Phantasmagoria

One Dark Night- Part 2

2011-12-14T20:17:00.002+05:30

part 2 of the story. Only so that people don't get bored reading it all at once. As usual, I'm not looking for a fairy tale ending. Let's be realistic now! :P

I walked up to him and gingerly ran my hand over his head.He caught hold if it and held it for a while. To me, that gesture was moreintimate than anything I had encountered despite being in my profession. He looked up. I smiled at him and he smiled back.

‘I’ll stay.’ I told him.

He nodded and thanked me. He then asked me if I wanted anythingto eat or drink. I asked for a glass of water. As he handed me the glass, helooked at my face again. It looked like a thought just seemed to hit him right then.

‘You’re actually beautiful’ he said. I just smiled it away.I wasn’t used to compliments. I changed the topic.

‘What’s your name? What doyou do?’

‘I’m a struggling writer. I work as a journalist in a localnewspaper to make ends meet, but I am mainly trying to get my book published.As for my name’, he smiled sadly at this, ’let’s do away with names, for I wantto be known only as the man who wanted to talk to you. I do not want you to puta name to it; I’m sure I will be the object of much ridicule?’

I was a little stung at this. It was quite clear that herewas a man who spoke his heart, not thinking whether his words hurt. But atleast he was forthright. He needed my company, but at the same time he was alsoa little ashamed to be with me right now, because of who I was, and what wewere doing. A pang of anger flashed through me but then I realized this was anhonest and simple man, who had acknowledged my individuality by wanting to talk.For that itself, I was grateful to him. He might not have wanted me to be thereright now, but I was all he had got. And he had not considered that inadequate.That was enough for me.

‘Alright then, no names. What do you write about?’

‘I write about the hypocrisies of society. Of the shallowrich men and the rotten holy men. How civility is just a handy cloak for us toget what we want in any which way. It’s not pleasant, what I write. It warswith a man’s idea of how good our society is; it questions his beliefs. I guessthat’s why I haven’t found too many takers for my work.’

I nodded in agreement. Smiling wistfully, I said, ‘I knowthat world only too well. I suppose these publishing people are part of thatsame hypocritical society, and can’t find the honesty within them to publishyour work.’

He smiled at that. ‘How long have you been, you know, doingthis?’

I shot him a look, taking my time to answer. ‘Been almosteight years now.’

‘What did you do before this? Do you have any family?’

‘I do have a family back in my village. They don’t know whatI’m doing here. Can we not talk about me please? It is not pleasant. Show meyour work, I want to read it.’

He handed me a bunch of sheets; they contained poems, shortstories, and commentaries. I was immediately struck by the parallelism in hiswriting and his behavior. I had gauged him rightly. This man minced no wordsand he called a spade a spade. Then he proceeded to shatter your dearly heldbeliefs with that very spade.

You did not want to believe what we wrote about,but you could not refute his claims as false either.

I lit anothercigarette as I sat on his bed and read. He had gotten up a while ago to go intoanother small room, which I guess was his kitchen. He came out five minuteslater, carrying two plates of rice and curry. He looked at me and put down theplates and came close to me. I froze, not knowing what he had suddenly wanted.He took the cigarette out of my hand and crushed it.

‘Don’t smoke. It ruins your lungs, and blackens your lips.Look.’ He touched my lips with all the innocence of a child and showed me thefaint black deposit on his finger. I couldn’t help but smile at that. I toldhim I wouldn’t smoke while I was there. He gave me one of the plates and toldme to eat, as I must be hungry.

The food was delicious; he said he had made it himself. Weate and talked about his writing. I asked him questions about it and he lovedto share his ideas behind it. We joked and laughed; something I hadn’t donesince I remember. And before we knew it, it was morning.

He looked outside and then back of me. ‘I guess you have togo then?’ He asked glumly.

I very badly wanted to tell him that I would love to staythere for as long as I lived. But reality descended on me like a hastyraincloud, suddenly turning my joy to gloom. I was what I was after all, andtonight my usual life would continue again. I had to get back to that reality,and not hope for this pleasure too much.

‘Yes. I have to.’ Isaid curtly. I got up, gathered my stuff and made to leave.

‘Wait’, he said. And again his demeanor was permeated withawkwardness. ‘I still have to, you know, pay you.’

I walked up to him, and held his hand. I gave it a tinysqueeze. I shook my head and turned around to leave.

‘Thank you.’ He said. I turned around to see him looking atme with tears in his eyes. ‘Thank you for understanding.’

I felt something hot run down my left cheek and realizedthat for the first time in ages, I too was crying.

‘No. Thank you. For making me feel human again.’

‘Will we meet again?’ heasked.

Smiling sadly at that, I said, ‘I hope not. I cannot affordto dream of a better life.’ I paused. ‘I must go now. Goodbye.’ I turned aroundand left.

As I left his room, I felt tremendously sad that I had toget back to my daily life. I didn’t even know his name, and I knew our pathswould not likely cross again. What had happened was a one-time surrealexperience. That knowledge crushed me. I had blunted my emotions over time, Ihad forgotten to feel. But for the firsttime in many years, I felt a distinct hatred for what I did. Ironically, thehatred that had been subdued by the abuse of countless men had flared up due tothe tender affections of one of them.

One dark night- Part 1

2011-12-14T20:14:00.003+05:30

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 notknow recession, that never had a slack in demand. As long as little boys wouldneed a place to lose their innocence, perverted youths would need a practicingground, and married men would need their demands satisfied, our business wouldrun. As long as the male animal’s veins would run with unending lust, ourimpartial trade would have its arms open to all. I always marvel at how, nomatter how much they are given, men always come back for more.

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

Then there are the regulars and the deviants. They come backfor more, and ask for outlandish things to be done with them, demands getting moretwisted by the day. But essentially men are simple. There’s a very specificbutton that you have to press and he will never return dissatisfied. I am evenon first name terms with a few of them, and know exactly what they like done. Thatdoes not mean that I’ve built any kind of relation with them. No. Apart from acouple of my colleagues, I have no friends, no family, and no ties with thisworld. My emotions are non-existent and my tears have dried up. You do what wedo, see society in its barest and most ruthless form for so long, and youeither 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 withtheir families, their parents or their friends. A few of us had gone to thetemple, bought a new dress for ourselves, and tried to celebrate it as best wecould. I had bought myself a new book; I do that every year. Someday I wish toeducate 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 andbuild. An unremarkable face, except for eyes that seemed to gleam withintelligence. He did not look like he belonged here. Nonetheless I got up andwalked 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 alot, but I didn’t mind what he said. He was sorry. Men have treated me worseand have been unapologetic about it.

‘It’s hundred for the hour. Extra if you want things otherthan 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 rightafter me. He closed the door and turned to face me.

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

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

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

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

He looked at me for a very long time, trying to gauge mythoughts. In time he saw my alarm, he realized what kind of person I thought hewas. 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 youin any way. I just needed company for the night. The loneliness is getting tome.’ Tears flowed a little more freely from his eyes. ‘I know, it must seemweird. You must be thinking, “Doesn’t he have a family, or friends? Why has hecome 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’, hesaid, with a smile playing at his lips. ‘And sure, I know people and meet themoften, but I cannot call these people friends. People, who laugh at me behindmy back, people who judge me. I live by myself, and I have no complaints aboutit. But sometimes I just get lonely. Tonight it got to me. I just wanted to bewith someone who wouldn’t judge. Who would just be. But your eyes just spokeotherwise. 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 manyyears that I had been doing this, had anyone ever come across this way. Of allthe men I’d met, few even bothered to ask my name, let alone talk about anythingother than what they wanted to do. I did not know how to respond to a manseeking my companionship and nothing more. A man who looked at me as a personand not a body. It was disconcerting. I did not know how I could not possiblycomfort him; my empathy and compassion had long been stifled to death. But Idecided to trust this man.

Pogo The Clown

2011-11-24T11:42:00.001+05:30

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

2011-08-01T18:49:00.002+05:30

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.

....-1

2011-07-30T17:02:00.002+05:30

i dunno what to call this story, but then its a story about nothing at all. just nothing. so i guess '....' kinda makes sense. Its in first person but still fiction, mind you. Just an expansion of one of our passing moods.

I always find it hard to start any story. What do you say that would capture a reader's attention and compel him to read the story, wanting to know what happens next? I personally find it very hard to read any story, because right until the first word, I'm excited about it, but as soon as I read that first word, I can't actually believe I'm reading it and just want to get the hell out of doing that, so I chuck the book aside. So I don't know how anyone would be reading something that I started the way I just did, but anyway.

Life if just so devoid of interesting things don't you think? I mean I live in a big city, with lots of flashing lights and crowds of people. But all it makes me is want to stand in the middle of them all and yell at them for being such damn bloody fools. They're fools, all of them. There's apparently so much that happens in the villages, I hear, that there's a certain rustic joy in their life. But when I give it thought for more than a second, I don't want to go there. Go there and do what, exactly? How's it any different? This, that, here, there, it's all the same.

