all over again.

How does he find joy in exercises of futility?

While we despair in a life full of excesses.

More kids running up and down a dirt mound,

Probably the only peak some of them will scale.

'Ooooo!' one shouts as he comes tumbling down,

Taking a fall with a bigger smile than we could give.

What do they know of money and the lack of it?

It's their own small world insulated from sorrow.

I look at us people and feel we're missing a beat,

When I see these examples of inexpensive innocence.

Shoebite

just this crazy idea i had. slightly inspired from a stephen king short story. but that one had nothing to do with shoes :P..

It was the color that first caught Johnny's eye. It was a bright yellow, with a dash of orange. You just couldn't miss it. And something about it exuded a raw, muscular feel. He felt it would grip the surface well, and really help him run faster. He had his qualifiers in two weeks, and his last pair had worn out. He looked on it for a brand mark, but there was none. That was strange. But his gut told him he really had to get these shoes. It was a good idea to get these shoes. He entered the store where it was on display, only hoping that that they wouldn't cost more than the little money he could spare for it.

He went up to the shopkeeper and had to wait for a few minutes as a couple of customers made their purchase. Then Johnny went up to him and asked.

'Say, how much for the pair of runnin' shoes that're put outside on display?'

'What those? Well, they bin here a long time, no one's ever showed any interest in 'em. Do you wanna have a look?'

'Yes please.'

The man slowly made his way to the display counter. He was a man of seventy, with a generous girth and tufts of snowy white hair on his head, below which was a wrinkled, kindly face. He came back with them, and put the pair in Johnny's hands. 'You can try 'em on if you'd like.'

Johnny slipped one on and the fit was snug as though the shoe was made especially for him. He slipped on the second and did I fast jog on the spot to test how they felt. The old man looked at him. At the lean and chiseled features of his body, his agile stance and his dancing eyes.

'You a runner son?'

'Oh yeah, I've been tryin' out for nationals for the past three years, but always narrowly missed out. This time I've a feeling I'm gonna make it. I have to, to repay all the loans I've taken in my pursuit. I see there's no brand name on this. What sorta guarantee can you give me on this?'

'No guarantee. What you buy is what you get.'

'Okay. I'm gonna trust my gut on this one. How much?'

'Thirty dollars. Cos I've never seen a finer made pair of shoes in my entire life.'

'Oh god. I don't have so much. I've only twenty. Please sir, please give it to me for twenty.'

The man seemed to look at him for a minute. 'Oh all right. They weren't going anyways. If I can do my bit to help a young man, I sure will. Go on, take 'em!'

Johnny thanked him and came out of the shop a happy man. He took out motorcycle parked by the sidewalk and started on his way home. He had a good feeling about these shoes.

On the way home, he found a man standing by a stationary car, waving his arms for help as he walked around in frustration. Johnny slowed down and stopped next to him.

'Can I help you sir?'

'Oh it would be a blessing if you could. You see my car's just not starting, do you know what the problem could be? I've tried everything!'

'Well I dunno much sir, but I could take a look under the hood for you, I can.'

'That would be of great help!' Johnny parked his bike in front of the car and got off to check under the hood of the car. As he passed the other man, he felt a sharp object pressed in the low of his back.

'Alright buster, no sound. Just walk off the road into the bushes, and don't try anything stupid.'

He silently agreed and after walking a few meters inward, the man spun Johnny around and asked him to give all his valuables and cash. When Johnny said he actually had nothing, the man lost his cool.

'Now you listen man! I'm gonna take your bike and get away on it, cos that's not even my car all right? Now if you don't want me to take your life along with that, do as I say!'

'But I have nothing except for these shoes I bought. Honest!'

The man looked at him angrily as he saw that Johnny wasn't lying. Then he yanked the shoe cover out of his hands and peeped inside.

'Ooh fancy. Guess I won't mind wearing those. He quickly kicked off his own shoes and wore the yellow ones. 'Don't let me see you around again' he said as he started trotting away. Johnny felt a sinking feeling inside him and he felt hot tears well up in his throat. He could have easily chased down the man, but what was the point? He was armed.

But then suddenly, just a few meters in front of him, amidst the bushes he heard a scream of surprised pain. Someone was yelling in pure agony. Johnny sprinted to the source of the sound, and saw that it was the same man, writhing on the ground in some pain. Then his eyes fell upon his feet and his jaw dropped.

