The Movement is greater than the some of it's parts!

It was ten o clock in the morning, and I was heading towards CP, to get an early breakfast from Mc D’s the one on Janpath, with the pancakes, (just so you know, I don’t think they’re worth it). I had with me, a remnant of last night’s party, a girl from DU, where until recently I was studying as well, who was rather militant about feminism, and as a result had made it her night’s goal to convince me of something or the other.

The only problem, she seemed to face, was that I already agreed with the concept of sex-equality, even if my understanding of it differed slightly from her. However, I am a man, and so, naturally, I was a male chauvinistic pig, and needed to be converted... very new age church shit! Well, our evangelist, was busy trying to talk me into conceding something or the other, that women were better at, and given that I am entirely unfamiliar with whatever she was talking about, she was naturally having a tough time, and that only served to convince her of my MCPness. However owing to certain things that happened at the party, we did also manage to have a good time and enjoy each other’s company. So she was accompanying me to breakfast, with a deal to not mention anything about the women’s movement, provided I didn’t say anything derogatory about women.

This was going to be hard, but I persevered.

Henry Thomas a case study in the Moses Syndrome

Ever wonder what makes a multimillionaire? Thomas knew, he was one. It hadn’t been easy, he’d seen the worst times, and the best. As a young graduate in law from one of the not so well renounce colleges in the capital, he’d struggled for years.

It was an economic down turn in 2062, the robots prophesied by science fiction for years and decades had finally appeared, and were doing what they were supposed to do. Essentially, replacing the human work force. Of course, they weren’t quite as humanoid as Asimov had predicted nor quite as dangerous, or fast, or intelligent. But they were stronger, of course, and well, impeccable and doing the kind of things that labour did, pressing buttons, operating presses, working in disgusting conditions for low pay.

And He, Henry, as he was called, was looking for work as a legal consultant in these kind of times. Of course, his job wasn’t exactly threatened by the third wave of mechanisation as it was called. Still, the economy is pretty much a whole, and when one thing is out of balance, many others follow, and for some reason the legal practice too was suffering a downturn.

To cut a long story short, at the end of a year’s search, Henry, (his full name was Henry Thomas, in case you’re confused) found himself one of the many humans, who were arguing that it was there prerogative to work for low wages, in disgusting conditions, pressing buttons. This was because he was one of them. To keep himself of the streets, and his stomach full, Henry had compromised with fate, and an empty stomach.

the Search for Shangri La

It’s been a while since inspiration as come to me. And not strangely, inspiration, was within me. So essentially, it’s been a while since I met myself. Yesterday, I did, at an old cafe, in a quiet corner of Bandra, in a roadside cafe, off a quiet street, where the screech and trumpets of traffic didn’t disturb conversation and the low lighting through gentle shadows across the tables we sat at, shadows which quivered with the breeze, making conversations meander. The place didn’t even accept cards. And there I met myself after so long.

“Hi,” I said, “old friend,”

“How are you?” I replied, not at all flummoxed to be speaking to myself, I’ve done it before. I didn’t get up and give myself a hug, something I do to most friends when I meet them after a period of time. It just didn’t seem very practical at the time. “So What’s up?” “you tell me man..” of course this was a little distracting because I was also having a conversation with a friend, who was completely unaware of my presence, or at least of the presence of my long lost self. But i managed to juggle the roles efficiently, largely because the friend I was there with, is a lady, and she was talking. Which meant she’d be satisfactorily occupied for at least the better part of the evening, leaving me free to have a conversation with my long lost self. Who drew up a chair, and sat down. I looked over at my friend, and back at me, and nodded my head, but was oblivious to my friend.

“So guess what,” I said,

“Tell me”

“you know what she saying, about the whole travelling thing?”

“yeah?”

“it reminded me of something, though you’d like to hear about it.” Obviously my curiosity was piqued... I mean, when I have something to say, it usually is pretty cool. And if I was saying this only to myself, it was also exclusive, so I wanted to hear. “Well actually you know this,” I said, my excitement waning slightly, “but you’ve forgotten... she reminded me of it, so perhaps I’ll tell you.”

And so I told myself this story...

Remember that time when I travelling, they’ve been several times, so you better be more specific uf... that time I was sure I’d figured out where shangrila was. Or could be... Shangri la...? umm this is the 21^st century, and we’re real people, at least at some level...  I laughed at this, who is real? What is real? And shangrila is real, by the way, I’ve been there. Really, you mean i’ve been there too? Yes, only you’v e forgotten... ohkay... i’m not too sure. Then let me tell you and stop interrupting, these italicised lines, not only look odd, and interrupt the real story, they don’t make sense, since it’s just I talking, and I don’t know which one of me it is. Ah yes, carry on please...

Well, I was looking for shangrila. A sage, well actually, i’m going to call him a sage, but he could have been anyone, even a shepherd can be a sage... had told me I’d find it beyond the seventh river, and under the fourth rock.

Fights, and the ones that matter (Part I).... this is turning out to be LONG

Three days ago, it had been, when the storm started. Well technically, it was the 4^th night ago, but till then the storm seemed like a normal one, so they only started calling this storm, the storm from the next morning, three days ago. It was the worst storm in the regular memories of most people, and the worst storm in the story telling memories as well, since no one, at the bar, that evening, or at dinner tables, in the houses talked about how, he’d been stuck in a worse storm. On the morning of the 12^th, the storm had started on the 10, people started to leave town. They packed up their carts, and started engines and left the town, half sleding half in wagons, to go down to the lower levels of the hill.

