Silenced

Shit!

Shit!
Clear this mess up; I don’t want another enquiry on my hands.
Get rid of the bodies.
Take the ones that are alive. And talk to them.

Let’s get this over with.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Fuck this one is alive.

Fuck he is British.

What?
Passport.
Shit!
This isn’t good.
Talk to him. Talk to him!

What’s your name?
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me?
Are you hurt?
What’s your name?

He won’t answer.
Son of a …
Why is he staring like that?
He is giving me the creeps.

Maybe it’s shock.
Oh don’t give me those fancy words damn it.
Just a few questions. And we could end this right now.

What?
Look at him. You think he can hear us?
What!
Shit are you saying we made him deaf?
Can he sue us for this?
Doubt it.
He is British.
Then maybe you shouldn’t be saying it out so loud.
Pass me a fucking light.

His eyes bore into theirs. He decided if he couldn’t hear their questions, he wouldn’t have to give any answers. It was time to move on.

One miracle, two miracle, three…

Dear God,

Since you are in my part of the world right now, please do me a few favours. No point pretending you’re busy elsewhere because I know it’s you* and that you’re here.

See, if you were trying to keep a low profile, turning that nasty toxic dump into a sweet water delight was a big mistake. And then you went and drank litres of adulterated milk, sip by sip. Most of us can barely digest a spoonful, you’d have to be divine to polish it off. And if that wasn’t enough, you went and posed on a derelict building. Really God, if you were going for discretion there, I suggest you hire a really good PR firm, pronto. Anyway coming back to the point, all these miracles you’ve been up to, sweet as they are, can we have a few concrete, focused miracles now please? Here. I’ll give you a headstart and then you can take it from there.

Can we start with Karan? God, please take away all his money. Or make him sick. Or just let him have that man he is craving for. One more movie out of his closet and you’ll end up with mass dementia on your hands.

Potholes. Potholes are seriously dangerous God. Just the other day I lost a bit of my spine in one those holes and though I did find a new set in another hole, they really weren’t the right size. My only concern is that a spineless following might not be very good for your image, will it?

Breaking News. Watching Prince eating that bar of chocolate had me craving for the good old state regulated DD days. Honestly, I don’t know how you will tackle this pain, but you are God and I’m sure you’ll figure something out.

The Government. I don’t know if you caught the Laloo-Prabhunath Singh saga the other day. Or if you’ve been following Arjun Singh’s monologue. Or for that matter Vilasrao’s solo act. This nautanki has run its course God, it’s now time to draw the curtains.

Himesh. Oh God o God, please do something about this nasal menace. It is threatening to deliver this and the next year’s biggest hits, pitching this cacophonic situation into calamity mode. Today it’s just filmy hits. Tomorrow it could be your music. Think about it.

Right, this about covers the biggest threats to our daily lives. My work ends here and yours begins. Ciao then God almighty, I’ll let you get on with things.

lv,
neha

* going by the sab ka malik ek hai theory, i have used the word God as a singular representation of all the Gods around.

Shortest story

I came across the Hemingway Challenge - a short story in six words - on several blogs this week.

My contribution to the growing list:

1.
“I do.”
“I do.”

"Now what?"

2.
He caught the last train home.

3.
"It's just routine questioning", they said.

4.
She missed him. No she didn’t.

5.
He was Hindu.
She was not.

6.
Hey! Are you driving? ... Hello? ... Hello?!!

7.
Her test said positive.
She cried.

8.
It happened a long time ago.

Stopped in my tracks … almost

I can’t access blogspot. And it’s killing me.

No, let me rephrase, I couldn’t access blogspot. And it was killing me. But as always there is more then one way to get the job done.

Which brings me to the people blocking my morning read. Here's the statement from some government representative on the blocking of blogspot and 11 other sites in the country, it’s priceless, take a read:

"We would like those people to come forward who access these (the 12) radical websites and please explain to us what are they missing from their lives in the absence of these sites."