His feet were bleeding profusely and his toes were missing, as if they'd been bitten off. All that remained of them were two weird looking stumps for feet. There was blood everywhere, and the man now seemed to go into shock, turning alarmingly white and soon fainting into silence. Johnny looked to see what had caused all this, when his eyes fell upon the yellow shoes. They were perched innocently on a nearby rock, and would have been beyond suspicion if not for the blotches of red all over its toe end.

He walked up to it cautiously and picked it up, expecting them to bite again. Something told him without a doubt that they had been the cause for what had transpired. But nothing happened.

He put them back in his bag, took another glance of the faint body, and decided not to get involved in this. They wouldn't believe his story anyway. He went to his bike and rode away.

Once home, he washed them carefully and sat and stared at them. That was when he realized, if it wasn't for those shoes, the man would probably have killed him out of frustration for not having anything on him. Or he would have been left stranded there. The shoes had saved his life. He felt that they were their to protect him, and wouldn't do anything to him.

So the next morning, he wore them to practice. And it went great.

Two weeks later, he topped his heat qualifiers, and made it to nationals.

A month later, he won gold at the nationals and represented his country at the Olympics.

Six months later, he won gold at the summer Olympics, setting a new event record.

All the while he never showed too much surprise or disbelief. For since the very first time he had seen those shoes, he knew it was a good idea to get them.

The beach

I stand on the porch, knotted up,

Hardened by the day's troubles.

As I stand looking at the beach,

In the early velvety sunset.

Unwittingly, into it I am drawn,

As the waves sweep repeatedly.

The smooth sandy seacoast,

With its characteristic sound.

For them there is no day,

And the night is just the same.

Back and forth, the cycle goes,

A constant in this changing world.

The salty wind comes to hug me,

Telling me to give in to the calm.

I walk up till the waves kiss my feet,

And my hardy exterior crumbles.

Is that the last boat coming in I see?

A lone dot on a vast landscape.

Somebody out there is finding his calm,

In the utter silence of solitude.

The sound that the waves make,

How can I describe their quality?

Reminds my how mom put to me sleep,

With a warm hand and a silent lullaby.

The sky is an adept artwork,

For it changes shades as the eye sees.

Darker and deeper it gets with time,

Until the stars come out to play.

The caw of the evening bird,

Pierces the silent symphony.

Moved I stand, in nature's awe,

Feeling one with the harmony.

Thus I walk back inside,

And go to bed a happier man.

As my head lays on my pillow,

It's nature that comes to say goodnight.

Hello?- part 3

the final part. Not gonna make it too long. At the end of the story i'll tell you the topic i got. So you guys can figure out where I changed the plot a bit. More like sequence of events.

It was a few minutes before Vineet made any move from the couch he had slumped on. Other messages played on his phone, people wishing him a happy birthday and whatnot. But he just sat there, shaking a little in fear. He didn't know what to do. But after a few moments he decided he could only help himself by calming down. So he coaxed himself into clear thought. Was there anything he could do to avoid this? Was it possible that the man was right outside his house, waiting to nab him if he tried to escape? Was there any lead to pursue? Anything he could do? That's when Vineet decided to call the number back. Maybe he could talk to the man, convince him, or intimidate him with the considerable clout Vineet had. Being the editor-in-chief of a leading city magazine, he had a few contacts.

He dialed the number and waited with bated breath. On the third ring, it was picked up.

'Hello?' The voice asked courteously.

'Hello? Who's this?' Vineet asked.

'Whom do you want sir? This is a PCO.'

'Oh okay. Where is this situated?'

'Near the Masjid flyover sir. Have you seen the new Tectronix mobile showroom? Its right next to it, on the right hand side. Its a little provision store. Why sir?'

'Someone called me from this number, I wanted to know who it was. Do you keep any sort of record or anything that can help me know who it was?'

'No sir, too man people use the phone everyday. But the mobile store has a camera on its door which records whoever enters the store. This phone comes in its sweep. I know because I had gone in once and happened to notice my own..'

'Alright alright, I'll come there soon. I need to see who called, its pretty urgent. Thank you for your help. I might need you to come with me there, so I can ask to see the footage. I will be there soon.'

So saying, he slammed down the phone. He went into his bedroom and took out his Beretta from his chest of drawers. Stepped out of his house after a cautious glance in every direction. Everything seemed to be okay. He checked his car before getting in, and then drove off towards the Masjid flyover.