I have no family in the city I'm living in now. But that's okay, it wouldn't be much different if they were. But yeah, sometimes the days and nights get a little lonely. I get out some days. I put on a jacket because its always cold and windy here, and go out for a walk. One of the things I love doing is putting on my earphones and walking down M G road at a busy hour. You see all kinds of people, busy people, people with nothing to do, people who look at you, people who don't have time to look at anyone but themselves. And amid all of them, you, insulated from them because of the music, a silent observer. Sometimes I like to think I'm not there.

It's the nights that are a bother sometimes. I mean, even after you've trawled all the bars you can trawl, downed all the drinks you can down, and painted the town red with a few ladies, eventually you have to get back to your bed. The same old 4X6 space, with it's emptiness, it gets crushing sometimes. I mean, you know, it's not like I believe strongly in the whole happiness and sadness thing. You want to be happy you make yourself happy, you want to be sad you let the world get to you. So all that's fine, but getting back to that bed is a real bummer sometimes man.

So tonight I'm in this bar. I'm nursing a gin and tonic, looking at the people around the place. I really, really hate drinking. That nauseating feeling I get when I put the glass to my lips. I wonder why people get drunk really. I hate that too. I just bought the drink so I could sit here, look at people. The bartender is trying to make conversation with me seeing as I'm sitting alone at the bar. People don't do that a lot. In fact there wasn't a single person at the place that was alone. I get the same at all those hotels. Everyone's eating with someone. I try to get someone along too, if I can. Eating alone really blows you know, plus you know you end up finishing the meal real quick because you have nothing to do between bites. So this bartender here, he's trying to be nice. But I just want to tell him to shut up. I don't want to talk to him, if I want to I'll tell him.

It's fun to look at all these people, with their plastic smiles and exaggerated enthusiasm. How can you be so happy? It's unnatural. Even if you're so goddamn happy that you can't contain it, you don't smile like that. I know, because there was a time I used to be that kind of happy. It was back in 12th grade, when I used to chum with these two buddies of mine. We used to meet at these coaching classes that we took for our exams, but we never attended them. We used to get out and walk all around the place. It used to rain sometimes, so we danced in it. Sometimes we'd sit in a park and laugh on jokes about nothing. Man it killed us, and remembering it sometimes still does.

I get out of the bar. It's very irritating to look at those people now. I don't find them fascinating anymore. It starts to rain as I'm walking down this busy street, just like it used to back then. A woman passes by, and gives me a long interested look. Maybe I should follow up on the lead she just gave me. Life gets darker as you grow up. Your friends grow apart, they call less frequently, and then your days grow longer, the jokes aren't as funny, and hours are harder to live through. Sometimes these hollow pursuits of women sort of pass the time. Maybe I should have smiled back, but it's too late, she's gone. I turn around and walk on.

Maybe I'll just give them a call.

An Inheritance- part 2

2011-07-16T17:17:00.003+05:30

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

2011-07-10T15:54:00.003+05:30

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

2011-07-01T13:13:00.003+05:30

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

2011-05-24T11:16:00.002+05:30

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

2011-05-21T15:39:00.003+05:30

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

2011-05-18T20:13:00.003+05:30

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

2011-05-14T15:38:00.003+05:30

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

2011-04-16T15:44:00.000+05:30

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

2011-03-27T11:17:00.003+05:30

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

2011-03-24T17:29:00.002+05:30

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

2011-03-23T20:12:00.001+05:30

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

2011-03-23T18:12:00.002+05:30

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

2011-03-13T11:29:00.001+05:30

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

2011-03-10T18:24:00.001+05:30

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

2011-02-21T17:13:00.003+05:30

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

2011-02-14T19:07:00.003+05:30

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

2011-02-09T20:57:00.002+05:30

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

2011-02-05T09:45:00.002+05:30

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

2011-01-30T16:45:00.003+05:30

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

2011-01-17T17:23:00.003+05:30

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?

2011-01-06T19:11:00.008+05:30

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.

Move over, Romeo and Juliet- Part 2

2011-01-03T21:48:00.004+05:30

Part deu, of the story. As usual, where it all unfolds, hopefully. Read on..

It was at the Mix. Starting 8 pm, Rs. 350 for stag and 500 for couples. He didn't mind the difference. It would be worth it. He got in with a bunch of his friends, and danced on the floor for a while. Then he plopped down onto one of the couches lined along Mix's walls, tired. That's when he got a call from Manasa. He hurried to a more tranquil spot so she wouldn't hear the ambient noise and figure out where he was.

'Hey love. What you doing?' he asked, trying not to sound out of breath.

'Hey. Was just thinking of you, so I thought I'd call. What you up to?' she asked sweetly.

'Me? I'm just, well. I'm with family, some wedding we were supposed to attend. Dad's friend's son and all that. Really quite boring. I missed you!' he cried.

'Really?' she cooed appropriately. 'And you know, coincidentally, even I'm at a wedding with family! How cool is that? You and I are totally meant to be!' she shouted happily. Gods be pardoned if she even remotely knew what meaning to be meant.

'Can't wait to see you tomorrow Manasa. Love you! Anyways, parents are calling me, got to go! See ya!'

'Love you too. Bye!' she hung up.

He went back to the couch and sat a while, talking to his friends.

'So how're things with you and Manasa man?' his friend Sharat asked him.

'It's great man. It's fun to spend time with her, and we both get to do our own things in our time.' Gagan replied.

'How come she's not here today? You should have called her!'

'We've never really discussed this, but I've heard from others that she's not really into partying and all. So, you know. She'd just called; I had to say I was at a wedding. Don't think she'd appreciate knowing the truth.'

'Oh okay. To each their own right? As long as its all good.'

'Yeah man, it's all great. We have our good days and our bad days. Day before was hell. Had to go shopping with her. You know how it is..' Sharat gave him an understanding grin.

'I mean she wanted an opinion from me about every one of the infinite things she was trying, eventually buying a handful! Just wouldn't let me concentrate on the things I wanted to buy for myself. I mean, you're going to wear them, you buy them, why ask me??'

'I totally get you man. Lets go get those martinis man!'

They went to the bar, when Gagan heard a familiar voice call for a couple of vodka shots. He whirled around and saw, Manasa. He stared at her for a full ten seconds, shell shocked. Everything he had heard about her was false, she was false, they were false.

She looked back at him, shifting a little uncomfortably. It was probably around that moment that it struck her that he too had lied about his whereabouts and her posture resumed a modicum of strength and she stood tall and matched his stare. Neither said a word, waiting for the other to speak. The atmosphere and the people in the place seemed unaffected, hurrying along in its usual incoherent frenzy, like a spectator who couldn't care lesser about the drama unfolding in front of him.

Finally Gagan felt like he should say something, and he did.

'What are you having? Romanov or Fuel?'

She did a double-take, and answered after a second. 'Fuel, of course. At least there's some flavor.'

'So, this whole thing. We're good right?' he asked evenly.

She eyed him and then said, 'Yeah sure, we're good.'

'Cool.' And he walked past her, back to his friends, with the martinis and drank them. After an hour later, he went home. The next day, to college...and everything was just as it always had been. He met her for lunch, and they went home together, as they always did.

In case the reader is wondering; come on, it was a lie, okay, so what? That didn't change things right?

Since when was trust an important part of any relationship?..

Move over, Romeo and Juliet- Part 1

2011-01-01T18:54:00.010+05:30

I always wondered at how fake, people can be sometimes, portraying themselves as serves their purpose. And how materialistic and sometimes shallow our generation can be. Yes we are, lets accept it. Instead of a scathing report, I decided to write a satire. Inspiration for the idea must go to Ravi Shankar's article 'The Secret History of India' in this month's India Today issue. Hilarious!!

I will not describe how he and she looked. Because they are you, they are me. Put your own and the other person's face on them if you wish. But the premise of this story basically is, Gagan knew Manasa was the one when he saw her. He didn't care what sort of person she was, where her interests lay, or even her orientation for that matter. But he decided that he loved her. She looked good, and he had to get with her. It was with this ambitious intention that he sat down next to her one lunch hour. Everyone who had noticed the stolen glances and swiftly tucked away smiles between the two in the last two weeks, were watching with bated breath. They collectively watched back and forth at every exchange of dialogue between them, as though following exciting commentary of a verbal volley.

'Hey there', an easy, confident start from Gagan!

'Oh. Its you. Hi!' and Manasa makes a fittingly hesitant return!

'You know, there's something I've been meaning to ask you something for the past few days. Its a very important question..' And immediately he goes in for the kill, this could be a short game folks!

'Yes Gagan. I say yes', and with that sweet smile, the game is sealed! Both are the winners! Have a good evening ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for attending!

And so they started going out. He couldn't get over the fact that she was the most beautiful girl he'd seen, and she couldn't get over the fact that he couldn't get over the fact that she was the most beaut-...well, you get the point.