This got me thinking. See, I’ve always harboured a secret ambition of being an adventurous outlaw. The kind who lives in a dense jungle, defying the authorities and fighting guerrilla wars. I’ve never been able to meet this dream, of course, for a number of reasons. The most obvious being, I’m chicken. Being very scared of scary things like violence, arrest, blood, cut-open bodies, Indian lawyers, (shudder shudder!) torture (ugh!) made this a highly improbable career choice. But suddenly everything has changed. And today, I stand among illustrious fellow outlaws; Robin Hood with his bow and arrow, Che* with his philosophy and an ever-growing line of tee shirts and Me with my blog.

On with the revolution, I say!

* comparison to Che made only for spectacular effect and not in a state of sensless self-illusion.

Oh! In news just in, the block is off! Bye Bye Robin. Later Che ...

Wanted

We’re back on track. And we’re much wiser.

This morning I hopped off the train and walked right into two neatly dressed cops. Standing outside the first-class compartment in their crisp khaki saris and tidy plaits they scanned me for any potential terrorist threat. One of them obviously found a glimmer of terror in me and promptly got to work. From lazy strolling cop she suddenly became all business, barking her order in perfect textbook cop style ...madam bag check please.

Nothing wrong in that, I thought, she’s just doing her job. And the obedient citizen I am, in a show of faith, I flashed her a bright happy smile. Shit! Wrong move. You never smile at cops. You scowl or you cower but you never smile. She almost cart wheeled in delight as she gave her colleague a triumphant ‘I told you so!’ look. My flashing smile had openly betrayed my criminal intent, more reason then to probe the contents of my bag. After all bags can carry some pretty scary things. Other then your everyday bombs and hand grenades you could be carrying scary bubblegum strips, cruncy red apples, broken pencils, rubberbands, sharp nibbed pens, dirty handkerchiefs. The list is terrifying and endless.

I opened my bag and tried to guide them through the hundred different things in it, but once again, I was curtly stopped. Again, I gave her the benefit of doubt. She had a point; I could be up to some mean mischief, I could detonate unknown devices using a remote control hidden in my bag. I could be carrying a touch-and-boom-we-all-explode contraption. I could have nerve gas and trigger off even more trouble. My hand in my bag could be the end of our world, making this a very dangerous situation. And so my hand stayed exactly where it was, hanging aimless from my shoulder while her hand gingerly shuffled through my stuff. Pens, paper, book, tissue, more scraps of paper, empty chips packet, blah, blah, blah… damn where were the usual suspects?

The bag gave me a clean chit but not the cops. They had another brainwave, hoping to catch me on the wrong foot. What’s your name they asked me, where are you coming from. Brilliant! If I were a part of the movement for mass destruction, I would definitely tell them my name and where I come from. It is but natural. For that matter I would also alight from a crowded train during rush hour, just after a major mishap in the city carrying a nasty device in my bag. Obviously.

Then again, they were just doing their overworked underpaid job. So what if it was a lousy attempt. Finding nothing in me to suit the profile of a closet terrorist, they reluctantly thanked me and let me go. And focussed their energies on some other equally terrifying person hopping off the next train.

Wish you were here

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

R.I.P
Syd Barrett
1946-2006

Mumbai

To the rudest people in the world,

Take a bow.

Mumbai,
11/7/06

Do you believe in God?

Cup of Joy?

The Football World Cup;
Breaking millions of hearts since 1930.

In the Rains …

The monsoon is here in all its glory.

Pearl shaped raindrops hit the earth with a gentle splatter. Their rhythmic pitter-patter disturbs the long settled dust, sleeping across the city. Everything is fresher now. Everything is green. And the air is scented with the delicious aroma of roasting corn.

Tempting you from every street corner is a monsoon-drenched cart. A tiny man in an oversized raincoat smiles at you from behind it. Pointing knowingly at the neatly displayed wares on his cart, a tidy heap of lime green butta.