Masjid flyover, 6.30 pm.

Once there, he parked his car nearby and walked in search of the showroom. With a number of people from whom to ask directions, he found it soon enough. And just as he was told, there was the provision store right beside it. He made his way to the shop, deciding to take the man along with him to watch the footage. He had the timing of the call from the message, and just had to match it with the timing in the recording. He went up to the shop, and was met by a short, stubby man of about forty-five. He had an amiable smile on his face, and looked up at Vineet questioningly.

'I'd called a while back. About who used your phone?..'

'Oh yes yes. Tell me.'

'Yeah I wanted to check the footage in the showroom, could you come with me? They know you and all, so that might help.'

'Sure sir, I'll just tell my wife to mind the shop. Give me two minutes.' He went in and after a bit, came out and told Vineet to follow him. They both went to the shop, and the man explained the situation to the people. They immediately agreed to let them view the footage, and directed them to the room where the TV was located. The two men closed the door behing them, and Vineet began looking at the tapes. He fast forwarded to 5.14, the time at which the call was made. As he forwarded, he saw many people coming and going, seemingly moving at superhuman speed as the tape sped on. Then around 5.12, he stopped and pressed play again. He watched for the next two minutes, waiting to see who would come into the frame. It was not 5.14. It had to happen now.

It had to.

And then he saw on the screen, a short, stout figure get out of the shop, and it was the shopkeeper making a call from his own phone.

Before he could reach for the gun in his pocket and turn around, something heavy crashed into his head and he felt a creeping blackness on the edges of his vision. He fell onto the floor, limp, and struggled to look up at his assailant, who was tying him up and then hauling him onto his shoulder and taking him out another door, which led to an alley behind the shop.

He had fallen right into the man's trap. That was when he looked up, and saw those eyes again, flashing. His hands and legs now tied, there wasn't much he could do, except wonder how he did not remember those eyes earlier.

Then black.

The next thing he remembered was waking up. He was in place. He didn't know how or where, but he knew why.

Well, you know the rest...

P.S. The topic i'd gotten, which i somehow had to write on in 500 words, was- 'You come home and listen to your messages and freeze on the third. Start from here.'

Hello?- part 2

part deux of the story. well the suspense isn't exactly mind-blowing, if my friend Ashwin is to be believed. but then he's been the perennial party-pooper :P hope its good enough.

Vineet felt light headed and slumped onto his sofa. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. But he had hoped and prayed that it wouldn't come to haunt him. They say your karma comes to find you eventually and his seemed to have balled up to knock him in the gut. He didn't know what to do now. He was scared and rightly so. That night had been his fault.

1st January 2011, 12.10 am

He staggered out of Spiral, and sat down on the pavement lining the empty road. Two of his friends came out with him, concerned whether he'd had one too many to drink.

'Yeah you should sit outside for a while. Enough drinking and dancing for you today.'

'No I'll be alright, just give me five minutes! I'm not done yet. Its..its New Year's man. You d-don't go home early! I need fresh air that's all.' he replied.

'No you don't. You can come back in but no more drinking. You've to drive back home man. How are you going to do that if you drink more? Party's going to get over soon, remember the deadline? You've to drive home then.' the second friend advised.

'No! You don't tell me what to do!' he got up to strike his friends, not thinking sensibly under the influence of the alcohol inside him. He staggered and missed, and they pushed him away roughly. But when they bent up to pick him up, he pushed them away and slowly got up. He made a rude gesture at both of them and walked towards his car. He had no mood to be around them anymore. They both tried to stop him but he pushed them aside, got inside and locked his doors. He started his car and drove away before they could do anything more. He tried his best to keep a steady eye on the road despite his moving field of vision. His mind went back to his altercation with his friends and suddenly he felt bad he'd made that gesture at them. He wondered if he should go back and..

Two lights shined into his eyes out of nowhere, and he was blinded for a second. He swerved to avoid the oncoming car, and twisted the steering wheel violently. He avoided the car, but was moving uncontrollably towards the pavement. Frozen, there was nothing he could do. There was a little girl of ten on the pavement, walking, with her father about a hundred paces behind her. Before he knew it, he rammed into her, the impact causing only a dull thud on the bonnet that reached his ears, but flinging the girl many feet, sending crashing into the wall of a nearby building. He heard an ominous crack as that happened, and she fell down, lifeless. Her father roared in anger and came racing towards her. But by then, he had reversed and sped away. But as he passed the father, who was running in the dark towards her, he saw the man's pair of eyes looking directly, feet not pausing, but the eyes registering how he looked. He couldn't look at the face in the dark. But there was an anger and pain in those eyes he had noticed that made his blood turn to water. He wanted to get out of there.

