Big Trouble In A Little Road

Kuppusamy stared at the white cream-like foam, spiraling in the water and smiled. What a beautiful creation!

“God you are great!” he screamed at the afternoon sun. Blinded by its glare, he lowered his head to the open sewer again.

He spat into it once more and observed the number of times the foam spiraled in the sewage water. His father had always told him that this was the best way of checking if the quality of the brandy he had just gulped was good or not.

Once he was convinced of the quality, he turned away from the sewer, adjusting his lungi. He looked around to register where he was. He was standing on a lonely road with no vehicles or pedestrians.

One needed to be really cautious on these roads. Although the government claimed to have built them wide, there was never enough space for drunkards like him to walk.

But it was alright. Kuppusamy always loved challenges. “I will walk from here till my house without banging into a single wall. You just wait and see…”, he told his glowering wife, who appeared before him for an instant and then was gone.

The sun was burning the sandy road that afternoon. It was a really hot day.

Kuppusamy unbuttoned his shirt as he began walking towards his house. The button came off in his hand. He stared down at his dark brown shirt, which had once been red.

This was the fourth such button to have obtained freedom. Only one more was left. He smiled. What more can you expect from a shirt that was given to him to vote for Thangam in the previous elections?

He wondered when the next elections would be. He needed another shirt.

How he wished even small boys could vote… That way even his three children could have got shirts…

“The government can never think of schemes like this”, he muttered to himself.

Just then, he noticed a neatly dressed gentleman coming up the road. He might know about the elections, thought Kuppusamy, as he walked up to him.

“Saar… Saar… When is the next elections saar?” he asked in Tamil, bending his back humbly and folding his hands.

The gentleman glowered at him, through his spectacles and continued walking, shaking his head.

“Okay saar… You have work… No problem saar… Good afternoon saar…” spoke Kuppusamy in broken english, saluting the gentleman as he walked off. Educated gentlemen should always be respected. After all, they were high class people who drank scotch and vodka…

But, though the gentleman had left, Kuppusamy stood in the middle of the road with his hand still in the saluting pose. The salute had reminded him of the soldiers and army men of the country. He imagined how it would feel to be a soldier. Fighting terrorists, handling guns, protecting the people…

Kuppusamy swerved around and tightened his lungi around his waist. He began to imagine he was an army officer and started marching while chanting “Left! Right! Left…”

That is when a small, stout kid with a swollen eye came running with a bat in hand and collided with Colonel Kuppu.

*****

“Geetha, this fan needs to be replaced…”, spoke old Gowri Maami, looking up at the creaking ceiling fan. She was lying on the mosaic floor of the apartment house, with a folded-up cloth as pillow and a magazine as the fan.

“Okay ma”, said Geetha without looking up. She was seated at a table in the adjoining room, poring over a bunch of files.

“It is very slow and makes a lot of noise too. The baby is not able to sleep…”, added Gowri Maami.

“Okaaaaaaay…”

It was evident some office work was eating into Geetha’s head at that moment. Gowri Maami fell silent. She turned towards her husband on the sofa. The retired magistrate was snoring peacefully.

Hence, she turned to the chubby little kid, who was playing in the centre of the living room. There was a big, open cardboard box in front of him, which was filled with toys, building blocks and tennis balls.

“You want to eat anything kanna?” The old lady asked the chubby kid. The kid shook his head. Just a few moments ago, two plates full of rice mixed with ghee had been thrown down the poor fellow’s food pipe.

“Maybe one biscuit? Or shall I bring some milk?”

“Ma… Leave him alone. You are spoiling him too much…”, spoke Geetha sternly.

“Don’t talk like that Geetha. After all, he is a growing child…”

That was when a ball flew in through the open window and went bouncing towards one of the corners of the living room.

*****

“How much more?” asked young Pranay, wiping off his sweat on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Six runs. Two balls left”, replied Sathish, his team-mate and patted him on his back, “You can do it.”

Pranay, Sathish and their friends were playing a six over match on a desolate road.

“Eight to win in two balls…”, shouted out the bowler before starting his run-up to bowl.

“It’s six to win… not eight...”, screamed back Sathish.

“Cheater cock!” shouted Pranay.

“Who is cheater cock?” questioned the bowler, walking angrily towards the batsman.

Ten minutes later, Pranay took his stance with a swollen eye. The target had been compromisingly set as seven (average of six and eight, as suggested by a bright kid).

“Cheaters never prosper Pranay. You play. We will win…”, mumbled Sathish, sitting with a grumpy face on a cycle carrier.

The ball was bowled and Pranay hit it with full anger. Ten pairs of eyes followed the ball as it sailed through the air. It went through the grills of a window on the first floor of a nearby apartment.

“Oh shit! It’s gone into the house of the witch lady! Run!” screamed Sathish.

The ten boys scattered off in different directions in no time.

“Started again? Won’t you let people sleep peacefully on a Sunday afternoon?” came the voice of the old lady. The kids, who were hiding behind parked vehicles on the road, smirked at each other. They knew each and every dialogue to follow by heart.

The lady would stand at the doorstep of the apartment and shout.

“There are old people sleeping in the house. Don’t you have mercy on old people? Are you devils? If something breaks will you pay the money? Why don’t you go to the nearby ground and play? Every Sunday you come to disturb our peace. Don’t you have studies?”

Hearing this, one or two aunties would peep out of the balconies of their houses. The old lady would then start complaining to them, “See madam. These kids have no sense. See this ball. I was sleeping inside the house and it is coming and hitting on my head.”

“How does the ball correctly hit her head every time?” Sathish would murmur to the kid, hiding beside him. The two would then chuckle together.