So what if they didn't like the same music, same movies or same food? Petty things indeed. But the thing was, everyone knew Manasa was clean, and never drank, smoked or partied. She was a simple person, and Gagan knew he wasn't. But what bad would one lie do? After all, what you didn't know couldn't hurt you right? What mattered was that they enjoyed their time together. He could definitely enjoy their time apart however we wished. It was his life. At least that's what all those punk songs he listened to, said.

And thus days morphed into weeks, then months. Conversations tended to be linear, all they could do was convey their affection for each other in every way shown in all of the movies they'd watched. Thankfully they'd watched a lot of them, so lack of ways wasn't a problem, yet. Whenever talk started to veer towards inconsequentials like how their day was, or what they wanted from each other, it would soon be steered back to what was important.

'Hey you. I love you' Gagan lay down on his bed as he spoke into the phone with Manasa.

'Hey. I love you too' she gushed. Her heart never really raced when he said that, she hardly ever caught herself thinking of him, and seeing him didn't exactly make her day, but wasn't that all supposed to happen only in those mushy Pills&Noob books? You were just supposed to sound happy, and she did.

'You know, I've been thinking about you.' He wasn't. He was watching stuff on the web. But that's what she liked to hear, so there.

'You have? Oh! I'm so glad' textbook response. But hey, who are we to judge her? She liked his company, had fun with him. Who cared what love was?

'Today, after lunch I..' he had begun to say something, but she was busy twirling her hair and looking at herself in the mirror, so she never really registered the rest of his story. Zoned out, in short.

'Oh, that's great sugar. You know what I did today? I..' Now it was Gagan's turn to surf pages on the web as she spilled her story. He signaled concurrence at the right times, and it was enough. They spoke some more, him telling her how beautiful she was and her gushing over it.

Fact of the matter was, he wasn't telling her the truth. He wasn't going to be at home tonight, he was going to be at a club with some of his friends. Alcohol, dancing, and a late return time was on the cards. But, she needn't know that. The little girl was going to watch a movie with her parents tonight.

And so he left at night, in high spirits already, looking forward to a good time, some excitement.

He was going to get a measure and a half of it.

Limbo

2010-12-17T12:38:00.003+05:30

I know, its been ages since I wrote. Just, didn't have anything. Been listening to a few Porcupine Tree songs all over again. Sleep together, especially. This is just a product of that. Two people, not really meant to be, just postponing fate. Dunno why I called it Limbo, its a horrid name. But anyways..

Sunlight swirls, twists and twirls to awake,

Me from merciful sleep, it stirs and shakes.

A hazy memory recollects last night's wee hours,

Beside my empty side, lie the last of your contours.

Stupid is as stupid does, so the saying says,

How stupid are we to do this day after day?

Why should your sleeping form let reason be overrun?

When we both know our story's well and truly done.

There you are, eyes guarded and a frosty smile,

Its an obvious effort to come sit with me a while.

A stab at conversation is an undeniable cringe,

Like the crackle of leaves on a damp dawn's fringe.

Thank god for work, now I don't have to stay here,

Everyday I hope my mind will this day get clear.

But your face, your hands, every pore on your skin,

Everyday I love to fail, and I succumb to your sin.

But not today, from now on our mindless acts no more,

For now I shall live my life, and you live yours.

I come home, but of your essence there is nowhere a sign,

I smile and realize, you've been having the same thoughts as mine.

Existence

2010-11-09T19:46:00.004+05:30

i dunno what exactly this is. part suspense, part funny. the idea made me laugh. dunno how this'll go...

Silence. What is its nature? Nothingness, that's what is. After a while, you yearn to hear the little sounds of nothing, accustomed as your city ears are to a constant drone. There's nothing more soothing than to sometimes find that your search for even the tiniest pinprick yields nothing. That is when you're reassured that indeed you are the only one there. Bringing with it a wave of peace for those who seek solitude. But my silence was disturbed. Jarringly so.

My name is Jarvis. I am 12 years of age. Sometimes it seems like I always have been. But maybe its the magic of this place. Its where time sometimes comes to take a breather. Green grass, cobalt blue skies. This day, I was on one of the hills of my property. Enjoying the silence, blissfully aware of my lonesomeness. Its a lush spread, forty acres, with a small pond, and a couple of small hills overlooking a neat little valley. You could say I've had a privileged existence. So there I was, drinking in the nothingness, when I saw It.

It was about five foot ten, russet skin, brunette hair. It looked just like any of us. In every way. Brown eyes, short, pudgy nose, a heavy- set mouth. Only Its skin looked sickeningly fresh, as if It had just gotten out of the womb, in Its present condition. And It walked with a gait so stoic, it looked like It was making no progress at all. But it was moving all right. Slowly and steadily, without even a spare glance in my direction. I sighed with relief when I realized It hadn't noticed me. And just like that, It passed.

I sat down right where I was, shaken to my core. I'd always heard tales of them, that they did exist, but never had I given it any more than a disdainful thought. But today, having seen one with my very own eyes, it could not be denied any more. They existed. I sat there for a few more minutes, half expecting It to come back any second, and say 'No I did not overlook you! But I wanted to lull you into a false sense of security. Did not want to lose you in a fit of excitement. And here you are, off-guard and relaxed. Now, you have nowhere to go!'

But of course, it was my overtly cinematic imagination at work; no such thing happened. I half walked, half ran back home. Mother had kept a porridge over the flame to cook. Lunch was due in a few minutes. She turned around at my sound, and peered at me, obviously noticing my paler than usual color. I walked into my room without a word. Ever since father had left us abruptly, it was like life held no special attraction for us. The house was in perpetual disarray, a picture of neglect. It had grown filthy and looked uninhabited. Hardly the house of someone who owned the property we did.

'Jarvis! Come for lunch!'

Lunch was ready. I made my way to the kitchen all too sure that she would notice something was amiss. I sat down and started gulping my hot porridge, eager to get out of there. I gagged on it.

'Calm down Jarvis! What's the big hurry? And what's happened? You're hiding something from me. You look like you saw a human or something.'

This time I dropped my spoon and coughed, looking afterwards at her with wide eyed wonder. 'How did you know?'

'What?! Tell me what happened!'

'I was just on one of our hills, sitting and enjoying the view, when this human walked by. I saw him clearly mother! He walked so slow, foot falling after next foot, dressed exactly like us! But he never even looked in my direction.I don't know what I would have if he would have. But I'm sure I saw him mother!' I exclaimed.

'Nonsense Jarvis. I won't have such talk from you.' My mother spoke in an unusually cold voice, quelling any protests. 'You know full well there's no such thing as humans. We spirits are the only thing that exist on this earth. Do not harbor such wasteful beliefs in your head. Humans, bah! Now you listen to me. It was just your imagination playing tricks on you. You did not see a human, such things don't exist! Do you hear me Jarvis??'

I mumbled a yes and went on to finish my lunch in silence. Mother never looked at me throughout, as if she was afraid I'd continue the discussion if she did. I finished and went up to my room, where I lay down and thought. She was entitled to her beliefs, and I to mine. If she had seen what I'd seen she wouldn't have denied it this vehemently. I knew what I'd seen and however much she said anything, I did know one thing for a fact now. We spirits aren't the only thing to live on this planet.

Humans exist too.

Home

2010-10-24T16:46:00.002+05:30

a new poem after a long time. somehow i wasn't able to accurately express my thoughts on paper, its not one of my best works, but something i had to do, nonetheless...

The bike rushed by me, a man with his son on it,

A sudden flood of memory welling in me then,

I saw his eyes he'd shut, or maybe open just a bit,

Just as I used to with dad, as a kid back then.

I was on my way back home, after many a day,

Excitement to the brimful, not knowing what to expect,

Recalling mom's loving touch, every word dad would say,

Coming back to finish the dots that I had yet to connect.

The piles of garbage had risen since the last time around,

The people on the roads just weren't as serene.

For a person back in town after ages in foreign ground,

I was an outside spectator to an alien scene.

The roads had widened, but still too many cars,

The quaint old shops replaced by stores and glaring neon,

The cold civilization I'd vowed to leave from now on afar,

Had followed me here and would not be gone.

I coughed in the smoke, the grime settled on my shoes,

And just as I started to panic and despair,

Like pages out of my history at once let loose,

I found preserved and untouched, my neighborhood there.

There was the old restaurant we always used to eat at,

The neighbor's door in front of which I played many a game,

It was then I felt with entirety of conviction that,

Some things should always remain the same.

Elevators- part 3

2010-10-03T17:18:00.002+05:30

the third and final part, primarily because the story ended up being longer than i expected. its all getting too similar, i need a breath of fresh air now, and ya i'm in the clown phase...hope ya'll like the message.

The elevator lurched to a halt on the basement level, slowly, ominously. The doors opened with an almost imperceptible hiss. The entire lower level was bathed in a blackish-blue light. Whites took on a eerie florescent glow, and blacks remained hidden in plain sight. There were balloons on the floor, that knocked against his feet. Some that he trampled and burst, causing the sound to echo loudly across the empty floor. He ventured further into the light of darkness, knowing how his environs made sense, knowing full well what to expect, but not knowing when. That was when the first cackle sounded from somewhere nearby.