He got back to his penthouse, and went back and cleaned his car's front, making sure there was no blood anywhere. He then unscrewed the registration plates of his car, replacing them with a pair of old ones from his previous car that he hadn't discarded yet. That done, he want back up to his flat. But there was no sleep for him that night. He cried and sobbed through the hours. He withdrew into a shell over the next few weeks and wouldn't answer anyone's concerned queries at work. But as they say, time heals all, and with the growing months, he regained some of his normalcy. But he had given up alcohol, partying, and all of that. He lived a straight life with his work being his worship. As a result, he had grown even richer, but still that gave him no joy. He seemed to be walking solemnly through life. He hoped someday he would have rid himself of the debt to owed in lieu of his crime.

But then, there was someone who wouldn't settle just for a reformed version of him. Someone wanted him dead.

Hello?- part 1

there was a creative writing contest in BMS last week that I took part in. Thing is, the word limit was 500 words and I can't write that short a story too well, so I made a flimsy job of my topic. But I liked it so I decided to write it a little more elaborately. I shall tell the topic I'd gotten at the end of the second part.

He was in a place. Some place. He did not know how or where, but he knew why.

'Hello? Are you there?'

He was answered with silence. But he knew the other person was around. He could tell. The air stank of the man's hatred for him. It was heavy with the man's resolve.

'Please, I am sorry! Please let me go! I promise I'll surrender, I'll do whatever you say, please just let me go!' he sobbed. That was when the other voice replied from the depths of darkness.

'If you weren't in this position right now, you wouldn't have given a second thought about what you did. You would have continued living your hedonistic life. Yuppie chief editor of a high society tabloid. You've always been farting through silk haven't you? Always would. I'm the one who spent sleepless nights crying over my daughter who was taken away from me. By you. I'm the one who sought justice to no avail. And I'm the one who's going to kill you tonight.'

'Please, I'll confess! I'll call a conference and apologize to you in front of everyone. I'll help you out, please don't kill me!' He shouted. In reply, the other voice chuckled, a sound that made his hair rise and his spirits sink.

'You would apologize would you? And that would erase everything? Well then you must have had one hell of an apology. Let me hear it.'

The other man walked up to him and now stood right in front of him, blocking the halogen lamp shining in his face. He then turned around to see they were in an empty warehouse of some sort. A few leftover bales of cotton in a corner served as evidence. He looked around for anything that could help him recognize where they were. Probably something outside their window, a landmark he could recognize. That was when his face was yanked to look into the other man's, who said only one word, slowly and with stress.

'Apologize.'

'Look man, I'm really and genuinely sorry for what I did. It was a while ago, and I've changed since then. The life I'm living now is all so that I can counter that one night, and..' his mouth was clamped by the other man's hand, and he fell silent. He looked at that face, which now seemed in distant thought, as though considering his words. Then it looked at him again the head shook.

'Apologize.'

'I am, I really am sorry!' he started to sob, scared by the note of instability in the other man's voice. 'Please just let me go, I will do whatever you say...' a hand fell hard on his face, and he had a brief brush with darkness as he almost passed out. He looked up at the man, groggy, and saw something glint in his right hand, and that was when he knew what was going to happen. The man yelled at him, face contorted in anger.

'APOLOGIZE!!!!' and the man's scream of anger was joined by his of fear. He felt his blood turn to water and all his life force seemed to desert him for a second. At was at that very second, while he was shouting, that the blade rushed at his face with blinding speed and...

Hello darkness, my old friend.

4 hours ago

Vineet Agarwal came home from his birthday party at the office. His colleagues had wished him, and even gone to the lengths of bringing him a surprise cake. He went through the motions pleasantly enough, and thanking everyone, came back home. But the truth was that he couldn't feelany real happiness anymore. Not since that night.

He glanced at his flashing telephone which meant there were messages for him to listen to. He went up to it and pressed play. The first two messages were from his parents and his sister wishing him on his birthday. Then the third message started to play, and his legs damn near gave way beneath him.

