Wanderful and more

While practising a triple jump form one channel to the third I tripped over a classic late 80’s, early 90’s garish Bollywood scene. Lo and behold there stood Govinda on my screen. Usually this is reason enough to curse your luck, but today was special. Not only was Govinda standing there, he was jiving on my screen in a Superman outfit, chaddis on the outside et al. It’s no wonder poor Reeves fell off his horse. Sigh.

Now, the Govinda, he is not alone. He is with his lady love, serenading her, the ever so lovely Kimi Katkar. Ha! Suffer fools suffer!

Things get even more interesting from here, for the Katkar¹, she is no less and matches her beau step for step. And unfortunately outfit for outfit. And to his Superman you have her Sipdey, careful there Toby!

Now, all Super Heros come with super powers and Super Govinda and Spidey Katkar are no different. They superimpose themselves on flying stills of Mumbai² and singing their Super Couple³ song, they go about their merry business. They save a really ugly couple from dirty dirty goons, coochie coo in a garden full of sex starved flowers and join a bunch of ageing youngsters doing PT on the dance floor, before superimposing themselves on a flying Mumbai again.

Just beautiful⁴, I say!

¹Have to call her that, can’t risk Raikkonen injuring himself, now that he is a Ferrari man.

²Only Mumbai could have survived this; after all we’ve got the spirit for this kind of shit.

³Ha and you thought the incredibles was original!

⁴ For the Bollywood inclined, for the suicidal, for the adventurous, the movie you are looking for is Dariya Dil. It also stars Kadar Khan (in a double role beware), Shakti Kapoor and Gulshan Grover (somebody show this to his Hollywood agent).

Storyteller

He stared at his screen. Blank. He stared at the keypad. Blank. He looked at the neatly arranged alphabets on his notebook with despair, wanting them, almost begging them to jump out and lead him on to something incredible. His head hurt as he strained his insides for something to get him started. A snippet of the unusual, a moment of tenderness, a poisoned tear…

Nothing.

He desperately searched for his lost genius, rummaging through empty coffee mugs and dying cigarette ends.

But nothing. Not a hint, not a spark, just scorching agony,

creeping all over him,

consuming him.

Betrayed and abandoned by his words, he sat there empty, dry. Striped naked of the talent he once had.

He had said in an interview years ago, there is nothing scarier for a writer then success. His words were walking out on him today. They were proving him right.

Interrupted

It’s a glorious Saturday morning.

The sun is hiding behind fat white tufts of cloud. Last night’s rain has been soaked in by the cobbled pathways around. The trees are dancing in bright green outfits, with little clusters of colourful flowers as trimmings. The air is crispy and crunchy as it hits my face. Work is adjusted to interfere only on Monday morning. It’s the perfect day to grab a book and make place on the window sill. I take one last look at the world walking by before the words take me away. Aunties in bright pink saris make their way from the local grocer. There’s breakfast to be made and eager stomachs to be pleased. Old uncles walk by in white, smiling as they remember carefree stories from yesterday. A chirpy teenager chatters away excitedly into her phone, it’s just the kind of day when you want to fall in love. School is out and a bunch of kids are planning their next game. Who will bat, who will bowl, wait let me fix the stump. They scream and they fight. Holler at each other. Who will be in my team? I don’t want the fat boy, he can’t run. It’s my bat, I’ll start. Throw the ball, throw it here you fool! Little grudges accumulating for a final showdown.

My glorious Saturday morning is turning into a little riot.

If only I could slap the little hooligans, I’d be able to save the day and savour the words.

13 years later

The Bombay bomb blast verdicts are beginning to trickle out.

13 years on we continue to bleed.

In memory of all those who lost their lives.

A moment for the innocent.

People who were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

People who died for nothing.

People who were caught because someone had to be.

Those who made the numbers.

Those who have been forgotten.

For the cops who lived the nightmare.

For the cops who investigated death.

For the buildings that saw each other crumble.

For the building which still have the courage to stand.

For the blood that still stains us.

The anger that still haunts us.

For the people who continued to live.

For the people who died after.

I pass one of blast sites everyday. I look at the spot and wonder if I am walking over faded blood stains. I wonder if someone died standing here that day. I wonder if things would have been different if those bombs hadn’t gone off. I also wonder if we’ve learnt anything from 1993.

I wonder how they celebrated while Bombay was bleeding.

I wonder how they live with so much blood on their hands.

I wonder if their hands are still drenched bright red or has the blood faded like it has on our streets.

I wonder if they will ever regret doing what they did.

I wonder if they will ever be truly punished.

I wonder if they are haunted by it when they sleep.

I wonder, if they could go back 13 years in time, would they still do what they did or would they change their minds?

Tick tock tick tock

Mice don’t really like cheese.

Pluto isn’t a planet anymore.

Andre Agassi has grown old.

Michael Schumacher won’t race anymore.

My world is changing.

And how.

Courage will die

There is a man crying on TV right now. He says he knows he will be murdered soon. He knows the people who are going to kill him and he knows they will make his family suffer. He knows they will be brutal. He knows he can’t escape. He says he spends each day wondering when they will come for him. They are powerful. They have already threatened him. They even offered to buy my silence, he says. But I can’t sleep with the images they have planted in my head. I see the professor being killed every time I close my eyes. I want to sleep. I will testify. They will kill me for it. I too shall die.

Between them

Slowly he tried to pull off her shirt. She hesitated. Suddenly she was very uncomfortable, she was scared. He sensed her unease. He let go of her shirt and held her close instead. He whispered in her ears, reassuring words, don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you, I promise. With sensual ease he let his fingers find her shirt again. He slowly undid the strings holding it together and gently pulled it off. She shivered as her smooth brown skin lay naked now. He was whispering sweet words to her as his hands reached for her breasts. She saw the look in his eyes as his fingers touched her and she knew she had guessed right. It was there, a lump. She tried to smile.

Decisions

Ah to be in Michael Schumacher’s very expensive shoes right now. How does a man choose between more money and more money?

Stale

It was their fourth wedding anniversary. It was their first dinner together in months. Today they had pushed meetings and avoided frantic calls from the office for a promise made years ago; to never spend this day alone. She knew his secretary had booked this table and picked the flowers. He knew she had shopped for the dress an hour before he had picked her up. They was no need for conversation, there was no shortage of it either. When they spoke, they talked of things that mattered, of things that didn’t and things that had to be said. They had dinner with red wine and enjoyed it, they smiled and laughed and enjoyed it. They walked out arm in arm and in smiles. Standing there, under the stars, his phone rang, and then hers. They answered. Sometimes she wondered how they hadn’t got lost yet.