The aunties, who listen to the complaints, would nod their heads and then form a coalition with the old lady in cursing the kids for some other misdeeds. One of the kids would then grow impatient, come out of hiding, walk up to the old lady and ask for the ball. After a few more taunts and warnings, the old lady would finally ask the kid to bring his mother and walk off into her house with the ball. In fact, the kids knew that by now the old lady would have a carton, full of tennis balls which she had acquired in such a manner.

But that day, as Gowri Maami reached the line ‘Every Sunday you come to disturb our peace’, another voice countered her.

“Now...Who is peaceful and who is shouting?”

Gowri Maami turned towards the direction of the voice. A lean man with a torn, brown shirt and an unkempt beard stood a few paces away. But he was not exactly standing. From the way his feet oscillated, she knew his state. People like him were the curse of the nation, she thought.

From behind his back, the usual mischievous kid was smiling and winking at his friends. He was the kid who had made fun of the big vermilion dot on her face and had nicknamed her as the witch lady. Gowri Maami could not remember his name.

“Hey you little rascal! I will tell your mother! Come here!” shouted Gowri maami, staring at the mischievous brat.

“My mother died long back maami… Conch already blown…” replied the drunken man with a grin.

Kuppusamy knew a Brahmin lady when he saw one. He had seen and heard a lot about them. He knew she would screw up her face in disgust on seeing a drunken man like him. She did as expected.

"Ai...Little rascal...Stop hiding behind that dirty man and come here..." the old lady threatened again.

“Ai…" shouted back Kuppusamy in a commanding tone, holding up his falling lungi, "If you stand there and talk one more word…”, He picked up a big stone lying on the ground and swung it threateningly at the old lady.

Pranay peeped from behind the drunken man and grinned at the sight he saw. It is not very often that you see an old Maami, throw away a tennis ball, wind up her saree over her head and run indoors...

Once the old lady had been chased away, the drunken man turned to Pranay and the other kids. Handing over the ball to them, the drunken man spoke, "You play on, my dear citizens! No one can do anything as long as I stand guard!"

Speaking thus, Colonel Kuppu picked up a wooden stick lying on the ground. Holding it like a rifle, he started pacing up and down the road.

And so...that was how on that bright sunny Sunday, ten kids played happily under the protection of a colonel without any trouble from witches.

The Next God

Once upon a time in a land ruled by fools and old men, there was a saint called Swami Babanandha. He was the perfect saint. With a long, grey beard, a forehead whitewashed with sacred ash, and clothed in saffron robes, he only required a halo behind his head to make him the god that he claimed to be. But he compensated for the halo with a miraculous looking locket that he always wore around his neck. That locket had been given to him by a yogi, who had lived in the caves of the Himalayas for a thousand years. It was that locket that had bestowed Swamiji with powers to cure diseases, to predict the future and to even help find stolen items.

Ramu had heard this and a lot more about Swami Babanandha. However, were his blessings powerful enough? This was the question that rang through Ramu’s mind as he stood among the gaping devotees.

Everyone was eagerly waiting for Babaji to appear on the stage erected for him. A group of priests, sitting in a corner of the stage, in front of burning flames were chanting some mantras. While some of the devotees were reciting hymns earnestly, there were others who were merely mouthing words to overcome the boredom.

With all this chanting as the background music, the Swamiji appeared from behind a curtain. Instantly, all the people were up on their feet, out of respect. The Swamiji waved his hand at all the people gathered and motioned them to sit.

Ramu’s mouth was wide open even as he sat down. He was awed by the charisma of the saint. Apart from an actor who had done the role of Sri Krishna in one of the movies, Babanandha was the only one who had that kind of a look. It was not only the look; there was something more about him. Something magnetic…something pristinely divine…

Swamiji took his seat and began talking into the mike. Hearing his voice somehow seemed to soothe Ramu’s spirit and he almost fell into a trance. So what Muni had said was true after all.

“Just hearing Swami speak cleanses the soul of a person”, he recollected Muni saying, while they both sat on a bench sipping tea that morning.

Ramu didn’t understand the concepts that the Swami spoke about. He could only make out words like Moksha and Karma, which he always heard in other spiritual speeches. He had never understood the meaning of any of these terms. But still he listened to Babanandha speak, mesmerized by the sound of his words.

As he was talking, suddenly Swami began to cough. All the people there grew concerned. But Babaji held up a hand asking his devotees to relax. The coughs did not subside though. One of Swamiji’s assistants instantly rushed to him with a glass of water, while another lean man handed a towel to the Swami.

Alas, Kali Yuga has grown so bad that even someone as godly as Swamiji is not protected, thought Ramu as he watched Babanandha drink some water.

The water did not help though. The coughs continued. Ramu wanted to shout out. Why isn’t anyone calling the doctor? God needs help…

And then it happened. There was a loud cough and Babaji spat something into the hand towel that had been given to him. There was absolute silence for a moment as all eyes watched the towel and Babaji’s hands. His fingers fished within the towel and out came a shining, golden Shivalinga. Babaji picked it up in his hand and held it up for his devotees to see. A wave of applause spread through the audience. Some began to sing praises of the Swami loudly while others started running towards the stage to get that blessed idol from Swami.

Ramu sat stunned. He had never believed the other saints when they said ‘God is within you’. But here Swami Babanandha had shown him.

“There is a Shivalinga inside each and every one of you. The challenge is identifying that god and bringing it out through your actions…”

Ramu was able to understand each and every word now. From that instant onwards, Ramu became a Babanandha devotee. He looked on at the Swami and listened to every other word that he spoke with folded hands. Ramu was not the only one who did this. Every single person gathered there did the same. Every single eye was fixed on the Swami after he had performed the miracle.

But no one spared a glance at the lean, simply-dressed man, who stood silently behind the Swami. He almost merged with the background after handing the towel to Babaji. He stood there silently watching the response of the people without displaying any kind of emotions on his wooden face.

* * * * *

“This is not convincing Baba. We can improve the trick”, spoke the lean man.