Only Anjali remained in the town. Her husband, Raul was out hunting, he’d left on the morning of the 9^th, and had taken supplies for a three day stay in the woods just above their house. Anjali and Raul were a young couple, not yet 3 years into their marriage, the glow of marriage still hung about them, and often they would be seen with their arms around each other walking around town, or sitting silently with each looking out over the magnificent mountains across the valley. But like all young couples, they fought too. Luckily it wasn’t the kind of fighting that had any meaning, they just still weren’t exasperated enough with each other to no bother about the littlest things.

Raul loved hunting, and his wife hated it. Well, she hated that it meant he would have to leave her, specially in these colder winter months, she thought it was particularly mean to leave her alone, and go out hunting. What she didn’t realise was that, he didn’t go out any more than was needed to keep their pantry stocked for the winter. That wasn’t because of his love for his wife, but mostly just because it was cold, and dangerous, and at home, she’d be there. So he went out infrequently, but still he did, and she still didn’t like it.

And on the 9^th when he’d left, she’d been particularly angry at him. “We’ll live of canned beans,” She shouted at him, as he silently checked his gear in the living room, “but i don’t want you going out today. I have a bad feeling about it.”

“oh comeon Honey, it’s not big deal, i’ll be back by tomorrow night, at the latest.”

“No, Raul don’t go, look, I’m not superstitious and all, but it’s not a good idea, I just feel that way.”

“Uf! Comeone!” he replied, sighing inwardly, knowing how superstitious she could be, “I’ve been hunting in these woods for years now, nothing is going to happen to happen to me, and besides we’re almost out of meet, and the roads to the plains are all blocked, in a few days we’ll be snowed in too, and we won’t have any meet, you now how hard it is go get bye a winter without.”

“Oh we’ll manage!” She was getting desperate, “Please babe? For me? Just this one time, don’t go out,” she was in a pitiable state, suddenly, frantic, almost. There were tears in her eyes, and she was very really beseeching him. He didn’t get it, ‘what’s the big deal?’ he asked himself, and then her.

“Nothing babe, just don’t go na?”

Raul wasn’t the kind of guy who did things just because others asked, he prided himself on being extremely rational. ‘well, if it’s something supernatural, it’ll happen just as easily at home, as outside, so what’s the big deal?’ “Look honey, you’re acting quite weird, it’s just a feeling, it’ll pass, and i’ll be back before you can even start to worry properly. Ankur told me about a good herd of deer that seems to be pasturing in the valley, just over the pass, and I’ll only go that far, don’t worry, and I have my radio, I’ll be in touch all the time.”

Friends, a Homecoming, and a writer

So, he, or I, if you prefer it that way, was left stranded in what had once been home, a habitat, at least, a place well known, that had now changed, and become unrecognisable, like the corner shop that suddenly has another owner, or even that PCO you used to visit as a kid, before you got a Mobile, and now suddenly you find it’s become something completely different. I was stranded, I felt like I should know this place, I did, but it didn’t make me feel like it used to.

Of course I wondered, what had changed, me, or the place, college, and finally it struck me, neither had changed, I just didn’t belong here anymore. That was a strange feeling. Ever gone home to find a different family living in your house? That’s what it felt like.

A Homecoming, Friends, and A Writer....

The auto ride was bumpy, and it was uninteresting. The route was the ring road, quite obviously a part of delhi, no one can have much affection for. Not because of the traffic, but because everyone knows the ring road, everyone knows where it goes: around, or to say it differently, no where. It is only when they turned off the ring road, or actually, when the driver asked him, (yes this is the same Eduard) which exit would be best, that he felt any sort of connection.

He sat back, watching the lights of the ISBT flash by, that unending hub of human coming and going, which never sleeps, nor appears to know night, another place in delhi, which holds no personal connection for anyone except as a start, or an end of adventure, but never as a home, or a even a place, that he started to think about home. And homecoming was finally cemented, when the driver asked him where to turn of the ring road.

Ring roads, highways, medical, all these places, are just things, there is nothing sacred about them, nothing inviolate, nothing secret. They are, everyone uses them, and just that. No one thinks about them, there are no or few memories of a ring road. Ring roads do not take you home, it is exits from ring roads that do. And Eduard, too felt that, home was approaching now, now that he had to find the right exit.

Educo: to draw out. (the latin route of the English Educate)

A shop: any shop, your corner store, with everything you need for a regular day, sachets of shampoo, bundles of bread loaves, trays of milk packets and jars of candies. Candies, of various colours, in see through glass or plastic jars, all lined up on the front of the counter, with dull metal screw on tops, and a dingy interior with metal boxes, or drums of rice, and dal, and sugar. Shelves of soap, and a few tattered posters put up by company marketing people, and ignored by everyone else, once they’re up. You go in there, every one or two days, and pick up something, perhaps some butter, or maybe a cold drink, and some chips, a pack of cigarettes maybe?

The colony: a regular colony, the one you live in, with nothing special about it. Peaceful, quiet, small houses, big houses, cars, from Marutis to the skoda, and bikes, with young men on them, and young men looking wistfully at them. And of course, some girls, none of them attractive enough to catch your eye, or perhaps a couple that you watch as they walk down the road, and wonder about. Some old aunties and uncles, that tsk at you as you walk by, dressed in your ‘new’ clothes, chewing gum, and talking on your phone. And of course kids, small loud, bouncy kids. Kids coming home from school, going to school, cycling around, and around a park, playing cricket in a park, getting in everyone’s way when they lose their ball. Kids obsessed with Tv, kids who talk loudly, but also, kids who love candy.

