Eloquence Redefined

One Step Away

2012-01-22T11:30:00.006+05:30

- 1 -

He always enjoyed his moments of solitude. He was acclimatized to being alone, but loneliness was a word he never referred to. It was neither depression nor fatigue. It wasn’t lack of will either. Although his profession was to paint pictures with words, he wouldn’t have been able to describe as to how he felt at the moment.

Not even close to thousand copies, his publisher had told him blankly, upon asking about the sales of his debut novel. He hadn’t been able to write a single word after that. He knew in his heart he wasn’t discouraged, but he also knew there was something that stopped him from moving on. He didn’t believe in writer’s block either. It’s just a myth, he often told his friends. Now, when he stood out of his skin and looked at himself from a distance, he felt that the myth was slowly turning into reality, and, he couldn’t have afforded it.

If some people believed that writing was an art form and an artist was always in search of some inspiration, he felt otherwise. That popular belief was anathema to him. Writing is anything but glamorous, he told them, and one should find inspiration from writing itself. And when his women friends asked him about his muse, often accompanied with a naughty wink, he merely dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. He avoided stereotypes of all forms; not only in his writing, but also in his real life. As for the muse, that only happened in movies and foolishly sentimental novels. But all this would change soon. He didn’t know yet.

It had been over five months since he manifested his thoughts into words. He had not been in touch with his friends; neither had he read a single book nor watched a movie. And unlike in movies, he had not taken up drinking. Too early, he reflected, and chuckled. If there was one activity he regularly kept up with, it was running. It was the only thing, which gave him peace.

***

He saw her for the first time on a lazy Sunday morning. He had woken up about half an hour earlier, finished his ablutions, made coffee and settled down in the porch with a newspaper in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. He had taken the first sip when he heard a ‘thud’. Placing the mug and newspaper on the table, he broke into a trot to take a look. There she was, lying on the ground, dusting herself. I don’t know why, but women look fascinating in winter, a character from one of his stories had casually said. Is that a compliment, the woman had asked mischievously. And thus an interesting chapter of flirting had begun. It was all a part of character building, and none of it reflected his personal ideas. He allowed himself a smile upon recalling it. If he hadn’t believed in his own words then, he did now. She is fascinating.

‘Whatever happened to chivalrous men?’ the girl said with a frown as she tried to get up.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He approached her, lent his hand, and pulled her up. He then squatted, and picked up the bicycle. ‘What’s with the bicycle?’

‘What’s with the running?’ she asked, candidly. ‘Don’t have to raise your eyebrows like a weirdo,’ she continued, ‘I know who you are. I see you everyday.’

‘You do?’

‘Of course. You are Karan, the writer.’

‘So you have read my book?’ Karan asked as they started walking.

‘I tried, but it was too boring. Couldn’t even get past fifty pages,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

‘To each his own.’

‘What if I told you that I knew you since your primary school days?’

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her.

‘Surprised?’

‘You are bluffing.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m Jhanvi. I was your neighbour for twenty years, that is, till you moved here, to Mysore. And now, as co-incidence would have it, I’m your neighbour again. See that maroon house? That’s where I stay. Come on.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You still don’t remember, do you? We both went to the same school in Bangalore. I was in a different section. You and your hooligan friends used to play right in front our house? There was a guy with red hair in your group, no?’

It wasn’t the information, but the casual manner with which she said it that baffled him.

‘This is really embarrassing. Are you sure of all this?’ he asked her after a long gap. They had reached her house.

‘Why don’t you ask your mother? Anyway, let’s catch up later. Got to go,’ she said, took the bicycle from him and waved him goodbye.

***

Karan made another cup of coffee. The cool winter breeze prompted him to stand by the window. It was a beautiful morning, he mused. And he knew many such mornings had gone by unappreciated. If today was any different it was all because of the girl. A smile flitted across his face as he thought about her: feisty, straightforward, spunky.

Although, he had never imagined that anyone would brazenly give such an opinion about his book, let alone a pretty girl, it didn’t bother him. Instead, he reveled in that unpredictable nature of hers. What did she say? ‘It’s too boring. I couldn’t even get past fifty pages.’ He shook his head as he smiled, and took a sip from the mug.

He stood there for a few more minutes, enjoying the view outside. It was about eight-thirty, and the blanket of mist was slowly being lifted off. It was when the first rays of the Sun seeped through the window, and shone on his face that it struck him. He finished his coffee with a draught, placed the mug on the kitchen table, reached into his trouser pocket, and took out his cell-phone. He had to find out about the girl. He dialed his home number.

- 2 -

He regarded the line from Finding Forrester to be the best advice on writing: You must write your first draft with your heart. You rewrite with your head.

The cursor on the screen looked impatient. He began:

It was the morning he’d never forget. He paused for a moment, deleted the sentence and started again:

It was the morning he’d always remember. For a man who’d never believed in miracles, it was a new beginning. She was the first one to recover from what seemed like a pleasant surprise.