He whirled around in the direction of the sound, all senses alert for any indication. Again that cackle, only closer this time. The lighting of the place had begun t unnerve John, and he wanted this to end quick, either way. He caught a glimpse of florescence behind one of the many pillars that supported the floor above the basement. Quick as a flash, it had taken a look at him and gone. Another cackle, now dead in front of him, about 20 meters away. The distantly spaced blue lights caused strange dark blue shadows to fall in corners, and it was one such corner that John was facing. Then suddenly, a glint of a long blade. Withdrawn and then hidden. Right after that, those eyes. Finally those eyes.

Two pairs of brightly glowing, colorfully decorated eyes stared back at him. Vibrant hues of red, green and blue making a bizarre sight in that light. Then the dress came into view, equally colorful and designed to induce laughter. However John was far from amused. He was facing his greatest fear. John had caulrophobia.

John Hanks was terrified of clowns.

He felt his knees giving way for the umpteenth time, but he resolved to not give in. That was when he was infused with a strength he knew not existed and he was gripped by a determination that he would not give in to his fear this time. He was going to face it, he as going to kill it. And with a roar, he sprang towards those eyes, terrified and fearless simultaneously. The figure stood motionless, goading him, waiting for him. Just at the last moment however, it draw that long blade once again, and made to plunge it into John's heart.

John Albert Hanks, the simple salesman, blocked his thrust like a professional martial artist, and, quick as a cobra, turned the blade onto its wielder. He pressed upon it, and felt it pierce through the clown's heart. As he fell upon it, he saw its face. Painted white, looking ghastly in that light, it was right now a mask of pure terror and agony. It was mute, and no sound escaped from its open mouth. Its eyes stared fitfully at him, hating him, wanting to kill him. But John held on, and after a brief struggle it fell limp. But right before it did, it smiled up at him. That smile that was the staple of clowns all over the world, a funny genial smile. But one which also could terrify if you looked at it in another way. And for that moment, John's blood was water. But not his will. The last of his fear had evaporated, and it now lay dead in front of him.

Sweating profusely and out of breath, he trudged back to the elevator, hoping to god that this unexpected ordeal of his was over. He sat down on its floor for a minute, after he had closed its doors. The elevator was not taking him anywhere else, so that was a good thing. After a minute, he got up and pressed 'ground'. Innocent as though nothing had happened, it willingly made its way up. He got out of it and part of him wanted to run away, but it was now only a small part. Most of him did not fear any more. John was done with his share of fearing in this lifetime. He got out of the building, took a bus to his motel and slept deeply and fitfully for the rest of the night.

It is two years after the incident. John is walking down 113th and Bloomberg. He is back home with his family, in Springfield. He has a paper under one arm and an umbrella in another. It might rain today. He waves to Stevie, his neighbor. Five minutes later, he is at his destination. 'Precision Clockworks'. His small little watch repair shop. Business isn't exactly steady, but it provides his family with three square meals. He pulls up the shutter and starts setting shop. He does not know what his future holds, he does not know whether he took the right decision quitting his job, and doing what he always wanted to do. But one thing he does know. Whatever it might be, he can overcome it, because he is not afraid anymore.

He sits down in front of his shop, waiting for his trickle of customers. A passerby's mobile starts ringing, and the ringtone is Beethoven's 9th symphony. John smiles faintly.

Wasn't that the music playing in the elevator that day?...

Elevators- part 2

2010-09-18T18:27:00.005+05:30

again, i'm unsure of the direction my story's gonna take here. I'm just making it up as i go. its more like peering into a fog, knowing where the destination is, not the way there however.

The elevator came to a lurching stop at what seemed, impossibly, to be the 13th floor. John felt his world spin around him, but then for a second, sanity gained a foothold. Maybe there was a problem with the display, it was just showing the wrong number. Maybe it was just the 12th floor after all. And so he waited with bated breath, as the elevator steadied itself and the door began to slide open..

It was dark. Pitch black. Not a sound. Yet there was a heaviness in the air that was palpable. The place was rank of a a deathly stillness. Maybe he was in the lift maintenance room or something like that. That would explain the extra floor. Then, just as if to rob him of his assuring conclusions, there was a slight rustle followed by the sound of something dropping. He snapped his head in that direction. Then it was followed by another rustle, and it about a second the whole place came alive with a flurry of invisible activity. John hastened to press the button to shut the door, but the door wouldn't budge. He took out his lighter, and tried to flick it on, trying to see where he was. With a snap the light jumped to life and he beheld the floor.

At first he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but when he looked down, he staggered backwards in shock. The whole floor was flooded with rats, rats of all sizes, all equally aggressive and all of them making a beeline for the elevator. Red eyes and a deafening collective squeal rising from their midst. Bug-eyed, he pressed the button again, and this time the doors slowly made their way shut, but not before two of the rats quickly jumped in with him. He looked at them for a second, then blindly tried to stomp them, all the while spasming from disgust. He never even realized the lift was making its way down on its own. His mind was consumed by the rats.

John Hanks had always had a deep-seated phobia of rats.

He stomped the two rats until they moved no more. Then, right in front of his eyes, they disintegrated to a white powder and blew away into oblivion. He didn't know what was happening, but he was sure he was losing his grip on reason. The elevator stopped at floor 6, which he then noticed for the first time. Glad that he was back again on a floor where he knew people were still there, almost bursting with relief, he bolted out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, searching for the first person he could find and tell him what had happened. But the entire floor was devoid of people. All he found was empty room after empty room. Then suddenly he yelped, and clutched the nearest door frame.

The entire ground beneath his feet had vanished, and he seemed to be floating in air. He was high, high up and he couldn't make head or tail of his situation.

He was gripped by a sudden wave of nausea; he didn't float miles high in the air on a daily basis. He vomited violently, but funnily, the salesman in him asserted itself even at that odd moment, and he made sure the vomit stayed clear of his shirt. The absurdity of his action startled and he burst out in laughter. Not the robust, joyous laughter, but the laughter of deranged mind, beset with terror. He rocked on his heels, still steadily standing on nothing and let the laughter ebb, letting it all out.

Still holding onto any frame he could reach, he slowly made his way back to the elevator. Something told him that like the last time, he would find refuge there. Just as he neared the doors however, he felt gravity making a magical reappearance. But it was building up slowly, his legs slowly beginning to sag from under him. He made desperate dash to safety, legs feeling like they were in quicksand. Just as he felt everything give way under way, he had miraculously made to the asylum of those four enclosed walls of the elevator, he hurriedly pressed the 'close door' button and by now having a faint idea of what would happen, waited for it to happen. And just like that, the elevator now made its way to the basement floor, the deepest and darkest level. John had always known what his fears were, heights and rats were two of three. Some part of him had silently accepted the surreality of the situation, and-would you believe it-was actually predicting what the basement would hold. His third and deepest fear...

The man who smiles

2010-09-17T20:22:00.005+05:30

ever since I remember, I've been afraid of clowns. even as a kid who went to the circus with his grandpa, i used to secretly dread their coming. i dunno, at some level i always thought the smile on their masks hid something sinister. still do. put simply, i don't like them. Victor Alves' 'Clownhouse' has done nothing to allay my fears...anyways...

Lights explode on the insides of his eyes,

People cheer and jeer in equal measure.

Perverted enjoyment from his pathetic cries,

He is a freak he is, the man who smiles.

There's his story to tell, if someone lends an ear,

A sordid life of one who makes masses laugh.

A frustrated mind stuck neither there nor here,

He is a mess he is, the man who smiles.

All the years he'd bottled up, come tumbling out,

Darkest of secrets the world must not know.

He has hid behind the painted mask too long, no doubt,

He's on edge he is, the man who smiles.

None know where his family vanished in that night of rain,

The night the monster in him gained full control.

He is sharpening the same old knife once again,

He is awaking he is, the man who smiles.

He's calling you to him, an innocent question to ask,

You follow him, assured by the bright colors to follow,

Till he's upon you, the knife and the twisted mask,

He is alive now he is, the man who smiles.

Elevators- part 1

2010-09-09T23:33:00.011+05:30

i mean, they're just elevators aren't they? they go up, they go down, mindless messengers. but what if they weren't? p.s. all the places mentioned in the 2nd para are related to Stephen King's life. Little dedic ;)...

John Hanks was a salesman. Pretty dry introduction to a man I know, but then again, there weren't all that many dimensions to John. His job was pretty much his life, and his family understood. That was the thing about being a travelling salesman. It consumed you, it'd make you its slave. Most of the year spent going from one unfamiliar place to another, till you eventually never know where you actually belong.