A Writer, A Homecoming and some Friends

“I write,” He said, “It’s what I do.” Sounding a little pseudo intellectual to his own ears. Almost as though he were boasting, but given that he was the only one around, and he was talking to himself, he wasn’t. He was only expressing what he thought the truth was, and he thought, he wrote…

But about what, and why? These are questions I can’t answer, as I sit here pensive, in front of my computer, the cursor blinking, both patiently and irritably at the same time. Like that teacher, watching you, when you can’t tell whether she’s amused or is waiting for you to stop before she gives it you. I re read what I’ve just written, and reflect, wondering, like an actor, practicing in the mirror, ‘I think that’s a good opening, will my readers agree?’ ‘will the audience like what I’m doing, will they get it, how can I make it more affective? Should I go down on one knee?’ of course, as a writer I can’t do so myself, but should I make my character do so in this story. Which brings me to another point, what character? What story? Why? Because, I’m a writer, this is what I do. ‘Really, you can say that with a  straight face?’

The story of Warping part i

The story of Warping, well as you well would imagine, warping wasn’t always as well understood as it is today, the evolution of the sport, is complicated, and is tied intimately with the ultimate reward, which I’ve still not thought of by the way, (that is however immaterial as you’ll see.)

Warping began rather innocently, one late evening, when two, or maybe three, the records are not very well kept from the early periods, people met. Some people say these were the three legendary pokemon, prof, proof, and postM. But in truth, they became legends because of this meeting, rather than making this is meeting legen(yes wait for it…)dary by being in it. The meeting itself was rather a product of chance, and the tree of enlightenment, before it was called that, though, all it had was a number, which is itself now obscure.

Poof: Poetry on Poetry

Poof: Poetry on Poetry: "This is a set of four poems. I wrote them in quite a flurry, all in a very brief period of time. It was my disgust with the first poem that ..."

Wimple the Warper part i*

 Neville Wimple was a good man, and he was very aware of this, as he reached into his collar, and tried to loosen to give himself time to speak. He was staring at the Goddess, and naturally stuttering, ‘What had he said wrong?” to have her stair at him like that? What???

He thought, and he thought, and took a while to think, because he was Neville Wimple, and thinking is a pretty complicated process as you’ll agree. It involves quite a few cells of our body, and much of our brain as well. And it depends on minute-minute connections and chemical concoctions which no one else is able to replicate. And Wimple, noble soul that he was, had taken that gift, and turned it, in his own mind, into exercise… thereby reinventing the term mental exercise(read futility). Turning thought, into a whole new league(rgh! The pun). Of professionalism. Thought was now something you did, very emphatically, he would tell people emphasis to match, perhaps as a demonstration of what he said.

And they would listen. And no one knew why. Wimple, just said such cool stuff, or so he thought, and his little bunch of admirers thought. But in truth Neville was a Wimple, just that, and, wimples aren’t very wise. They’re just well Wimpley, which is a weird twist between watery and weird. And so was Wimple.

Anonymity

It had been two days, two long days, and now she had to go back, she couldn’t afford any more grief, already over the last evening, compensating for the last two days of staying away had cost her more sleep than her son’s death.

Two days ago, at the corner, just outside the entry to their alley way, at the dingy built over, and drippy end of which was the entrance to their small 5 storey building with its 36 rooms, each room a flat, and some flats were shared, shared by more than one family. They were the lucky ones, though, they could actually afford the rent of  half a flat all by themselves, and so her 5 sons… no 4 sons now, had enough space growing up, to stretch their legs in, and even toss when they sleeps. Luxuries that made their friends envious. And which had earned her the reputation of being a waster, after all, with that much more money, she could have afforded her husband’s alcoholism, instead of thrusting him out onto the street, poor man! What a woman!

Well, she was okay with all that, she thought, that somehow the extra 12 square feet of space, and not getting the smoke from the wood stove she cooked on, in their eyes, would contribute in getting her five sons, (at that time) out the life they had been born to. That had changed, recently, and quite drastically.

Two days ago, she had been on the same curb outside their alleyway, waiting for a bus to come, which would take her to work, when Anish, the youngest of her 5 had come charging down the alley, “ma ma,” he was shouting. She had left the house in a hurry, it was getting late, and she would miss her bus. She had also forgotten something obviously, she realized as he rocketed down the alley towards her. He was carrying her lunch in his hand, the plastic bag bouncing all over, threatening to tear.

“Slow down,” she called to him, concerned at that point more about the tiffin, and him slipping, “Slow down, It’s okay, come walking.” The curb was wet that morning, and he really might slip.

“Ma, you left your tiffin.”

“Yes, I know, now slow down before you slip and walk over here, or I’ll come over there with my slipper.”

That seemed to work, he slowed down. The she saw her bus turn around the corner at the end of the street, “Okay now come on, come fast, my bus is almost here.”