The bearded man, who sat wearing striped trousers next to a table fan, looked up with a puzzled look. He had been busy fighting with a piece of meat, trying to drag it free from its bone with his teeth.

“Yes, Baba. I would advise performing something different. Something more grand!”

“What do you suggest?” asked Babanandha, ripping off the meat successfully.

“It should appear more natural. It should be done on a stage not set by us.”

Babaji raised an eyebrow.

The lean man pointed at a small booklet lying on the table, next to the fan. Its pages were fluttering slightly, but a bold title in black letters was clearly visible on one of the sides.

“The Annual Business Achievers Awards…”

* * * * *

There was a buzz within the auditorium. Cameras flashed incessantly trying to capture every millionaire face that adorned the star-studded stage that evening. All the heads of the nation’s leading business organizations were doing their duty by displaying their best smiles. Each of their gleaming faces took turns to come up on the big projector screen that was set up to the right of the stage. Among the audience, upcoming entrepreneurs sat nervously in the first row. They had been chosen from amidst a lot of candidates and nearly all of them were excited to see their life’s role models seated right in front of them. And to top it all, heading this wonderful function, seated on a golden throne was the chief guest, Swami Babanandha.

The stage was well set.

Several inaugural speeches were made. All the guests were welcomed. Although there were a few mouths that yawned, all eyes were fixed on the charismatic Babaji. He sat calmly listening to every speaker with a peaceful smile on his face.

The ceremony soon began. Names were called out for the various awards and the businessmen began to distribute the prizes. Then it was time for the final and most prestigious award. The best entrepreneur of the year award and it was being given to a very popular young businessman who was creating ripples in the telecom industry. Babaji was requested to honour that gentleman with the award.

As the young entrepreneur came up to the stage, a lean man, who was so far in the background, stepped into the limelight with a gleaming trophy. Baba stood up from his seat and immediately stole all the attention from the trophy. The lean man handed over the trophy to Swami Babanandha, as the budding entrepreneur stepped forward humbly to receive the prize. Just as the trophy was handed over to Baba, the lean man gave his cue and passed something to Babaji under cover of the trophy. The trick was done.

The entrepreneur first bent down and touched Babaji’s feet to receive his blessings. The cameras began flashing wildly at that instant. Babaji just smiled and handed over the trophy to the entrepreneur and then spoke, “You deserve something more. Something special. A beautiful chain perhaps…”

And in front of all those people and cameras, he waved his hand in circles in thin air and lo! A chain appeared…

But whether it was beautiful was definitely in question. It was pitch black and appeared as if it had been burnt. It was the most disgusting jewel that could ever be made. It looked like some fossil freshly dug out of some excavation site. But not realizing this, Babanandha held up the chain as usual for his devotees to see.

A silence fell over the audience. The cameras stopped clicking. Some of the businessmen on the stage closed their noses with their fingers. The entrepreneur with the golden trophy in hand screwed up his face in disgust.

All of a sudden a man got up from his seat in the audience and shouted out “Boo! The Swami has lost his powers…”

A group of people in another corner joined in too, “Yes… Yes…God has deserted him…”
Another man from another section of the crowd stood up, “Hey Look. The locket that Baba wears has transferred itself to the other man’s neck…”

Swami Babanandha looked down at his own neck in shock. The lean man did the same thing, but the expression on his face was surprise. All the cameras zoomed in on the lean man’s neck. And there shining brightly like the morning sun was the magical locket that had hung on Babanandha’s neck for all these years.

“God has shown us his true messenger…”, shouted out another man from the audience.
For the first time in history, all eyes turned to the lean man while Swamiji still stood on the stage. The lean man began to quiver and shake as though something was getting control of him.

After several fits, the lean man moved his hands in the same circular motion and there appeared a golden chain in his hand. He then presented it to the waiting entrepreneur, who received it with due respect.

The miracle stunned the audience who as usual began to applaud. Cameras began to click again. Swami Babanandha stood there like a dummy, utterly speechless, staring open-mouthed at the lean man.

“Thanks for being part of the trick…” whispered the lean man to Babaji, as a section of the crowd ran up to the stage and lifted him off his feet.



“And that was how I became Junior Babanandha, my son…”

The lean man finished talking and stood up silently. A baby lay sleeping in its cradle with its thumb stuck in its mouth. The lean man smiled at it and patted its little head. With the smile still on his face, he looked up at the woman who stood behind the door. His smile grew wider and not even his long, grey beard could hide his intentions. The woman stepped forward and both of them walked in their saffron robes towards the bed.



Jai Shri Babanandha!

Beneath The Dark Glass...

With my heavy suitcase in hand, I jumped two steps at a time down the escalator. The red light was blinking already and the beeps were sounding. I just managed to scrape in, as the doors of the MRT closed in behind me.

Instantly, I was engulfed by a stream of cool air and I felt a sudden exhilaration. It put a smile on my face and I looked around. There was some space near the opposite door. A familiar-looking man stood against that door, facing away from me. I moved over to his side and smiled at him.

It was then that I realized that there was a woman crushed between him and the glass door. My gaze averted instantly but fell upon a grumpy old woman nearby, who glowered at me with a disgusted expression. My smile vanished.

Once a few people alighted at the next station, I got a seat. On one side of me sat the grumpy woman and on the other side, a young man dozed with white earphones plugged into his ears.

Since the objects on either side were not of much interest, I stared straight ahead. It was then that my eyes met with the sight of the pink pram.

There was a lady who sat in the row opposite mine. Beside her sat a man with black, cooling glasses and an impish smile. And it was in front of these two people, that the pink pram lay parked. From the bright smiles that the people in the opposite row gave in the direction of the pram, I deduced that in it must be a very pretty baby. I could not see its face though.