But he had memories from almost all of them. The man in the motel room beside him in De Pere, Wisconsin who sang sinister and sordid rhymes till late into the night. The receptionist in the office at Fort Wayne, Indiana who used to take frequent breaks to inject herself with juice to make it through the day. John had noticed the needles. The toilet cubicle in Stratford, Connecticut which read, 'I saw Jim Morrison at Woodstock and I liked it!', accompanied by a very graphic and lewd drawing of an excited male reproductive organ. And the pair of stern father and timid girl he had seen at a bus stop in Portland, Maine once. He held her in a very peculiar and unsettling way, and she was evidently very uncomfortable but dared not utter a word. His gaze seemed to quell and threaten her at once. John could sense something amoral at foot.

But these were nothing more than imprints on his endlessly gray mind, the pattering of certain distinguishable moments from a sea of sameness. He would be taking none of this to his grave, no souvenir, no memory of his pointless life. He was just another number. Or so he thought, until that fateful day in Bangor, Maine on the evening of 19th June, 1984.

It was his call at The Transatlantic Food Packaging Company, on that day. He had a 6 'o clock appointment with the sales manager. John basically worked for a polythene production company who had patented a new variant of the substance and wanted to market it. That's where John and his trips to companies all over the country came into the picture. And so here he was, meeting the manager, a pleasant fellow to talk with, but one who wouldn't buy his pitch one bit. And so John there soon, another refusal on his record. He took the elevator from the 8th floor office to the ground, mind occupied with thoughts of his future if his luck with his sales didn't change. That was when the elevator suddenly ground to a halt midway, lights flickering. He groaned and cursed silently, pressing buttons futilely. The little box wouldn't budge. He leaned onto one side and sighed. Slid down and sat on the floor, casting his briefcase aside. The last thing he wanted was to be bored to death in a stuck elevator. Of course, that was never going to happen.

A minute passed. Then two. John had started dozing off already, when he heard something. He snapped up to listen carefully. It sounded like a low gurgle, like someone trying to say something underwater. Then he heard low murmurs, whispers. He could not make out what they were saying, but the tone was secretive and ominous. Then again the gurgling sound, a note of desperation creeping into it this time, more intense this time. Then again, more whispering, slightly louder this time. He caught a snippet or two.

'-that should do it?'

'Yeah that should take care of it'

'HEY!! HELP ME!! I'm trapped in here!!' John yelled as loud as he could. He didn't care who the voices belonged to, if they could help him out of here, that was all he wanted from them. The whispering stopped suddenly, and an unnervingly long silence followed. Just as John began wondering what was happening, the elevator suddenly sprung to life, but started going upwards. John sighed with relief. Now he could thank those voices for helping him and make his way to his motel room, where his warm bed awaited him.

The elevator kept climbing. 5,6,7,8,9,10...the building had 12 floors. It reached 12 and John wondered how he'd been able to hear whispers from the top floor. Then something happened that numbed him with shock and terror and suddenly he wondered if he were in a bad dream. The panel to his right had buttons for 12 floors, and he knew the building had only 12 floors.

The elevator had just gone past 12 and the little LCD display over the door softly glowed.

With the number 13...

The Economics of Eloping- (part 3) conclusion

2010-08-06T20:26:00.004+05:30

the penny has finally dropped, so to speak..too bad they don't even have pennies on them right now, those two :D..i didn't wanna make the ending too dreary, so well...i'm convinced this should be a short movie, btw :P..

'Hmmm. So let's get this out now. Do you think this was a mistake too?' Ryan asked in a flat voice. It was the next morning, they were sitting on one of the many boulders.

'Maybe Ryan...it certainly isn't what we expected it to be. Right?'

'Yeah I guess. So what to do now?'

'I don't know. We're out of money, hungry, with no shelter to speak of. I'm tired of fighting with you dear, but I've come to realize that we can't just live with each other and nothing else. We need those comforts. This kind of thing happens only in movies, and it shouldn't even happen there...'

Ryan chuckled and nodded his head. 'We've got to admit that both of us were really stupid to think this up, and not thinking it through. But there could be one last thing to try, it just might work'

'What??'

'I'll be back love. By evening. I'll tell you then, where I went.' He just smiled and ran his now rough hand over her face, in response to her expression of consternation.

He made his way to the town of Ramnagara proper. He scourged its meager streets for the bank, that bank. There had to be a branch. Ah! There it was. Some luck finally. It was the bank his dad had an account in. He went in and waited to meet with the manager.

'Hello sir. I actually have a request to make of you. Its actually a problem. My father has an account in this bank and I'm here on a trip with my friends and I've run out of money. Is there any way I could withdraw money? I could provide you with verification details..'

'I'm sorry son, but we can't do that. Its against procedure.'

'Please sir! I know the account number, his name and personal details. Couldn't that be enough??' Ryan pleaded.

Thus it went on for another five minutes. The manager eventually relented and allowed the withdrawal. That was when Ryan made the second stupid mistake.

'Don't tell him I took the money' he said as he smiled and winked, making it look like he actually was just having a little extra fun with friends and nothing else. Soon as he left the room, the manager patched a call through to the number provided in the form. Ryan's father's number...

The brief respite that the money provided was wonderful. They went into the city a few times. They had their first full meal in some days, and now could actually think of going to another city and start something. They had started to search for places, to move camp. However, two days later, as they were busy breaking down their hut, a small local boy arrived with a box of fresh apples.

'Excuse me sir, there's a man standing on the main road that told me to give it to you. There's a note inside too...' Saying so, he ran away, his task completed. Ryan picked up the box, perplexed as to what it said. Lynn stood beside him, trying to read.

'Son, this is your father. Stop this stupid little production of yours and come back home, your mother's worrying her kidneys out. I know the whole story now. The bank manager called me, I spoke to some of your friends, and for the last few days, I've been looking out for you, and I finally found you. Whatever thing you have with that girl, we can work it out, you didn't have to do something as thoughtless as this. My problems are with her father, not with her. I don't know how could subject her to hardship if you love her. Now stop this nonsense, and come to the road with her. There's a car here waiting to take the two of you home.'

They looked at each other, and some mute voice told the two of them that although it would mean they were giving up, the wiser counsel would be to just go. And silently, defeated, they made their way to the road, eyes lowered, not wanting to meet those of Ryan's dad.

He was there, right beside the road, looking at them, but not saying anything. When Ryan came close, he hit him lightly on the head and said,

'Einstein. Even if you had to run away, you could do a better job of it. One ATM card, a few clothes, and another individual to take care of? When did you come up with this half-witted plan? I never pegged you as a nobel prize winner, but this is plain stupid. You, girl, I don't know what you see in my son, but if you've decided to be with him, I won't play the villain. I'll talk to your dad, I'm sure there's a way.'

The two of them looked at him like two mutes, amazed at how easily he'd settled the issue. All the complications were the ones they had created. As if he'd read their mind, Ryan's dad said,

'That's right. You could've just asked us first! But no! Anyways, enough of this. Get in now!' he said, with something that could almost me called a smile, on his face.

They got in, thinking where their story would take them now. They were anyways richer by experience, and a hell of one at that.

So did they have a happy ending? How does it matter? This story's all about celebrating their stupidity!!...

The Economics of Eloping- (part 2) the truth

2010-08-03T19:37:00.009+05:30

So when we last heard, Ryan and Lynn had managed to escape their parents' 'clutches' and start their own new life. All straight out of a dream. Well, now's the time for a dosage of reality :D...for all of their stupidity to parade itself, and to realize how wrong popular culture is. God, i love this part :P...the pulp of the story...

They spent the night in a cheap motel, but they were together in the same room, overnight! They spent the intimate night cozying up to each other and slept in each other's embrace. The next morning, they decided to catch a bus out of town, to someplace where they could start to forage for their own life. But a bus ticket needed money. Ryan had that figured out. He had brought along his ATM card, and would withdraw whatever little money his dad had put in his account. That would suffice for till they were on their feet. They made their way to the bus stand, the promise of a perfect forever, clear in their eyes.

Once there, Ryan made his way to the nearest ATM machine and made to withdraw money. But then flashed the dreaded words on screen,

'Insufficient balance'

He did a double take. He could not believe his eyes. How could this happen?! But suddenly then, his mind zoomed back a few days, and he remembered a particular conversation he'd had with dad.

'Ryan, I'm a little short on immediate cash for a little startup capital that I need right now. I'll be withdrawing all the money from your account for a week or two. I'll put it back though.'

How could he forget?! What to do now? He went back to Lynn and recounted the whole story. At first she couldn't believe him but eventually they came to a consensus that arguing would lead them nowhere. They had set the ball in motion by running away and they could not turn away now. They checked their pockets for whatever money they had on them. They had a combined total of a hundred rupees.

They went to the bus stand and asked a conductor how far would hundred rupees take the two of them.

'Well sir, with a hundred rupees, you can get a ticket to Ramnagara, or Mandya at best.'

They both looked at each other, pure and true worry writ across their faces.

'Well, Ramnagara has a lot of scenic locations. We can make our own little house somewhere there. I'll farm and you cook, we'll live on our own, in our world. What say love?' Ryan offered.

'Okay sure..' Her voice was a notch lower than it had been till now.