Relevance

I screamed in my head, though I didn’t make a noise, aware that there was nothing to scream about, as I watched the man I’d pushed out of the Bombay Loal train, fall to the tracks… and suddenly my brain was blind, in all senses, A flash of light, as bright as a camera’s and as complete as a blizzard. In my mind’s eye the man’s body fell to the tracks. It bounced off, trailing behind us, very quickly lost to sight, but still, travelling fast enough that the impact with the rails shattered his jaw, and the side of his head collapses into his brain, causing, hopefully, instant death, as his arm snagging on one of the bolts on the railway line, tears of, leaving this pool of blood, similar to those gory images from South Park, or any of those adult animation cartoons which find death such a hilarious joke.

Roadside Show

“… I could not believe it,” Mr. Singh was saying.


I had just sauntered of the basketball court, and wanted to speak to him about something. Only to find he was already speaking about something, and had collected a bit of an audience and so I would have to wait.

Mr. Sing, referred to as Mr. S, from here on, was our sports teacher… you would not call him a coach… he knew too little about any sport. Personally, I feel he was just a formality for the school. He did know a lot about the goings on in school. In our school sports were conveniently relegated to a position of no consequence. Equipment collected dust for most of the year, except on the day when it needed to be photographed for the prospectus, after the brief respite it was put under lock and key. The large, supposed football field had a fence around it, and placards saying, 'please do not walk on grass.' Obviously making playing or running on the grass a little hard.

Given the state of the sporting equipment, I guess its easy to figure out that the sports teacher was an appendage… he knew a lot about college, because instead of looking after the sports equipment, he’d sit in staff rooms and administrative offices, gossiping, taking stories from the top floor to the bottom, from the senior to the junior section… stuff like that.

Need

It was going to be another one of those nights, she thought, as they got into his car, a low strung monster of a sports car, entirely inappropriate for Indian roads, yet it was one of those stupid dreams, as he called them, that it made sense to make real, now that all the others were out of reach. And she didn’t mind, it wasn’t his fault, and there wasn’t any reason, really, anymore for him to not splurge on himself. She couldn’t expect anything from him, nor could he really do anything for her, anymore. It was sad, but there was no reason to pretend that things were any different, to what they were.

Still, even this car, to him was merely a consolation prize, an empty trophy, that reminded him every time he revved it of everything else he would never have anymore. He looked over at her as he got into the car, and smiled, the smile that looking at her always brought to his lips. The smile, that told him everything was still good, at least he still had her, and in so many ways that was more than he could have wanted.

She looked so gorgeous, in a red chiffon saree, tansluscent and seductive. Her blouse was cut so low, showing off her beautiful cleavage, and her entire midriff, she wore her sarees low, the way he liked, the way he had fallen for her, again and again. And tonight was no different, he was in love with her, as he leaned over, and gave her an open mouth kiss, in their drive way, and the passion they shared, passed through him again. And he felt warm and alive.

Dawn

The morning was damp, fog obscured the outside. I sat at the window guessing what was flashing by… fields? Forests? Towns? I did not know. It did not matter, every second I was closer to home.

The wheels of the coach, were singing a lullaby, the rest of the coach was asleep. They were peasants, traveling back from the markets. Their clothes showed fewer patches than I expected, though the color had faded, and they were all different tinges of a dull grey, though, a few sarees, showed, brighter or darker stains. A print or stains I wondered. Tattered gunny bags cluttered the space beneath the berths. A few had spread out on their berths, but most of them were sitting up, sharing seats they had paid for, with strangers, for reasons that did not make sense to me.

Debater

“This is it,” she thought to herself. And not in that clichéd sports star movie way, but in a very real way, this was really it, it had taken her years of hard work to get where she was, sitting in the Library of her own school, but waiting not for a book, but for life. Years.

To everyone out there she was just one of 20 speakers that morning, speaking on the same boring topic that they would be bored of in under an hour of speeches. Those sitting there in the audience, they would look up at some speakers and snigger when they spoke, or made mistakes or forgot, they would applaud questions that left speakers wordless, confused, and defeated. They would, if grudgingly applaud those that spoke with brilliance, but for the most part, they would only applaud in a perfunctory, bored manner, as if attempting to get it over with, or at least get their part in the proceedings over with. She had sat in those audiences, and knew what the kids at the back would be doing, many would be reading comic books, others would be talking and passing chits, the better off would be tinkering with phones, and the most daring, the very stars of the batch, they, they would be leching at the girls. Even the less attractive ones would not be spared, and she knew she was one of them, the less attractive ones, but she also knew that she was immune to whatever they might say. She was above them, and would be, literally too, standing at the dais.

Rohan's Diwali

It was Diwali, and everyone was excited as always. Rohan was jumping out of his skin every time he heard a cracker going of in the distance. But he was waiting for the real fun to begin. In a little while his dad, Anil, would be back from work. Anil said he’d been promised some extra money as a gift for Diwali, and that the money would be spent on buying Rohan crackers.

Rohan was wondering what type of crackers they’d be. He hoped they would be lots of rockets; he liked Rockets, especially those with parachutes. Watching them come floating down slowly, with the burning candle against the dark sky was something he enjoyed a lot. He thought it looked like a shooting star. The city sky would never let him see a reale one, so he looked forward to cheap inaccurate imitation. Just like the rest of us. He knew they’d be a few Phul Jharis, he hated those, they were so pointless in his mind. What did you do with one of them anyway? Just wave it about stupidly in the air. The only thing they were good for is lighting other crackers, specially the bombs. He loved those; the double sound, ooni, and laxmi were his favourite. He hoped Baba would remember he wanted a chatai, at least one; even it was a small 100 ki Chatai.