The man was in a cheerful mood and was making smiling faces at the baby. The lady was not smiling though, which puzzled me.

I watched as I had nothing else on mind. The man began making signs to the baby. Signs of numbers. One, two, three, four. He was showing his fingers close to the baby’s face and smiling all the time. With his cooling glasses and his smile, he seemed almost a Hollywood hero.

But something seemed to be troubling the woman, who sat beside him. She smiled occasionally whenever the man looked at her. But the rest of the time, she stared at the baby in a worried mood or stared away.

Soon, the man got bored of making gestures with his hands. He began to make different faces. Then he pulled out a key chain from his bag on the floor and swung it in front of the baby. It had a cute little teddy bear dangling at its end. Soon, he snatched some other toy-like thing from within his bag and started displaying it happily to the baby.

Thus, I spent around ten minutes looking at the sight of a father cajoling his young son.

Yes. That was what I thought. I had imagined that the man and the woman were husband and wife and that the baby was their child.

But when the MRT reached the next station, the mother stood up, smiled at the man and said, “I am getting down here sir.”

The man immediately smiled back and nodded.

The mother wheeled the pram around and pushed it towards the door. The man waved goodbye to the baby.

Just as the lady pushed the pram out through the open door, I caught a glimpse of the baby. It was quite fair and dressed in a neat, little blue clothe. Its right thumb was stuck in its mouth. But that was not what held my attention. It was the eyes. The baby’s eyes were closed peacefully in sleep. A small cap that it wore was pulled half-way over its eyes.

I was confused. Was it to this sleeping baby that the man was making all his gestures? Couldn't the man see that the baby had been asleep? He should have unless...

I looked back at the man. He was sitting erect with that same smile fixed on his face. He had now placed his bag on his lap and sat hugging it. He was looking around casually as he hummed some tune to himself. His right hand still clutched at the toy-like thing which I now realized to be a white, foldable walking stick.

It was the kind of stick that the blind used to feel their way around.

I looked at the stick and then at his black glasses. They were too dark and completely veiled his eyes.

The beeps sounded and the red light began to flash. A fat woman walked in hurriedly just as the doors closed softly. She rushed towards the seat where the mother had sat earlier. As she took her seat, she accidentally stepped over the man’s foot. The foot of the man with the black cooling glasses.

“Oops… Sorry sir. I was in a hurry”, she said in an apologetic tone, staring down at his feet.

“I could see that”, replied the man, looking at the fat woman with a mystic smile and continued his humming. His other hand placed the folded-up stick within his bag and zipped it close.

The MRT moved on…

The Boy Who Wanted To Die

Yes. He wanted to die. There seemed to be no other way out. Only death could cease all his troubles. The more he stared at the small picture in front of his eyes, the greater was his impulse to hang from a rope. In a sudden fit of rage, he banged the compass that he held in his hand onto the table. The table groaned.

Just a few hours ago, on the morning of that day, that very same compass had been carving out the four letters of his name on his school desk.

A-B-H-I

The maths teacher walked in and he stood up involuntarily along with the rest of the class.

“Namaste. Sit down, children.”

Benches groaned for a second.

“Have you all done the assignment?”

“Yes, maam”, echoed the class and Abhi joined in, while trying to make the letter ‘A’ on the desk a bit more curved. A snide grin played on his face.

“All neatly written in A4 sheets and properly stapled?” would be the next question, he mused.

He was right.

“Yes, maam!” echoed the class.

“Now she’ll say ‘Very good,children’ and continue giving sums from RD Sharma”, Abhi thought to himself and bent down to take his notebook from his school-bag.

“Very good, children. Akash, go around and collect the assignments.”

Abhi froze with his hand inside the bag.

Forty minutes later, he walked out of the principal’s office – totally devastated. For the first time, he dearly wished he had never passed the ninth standard annual exam. Tenth was too much of a hurdle to cross.

He got back to the class and sat down in his bench without looking around. He heard a few chuckles and knew it was Sriram and co. He just continued poking his compass into the desk until he heard a gruff voice.

“I want one of you now to explain the digestive system of the grasshopper. Abhishek get up.”

Abhi looked up in a sort of dazed manner. His science sir smiled back at him. He had not even noticed that the maths class was over.

“Abhishek I am talking to you. Stand up I say…”

He stood up confused. “Yes, sir?”

“What ‘yes saar, no saar’? Do you know the answer or not?”

Abhi blinked for a moment.

“Sir…what question… sir?”

That was it. If ever there was anything in this world that the science sir hated other than teaching biology, it was a student who did not pay attention. The sir glowered at Abhi who stared down at his desk.

“What are you seeing there, you dirty buffalo? Look at your teacher”, spoke the sir in Tamil.

He then got ready to further abuse him in Tamil when suddenly a female teacher crossed their classroom corridor. All students noted the sir’s gaze shift toward the corridor for a moment and immediately his language shifted to a wonderful English accent.

“Please children. Be attentive in the class I say… We all teachers want good for you…anytime I want bad for you? There in the assembly principal is asking for 200% ‘perfuction’…”

Abhi just could not hold himself back and burst out chuckling. The sir now lost control over his senses and screamed at the top of his voice. However, anger forced his words to topple out in his original English accent.

“GRASSGOPPER DIAGRAAM TON TIMES YOU WILL DRAW WITH PHHULL EXPALANASION!”

The same voice echoed through his head as Abhi sat staring at the damned diagram in his science textbook and contemplated suicide. Ten times? That too this dumb diagram showing how a grasshopper shitted? He would rather die.

He shut the book with irritation and looked around the house. It was empty. Mom and Dad were off at work. Bro was away at college. Granny was busy reading a Tamil magazine sitting outside the house at the doorsteps.

The coast was clear. What next, he thought.