'Birthday Vineet. I won't say happy because I'm not going to let it be. I know what you did, I was there that night, but I was helpless. I saw my daughter lose her life because of your irresponsibility. My little girl of five that you killed. That too on her birthday. I'm going to do to the same to you, I want you to feel the same helplessness that I did. Mark my words Vineet Agarwal, you will not see tomorrow's sunrise. No matter what you try today, I will hunt you down, and kill you.'

Beep. 'End of messages.'

Contact

I was not sure whether to write this as a short story or a poem. Its too short even for a short story, but a poem would not do this topic justice. I shall try to build it up as it goes along...btw, all the incidents mentioned in the story, actually happened..only they're taken out of context.

He was an old friend. Back when I was growing up in Dubai, he had been one of my closest buddies. His name was Varun. I still remember this one time when all us friends were playing hide and seek, and we were to stay within the limits of the building. He decided that he and I would run over to the park across the road, watch the fun as they futilely searched every nook and cranny of the humongous building. We stayed there for half an hour, playing ball in the court and swinging away to glory on the swings. After which we suddenly remembered the hide and seek game. We silently made our way back to the building and confronted the seekers. The expression on their faces when we told them we were in the building! Their flummoxed look still makes me laugh.

He used to love animals and birds, and had a variety of them in his house. He was athletic, smart, funny. I used to be cherubic those days, but he never made me bad about it. But yeah his taste in music was, funny. Although he always defended it whenever we made fun of it. But by god, did he have a bad sense of time! This one day when we were playing cricket on this ground near our house, I called him to join us. He told me over the phone that he'd be there in ten minutes flat. Only he turned up an hour and a half late, when we were ready to leave for home. From then on, all of us pleaded with him never to say that he'd be there in ten minutes. We kept ribbing him about it, an inside joke we guys had. And I remember how that year on April Fool's day, all our jokes had him as our target. And how he didn't fall for any of them!

Of course that was years ago. We were in college now and I was back in India. Hadn't really spoken to him in a while, but I had my memories. The best times were when we used to go school in the same bus. All us friends from the building in the school and school bus. Our haunt was the last few rows in the bus, where everyone used to laugh and joke with everyone, profanities flew, arguments heated up and were soothed down. It was such a node of chatter, I still remember it very vividly. Varun and I were always a team, putting up a united front. Sure I had other friends, some just as close, but I remembered him best. Always full of life.

He died last week.

Today morning, my grandpa who used to live with us even in Dubai and who was good friends with Varun's grandpa, gingerly came up to me.

'I've got news for you..'

'Yes grampa?'

'Remember your friend Varun in Dubai? He, he died last week.' He sat down beside, in case I broke down or something. I just sat there, stock still. I didn't know what to say, what to think, what to feel. I was just numb. But he just sat there. After a minute I muttered.

'How?' my voice was hoarse and sounded tinny and distant.

'Apparently one of his turtles were on the edge of the railing in his balcony. Remember how his fourth floor balcony overlooked the garden? Well he rushed out to catch it, slipped on some water on the floor and toppled over the railing. His head hit the slide in the garden and he died on the way to the hospital.' He said this all in a rush, as if glad to get it out. I kept nodding, continued even after he was done speaking. Strangely I didn't feel like crying even though I was very sad. But then tears don't come easy to me.

'I just feel bad that I wasn't in contact with him all these years. He used to be one of my best friends..'

'I know. That's why I was hesitant to tell you.'

'But how did you know?' Something that I should have asked first but didn't.

'His grandpa and I are still in touch. We write letters to each other every month. I got his today. Poor man is devastated. To see the lifeless body of your own grandson. Must be horrible!'

I spoke no further. The shock was ebbing, but the sadness stayed firmly rooted. He did not move from my side either, a silent companion that I welcomed. After a few minutes, I heard him chuckle ruefully. I looked at him questioningly.

'I was just wondering. Its funny how we oldies, what with our technical incompetence and reliance on archaic communication methods are more in touch than you kids. You have your internet, your mobiles, that headbook thing, what do you call it? Yeah, facebook. How come you never spoke to him in so long? He was your best friend. I mean then maybe you wouldn't feel as much regret would you?..' Then he probably realized that he wasn't saying the best things under the situation and his voice petered out.

And I didn't really have any answer to give him. How was it that the older generations had more work to do, lesser efficient methods to reach out, and yet they kept it touch? Sometimes for a lifetime. And how was our generation, with everything literally a touch or a click away, and all the spare time in the world, so woeful at it? Did we not care as much as they did? Had we become so self-centered and absorbed that somewhere down the line we let those important threads slip out of our hand? But amongst all these generic questions, again a very personal lanced through.