They gave each other a reluctant smile and climbed onto the bus. After an hour long and bumpy journey, they got off the bus, disoriented and utterly clueless as to what to do next. Ryan was wondering why he'd bothered to study four years of B.Com if he was going to end up farming on some land. Lynn was wondering what they'd eat till the crops in the farms grew. And both were wondering when they could get their very next meal, because they were famished. It was not the most ideal of situations to be in.

Over the next two days, they set about building something resembling a hut among one of the many clusters of boulders a little by the side of the road. There was a meager amount of free land near their hut, which Ryan set about trying to rake free of weeds. He was clueless about it beyond a point. They didn't touch too much on the topic of agriculture in B.Com you know. It struck him within a few hours that this was a very poorly thought out plan and he started to have serious doubts about sustaining it. By this time, all of the food they had brought with them had run out. They were broke, hungry and very annoyed with their situation. Lynn had started losing her temper with Ryan and was complaining about everything. No food, no proper shelter, no guarantee of even a reasonable future. The worst part was, she was mostly right. It was then they realized that they had perhaps been stupid about the whole thing. That perhaps..

It was with these thoughts that Ryan made his way to the main road, looking to see if there were any shops that could give him any food on credit. He was subdued and disgruntled, his attention barely on the road. Just suddenly then, the roar of a passing two-wheeler roused his attention to his environs. He took a look at the vehicle, and his eyes grew wide. He looked around, and saw a few more vehicles, just as he expected. He turned right around and ran for all he was worth. He came back to the hut, panting. Lynn looked at him, concern overcoming her recent annoyance and resultant indifference. She ran up to him and asked what had happened.

'I almost ran into our friends. They were on their way to a road trip to Mysore or something. I don't think they saw me.'

That was when the same thought struck the both of them. This whole idea had been one stupid, short-sighted blight. They were idiots. Of an overwhelming order...

The Economics of Eloping- (part 1) the dream

2010-08-03T18:51:00.007+05:30

I recently watched this movie, '500 days of Summer', brilliant I should say. It raised a very valid point: this whole concept of 'the one' and 'we don't need anything but us' is just a load of nonsense fed to us through those cheesy pop songs and rom-com movies. Reality is harshly different, and this is just a light-hearted, slightly satirical take on that. also, the cultural references here is my indication to what i feel is mediocre crass :D...p.s. i wanna make a short movie on this story too. any takers? :P

Ryan and Lynn were in love. And frankly that's all they knew or cared to know. No, literally. Because they weren't exactly what you'd call, you know, intelligent. Both were students of St. Patrick's College of Commerce, everyday students with nothing remarkable about them. Fine, they were nice people, Ryan was a little rich, and Lynn could almost pass as a looker. But that was about it. They had a limited group of friends with limited ambitions and limited horizons. Frankly, even the way they met isn't much to write about. Well they were set up with each other by common friends. So there.

But once they met, it was magic like they show in the movies. They bonded over pretty much everything, from the music of Linkin Park, to their favorite reality shows, to the enigmatic Micheal Bay movies and any and everything else. They'd constantly spend time with each other, during and after college. Sitting around in coffee shops, they'd spend hours joking and laughing, looking into each other's eyes and holding hands. This was something meant to be. This was fate, and they believed they were in love. Days passed into months, months morphed into years. And just like that, college had come to an end.

After the last working day, the two of them were sitting and talking about their future. They couldn't to tell their parents and make it official.

'What'll your dad say if I came and spoke to him?' asked Ryan, smiling, as he held one of her hands.

'I don't know Ryan. Dad's a little protective about me. And of late he's been a little difficult. Ever since he's had this new competitor in his business, he's been a little stressed and edgy. I don't know if this is a good time.'

'Damn, you know what? I never asked you all these days what your dad does! What does he do?'

'He has a sugar production unit, he manufactures sugar and sells it. But apparently there's this guy who puts his hands in many enterprises, now he's entering the sugar market. Some Joseph Colaco, he's been giving dad a tough time.'

'Joseph who?!'

'Colaco. Why?'

'But that's my...that's my dad!'

'What?! Why didn't you tell me earlier?!'

'I myself didn't know what my dad does! He gives me money, and beyond that I haven't bothered to know much more.'

'Oh my god Ryan. Our dads hate each other. You know what this means right? They'll never let us be together. So what do we now? Do we have to..'

Ryan didn't let her complete the sentence, placing a firm hand over her mouth.

'No love, I won't agree to that. If they won't allow, then we'll elope. After all, you're all I need! You can live with that can't you?', he looked at her hopefully.

She nodded at him earnestly, looked at him for a moment and then, with a trill of excitement, held him tight.

**Did it occur to you guys they never even ventured the question with their parents? Stupid, stupid mistake**

So it was decided. They were going to run away on the night of their graduation day, the 25th of July. They both stuffed a bit of their clothes and some food in a bag and put in his dad's car boot. They spent the entire ceremony sitting like innocent children with their parents. Once they were done, however, they left them on the pretext of meeting their parents. They did meet the aforementioned friends, but very briefly, after which the two of them made their way to Ryan's dad's car. They took what they needed, and they were off. It would be a new life, with just the two of them and their love. They would want nothing or no one else. Just like they had dreamed.

...Yeah, Right...

She.

2010-07-10T16:50:00.006+05:30

The sudden mood shift from one to two was just to bring in some fun. Tried my hand at a new emotion ;)..

She, of whom the trees have whispered tidings,

She, who the wind has awaited with bated breath,

She, whose glimpse eternity itself has been biding,

She, whose equal anywhere has not yet been met.

Well actually I bumped into her last week,

And no it wasn't a transfixed first gaze.

Little was I to know it was her I would seek,

With hopeless desperation in a few days.

For it was an elaborate entrapment you see,

She bumped into me one too many times already,

You could safely have put it past serendipity,

She'd firmly decided she wouldn't let me be.

What else was I to do, if not totally fall?

For her black doe eyes and her button nose.

With that angelic smile, her grip of fingers small

She could've charmed anyone, but me she chose.

With her there never could be an argument's end,

But at times she was innocent as a small child.

Deep as you'd like, with her complications to mend,

With the kind of passion that drove you wild.

Oh it was indeed a devious destiny to which I fell,

The universe had plotted the glorious fiasco,

But if someone asked, I still would tell,

That I'd go through it all over and over more.

The Call of the Road

2010-07-03T11:00:00.004+05:30

I went on a trek to Ramnagara recently. It was a 50km journey on bikes zipping in the 70's and 80's...an open, endless road, picture perfect weather, and good friends with the prospect of a good trek. What better setting for an idea? :)..

My eyes follow the black snake,

Open for all the eye can see,

The urge to gobble it up, in me,

As I follow the call of the road.

Sun peeps through the grey spread,

The wind plays a playful rhythm,

Idle conversation with a friend,

As I follow the call of the road.

Thoughts run with no abandon,

Secrets spill out from the backseat,

Time has no real significance,

As I follow the call of the road.

And like every perfect circle,

It winds back to where it began,

Life makes all the perfect sense,

As I follow the call of the road.

Give it a name..

2010-06-25T12:02:00.007+05:30

I dunno whether this is a proper work per se. Lines that just scurry across a mindscape, at best :)...

Hey! I'm you from twenty years hence,

Where dreams are sold at ten a pence.

Your life is a DVD displayed on a shelf,

Not one moment for you by yourself.

It reeks of monotone, the air you breathe,

Dull as your grave and its lifeless wreath.

Why bother if the mightier have a harder fall?

Irreverence this day comes cheap after all.

A brooding mind-mist, clouding and stalking,

Fogs our minds till death comes knocking.

Plug yourself in the wall and face another day,

Artificial ecstasy that comes to spirit you away.

Plant that mask that imitates a face with a smile,

Lie, cheat, steal, give into it for a while.

Feel that clawing from your insides, its a force,

Drags you to the present, through unopened doors.

Hourglass somersaults

2010-06-24T20:08:00.006+05:30

Two mornings ago, i was just hit by a torrent of hidden old memories- sights, sounds, smells, a touch or two...i've finally forced my habitual side to forsake a rhyme scheme, i'm afraid it'll tamper with the feel of the poem. seems to give me a freedom from self-imposed shackles :)..

Its just another morning till the first thought hits you,

And flies you on its wings to a long-forgotten place.

You peer curiously at those vaguely familiar strings,

Threads of a life left behind, come to greet you again,

As the hourglass somersaults for you one more time.

Is that you, whose mother plants a kiss on the cheek?

Waving goodbye to the figure in pants much too big.

Is it the same smell, of books imprinted onto wood?

The first day back to school, brings back a panorama,

As the hourglass somersaults for you one more time.

Touch the same blades of grass that you ran through,

Or sometimes hid in, till your mothers grew worried.

The long summer days changed your innocent friendship,

Into the first pangs of an eager yearning for her touch,

As the hourglass somersaults for you one more time.

Time slows to a timid crawl, you're with your friends,

How can you keep talking so much about nothing?