Poison. Where could he get it? With a very faint hope he went over to the fridge, and opened it. The little jar was still there in the tray below the freezer. He remembered that day when he had asked his father what it was and he had said “Poison! Don’t touch it!”

He took out that jar and brought it to the hall. His heart began beating fast. He had never touched poison before. He visualized himself eating it and quivering in pain. He wondered why this bottle did not have that white label with the word ‘Poison’ written on it in bold. Like the poison bottles in films. Perhaps the manufacturers for this poison bottle were from a different company.

“With globalization a lot of companies have come into the market, you see”, he told himself and felt proud that he remembered social science.

Unconsciously his mind started reciting the definition of globalization and its positive effects on the Indian economy, as he walked towards the table to place the jar on it. And as usual his answer stopped at the third point. He just could not remember the starting phrase of that point again. He opened his textbook and checked it and continued his chanting.

Once he was done, he then remembered the task at hand. Suicide. Yes. What next?

A letter, of course. That was the normal procedure. A letter announcing to the world why he was going to commit suicide. He took up the blank A4 size paper that he had kept aside for his Maths assignment. Picking up the ball pen on the table, he started thinking.

“First thing you need to decide before writing any letter is whether its format should be formal or informal”, his English teacher’s voice echoed in his mind.

He was confused now. In what format should a suicide letter be?

After considering it for five minutes, he decided it should be informal since it was addressed to his parents. Then, he began penning it down. After a few consultations with the sheet of formats that his teacher had sold to him for ten rupees, he successfully completed the letter and signed it.

“Don’t put your name below the sign. In informal letter only the signature”, whispered his English teacher in his ear.

He then read through the letter once to ensure correct grammar and punctuation. He imagined how proud his mother would be when she would read this letter. She would tell their neighbours that her son knew the informal letter format by heart.

But would she be sad once he died?

Hmmm… Perhaps not. She always adored the boy next door who got first rank in all exams. She would always ask Abhi to study like him. So maybe once Abhi died she would adopt that boy and bring him up.

“But my clothes won’t fit him. They will probably throw them all away”, he thought.

Thinking thus, he folded the letter and placed it below the pile of books on the table. The wall clock let out a melodious chime as the time turned five.

“Federer’s match would be in another five minutes. Wimbledon finals…Oh shit! I am going to miss seeing the master at play”, he thought.

“You can’t see everything in one life, you know.” This time it was his Granny’s voice that sounded in his mind.

Abhi nodded to himself. True.

He then began to think if all things were in order before he died. That is when he felt the need to visit the toilet.

“You never know if there will be toilets on the way to heaven…So it’s always better…” he told himself as he dashed to the washroom and released.

He came back to the table happily humming a cinema tune. No more school. Wow, he had never imagined such a thing even in his dreams.

“Okay let me say a prayer before I end my life.”

Telling himself thus, he sat down at the table and began chanting one of the Sanskrit slokas that his sir had taught him with utmost concentration.

And then, he gripped the jar of poison and loosened its lid.

***********************************************

Abhi’s mother walked into the house at eight o’clock. Granny was still at the doorsteps reading by the yellow light of the bulb glowing outside the door.

“Why don’t you go inside and read in the brightness of the tubelite Ma?” shouted Abhi’s mother near Granny’s ear.

“Aanh?” she asked in return.

Not possessing the energy to shout again, Abhi’s mother motioned to her saying “Nothing. Continue.”

She then walked into the hall. Abhi was lying face down on the table, amidst a scattered pile of books. He did not move on hearing his mother enter the house.

“Wow. It’s going to rain tonight. Abhishek is sitting at the table with books ah?”

A moment of silence.

“Ai… sleeping only right?” she asked with a disbelieving smirk.

“No I am not”, replied Abhi with his face still down. His voice sounded broken and quivering. His mother walked over and lifted his head up. There were tears streaming down his eyes.

“Why are you looking sad? What happened, Abhi? Is anything the problem?”

“Maaa….”

“Yeah, tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Federer lost the finals maa…”

The Martyr

I am quite sure that no human, whose eyes shall chance upon this document, shall believe the words it contains. I do not write with the hope that I shall be freed from the chains of the asylum that bind me now. I write to silence that part of my heart which yearns to uphold the principles that my Master vouched for throughout his life.

My fingers quiver with the sheer magnitude of the truth that they are about to pen. I still shudder to recollect the events of that day.

It was a nice and fresh Friday evening. I stood on the side of the pathway leading onto the dais, beside Ram. He was excited and longing to see Master. I was dressed immaculately in white, exactly as Master always expected. White – the color of pristine love.

The trees around swayed gently in the evening breeze. Some people were whispering among themselves as Master seemed to be taking some time to come out. Some others, wrapped with shawls, just watched the proceedings in a withdrawn fashion. The birds made it a perfect evening with their melodious twitters.

Just then, Master stepped out of the house and came walking slowly towards the dais. He was about ten minutes late and his face seemed to be troubled by it.

Everyone brought their palms together to salute Master as he passed by them. I too did the same with all the reverence I had in my heart for him. Master halted in his steps when he saw me.

“My dear Govind, can you fetch my spectacles from the house? Forgetfulness is getting the better of this old man.”

I smiled in return for his grin and ran to the house. Master continued his walk towards the dais.

The spectacles were placed on top of Master’s wooden writing desk, beside the radio. Grasping it gently, I walked out into the soft sunlight.

Master had reached the dais and everyone had gathered around him: everyone, except one man who sat under one of the trees.

He had a green cloak wrapped around his gaunt body, and seemed to be lost in deep thought.

I knew every single person in the compound by face, except this man. And I was pretty much sure I had not seen him enter with all the others. I was puzzled as to how he got there. Now, however, after all that happened, his mode of entry is no longer a cause of bewilderment.

Master too seemed to have noticed him, despite not having his specs on. Smiling at him, Master spoke calmly, “My dear son, can you adjourn your thoughts for a few moments and join us in our prayer?”