His mind was already charting the course his chakris would take, spinning across the road; a few would perhaps slip into the drain along the road. No, he would not let that happen, he’d use a stick to knock them back towards the centre of the road. He wished he could kick them around like the big boys who burst their crackers down the street did, but Baba would not let him. Then there were the Christmas trees… and… perhaps a seven stars...?

It was getting dark the few stars the city sky showed were beginning to shine. Every now and then a rocket would fly up to join them, burst and disappear. Rohan felt like them, though he did not know why. He felt strangely like a rocket, being sent on one fatal mission, with a glorious, meaningless end, and nothing more. The frequency of explosions was increasing, and so was the loudness. People were beginning to get into the Diwali mood. A few houses had already turned on the lights that signalled their festive spirit. A few less festive, slightly smaller houses were lit with Diyas, and some down the street were still dark. Puja was still underway.

His mom had turned him out of the house while she prayed. He was sitting on the door step, his legs resting on the old rusty man-hole cover that spanned the drain outside their home.

He was waiting. But the sky had not yet turned black, his mother was still chanting, faintly audible in the pauses between blasts, and rockets were still only occasional. There was still time. Somewhere he heard a chatai going off. It was not a long one, perhaps just a 100… the good ones would only be used later. But suddenly being left out was too much for him.

The World School

Imaan was in a world school… one of those so called international schools that were sprouting up every where, and giving Indian students the globally competitive edge, or making world citizens of them, I forget which. Any way, the classes were all air conditioned, and the teachers wore long skirts, and spoke impeccable English, some of them even managed a credible accent.

Imaan was in class 5; they called it something else though in school, the term was borrowed from an American private school, and believed to be more acceptable, naturally I will not bother mentioning it.

One of the truly ‘global’ aspects of the school was that it subscribed to several foreign newspapers… and every class had a ‘journal’ period in which choice bits of information were read out from these. These mostly consisted of the front page news, and on prescribed days, editorials.

During one such journal period, Miss Florence, Imaan’s class teacher was reading an article on contemporary American culture… when she read the title no one in class put up his hand to ask what ‘contemporary’ meant.

So she began, and the boys and girls followed. Her voice was nice.

She got through the first two paragraphs without a snag, and then slowed down a little.

See, Imaan was one of her favourite students. His homework was always complete, and his parents always attended PT meetings.

 The paragraph she was reading dealt with the impact of terrorism on American culture, from the cold war to present day, she choked a little, tried to skip the words entirely, then coughed them out… Islamic terrorism, and quickly carried on to the next section, hoping no one would see how red her face had got.

She glanced over the paper at Imaan. He was busy staring at the poster of a teddy bear behind her on the wall… she had not been caught, feeling less guilty she slowed down again, and finished the article with her usual poise.

Later that afternoon when all the children were going home, she called Imaan aside, ‘I hope you don’t mind what that article said, they don’t realize that all of them are not terrorists.”

Imaan made no reply.

That evening after the namaz, he asked his father, “Dad, what does terrorist mean?”

The (Right?) Answers

There wasn’t much more he could do, they were pretty sure of that. He wasn’t though, naturally. What he thought was immaterial, how could he know?


It was dark outside, the kind of dark that reduced trees to shadows, and the wind in them to a phantom. The kind of dark that was so opaque even the houses looked like blocks of black within the larger black, so black that it went on forever.


Where were the stars he wondered? Where had they gone?


Of course, he could not know; how could he, when they did not?


The stars had left, left for good perhaps, or perhaps merely stepped into the jury room. They were discussing them, all of them, including him and the others. The stars themselves were divided into two, one and the others: the one was trying to argue in favour of them, from below, on earth, while the others were pretty sure there was nothing that could be done.

4.2 Steps to become a Hero: A story in as many parts.

Step 1: The need to do something

Amit wasn’t looking for anything, he was in fact, hoping to manage, JFA, Just Falling Asleep, something that had become harder and harder since 3 years ago. That night hadn’t been his fault, but he had been there, and watched helplessly as flames rose in the building, and he had that helpless feeling, watching the hungry orange and yellow tongues, with bursts of brilliant blue and green, climb up the sides of the building, while the top floors bellowed smoke, in deep angry coughs, first, and then in an endless stream, as the windows kept bursting. The Nikhil tower, like most buildings of its generation was virtually airtight, and it took an immense amount of air pressure to burst its windows, but somehow, it happened, with the smoke and flames, and as more windows shattered onto the streets below, the fire gained new strength, from the updraft.

It had been suffocated earlier, when the building was still sealed, but now, it was growing joyously devouring everything, melting steal, crumbling brick, shattering glass, and turning the tower into an impregnable fortress of fire and death. And He stood across the street, watching it burn, getting his own little preview of Narka (hell). The length of the building had already been charred on the outside, before the windows starting bursting. The bright Neon blue and yellow facade now looked a sick black, with red brick showing in places. And in places where the flames started to grow, the brick crumbled, falling in small clumps to the streets below, soon to be joined by shattered glass.

And he had been there, the whole time, watching the flames grasp their first faltering handholds on the 4^th floor, still contained inside the building, inside one apartment; then he’d seen the people in the apartment wake up; and they screamed, he couldn't hear them scream, but he saw them, and he saw them panic. They ran out on the street, the youngest girl crying for Boski. Who was Boski? A Dog? Something was still moving in the apartment, frantically, trying to jump over something, and he could make out shadowy things falling over, or catching fire.