Why hadn't I called or messaged him one last time?! Damn this regret eating at my soul.

Us engineers

An ode to us retards :P here's to every engineer who's loved what he's doing and been ridiculed for it! Decided to write this full in chindi indian style! no hi-fi language :P

The first time I breathed, my fate was sealed,

When my father announced with great joy.

His decision was to me like a prophecy unveiled,

'Honey, we'll make an engineer out of our boy!'

Didn't help my case when I topped my school class,

And had a knack of analyzing in detail.

Always thought I'd take it up for time pass,

Only to find that here you could actually fail.

In fact you know, the entrance exams it was,

Those two years of relentless preparation.

They earn the dubious distinction of being the cause,

For our slow but sure mental degeneration.

Our college timings are worse than a nine to five,

But we don't seem to have learnt anything yet.

We meet a lot of people, college is busy as a hive,

But for friends, Facebook's still my best bet.

Yes we do bunk, but its nothing great as such,

Playing was something we used to ages ago do.

Nowadays we don't get out in the sun much,

So many reference books to sit at home and go through.

Sometimes we confuse our calculators with our phone,

Because we use them both more or less the same.

And when our parents leave us home all alone...

No we only log onto the net to check out that new game.

Its probably only us that find it exciting,

To see mazes of wires on a complex device.

A beautiful sunrise or a similar sighting,

Has us arguing over the angle at which the earth's axis lies.

We draw graphs to show the futility of having a girl,

And form equations on how to live cheaply.

To be honest the only thing that makes our head twirl,

Is that new article on diode developments in Science Weekly.

But at the end of the day, if I had to take a stand,

There couldn't be anything else I'd love more to be.

If you still think we're weird then, eh man,

What to do, we are like this only!

Ambition

i decided to consciously not follow a rhyme scheme this time, trying more to emote. it has somewhat restricted the extent of my writing. i also intend to make a proper study of the various poetic devices i can employ besides plain rhyme...as of now, just this.

Ambitions as a kid, that never quite left,

Abstract ideas gain weight with the years,

Until as a compulsion they drag me down.

A rapt fixation in an unhinging mind,

Nights twisted and twirled through in agony,

In the cruel ecstasy that an obsession is.

With chastising fever my body burns,

Mind loses the ability to think of anything else,

When dreams beckon like a haunting wind.

Now I cannot sleep till I no longer dream,

With mind's thirst satiated, I will relax,

When I finally become what I set out to be.

I, Mamata Banerjee

The state of political affairs in India is disgusting. I could not elaborate enough, my frustration at how Mamata Banerjee is doing whatever the hell she wants, like some spoilt damn child, and the center is unwilling to do anything to correct her, simply because she is helping them maintain majority in parliament. She is, as the hindi expression goes, 'seena taan ke' agreeing that she is showering gifts on Bengal cos she wants to be elected CM next term. While the PM is a mute spectator. This is my satirical attempt at a deconstruction...

(Translated from a page of the diary of Mamata Banerjee, with the help of my good friend Arindam Das. Who has stopped using the trains for inter-state travel unless its to West Bengal.)

Tomorrow I have to present my third railway budget to the Parliament. It is indeed a very hard job that I have. To face constant criticism throughout the year for showing apathy towards my ministry, only to again face flak every year when I present my budget. They say I am favorable to West Bengal. Do they expect me to be favorable to Tamil Nadu then? Elections are due in a year! My shonar bangla people need to know that I am there for them! So in this time's budget, I am going to make train tickets in West Bengal cheaper. Ten rupees for anywhere to anywhere within the state! How about that! And they could have on board bars, just like those fancy airlines I always travel in. What else, what else? Gold plated taps in the bathrooms, toilet paper made of Rs.100 bills. Food served in the Bengal trains should be prepared in olive oil, I hear its the healthiest. Next, Bengalis travelling on trains will get special discounts in shopping outlets and restaurants all over the country. I must lay new lines near Singur; it was after all by my own herculean effort that the villagers were not affected by the single greatest investment in a project that anyone had tried to make in the state. Now I have to make sure they are not oppressed or denied again. I must also repair the Howrah line, it's been an entire two months since I last commissioned that! Problems might have cropped up. I think by next year, with elections just round the corner, I'll waive the entire ticket tariff for them. Just in case. I know the nature of the bangla, he will sit in one place all day and rabidly discuss politics all day long, but he won't even get up to get himself a glass of water. But the point is he will discuss. And he won't go easy on a mistake. I must not give him any chance for complaint, for I need his vote.