The man in the green cloak did not seem to pay attention. It was then that I noticed the object that the man was staring at. He held a locket in his hands that he was twirling with his fingers.

“It must be the possession of a loved one that he has lost”, I thought to myself, although his face had no tinges of sorrow.

It was an unearthly face: white and expressionless. I quickened my steps towards the dais.

Master calmly repeated his question.

This time, however, the man in the green cloak raised his eyes and stared straight at Master. The red rays of the setting sun lighted his face and his thin, slit-like eyes glistened.

Master continued, “I haven’t asked for anything impossible. Step forward, son!”

The man in the green cloak grasped the locket tighter.

“Do not call me your son. I do not wish to be called a son of you people. I am a son of nobody. Do you get that you vermin?”

The manner in which he uttered the words sent a shiver down my spine. Somehow I felt this man meant harm. So I almost broke into a run to reach my Master on the dais.

“No no. Do not speak thus. We are the loved children of the lord who created us all. The lord who nourishes us all, the lord who…”

And then it happened...

For the next few moments, only one voice rang through everyone’s ears. A cruel voice that almost burned one’s insides with its echoes.

“I AM THE LORD OF THIS WORLD! AVADA KEDAVRA!"

There was a flash of blinding, green light and Master crumpled to the ground, dead. I lost my balance in shock and fell into one of the big bushes that aligned the sides of the pathway. Everyone witnessing this event gasped in unison but still stood riveted to the ground.

“THERE SHALL BE ONLY ONE LORD HENCEFORTH! THE DARK LORD! LORD VOLDEMORT!” he bellowed. I parted the leaves of the bush and stared.

The man in the green cloak was now chanting under his breath holding the locket in one hand and a wooden stick in another. I was just too stunned to even move. Within moments, an obscure mass of vapours emanated from within his body. It was as if his soul was coming out of his body. And then, the vapours dissolved into the locket. It shone brightly for a second and then grew normal.

The man in the green cloak guffawed as if elated by the success of his act and now stared at the crowd in front of him. They stood petrified with Master lying dead in their midst. He waved the stick, and one of the people in the crowd stepped forward, as if hypnotized. It was Ram. Another flick of the stick – a gun appeared in his hand. Another flick – Ram fired three bullets into Master’s limp body.

There was another swish and a wind swept across the faces of everyone in the crowd. I watched helplessly from within the bush. The people immediately caught hold of Ram, who dropped his gun. Some others lifted Master’s body and started running towards the house.

The man in the green cloak chuckled hideously and vanished in a swirling mass of robes.

I do not know how long I sat there within that bush, utterly stunned by the happening. I grew doubtful of my own senses. I shut my eyes and dearly wished that I had been hallucinating. I waited for someone to come and wake me up.

Nothing happened.

It was night when I opened my eyes. I was lying within the house on a soft white rug. There were several feet walking about within the hall. I tried lifting my head, but it ached. Employing all the strength left in my weak limbs, I sat up slowly. For a moment, I wondered if it could all have been just a dream.

That was when I noticed Master’s spectacles still clutched in my left hand. And that was when the radio in the hall blared out, loud and clear, over the babble of voices, “We announce with profound grief that Mahatma Gandhiji has passed away…assassinated by Nathuram Godse...”


(Afterword : (For non-HP readers) It would be mentioned in HP books that Voldemort killed a Muggle (non-magic person) to create one of his seven horcruxes, The horcrux in Salazar Slytherin's locket. But Rowling would not have mentioned who that Muggle was that Voldemort killed. All that I have done is make Gandhiji that person)

An Hour's Worth

It is indeed with a purpose that I begin to recount this tale to you. I am not very good at telling stories though. I hardly find the time. So kindly bear with my literary flaws, if any…

Venue : One dimly lit alley, Crawford Street, Los Angeles

Stepping into the silent alley, I checked my watch, as part of the routine. It was time, I thought. But the alley lay deserted except for me and a little rat, rummaging through a nearby dustbin for its late night supper. Could something have gone wrong, I thought. In a flash, I took out my mobile, and glanced at the notes.

‘John Clay, 23, Crawford Street, L.A. - 8.00 pm'

I checked my watch again. It was then that I realized my mistake. “Time zone error. Rewind by an hour”, I told myself. I somehow seemed to have forgotten that Los Angeles is a solid one hour behind Colorado in time. A very costly error…

Damn it! So that meant I had to wait there in that alley for another hour. “Once you reach the spot, you can’t leave without getting the job done.”

The words of my boss echoed through my mind. So I receded into one of the musty corners, away from the feeble light cast by the solitary street lamp. Time ticked away slowly. My phone began vibrating. But I stared at the rat. I didn’t want to look at the phone. The ramifications of my mistake was mutely screeching out at the top of its voice from within my pant pocket…

* * * * *

The rat seemed pretty much ravaged as he pushed around empty tins in the dustbin. He paused for a moment as our gazes met. With a panicky squeak, he dived into the deep reaches of the dustbin as a huge, dark figure stepped into the alley.

I had a good look at his face as he entered the field of light. No, he was not John Clay. I leaned back against the wall. The phone was still vibrating, non-stop.

“John? Are you there?” he asked expectantly, trying to stare through the darkness that cloaked me perfectly. Silence was the only reply that his question received. Even the rat was holding its breath. And then, there were footsteps…

From my side of the alley, a hooded figure walked in. He did not possess a very good build, but still looked formidable enough. The darkness wreathed me perfectly as the hooded figure crossed me.

Both these gentlemen met face to face at the centre of the circular field of light.

“I’ve brought the money John”, said the huge man, lifting an old, ragged leather suitcase and pointing at it with a thick finger. “Where’s Nicolas?”