As the skies open out, you run up to the cart and huddle under a dripping umbrella, watching tiny puddles gather to life in a circle around you. You peer through the curtain of raindrops at the tiny man. He smiles, a friendly smile, and strikes a damp matchstick to life. And with these tiny strings of fire, he lights his small coal stove. Instantly little bits of charcoal glow awake, angry red eyes glare at you, from inside the stove, like a monster waking up in a dark fairy tale.

As the stove turns into dots of red, the tiny man picks up a butta and then two, without once disturbing the heap. He rips off the bright green coats they wear and lifts their soft brown velvet veil. He casts a disapproving glance at the flame, not impressed by its progress, he fans it furiously, egging it on to rise. And rise it does, suddenly the air is full of slivers of fire dancing around fat-sparkling drops of rain; the coal is now bright red and the corn roasts to a golden yellow.

After a series of twists and turns, he lifts the golden yellow butta off the smoky hot stove. Yes, it’s perfect, hard enough to bite, soft enough to chew. He smiles. And proceeds to dress it in a melting coat of butter. He adds a touch of namak and a dash of mirch and then to this delicious mix, he adds the final touch, a generous splattering of lime.

You hurriedly grab the hot cob he hands you and greedily bite into this spicy-sweet monsoon delight. And you don’t stop till you rip off every bit of corn from cob. And somewhere between the first bite and the last a thought enters your head, ‘Should I have another one of these?’

And there in the background, stands the tiny man, still smiling, as the bits of coal shut their growling red eyes again.

Running Late

She’s late.
She grabs her bag, haphazardly throwing in all she needs. Wallet. Book. Scribbling paper. Pen.
She steals a glance at the clock. Shit! She’s going to miss the bus.

Eight minutes left.

She gulps down her tea. It’s burning hot. It scalds her throat as it pours in.
She needs a whole minute to put out the burning flames in her throat.
She has no time for this!
She slips on her Osho chappals. And hurries out.

Six minutes left.

She calls for the elevator. Damn! Where is it?
Forget it. She runs down the stairs and rushes out.
She glares at her watch. It’s hard to tell the time when you’re on a trot.
The hands keep jumping nervously around the dial. Is it 8:10? Is it 8:12?

Five minutes left.

The sun is trailing her.
Her shadow is at her tail, goading her on.
The sparrows chipper loudly, taking bets on her chances.
The old grey crow thinks she’ll make it.
The pigeon says she won’t.

Four minutes left.

Cars pass her in slow motion.
So do people talking their morning stroll.
The world moves on at a lazy pace, mocking her urgency.

She doesn’t notice the wrinkled hawker coming from the other side.
He spreads his cart carelessly in front of her.
She halts.
Ouch! Her shadow painfully bumps into her.
She really doesn’t have the time for this!
Panic is setting in.

Two minutes left.

She brushes the cart out of her way.
And then she smiles for the first time today.
She can see the bus now.
She is almost there…

She smoothens her hair.
She straightens her kurta.

One minute left.

She steps into the bus.
There he is.
His fingers are drumming a panicked beat on his laptop.
Where is she?

And then he sees her.
She smiles.
He smiles.

The engine roars to life.

A Football Match and Other Things

In other earth-shattering events this week was the game between Italy and Australia. After chasing the ball around for 89 dull as an empty saucepan minutes, four men stood up to the challenge and made the game ever so slightly interesting. Suddenly stretching yawns snapped shut and drooping eyelids lit up in absolute attention. Ah, how a dead game can be brought alive with a little controversy.

So this is how it plays out, this poor (metaphorically speaking of course) Aussi player, Lucas Neil, stumbles and trips over the last thirty seconds of the game. As Lucas falls, a smart (or maybe just plain lucky) Italian, Fabio Gross, who has been wildly chasing Lucas around these dying seconds, trips over him, and over the last thirty seconds now lying crushed somewhere under Lucas, and also falls.