‘Nischal! Such a long time. How are you? And how long have you been here?’

For want of something to say, he took refuge in smiling. She shook her head, smiling back. ‘You haven’t changed a bit, have you? The same old shy Nischal.’

And thus began a conversation, mostly one-sided, that would go on for a long time. But then, had he not met her again in his life, this tale would’ve had a different ending; or to be more specific, a normal, conventional ending of a happy man.

Karan saved the file under the title, Dusk, and read it once. Without thinking further he began again, only to stop three hours later. ‘Bloody phone call,’ he muttered under his breath, and left the room to pick it up.

‘Meet me at the Landmark Book Store at six in the evening, will you? You can suggest me some good books, and then we can have coffee somewhere.’

No hi, no hello. Straight to the point. He didn’t waste his words too. ‘Yes,’ he said, and the phone got disconnected.

Normally he wouldn’t entertain such bad manners. But today was an extraordinary day, and she was the reason behind it. He ran his fingers through his hair as he broke into a smile. Lady Don had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

***

The coffee shop was thrumming with loud voices of both young and old alike. Unlike the modern cafes that have captured the nerves of sophisticated people in metropolitan cities, Poornima Coffee Bar was a small café that served only the two basic hot beverages, along with three local dishes: idlis, dosas, and bhajjis. With a history of over fifty years, it went on with its business smoothly, neither bothering to expand nor trying anything new. When other cafes symbolized the present and the future, Poornima Coffee Bar was ensconced in the past. If anyone had any doubt regarding this, its regular customers and the soot on the ceiling proved it. This is what Karan liked about the place. Along with his regular filter coffee he also got a strong dose of past culture from the customers around.

Jhanvi was neither amused nor surprised at Karan’s choice of place. After spending an hour at the bookshop, he had brought them to his favourite spot. Upon entering the café, she had quickly chosen a table, called the waiter, ordered two cups of coffee, and buried herself behind the blurbs of the books she had purchased. The waiter arrived a few minutes later, and placed the coffee cups on the table. She took a sip, and continued reading.

‘So this must be your favourite cafe in Mysore?’ she spoke at last.

‘Hmm. That must have been a tough case to crack.’

Jhanvi looked up. ‘Seven Minutes? Really?’ she asked, ignoring his sarcasm.

‘I know the blurb appears to be a bit risqué, but that’s that. It’s one of the best books I’ve read so far. Irving Wallace is a genius. Don’t miss his books for the world.’

‘I wish I could say the same thing about your book to somebody.’

Karan tried to trace a hint of smile on her face, but to no avail. Was she serious? He furrowed his brows as he took another sip.

She continued as if nothing had happened. ‘What do you think of The Fountainhead?’

‘It’s a great novel.’

‘Well, yes, but what are your thoughts on it?’

‘I don’t think we should discuss Ayn Rand right now.’

‘What do you want to discuss about then? Sexual positions?’

Karan spilled the coffee on his shirt. ‘God, Jhanvi. What’s wrong with you?’ He took out his handkerchief, dabbed at his mouth and shirt. The stain on his shirt wouldn’t come off.

‘That wasn’t a rhetorical question. You said you didn’t want to discuss the book, so I thought you might as well discuss something else,’ she said, calmly.

‘Yes, but something else didn’t have to be … well, anyway, the reason I said we shouldn’t discuss Ayn Rand is that, one, it doesn’t make for a smooth conversation. And two, everyone perceives the book in a different way. It’s better to deal with it in the privacy of one’s mind, rather than letting his thoughts out in front of someone else.’

‘That’s utter nonsense,’ she said as she leafed through the pages. ‘Want to know what I think of it? By the way, you can drop your eyebrows now.’

‘You’ve read the book?’

‘Of course, I have, Mr Writer.’

‘Then why did you buy it?’

‘I don’t know. You recommended it. Felt like buying it.’

Karan shook his head. ‘Maybe women are from a different planet. Anyway, tell me.’

‘Well, I think Peter Keating is as good as Howard Roark. Shall I order two more cups of coffee?’

‘Forget about coffee. You got me interested. Continue.’

‘No, I think I’ll have another cup.’

Karan rubbed his forehead with his hand. Jhanvi called the waiter and ordered. A minute later the waiter served the order. ‘Well,’ she began, took a sip, and continued, ‘I strongly believe that the only difference between Howard Roark and Peter Keating is self-pity. Sans the guilt, Keating is as good as Roark.’

Karan leaned forward. ‘So you mean there are no Roarks in this world?’

‘There are Karans and there are Jhanvis. The point is, there is a bit of Roark in everybody, and so is Keating. The harder you try to be Roark, the more Keating you become,’

Karan felt like giving her a high-five. Six years ago, when he was pursuing his undergraduate course, he had tried to argue the same thing with a friend. In spite of having a lofty ambition of becoming a writer, he hadn’t been able to present his views as articulately as Jhanvi.