“He’s safe in our custody back in Colorado, Paul”, replied John, pulling off his hood to reveal a sturdy face.

I lowered my head, closer to my chest and smirked. Safe in whose custody? Haha…

“You give me the money now and Nicolas will be back as if nothing had happened at all”, said John with a greedy smile on his face.

My grin grew wider. My phone’s vibration paused for a couple of seconds.

“I first want to talk to him”, spoke Paul firmly, moving the suitcase away from John’s reach.

John clicked his tongue in disgust and then taking out his cell phone quickly dialed a number. I yawned and checked my watch with the adjusted time.

“J dot here. Hand it over to Nic”, spoke John over the phone.

There was a moment’s silence. And then, John heard the reply. The reply which I knew he would hear. My phone had resumed vibrating.

“What?! Are you serious?” John almost gasped and lost his breath as he heard the voice at the other end speak. Paul’s gaze on John grew firm.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?.........Okay. I’ll handle the situation.”

Speaking thus he cut the line. His fingers quivered as he put his phone back into his pocket. He felt for his gun inside his coat but could not find it there. His forehead was already dotted with beads of sweat, as he gazed unsteadily at Paul. Paul raised his eyebrows, riveting John with a questioning glare.

“Noth….Noth….” It was taking some time for the words to come out. “Nothing, Paul. You cannot speak to Nicolas now. Not yet.”

“What do you mean not yet? I’ve brought the money you’ve asked for, haven’t I? Why can’t I talk to my brother then?”

“See… Paul… Listen…The situation is…”

Just then, Paul’s phone began ringing. With a grunt, Paul wrenched his phone from within his coat. He glowered at the mobile screen for a moment, with such fierceness that it may have evaporated on the spot.

“What the fuck is it, Bob? I told you not to disturb me for another hour, didn’t I?” he shouted back at the caller.

And then, Paul too fell silent. He stared blankly at the floor as he heard the man called Bob, speaking from the other end. Within a few seconds, Paul had cut the line. He was still staring at the floor. John gulped.

Placing his phone back into his coat pocket, and still staring at the floor, Paul spoke, “How do you wish to die John?”

“Listen Paul. It… It….It wasn’t our fault. At least… It wasn’t my…my fault…”

Paul raised his gaze from the floor and stared right into John’s quivering eyes.

“I asked you a question John. You haven’t given me the answer.”

“Paul… listen… We really do not know how this happened. The fellows are searching the whole of Colorado for the murderer. It wasn’t one of our gang. Trust me. It wasn’t…”

I grew restless as my phone continued vibrating with a renewed sort of vigour.

Paul dropped the suitcase onto the floor and his right hand went to his rear pant pocket.

“John… Do you know how much I loved my brother?”

Paul began advancing towards John, who began skulking in his shadow.

“Wait…Paul… we just kidnapped him for ransom. We were running short of money. Why would we kill him? We DIDN’T kill him. Trust me. We knew that he is your brother, Paul. Still we kidnapped him. That’s how desperate we were for money. But we would never have had the guts to kill him. It must have been one of Warner’s men who did it. You know Warner, the drug dealer? He is bent upon getting our gang into trouble...“

“Oh…so it was Warner who killed my brother then?” asked Paul sardonically, pulling out a black pistol from his pocket and pointing it at John’s forehead.

“Yes. Yes.” John nodded frantically.

From where I stood leaning against the wall, I could see that expression on John’s face clearly. The expression that I had seen on countless faces before. The sole expression that distinguishes the brave from the cowards…

“So it was Warner who killed my brother then…”

This time it was not a question. It was as if Paul was repeating the words to himself. John nodded his head frantically again. Paul’s right hand still held the pistol to John’s forehead while his other hand held his head by his hair.

John’s eyes were staring at the finger on the trigger. He gulped as the finger slowly loosened.

“So it was Warner who killed my brother then…” Paul repeated for a third time, as he loosened the grip further and looked away from John’s face. “Hmm… ok then. He’ll join you soon.”

The alley echoed with a gunshot. There was the sound of a boot hitting flesh, and a thud as John Clay toppled to the ground. A small pool of blood formed on the dusty floor and flowed slowly towards the dustbin.

Almost immediately an alarm sounded somewhere and there was the sound of rushing footsteps. Paul acted fast. Placing his gun back within his coat, and grabbing his suitcase, he vanished out of the alley in a flash.

I still stood waiting in the shadows as three men came running into the alley. They were clearly policemen in plain clothes. One of them kneeled down beside John, while the second lamented “Yet another murder? And that too when we were on patrol…Gawd… The General’s gonna screw us man…”

The first man caught hold of John’s wrist and gasped, “He’s still alive. Guards let’s get him to the hospital first. Jesus, save this chap!”

Unfortunately, Jesus wouldn’t be able to help, I thought, as the policemen lifted the hurt man onto their shoulders. I looked at my watch. It was 8.00 pm sharp. I stepped out of the shadows and placed the tube in front of John’s mouth.

The policemen never saw me, as they busied themselves with rushing towards the hospital. I kept up the pace with them. Another two seconds I thought, as I took the tube closer to John’s mouth. His eyes fluttered for a moment as he looked at me. I smiled back reassuringly. And after the two seconds elapsed, I halted in my steps.

Closing the tube with a cork, I placed John’s soul safely within my coat as the policemen rushed away into the darkness with the corpse. It was then, that I finally plucked out my vibrating cell phone and stared reluctantly at the screen, unable to imagine how many times it would have buzzed in this one hour.

“6124 alerts! 6124 people queued for death...”

I had to do overtime that night. And that is when the true worth of an hour hit me on my face.