Clearly there is no foul play here, there’s no space for any dying minute drama. And right here, perfectly on cue our little twist makes an entry. The referee blows his whistle. “PENALTY!” he screams out. How? Where did that come from? Hello? And awards the elixir of life to the Azzurri. The football-loving world squirms, boos and jeers. But really, as bad as it was, I don’t blame the poor referee. Come on; put yourself in his worn out hi-end shoes. Imagine trotting around this hopeless game for almost 90 deadpan minutes. Just the thought of thirty more, will bring the whistle flying to your lips and your finger, pointing to the penalty spot. And the referee is just as human.

Now, getting back to the game, Francesco Totti takes the kick. Scores and Italy are home. It is this kick that has me all bewildered and speechless. This, is my earth-shattering moment. See, all this while, as the game was crawling on, I was fighting battles of my own. I was violently chasing sleep away from the corner of my eyes, and in the midst of it all I failed to notice Francesco’s boring new hair cut!

Why in the whole world would (Ah! How's this for alliteration?) you chop those stunning locks off? WHY, PRAY TELL ME, WHY? Why would you trade this absolutely yummy look for a downsized just-a-really-good-looking look? I’m baffled. This has left me more perplexed then the referee’s bizarre decision. That I could figure out (read above), this I just can’t.

Plain is Perfectly Fine!

They’ve done it again.

Blasphemy, I say.

Why would you take something perfect and tarnish it with change?

This is my war cry, come gather around.
It’s time to save the best snack in town.

This saviour of bad cooks.
The road to instant salvation.

It’s ok Mum, if you step out.
I have my plate of Maggi. I’ll be fine.
With a full stomach soon I’ll be satisfied.

But now I hear whisperings of sabotage.
I sense foul play.

First they put wheat in it, and now it’s sambhar.

Don't insult my taste buds.
I deserve more then that.
Leave my noodles alone, plain and nice.

Fruit

Sour grapes are my favourite fruit.

Karma Strikes Back

Himesh is what happens when you tempt karma and lose.

Love you o Sayonee,
Love you o Sayonee,
Koi shaak?
Wassszzuuup?

Bloody crap!

The Day Order

You know how some days just work out better then the rest? How certain days make the cut, while others simply fail? Well, I call this the Day Order, a standing of the best days of the week to the ones that need to try harder.

To give it some semblance I start with the top day and continue in the flowing order. The ranking of the days are not necessarily in that order.

Thursday
Yes, we start with Thursday. King amongst days. Thursday is full of hope and joy with a Friday riding on its back. No matter how screwed you are, you can always bask in the shortcut of an escapist weekend being just a few hours away. How can you fault such a day? I so love Thursdays.

Rank Order: Bestest day of the week

Friday

With Thursday leading, Friday can’t be far behind, can it? They'll tell you it’s a whole working day but if you negotiate half of it, you're almost there. Hit lunch, press snooze and look forward to two and a half days of the perfect life at your disposal.

Rank Order: Second bestest day of the week

Saturday
It’s Saturday, it’s time to party in abandonment. After all Saturday comes with the knowledge of a clockful of hours still left to indulge in the sweet caress of laziness. Inspiration so great, that your Saturday smile can rival only Thursday.

Rank Order: Rock solid spot number three

Sunday
Oh god, what a bittersweet day. It’s the day for laundry. It’s the day for dusting. It's the day before a whole new week begins. But still it’s hard to fault a day that wakes up so luxuriously only after the clock strikes noon.

Rank Order: Low down the pile at number five

Monday
First the good part, Monday means new, a start afresh. And Monday kicks into action only past eleven on the clock everyday. But Mondays are dangerous. They should come with an injurious to health warning. After two and a half days of doing very little, how can Monday expect you to operate at full throttle? Don’t fault your body for revolting on this day; there is a reason the blues hit only on a Monday.

Rank Order: A crappy number six

Tuesday
Tuesdays. Tuesdays. Tuesdays are evil. Tuesdays are vile. Tuesdays mockingly remind you of the weekend gone by. Tuesdays taunt you. Tuesdays torture you. Tuesdays stand for the long stretch left to conquer before you can reach a happy smile. Tuesdays. Tuesday. You’ve just got to hate Tuesdays.