People ask me about expenses. I tell them I don't care. They tell me the railways flourished under Laloo, and under my regime, has a Rs. 2,500 crore deficit. I tell them I don't give a hoot, let them appoint him again after I'm done. I'm just here to please my people for 4 years so that they'll make me CM next year. They tell me its a crime to be so brazen about the misappropriation of the railway funds, and the favoritism that I'm carrying out. I tell them I don't care what's right or wrong, I have nothing to worry about. My party's support is giving the Congress majority in the Lok Sabha and so I have a free run of the place. The center will overlook anything I do. I could just as well go to the PM and slap that ever-complacent face, or yank his sky blue turban off his head. His mistress Madam Gandhi would tell him to stow his anger away because I am essential to their stay in power. At best he can let it out by writing me a bad financial statement. Boo-hoo.

So thus armed almost with even more power that even the PM himself, I can go about running the railways any which way I want. And make sure that I become the CM of West Bengal next year. Where I shall again have my way.

Indeed, life is good.

Suvarnamma

i went to the village of Lakavalli, near the Bhadravati dam for a 3-day trip. More on that later, but in that village, i fell in love. Read on to know more...

She was the perfect shade of yellow, not too much not too less. With a generous addition of coconut, groundnuts and a few other pulses, she looked like a bride on her marriage day. And boy was she hot. Steaming in fact, taken right out of the big vessel of Suvarnamma. Her fragrance tingled my nose, tempting and titillating. She was soft, and she was plentiful. When I put the first morsel in my mouth, it melted into an emotion words cannot describe. A heavenly balance of spice, flavor, sweet, and oil. Having two full plates of Suvarnamma's avalakki was the pinnacle of culinary satisfaction in my life to date. Never have my lips smacked so, never my fingers licked. Manners forgotten in a breath, as we got down to satiate that raw animal of hunger that had awoken after a day of trekking. Avalakki elsewhere shall never taste the same again.

More on the magician. In the dusty little village of Lakavalli, where my friends Keshav, Rahul, Gagan, Hitesh and I stayed for two days, was the hotel of Suvarnamma. Suvarnamma is the wife of Naganna, after whom the hotel is named. In a parallel that evoked fond childhood memories, her hotel has no board outside it, akin to 'The boardless hotel' in Malgudi Days. People around simply know it as the Naganna place. That woman is the best damn cook I have ever seen, period. Our first meal there was breakfast on the second day, when each of us had two idlis, one vada, few chili bajjis, a little chitranna and finally, that avalakki. I hogged and hogged till I could hog no more. All us five guys did. To our utter delight the bill came up to only Rs.125! Nowhere in Bangalore city can you eat so much for so less. Eating was peppered with her talk, as she elaborated on her family, her kids, the Bhadravati dam, and places that we could visit, covering a gamut of topics as only village women can. She has a maternal smile and an easy speech, and we chatted with her in the few seconds we could squeeze in between bites.

We trooped to her small dining room again for lunch which was Ragi mudde and rice with rasam and another sambar. Again we pushed the walls of our stomach like they had never been pushed before, but the bill was a measly Rs. 150. We told her about the places we went and were planning to go to in the remainder of our stay there. She gave us directions and safety advice in the vein of mothers the world over.

Dinner and next morning's breakfast were similar affairs, more or less. Only it was a pleasure that grew more pleasurable as we partook of it. We were scheduled to leave for Jog Falls after that, and leave directly for home from there, so this was goodbye. Gagan, who had grown especially fond of the place, almost got emotional and started taking pictures of the two hoteliers and the little place they ran. They bid us goodbye cheerfully and wished us well. While leaving we thrust a Rs. 100 note into her very reluctant hands, emphatically stating that there was no other way for us to express our gratitude to her for this unparalleled experience. What had been a very enjoyable trip as it is, she had made unforgettable.

It is sad that magical cooks like her are languishing in anonymity, while decorated restaurants with artificial glitz burn our pockets for food that just doesn't match up to this. I realize the only way I can help her is to present her food and hospitality in the best possible way, and hope that whatever few readers I have, if perchance ever go to the same place, will remember to visit her place. Also, if they could be kind enough, pack me a parcel of Avalakki.