I just felt like sharing this with you mortals. Thanks for reading. See you soon. :)

No Smoking

He was not used to this new job yet. Life is full of ups and downs they say. He was the perfect example. Till two weeks ago, he was earning bundles of crisp notes for just tapping the keys of a computer. Anyone passing by would salute him with a "Good morning sir!" But now he tapped his walking stick upon the pavement and saluted every passer by with an outstretched hand, "Good morning sir! Spare a coin for this poor fellow..."

That morning, just as he finished blessing a little boy for giving him a rupee, he saw a gentleman coming up the street. He was tidily dressed, creaseless shirt and sparkling shoes. A fair lady was walking along with the gentleman while talking animatedly.

Between the gentleman's teeth there stuck out a white cigarette with a glowing red end.

The beggar gasped, "It's dangerous. He must be warned."

So just as the gentleman was about to cross him, the beggar cleared his throat, "Good sir! Can you spare a moment for this poor creature?"

Now clearly the beggar was improving. He had used the phrase 'poor creature' instead of 'poor fellow'. His voice too was gaining modulation and that necessary tinge of self-pity. But more than the voice it was the eyes of the beggar that riveted the gentleman and made him halt in his steps. The beggar's gaze fell upon the woman for a moment and then drifted downwards.

The gentleman, who was still puffing the cigar, reached within his coat for some change but the beggar's voice intervened, "No sir. Money is not what I seek. There is something I wish to tell you..."

And then looking up at the gentleman's face amidst the cigar fumes, he said, "Drop it sir. Its scent pollutes the body and soul. The pleasure it gives is but temporary. Agony follows. Please avoid it sir."

The gentleman was obviously not going to listen to the beggar's advice. But there was something unearthly about the beggar's voice that made the woman quiver and clasp the gentleman's hand. The gentleman removed the cigar from his lips as if he was going to drop it. But he gave a sardonic smile and put it back between his teeth.

The beggar smirked and spoke again, "The moment the thing caresses your lips you feel a limitless ecstacy, but eventually it sucks out your very life, your joy. I was once a gentleman like you sir, but its lure made me mad. The very same thing destroyed my life. Just chuck it."

The beggar's words, unearthly in sound though they were, fell upon deaf ears. The gentleman bent down and blew the fumes upon the beggar's face. The beggar clutched his throat and began to cough.

"My money. My cigarette", breathed the gentleman and swirled around.

The lady stayed back for a moment, eyeing the beggar with a mixture of fear and suspicion. Then she quickened her pace and followed the gentleman. Their animated conversation continued as before.

I had been as usual jobless and so had been silently watching the proceedings. But now taking pity upon the beggar, I went up to him and patted him on his back until his coughs subsided and spoke, "Why do you strain yourself asking passers-by not to smoke? These people wont quit the habit even if debarred by law. You made yourself a fool advising him..."

The beggar began to laugh. It started slowly like the sound of a scooter refusing to start and turned slowly into a high-pitched guffaw. Amidst fits of laughter, the beggar said, "The fool aint me... It was not the cigarette that I was talking of... It was the lady beside the gentleman..."

True Love

(This story is whole-heartedly dedicated to all those true lovers out there…May your love blossom and bloom ever more…)

What would her reply be? This question was haunting his mind ever since he had decided to tell her his feelings.

He splashed another handful of water on his face. The day he had been awaiting had finally arrived. February 14th. Somehow this date seemed to give him courage and confidence.

He looked up at the mirror. He looked unrecognizable without his spectacles. And a bit more handsome, he thought. But he had decided to wear his specs when he would talk to her. He was firm that her reply should be to his words and not to his looks.

But what would that reply be? He wanted to pray again that it should be an ‘Yes’, but he had already made enough commitments with all the gods. A hundred and eight coconuts for Lord Ganesh, a hundred and eight candles for Jesus and a hundred and eight namaaz for Allah. He didn’t know what offerings one gave to Guru Nanak, otherwise he would have made that commitment too.

But why hundred and eight, he thought for a moment, as he reached for his towel. He didn’t know. He had just heard that number in films. That reminded him of the love scenes between the hero and heroine.

He thought of the various responses of the heroine to the hero. She would either slap him or silence him with a nice kiss. He wouldn’t mind a slap, he thought. It might as well knock out that loose tooth in his left jaw, and save him a dentist fee.

“Forget the outcome! Focus on the work to be done!” A newly awakened voice in his mind echoed the words of Vivekananda. He had just been reading his book the previous night looking for some speaking tips. After all, Vivekananda was a great public speaker. Love matters should have been a cakewalk for him. The book had been pretty useful. It had helped him sleep well.

He began to practice in front of the mirror. It was working out fine. His lips did not quiver anymore as he spoke, his chin pointed in the right direction and his eyebrows rose and fell in tune with his dialogue. Several days of rigorous practice was paying off and he was immensely confident of talking to her. Just as he showed a thumbs-up to himself in the mirror, there was a knock at the door.

* * * * *

As he walked into the crowded café, he saw through the corner of his eye that she was seated at the centre table. But he avoided gazing at her in the beginning. He no longer cared what her reply would be.

As he neared the table, he gathered enough courage to look at her. She was stirring a cup of coffee and smiling at him. He did not know how to react and immediately lowered his head.

She looked up at him as he took his seat. Their eyes met for the first time. Immediately, he was reminded of the postman knocking on the door in the morning. He smiled when he thought of the parcel that he delivered. It was a Valentine’s Day gift from her - a cute little toy car.

“She must have nicked it from the toys of her younger brother”, he mused. But howsoever it may have been obtained; it was an official Valentine gift.

He had then decided to cut short all the dialogues that he had rehearsed perfectly so far. The three words would be sufficient, he thought.

The clatter and buzz in the café sounded to him like a stadium audience, cheering him to proceed. He could bear it no longer. His heart was almost bursting out of his chest. The more he looked at her face, the more he lost control over his senses.

Finally, being unable to hold himself back any longer, he blurted out the three words, “Let’s break up!”