It wasn't that funny a line, you all laugh together too much,

Yellow memories of a bonhomie on a failing recollection,

As the hourglass somersaults for you one more time.

But you're back in bed, your journey a hazy memento,

The canvas of your life just passed in front of your eyes,

Is there a regret, or a pining for what could have been?

If so close your eyes, and wish for it all over again,

As the hourglass somersaults for you one last time.

A Real Story

2010-06-20T19:28:00.007+05:30

I got the idea for this while watching a skit making a gentle commentary on kids in reality shows. How there's quite a bit of falsehood and manipulation in them, and that's what I wanted to point to. Its again, slightly smaller, I have other plans for this work :)..yes, thats a chorus. go figure..

I stood for hours in the endless queue,

Acted cute as my parents told, to titillate you,

Yeah well I could sing, but that's not enough,

I spewed out sadder tales as the going got tough.

Vote for me, help me continue my journey,

I've had a hard life where nothing's come free,

Spent nights dreaming through the windowpane,

Is this story enough to touch your heart again?

I begged and begged, made promises to break,

When I lost out, there were accusations to make,

Falsely thanked the people, said my failure was fine,

It was for those who remained to repeat the same lines.

Vote for me, help me continue my journey,

I've had a hard life where nothing's come free,

Spent nights dreaming through the windowpane,

Is this story enough to touch your heart again?

The Last Take

2010-06-19T22:23:00.006+05:30

This is an idea my mom gave me actually. Something she'd written in marathi when she was my age. She told me to write something on this. The premise is basically that its a maimed stunt double lying in hospital, watching on tv the actor he impersonated, win an award for that film. He's talking to someone who happens to have entered the room, pouring his story out. And 'He' is the hero of the film here btw, purposely done so, to sarcastically enhance his greatness. I haven't tried to be eloquent or very poetic, i feel it'll ruin the feel of the poem. His emotions are subject to interpretation, i'm trying to keep it as open-ended in thought as possible...

Could you turn on the television sir,

And switch to the film awards show?

My body aches, my vision is a blur,

And I can't move my limbs anymore.

Did you know sir, that it was in fact I,

That took the falls and all the burns,

As He stood and watched by the sides,

Only to face the camera when it was His turn.

A passing glance, or a mumbled thanks,

Was all the gratitude from Him I'd get,

Empty promises of rising through the ranks,

As I risked my life everyday on set.

The people loved Him in it, made Him a star,

Everybody said 'The Star' would win it all,

So tonight I'm watching Him at His finest hour,

Hoping to be acknowledged, however small.

There He is! He did indeed win it,

Ssh wait, let's see what He has to say,

His family, the people for making it a hit,

He thanks the director for making it His day.

And so I shall rot away into the background,

Yet I have found my reason to be happy,

When He looked at the camera with gratitude profound,

I want to believe He was looking at me.

Random Tandem

2010-05-28T23:32:00.002+05:30

i dunno, this is more like a compilation of mundane everyday passing thoughts, wishes, experiences and observations. This is as random as it will ever get :)...

Hey you pesky little fluffy rabbit,

Got to get you off that nasty habit.

Dive into the electric barber chair,

Where alternating sounds give me a scare.

The purple iguana came in my dreams and said,

It is true child; I’m inside your head.

I’ve always wondered what the Rock was cooking,

What hangers do, when you’re not looking.

The flaming chariots in the screaming sky,

Whispered prophesies as they screamed by.

And the kings of flyovers brought peace within,

Their own souls, if not their kith and kin.

Kleptomaniac Millionaire

2010-05-25T18:48:00.003+05:30

this is childish, its very typical, maybe predictable...i wrote it jus for kicks :P...plus, i think its a nice way to put a life story :)...hope ya'll like it..

He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth,

Couldn't help but eye the things that lay about,

Grew to be as cunning as he was debonair,

He was after all the kleptomaniac millionaire.

The trunk of his Bentley was always full,

With a friend's stolen toys, grandma's knitting wool,

When he's around you'd do well to have a spare,

He was after all the kleptomaniac millionaire.

In college he stole his girlfriend's diamond ring,

The very one that he'd given her last spring,

The urge in him grew with every passing year,

He was after all the kleptomaniac millionaire.

When he signed his first million-dollar deal,

He impressed them with his wit and appeal,

But also kept his partner's pen as a souvenir,

He was after all the kleptomaniac millionaire.

The Four Seasons was full at his retirement party,

People raising toasts to this pioneer of industry,

The missing cutlery next day, a testament to his flair,

He was after all the kleptomaniac millionaire.

His games were over, it was his time to go,

The world watched his funeral with sorrow,

The thief had been stolen away, no longer there,

Always and ever, the kleptomaniac millionaire.

Listen to the windows

2010-05-18T21:58:00.004+05:30

Opeth is 'da shit'! N windowpane's been playin in my mind for the last week...the face of a boy on a window, wad a haunting image...so i decided i'd try something, try to mix senses, bring a lil synesthesia into the picture...this might be horribly good or amazingly bad, lets c...

The train sneaks through the scheming mist,

The night glides in unison with the metal snake.

Steam escapes into the dark with a sinister hiss,

The silent specters swoop slowly in to partake.

I watch through the glass, snug in my illusion,

Observing but how the stars innocently twinkle.

Those pair of eyes watch me with frothy fixation,

As I drink in the region where sleep and wake mingle.

A cold hand yanks me bodily to my present,

I lock eyes with the face that's watching from the window.

The face is familiar, the eyes sing of lament.

There is a heavenly pallor, and a hellish glow.

The windowpane whispers to me a prophecy,

A messenger from the darker cousin of fate.

There is a winged angel coming for me,

Bearing the culmination of all of my hate.

The hands of that face come out of the glass,

They pull me close, into the words in the eyes.

The face tells me what I will be, or what I was,

A personification of my honesty, of my lies.

The train flies over the endless black abyss,

The windswept night, still a spectator silent.

A careful glance shows something amiss,

Where there was once me, a seat is now vacant.

Manufractured family

2010-05-15T19:30:00.007+05:30

the word jus popped in my head, n i wanted to write this down, tho its all fabricated, no inspiration from anyone's experience here :P...its more in the format of a song, (lesser lines, not TOO much imagery, n relatively simpler language) since i want us (OMS) to do this, once we're done with covers :)...n to explain the word- by manufracture, i mean something that is artificial, synthesized, but eventually something that is broken, tarnished...hope ya'll like it..

A fractured mind, and a fragile home,

Where every bit of joy is one on loan.

I welcome you to my household,

With its sheen, all of plated gold.

The million-dollar deal that dad just signed,

Means dad will be away a longer time.

Mom finds comfort in another's embrace,

I know because she's never home on Sundays.

I have a pretty looking older sister,

Who's grown up in front of the mirror.

Falling in love with her own face over time,

Not a smart thought from her since I was nine.

I bumped into myself last week at a corner,

I turned away without a word, I was a stranger.

But we show the world the plastic smiles we sew,

The Perfect Family act, right on cue.

Through the eyes of a goat

2010-05-10T21:37:00.004+05:30

i wrote this as i was surfin wiki, listenin to Ozric tentacles...so it might tend to be diffuse, but those in the sherlock mood, can follow my instructions. Once you're done reading the poem and wondering what it means, wiki 'the seven princes of hell' or better yet, 'peter binsfeld's classification of demons', rework it a bit n watch :)...also, search Baphomet aft that...n also, on a different note, also Heaven's Gate, this work is FULL of references :)...

Come totter with me at the world's ends,

Have a chit-chat with some of my friends.

Misunderstood they lie, objects of hate,

But they have a spare key to Heaven's gate.

Let us meet Cluiref, my very first friend,

The spirit of the oak tree that refused to bend.

Here's Monmam, from the many pages of lore,

With the undying thirst to ever want more.

There's Dasomeus in that corner, all coy,

He's the monger that started the saga of Troy.

Naveliath, the one that considers all meagre,

The father of the sentiment that killed Ceaser.

Bezubbeel, of which many a false yarn been knit,

With all the hunger of a bottomless pit.

Natsa, looks at peace with so little mirth,

He's caused all that discord back on earth.

Phelebrog, plays his nasty little game,

He makes sure everything remains just the same.

These are the seven, that complete my set,

Although there are countless others, discounted yet.

And so in my little kingdom, I rule over them,

I, their master, known as Phobatem.

Study this now- part2

2010-04-24T18:02:00.007+05:30

we saw how things went disastrously wrong for Rohit in the first part...he's just gained 5 kgs with his amazing diet and exercise. it doesn't take mind blowing intelligence to take a guess that if you don't chew well, u wont digest the food, n it'll come onto ur body...the study mentioned in the story was ACTUALLY there in the Times :))...now we follow him as he seeks other sources of dietary illumination...yes, he does seek out Simi in the end, read...