Till then, I am doomed to roam the lackluster streets of Bangalore, with no more than a hollow craving of one more plate. Just, one more. Sigh.

Guilt

I tried writing all kinds of stories. Satires, funny stuff, something poignant, whatever. But god knows i'm most comfortable in the obscurely dark genre :D..so i thought i should just indulge :P..

It moves underneath darkness's shroud,

As the moon watches from behind a cloud.

A hellish specter come above ground,

Moving on feet that make no sound.

Why in these woods, did you have to wander?

That too on a night of peace torn asunder.

You sit here with not an expression pained,

While its dead eyes are on you trained.

But in a sinister fashion typical of death,

A creeping, sinking feeling is within you set.

You begin to wonder about this sudden despair,

Then notice a shadow that wasn't hitherto there.

Its no creature, is it a shadow of doubt or the past?

Can't put a word to it, a sadness that tends to last.

It yanks all the memories you've left in dark to rot,

From your cradle to the grave, connects every dot.

From nowhere and everywhere, in a moment's spur,

Its right beside you, in your ear with a whisper.

'I know all the bad things you've ever done.

'Lets go back to see where it had all begun.'

You tremble and shake, but powerless you are,

'It was you who pushed your loving mother afar.'

Not wanting to hear, you try to shut it out.

'You became an island from your self doubt.'

Trying to run, convinced you're being haunted,

'You left your wife, when you were all she wanted.'

Rooted as you are, the words begin to sink in,

'Every little theft and lie, I know every little sin.'

You cringe and cry as it all washes over you,

'A father missed a son as you never came through.'

'No more!' you shout, but its not quite yet done,

'Your children gave you love and in return got none.'

And then the thing gets an iron grip on your soul,

It twists and wrangles it, creating a hole.

Life as you know it, is slowly ebbing away,

But in light of these horrors, you don't want it to stay.

You welcome the darkness with arms open wide,

You want it to end, even though you could've tried.

Realizing just when your head is making the final tilt,

The thing that came to get you was your own guilt.

Where is Dummi?

Back in second PU, I had a friend called Dummi. Equipped with a robust voice, and an even more robust waistline, he was one of my best friends and wreckers-in-chief of any IIT aspirations. Not someone to be taken lightly, however. Ferocious, free with his words, and one for a good time. We'd had many a memorable moment, one of which included him crashing right into a garbage bin, something that has been immortalized on video. By all means, one of the better things to have happened to me that year.

However, since I've joined my engineering course, his appearances have been as rare as meaningful quotes from Megan Fox. Last I saw him was four months ago in his erstwhile house which he seems to have upped and left for greener pastures of which I do not know the whereabouts. He does not come online, and his mobile phone number seems to have changed. My friends and I have tried futilely to contact him, and consequently have come to draw wild conclusions on the issue of what must possibly have happened to him.

1. He tried running away from home- This almost happened once, if rumors are to be believed. One witness claims Dummi had been walking with all his worldly possessions in a bundle on a stick which lay perched upon his shoulder. There were wild conclusions to be drawn as to the cause of this as well, but that's another story.

2. For reasons best known to him, he decided to commit suicide- We came up with four possible ways, but for the devil of us, could not see how it was feasible in his case:

a) Classic rope-hang: He weighed 95 kgs in second PU. And he didn't seem to want to change that. Those boffins haven't yet come up with a rope strong enough to take him. So no-go.

b) Cyanide: It would require a prodigious amount of that to bring him down. He would probably have to raid quite a few chemist shops to accumulate the necessary amount. I can safely put that kind of dedication past my friend.

c) Under the train: There have not been any recent reports of trains derailing on any of the lines that pass through Bangalore. No casualties either. They have been spared the horror of his attempt as of yet.

d) Building leap: Yediyurappa's government has had enough woes with the city's infrastructure. If Dummi tries this stunt, probably he might be able to do what the BJP high command couldn't. Shock the CM into resignation, what with the crater he'll cause. Probably the Bangalore Metro's second phase could use the head start with demolition.

3. He is in hiding somewhere- No. Period.

Therefore, my friends, employ whatever extrapolation skills you have been endowed with, help me find this friend of mine. Aid me in my quest, good people.

You can't really run, and you sure as hell can't hide, Dummi. We shall find you yet.