On the street, the father was holding his daughters tight, while their teen age son and his wife were holding hands, watching their home and lives go up in smoke. The father was doing some calculations in his head already, and the mother was saying a silent prayer, that the insurance come through. It usually never did, there always was something in the fine print you didn’t do, which was grounds enough to deny you your money... always!

And Amit, he was there, watching the fire start, and grow. Suddenly he saw the dog, come into view. It was scared, and cowed, with its tail between its legs, it was submitting, in its most humble mode to someone. But there was just the fire, unfeeling fire, that didn’t realise, it has mastered the dog, and now, it if it stopped, would have a useful servant in him, no the fire, just continued to grow, and started feeding on the curtains of the window... the flames grew around it, first in two tall columns, and then as the bracket caught fire too, he was boxed in. In desperation he put his paws against he glass of the windows, but they didn't yield, reality rarely does. Amit could make out his mouth, barking or yelping, confused. He wondered why the girls weren't doing anything, why he wasn't either, actually, he wondered, why he didn't feel anything, but that was only slightly, and strangely disquieting, after all, what was he supposed to do?

Ironically, it wasn’t the fire that killed the dog. The heat melted the plastic fittings of the curtain rod on one side, it fell, in a great scything arc, and the motor mechanism for drawing the curtains, caught the dog on the temple, and knocked him over, he never got up again. But you couldn't say for sure, if he’d died then, or later, from the smoke. To Amit, he’d died right then, and in being witness to his death, he’d felt strangely complicit, in the fire’s destruction, as though by virtue of being there, he shared the blame.

And it was this feeling of complicity that created in Amit the need to do something, though, of course, he wasn’t quite aware of his situation yet, in fact, he was more aware of the other effects of watching the fire and that was insomnia. Probably the disorder of the century, taking over from ADD, and representing the shift in cultural programming, from approaching problems with genius to simply throwing man power at them, sleepless nights equated effort, equated results, even if the results were negative, there always was the weekend, where a team could work 48 hours straight, or several teams for that matter. And so there were no more great inventors, just great corporations, that strived and strived to assemble the perfect team to create new devices and ideas... and there was no intrinsic worth of a mind, or brilliance, all that mattered was how many times you were willing to throw yourself at a problem... And if you wouldn’t adapt to this brute force approach, there was no place for you, if you wanted to sit back and think about the problem, you weren’t fit to fix it. There was no more genius, you just worked, and worked it out. Human beings, had first created, and then adopted, and now were in the process of perfecting the process of running a program. And just like those machines that first responded to the ‘run’ command, human beings were losing taste for sleep.

How did the Ship get there? (in the bottle)

I met the old man in a café. An old coffee house, meant for the old bureaucrats. It stood for everything English, if not everything imperial. Only men who visited it as young men came there now, for some reason it had lost popularity. It would be convenient to blame consumerism, the place had no ads, or neon lights to recommend itself, but the coffee was bad.

But people still came, even when the place served nothing, it would still have memories.

I walked in out of curiosity. Just to take a look around, at what I thought the 50s looked like. I could not. My eyes immediately found him. He was sitting in the far corner, nursing a cup in his hands. The steam wafting up made his face indistinct. He was bald, though he had a French beard, with stubble along his cheeks. His ears were slightly too big for his face. And when he put his cup down, I noticed a broken, twisted nose, and beady eyes, under bushy dark eyebrows. His lips were hidden by the beard. He wore a ‘bush’ shirt as they were called, open at the collar, and worn outside the trouser. His trousers were grey.

His face was wrinkled around the eyes, and mouth. But they weren’t angry wrinkles, nor laughter wrinkles… just old wrinkles. He’d seen a lot.

I sat down next to him.

“Good afternoon,” I said, I really didn’t know what else to say.

“Good afternoon,” he replied, then he looked at me, and seeing it was not some he knew, his expression changed. He seemed apprehensive, perhaps he did not like new things, or people.

“I’m Eduard, I work with the pioneer, I’m a reporter.”

“Oh, and what do you report?”

“Well that depends on what’s happening.”

That amused him, he smiled. “Do you enjoy it?”

Surprised by the direct question I replied, “It has its moments.”

“Spoken like the true journalist. A balanced answer which says absolutely nothing. Like most the papers these days, not even the facts feel solid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you don’t enjoy our paper. We do try our best.”

“I’ve never read it, or any other,”

I would have asked how he knew about our facts being soft then, but I decided I wanted to actually have a conversation with him instead.

“Forgive me; my name is Richards, Jeffery Richards, as a matter of fact. I do nothing.”
“That sounds far more interesting than reporting nothing.”

Basketball, The Beginnings

Summer time… vacation time… that time of the year, when you have all the time in the world… And don’t know what to do with it.

I had read as many books as I could lay my hands on… and did not want to read anymore for a while.

There is very little else I do for fun. I was stuck.

In school, I spend my time listening to what the teachers say, instead of more productively, trying to get popular, and organise a huge ‘friend circle,’ as people call it. The irony is that after paying such a high price to listen to the teachers, I forget what they say as soon as the bell rings.

I decided to play basketball. I don’t know why… so don’t ask.

May be because I am pretty tall… and the game is supposed to favour people with height… or more believably… it is because I do not know any games that start with A, so naturally, basketball was the first game I thought of.