Rank Order: Worst day in the world

Wednesday
Wednesday is the equator of the week. Wednesday stands in the middle. It's an equal distance between the last break and the one coming up. Wednesday is cool, it swing both ways. Wednesday is when the week begins to look up. Wednesday is when the week gets brighter.

Rank Order: At number four, not to bad, could do better

And this brings us back to glorious glorious Thursday. A day when life gets good again.

Void Trenches

Did you burn midnight trying to keep the light alive?
Did you stretch each strand to meet at the end?
Was the walk uphill long and lonely?
Did the path curl around longer then it promised?
Did mediocre, strictly ok and my dad is a rich man pass you by?
Was it hard to accept these naked truths of life?

Did the platter taste bitter and vile?
Did the wallet heavy fiend steal your light?

Was this the way the script flowed?
Is this how it always goes?
The rich man takes his place.
The strugglers wait their day.
When money talks nineteen to a dozen,
Talent cowers, unhinged by burden.

And in this mess of names the void ever grows.

Play Red

Once upon a time I used pity football referees.

Poor guys. They make a living on the sidelines of action. Almost-ran ageing men scampering around with whistles and tiring lungs. They huff and puff and try to catch up with the ball and where it'll be sent next. Is it football? Is it theatre? Complex questions to be answered throughout the game. It’s a hard job with lousy returns. Eye-full of spit blobs from disgruntled players. Boos and jeers from rowdy fans all over. No part of the glamour. Not even the paycheck. It’s a job that no sane mind would willingly take.

That was then. This is now. A change of mind was always on the cards.

Today I understand the equations. It's crystal clear. I recognise the most powerful men on the field, I envy these red card-totting devils. The players might have the glamour but referees hold the strings to cut short their fame. Piss our men off and oops there goes your next game. Talk out of turn, roll around a little more, take your own time, stick your elbow out of line. Challenge fate. Bring out the colour red. The whistle blows and out you go.

The biggest names, the richest players, all at the mercy of these card-wielding outsiders.

Give me that kind of power any day. Let me be the outsider in this game.

A Birthday. A Book

I have a young cousin, an offline version of Wikipedia. The more I meet him, the more certain I am of having accidentally missed a few crucial years of basic education. This super smart kid turned a year older recently. And the onus of buying him a present to match fell on my muddled shoulders.

Now here's a kid who lives for science and logic. For strange mechanical things he calls toys. For gadgets and computer games. None of these are words from my world. What do they mean? Where are they found?

I was stumped. Stumped till a timely bout of panicked inspiration hit me. And in his world, full of 101 questions, Pokemon and Midtown madness, I planted a magical tree.

If you've read the Far Away Tree Stories, you know just what I mean. I read this book as a kid and I still remember every twig in the story. I remember walking around trees, wondering which one was the magical one. Peering up in search of magical lands floating by. And waiting for strange creatures to show up and take me on a tour of their homes, hidden on the branches of the tree outside my room.

That's the beauty of a book. It's so much more then just a book. It's a whole lot of brilliance bound between the covers. It's a window that opens up to the past. To what life was before the arrow keys and the space bar. I suddenly had the urge to prise the old window open. And let the fresh breeze flow in. To let it drag me out of these four-cornered rooms of logic we are caged in. And to jump out and explore again. Those strange strange worlds of childhood. Did we live in those worlds or did those worlds live with us?

Let’s go back to the old times. A world of magic and wonder. Let's dump logic in the background of reality and get carried away in a swirl of make-real.

Instead of furiously clicking at an immobile mouse, your finger chases a crawling string of words that push each other endlessly across yellow doggy-eared pages. And your mind stretches and unwinds as little by the little the story unfolds.

Day One Disaster

The first showers hit Mumbai yesterday and the word of the day was panic. The streets were flooded. Drains were clogged. Trains stopped mid-track. Traffic was crawling. Networks were down. And people were angry. All this just on day one of the four month long monsoon season. Maybe it’s time we outsource the city management to private players. At least then we’ll be able to enjoy a break from the sun without breaking out into a cold sweat every single time.