82, 82, 82...the number rang in Rohit's head the toll of a death-bell. He had sunken into a hole deeper than before. Simi looked like a distant memory. He got up the next morning, and it was coincidentally a holiday, all the more time for him to mull over his misfortunes. He brushed his teeth, went through his daily routine with uncharacteristic silence, his mind still occupied with thoughts about his diminished chances with Simi. Glancing through the morning paper, he saw something that made his blood freeze and boil both at the same time. Screaming at him from the paper were the words

EAT SLOWLY, CHEW WELL TO REDUCE OBESITY RISK.

He wanted to rant and ravage, he wanted to hit something. He wanted to call the newspaper men and tell them what nincompoops they were for printing this. He however made do with a loud, deranged laugh, devoid of any joy. Then he proceeded to crush the paper, and burn it over the gas flame.

Mr. Rohit's dad would not be reading the morning news that day...

He couldn't take it longer and decided to go out for a walk round his building, listen to some music. And without a word, he slipped out of the house, and settled into a gentle amble, his i-pod playing all the while.

He kept walking rounds of the buildings, but it didn't help things much. The anger and frustration was building within like a pulsating beast. And before he knew it, he was making a dash for...god only knows where. He ran till the song ran out, he ran to the beat till he was beat, and by the time got over, he was finished. He sat down on whatever resembled a seat and panted like he had never panted. That's when a light turned on in the remote and unused corners of his cerebrum. He could use the music to distract himself from the pain and tyranny of exercise. That's what he would do, he decided, he'd give it a shot.

If someone could see God, he would right now see Him doing a delighted little jig. His belief, that even that His dimmer creations could come good at the end of the day, had been validated. Time to convene that meeting with the Titans, He wanted to see them argue about promoting polymaths NOW...

Anyways, back to our underdog story. Like we were saying, Rohit had decided to run it off, and true to his word, he ran, and ran...and ran. All that slouching, the finding easier alternatives, all of that was gone. There came a point after which he didn't even care about slimming down, he just wanted to keep running. He would line up an entire playlist and run, sometimes for hours on end, pausing very rarely.

The excitement had begun. School was a week away, and Rohit had lost ten kg's in the last three months. He had gone from a waist size 36 to a size 32. His double chin was gone, his lean body and chiselled face showed character, his eyes had a light in them. He had the confidence that he could do anything, and he was sure Simi could be his.

School came. It was wonderful. No one could believe their eyes when they saw Rohit, and kept questioning him about he. He answered them with a smile, that widened all the more when Simi asked him about it. The following weekend, he decided he would go to her house and tell her all of what he felt. The only problem was he knew her apartment complex, not her flat number.

Then another brilliant idea hit him. This was happening with alarming regularity with him nowadays. He knew exacty what to, he knew how he would win her now.

And so, it was after an hour and a half a tired Rohit rang the doorbell, to find Simi opening the door, all dressed up and looking beautiful.

His tongue remained firmly attached to the roof of his mouth, and at this crucial juncture, his already limited mental faculties seemed to have gone vacationing in Hawaii. He had planned upon telling her first why he was here. He found himself telling her the how part of it instead.

'Hey Sim. I actually wanted to tell you something, but I didn't know where exactly you lived. So i rang up every door in every block, till I finally found you here.' He gave her his most winning smile.

She opened her mouth in amazement, then closed it. She placed her hand on his cheek and smiled. 'Why did you do that Rohit? Why did you go through so much trouble to find me?'

'Because...because I know that finding you would be finding me. And without you, there is no me. I could find all there is to find in this world, but without you, they would all be meaningless. And-' he could not continue, because Simi chose that moment to clasp onto him and hug him tightly. He slowly brought his arms around her, finally feeling complete...

SCREECH!! Honestly, this is not a Nicolas Sparks novel. If it was, the mushy parts would be better written. Let's get the facts straight, this is what actually happened after Rohit gave her his most winning smile.

She stared at him for a second, confused. 'But why Rohit? You could just ask the watchman for my flat number, why go through all the trouble?'

Rohit could do more than rearrange his features in a sombre expression and gape at her.

'You're really funny at times man, really you're just so stupid at times Rohit! Anyways, whatever you have to say, it's gotta wait. I'm running late for a movie with Vinit.'

'Vinit?'

'Yeah. Oh didn't you know? We've been seeing each other for some weeks! Anyways, I'll catch you later, bye Rohit.'

He stood there as she trotted off in a hurry. Eventually he made his way to the street, trudging all the long way home. There was no rain, no loud songs in the background. Just a shrug of his shoulders at best. But there was a consolation, he had at least regained his health in this whole affair. And there was a single thought running through his head, the one thought that gave him a modicum of peace.

Well, you don't get it all...

Study this now- part1

2010-04-22T16:57:00.005+05:30

every day, a new study in the paper...mostly it'll be contradicting the previous one, n if u're setting stock by them..:)))))...god save u! he certainly didn't save Rohit...not me! i lost my weight :P...our main man in this story...a story about 2 things: one how these studies are jus an expensive waste of time. and second-i can say from personal experience-that all u need to do to lose weight is run like there's no tomo, u sonofagun :P..

"EAT FOOD FAST AND CHEW LESS TO AVOID GAINING WEIGHT"

The heading screamed at Rohit from the morning Times. The page adjacent to the editorial one was always replete with such studies, touching topics as varied as weight loss to the most promiscuous species in the animal kingdom. Yes, it seemed like people wanted to study everything, and anything.

But you couldn't wipe that smile off Rohit's face today even with industrial cleaner. For some time now, he had been wanting to some of that baby fat. People said he was 18, baby fat was long gone. But he didn't care, people say a lot of things anyway. He had been looking at options which didn't include a trip to the gym or a run, or where he wouldn't have to come back tired and plop down onto the couch. But there wasn't anything substantial on the net, nothing verified. So he was hoping to come across one of these study searches, where they'd apparently experiment on people before making a conclusion. This he could trust. Of course, he could do some breathing exercises and his little stretches. Rohit wasn't, after all, lazy you know.

He went to his room and checked his weight, making sure no one was watching. It pointed at 77 kgs. Good, he thought contentedly, he had not put on weight for a month now. He decided it was time to go public with his iron resolution. He entered the kitchen, where his mother was busy, and his father was trying to help her, eventually only making it worse. His brother was having a bath, and was unfortunate to miss the historic event.

'Mom, Dad, I've decided that its time I lose weight!' he proclaimed, waiting for their reaction.

They looked at him for a moment, silent. Then his dad said, 'That is great news son! Indeed! Now can you pass the salt-box, the one right behind you?'

What the-?, 'I'm not joking, I've really decided to. I've even put together a plan.'

They both looked at each other, as if deciding who was going to speak. Then his mom said, 'You've made a lot of plans even before Rohit. Follow this one through, then we will truly appreciate you.'

Rohit nodded, disappointed at the lack of encouragement. Well I'll show them now, let's see who has what to say, when I fit into the track-pants dad bought last year.' It was a strange irony of his life; when his dad, in an attempt to get his son to move farther than from the couch to the refrigerator, got him a pair of high-end track-pants, he wouldn't fit into them...

And it had begun. The great diet, the great breathing and stretching regime. Rohit devoured his food so quick, he got to dessert before everyone else had finished their first serving. He swallowed his food so fast, as though it was so much toxic waste. He didn't feel too good at the end of the day, and the john used to welcome him more often than it hitherto used to. But his belief weathered all these storms.

He did his breathing exercises regularly, for half an hour everyday. He breathed deep, in and out, all the while thinking happy thoughts of a slimmer himself. Eventually he could feel the excess fat float out of his body taken away like a breeze. Or maybe it was the fan that he had turned on at full blast, so that he wouldn't sweat too much.

And thus the month had ended, the end of Rohit's odyssey. He could not physically see any remarkable change, but he was sure the weighing machine would beg to differ. He started imagining how Simi's outlook about him would change now. She was this girl in his class, who also lived close to his house. He liked her, and would have asked her, but his appearance had caused her to exude nothing but friendly vibes. Now it would all change.

So on the thirtieth morning, he tiptoed to weighing machine, making sure no one was looking. He wanted to cry out his triumph, show the others how wrong they were. He stood on it and taking a deep breath, looked down.

For a full ten seconds, he stood wordless, stunned into silence. Then he started pacing agitatedly about the room, waving his arms about wildly and laughing an excited, hysteric laughter. If a strait jacket had been handy right about then, it would have been used on him without any protest from anyone.

Were you in the room, you would see him jumping around, still laughing that demented laugh. You'd conclude that he was happy beyond his wits, to the point that it should have been a crime. But were you to take a closer look into his eyes (mind you, without getting hit violently in your own by his flailing arms), you would see that something was wrong.

Then if you were to steal a look at the weighing machine (hopefully without a sore eye by then), you would see the needle pointing at....82...

This old man

2010-04-19T20:15:00.005+05:30

a very popular old nursery rhyme, so nice :)...i jus HAD to mess wid it then :P...read on..

This old man, he played one,

Called the children home for fun,

He shushed their cries and put them in a room,