I went to the stadium. It was a huge, green oval, with stands on one side. The plot was rectangular, so the oval, left space for games other than cricket… After all, cricket is the only game in India, all other sports, are just incidental.

Despite having the largest area to it, cricket greedily had seized one corner, for its ‘nets.’ Two net less goal posts meant that the area had been intended to represent a foot ball pitch. Had it been used, the sight would have been even more pitiable. The D’s would end on the half line.

Across from the stands, were two tennis courts, and in a corner tucked behind them was the basketball court. It was in pretty good shape. Actually there were two courts and both had fibre back boards and both sets of rings had nets, though slightly damaged. The surface of the courts was the usual cement. The lines were bright and clear, hardly the dull outlines I expected.

I looked for the coach.

Naturally, he would be the most distant from the actual game. That disqualified anyone on the court, and most of the others loitering around it.

Legitimacy

“Ya, it was Kewl(cool), I cant believe, that they actually made a fool of principal, I like their group… but they’re so proudy…. And so much arrogant… Never talk to anyone…” She said, as they drove away from school.

“I know, they think too much of themselves, for nothing. But they didn’t do anything to the principal, she called their parents, there case is gone now, they’ll be in severe trouble.” He replied, with a slight emphasis on nothing, and severe. Quite obviously he wasn’t impressed with their antics. “They just speak a lot, don’t have guts to do anything.” That was his ultimate verdict, it would seem, as he turned the car around the roundabout, and exited it right, instead of straight taking a slightly more circuitous route home, in honor of his guest. He was driving Neha home, for no apparent reason. She was meant to use the bus, but she’d decided to go with him instead, because it would be faster. In fact, she would probably reach at the same time as normal, or at least wanted to. Imagine having to explain coming home early to her mother!

Neha was just your average girl in school, everything about her was normal. And it was normal for a normal girl to go for rides home with Ankit, who was also a completely normal guy, which basically meant, all he was concerned with was getting into Neha’s tunic, since that was the school uniform they used. And Neha, being a completely normal girl, was only concerned with how much social mileage she could get out of these advances from Ankit, in fact, she was already thinking of how she would leave him. Because after all there was no greater boost to social status than rejecting someone… of course it would be better, if she could make him really fall for her. She thought about this, and thought about the things she could do to make him. Perhaps, she should wear her older tunics to college, they were a little short for her now, and would definitely help.

What else?...

“Hey have the latest SRK’s movie, ‘My name is Khan?’” Ankit asked her, disturbing her reverie. Ankit was completely aware that Neha was normal, and part of being normal was liking SRK, and liking guys who had their own cars. He knew he was going to be okay. He didn’t have high expectations of himself, but Neha was comfortably within his ‘range.’

Disciples

Salim and Usman weren’t friends, but they were the only ones who understood each other. They hated each other. It was a respectful hate that only two rivals, the best at what they do, can share.

They were disciples of the greatest chronicler of the realm, and everyone knew when he decided to stop writing one them would succeed him in the court, and sit behind the throne to record all the sayings of the court. The Chronicler already knew that either one of them would serve the sultan better than he could. He was pondering the question of who should succeed him.

It wasn’t an easy question, because of how different they were, and how much they hated each other. They’d never admit to the hate, but they’d never been able to work together, and the chronicler knew to choose one was to lose the other. As a teacher he had a greater choice to make as well: the art of writing could not afford to lose either one of them.

Writing was a rare talent, the ability to see in everyday events the making of the legends of the future. To serve the sultan well, was to make him a hero, and to lie was to insult him. To write, one had to see things differently. The heavens did not part at the words of the Sultan, God did not speak to his people from a bush, but the writer could make him. And he could not lie, so the writer had to use metaphors, ideas, techniques, comparisons, to bring out the greatness of the Great one. Even if in the decadence of the age, his throne shone less grandly, that it was made of Gold should not be forgotten. That was the responsibility of the writer.

The chronicler was a great writer, but a better teacher, and his disciples had been taught and moulded as the finest hands from the very start. They had been meticulously trained in the formation of words, or lines, of dots, of the language. Each stroke of the pen, each dip in the ink, each flick of the wrist, perfectly controlled, and so precise, they would write as beautifully if blindfolded. In fact they could, he’d made them.

He trained them in the choice of words, explained the reason for using one word instead of the other, when to go with your instinctive choice and when to think that much more. When to write the words that just flow from the nib, and when to pause… when to break with grammar, how to say more than language traditionally allowed one to. How to use the paper, and the shape and sounds of words to create pictures and shapes in the eyes of the reader, to make writing more than transmission, to make writing a method to engender ideas.

Salim and Usman had learnt it all, but still searched for more.

Usman looked through the writings of the great ones, he spent all his time reading, and slowly understanding. He became solemn like the great chronicler. He never discussed what he’d read, unlike the other scholars who spent their days in the archives, he wasn’t concerned with the information he’d read, but with how it had been written. And he asked himself why the method had been chosen. Slowly he began to understand. And his writing became like to that of the great ones… he found the right comparisons, he thought about the right order for the words to flow in. He spent hours constructing sentences, and then slowly, deliberately he made all the small strokes that first created letters then grouped them into words, and then a sentence, a paragraph, a piece, an idea… and just as slowly as his art materialised he’d feel the satisfaction of the what he did seep through his being.

Salim was not as patient, he wasn’t patient at all. He couldn’t wait for the Sunrise before he left his home, he couldn’t wait for the sunset before he turned to the courtesans, and he didn’t recognise the night. He’d spend days under the sky, watching clouds. He’d watch leaves in the wind, he watched the courtesans as they spun dancing. He watched rain fall, and felt it on his face, and felt its softness, its wetness; he lay under the moon to feel the dew, and thought of how it was different to the rain, and yet the same, and the ice in winter. He watched the grass he lay on, and felt the velvet of its blades, and the sharpness of its margins and wondered… why in grass the lines were all parallel, but in some leaves they made odd designs, and what odd meant? He watched the stillness in things, in the trees trunks, in the blue of the sky, and the stars, and saw in them the energies that drove the universe, and he felt communion with that energy. He ran from one day to the next, barely waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. He rarely ever wrote, or tried to writer better. He wrote about what he knew, and about what he thought, his hand was flawless, from the first time he picked up a nib, he never smudged a word, he never drew a long dot, and he never thought about what he did.

What If... ?

What if… he drowned the rest of the question in the engine’s whistle, distracted himself watching the platform with its tea stalls, magazine vendors, red shirted coolies, and infinite moving bodies slip by. First slow enough to make out details, and then so fast that things not in the light became vague silhouettes, till they faded to a grey haze. The wheels found a steady rhythm to beat, and the coach rocked to it. The outside streamed by, a continuous grey, exploding into gold at the end of the platform. Four halogen lamps lit a board proclaiming ‘N. Delhi Station.’

As it slid into the same grey shadow that had become the rest of the city, he realized he was going home. For what may be the last time. He knew he should want it to be.

His compartment seemed crowded, and he was hot. It was stuffy inside and after looking out at the dim city, the lights seemed too bright. He waited for the AC to kick in.

The first tendril of cool air against his cheek brought no comfort. He looked out, into the darkness, made deeper by the tint on the windows. A few pin pricks of light filtered through, he wondered how far they were, how powerful. Were they traffic lights, flood lights, or lights put on hoardings?

It was hot. He wanted some fresh air. If only the windows could be opened.

A slow, sticky unwanted silence descended. Two men fighting over a berth had called a truce till the TTE decided their case. The sullen silence permeated through him, he blamed himself for the confusion. He knew it was not rational.

Sitting across from him were three ladies. They sat still, with their hands crossed in their laps, right over left. Their saris are carefully draped over their shoulders, hiding their necks, upper arms, torso… the only parts of their bodies visible beneath the veil, were their faces, and arms below their elbows. Their backs made identical angles with the back of the compartment, and shoulders were evenly hunched: a group preparing for a recital, perfectly uniform, staring straight ahead. Their eyes looked past him, through him and through the partition behind his head, at nothing. They barely rocked with the train, nor did they resist its motion.

The eldest sat near the aisle. Her face had wrinkled around her eyes, as though she squinted a lot. Her sari was a shade of brown almost no one would wear out of choice, a few tufts of hair sticking out under her sari were grey. In the middle sat probably the youngest of the three… her sari had been pink at some time. She swayed with the train, occasionally even brushing her companion’s elbows, guiltily enjoying the ride. The third sat next to the window. Wedged deep into the angle of the back and side of the compartment, with her shoulder pressed firmly against the window, she hardly swayed at all, and she did not seem to want to. The beginning of her sindoor was visible under her sari and a black and gold mangal sutra hung low over her chest. She was the most impassive. The lights of the city flashed by her window unheeded.

Who were these women, he wondered, so intent on being ignored that they failed?

Basketball for Beginners

The basketball team, in all schools, is divided into the playing five, the extras, and the wannabes. Contrary to popular belief, the most important component for the success of any such team is not the playing five, but the wannabes.

This is a story about determination…

Not how the team won the city tournament, which we did, or how this geeky kid made into the team, and we carried him off the court, in triumph, that would never happen. The only guys who ever get carried off the basket ball court, are the ones who get injured, and that too, by medical staff.

This is not a story about basket ball; it’s a story about the only thing that counts in school.

He was worried… but no one knew that. This fact bothered him even more. He was absent from school, and no one asked him the next day, ‘why,’ not even the teacher.

This made him question his own value, and he realised, he was pretty much a loser.

“Then again, may be I am not,” he said, “I am captain of the gymnastics team…” that chain of thought trailed off into space, and was replaced by the realisation, that captain of the gymnastics team, was just that.

I’ll tell you how, there are no wannabes. No one, cannot make it to the team, no one needs to improve… and try again next year… The gym team’s slogan, as far as selections go, is something along the lines of ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ only more desperate. And he was captain of that lot.

He decided, he needed to do something to emerge from the shadows, and he had just two years in college.

The immense effort (ego bruise) it took to accept his social status, or lack there of, took its toll on him, and he missed two more days of school, and the teacher marked him present… it was that bad.

While he had faced the inevitable truth, he had no clue how to make his next confrontation with the inevitable truth, slightly more favourable.

They say, 'God helps those who help themselves.' They also say, 'success is 99 percent perspiration and one percent inspiration. 'They say, honesty is the best policy, and that hope springs eternal, the point being, they say a lot of things… very few are actually useful, like the one about luck, that I can’t remember right now.

Basically, while he was languishing in abject dejection, over the fact that no one noticed, his abject dejection, and that this was causing even more severe languishing, indifference to which brought even more severity in his dejection… basically, call it the vicious cycle, of dejection, while it was operating, on our poor friend… lady luck intervened, for the first time, in his favour.