‘“Be yourself”, you mean?’ he asked, cradling his chin.

‘Exactly. That’s what Ayn Rand tried to say. But unfortunately, most of them started worshiping Roark, thereby breaking the first rule. They tried to copy Roark, and lost their own identity in the process. So did you talk to your mother?’ Jhanvi closed the book, and kept it back in her bag.

If Karan was taken aback with the sudden change of topic, he didn’t evince it. He said simply, ‘Yes.’

‘And?’ Jhanvi finished her coffee, and placed the cup in the saucer.

‘To repeat her remarks verbatim, “I remember a pretty girl from the neighbourhood, but don’t remember her name.”’

‘Fair enough. I’m going to sleep in your house tonight,’ said Jhanvi, getting up.

Karan knew better not to raise his eyebrows this time.

***

It was seven o’clock in the morning when Karan woke up. He wasn’t surprised to find Jhanvi gone. He quickly made himself a cup of coffee, and sat down to write. The story was shaping up nicely, he thought. He read from the beginning, making some minor corrections along the way. Gradually, as he moved the cursor along the lines, his mind slipped back to the previous night.

After dinner at a cozy restaurant, Jhanvi had come to Karan’s place for a nightcap. ‘I’ll sleep on the couch,’ she said the moment they entered the house. He nodded, excused himself, and went to his room to change. When he emerged, he was flummoxed to see her fast asleep on the couch. ‘What just happened?’ He gave a quiet cry as he took a step forward gently, and stood by the couch with his arms folded. She is lovely. He found himself at his writing table a minute later. After taking the story forward for about five hours, he hit the bed.

And now, as he read the story he realized how different the characters were from himself and Jhanvi. As a rule he never fell in love with his characters, and, never recreated the characters from his life. He was happy his story was not influenced from reality. Good to go. He rubbed his hands together, and started writing.

Three hours later the phone rang. Jhanvi. He didn’t mind the disturbance. He walked across the room, and picked up his cell-phone from the chair. His eyes automatically fell on the computer screen. The cursor was blinking, as if asking him to get back to writing. It can wait. ‘Hello…’ he said into the phone.

- 3 -

‘You look beautiful today.’

‘Am I? This is the first compliment in two months, you know?’

‘Maybe,’ said Karan, getting closer to her on the couch.

‘You didn’t comment when I wore a Sari the other day. You never comment when I wear a nice dress. But now when I’m in an old capris and top, you say that I look beautiful?’

Karan put his arm around her. ‘Every girl looks good when she’s dressed well, sweetheart. There is no magic in it. Real beauty of a girl can be observed when she is being herself, when she is not trying to be presentable to the outside world.’

‘Probably the next thing you are going to say is that I look more beautiful when I’m naked, huh?’

Karan threw his head back, and laughed wholeheartedly. ‘Possible,’ he said.

‘Nice try, Creepo.’

Jhanvi picked up the newsmagazine from the teapoy, and started leafing through the pages. ‘By the way, some people say that I suck.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Jhanvi sucks, they say,’ she said, tossing the magazine back on the teapoy.

‘I pity them. Poor souls.’

‘But I think they are right. Just like one of Eminem’s songs says, “I am whatever you say I am”.’

‘Now that’s new. I didn’t know you listened to rap,’ said Karan.

Jhanvi smiled impishly. ‘There are still a lot of things you don’t know about me.’

Karan winked at her. ‘I love challenges.’ He paused for a few seconds, and said, ‘I think I’m in love with you, Jhanvi.’

‘You think? I know you are in love with me,’ she said nonchalantly.

Karan had expected her to be shocked, but instead, she had surprised him. He smiled, and let the moment pass.

***

Two months had gone by smoothly. But juggling with two women had not been easy for Karan. When his fictional heroine, Akansha, was uncomplicated and sentimental, Jhanvi had a complex personality. The former tapped the doors of his heart, whereas the latter tickled his brain.

Jhanvi was unlike any of the girls Karan had met in his life. The girls he usually made friends with, or perhaps the ones he got attracted to, were like his fictional heroines: emotional, simple, mushy, worshiped Nicholas Sparks and Erich Segal, and watched movies similar to their novels, listened to soft music, introverts, wore nothing but typical girls’ outfits. Jhanvi, on the other hand, was quite a challenge. She wasn’t opposed to any of the above, but along with the same attributes she had her own baggage. The common denominator was the mood swings, or at least Karan thought they were. Nevertheless, he enjoyed those unpredictable moments.

It was sometime during the third month that Karan decided to introduce Jhanvi to his friends. He invited his friends to his home for dinner. Three out of his four friends showed up. Jhanvi arrived at eight o’clock in the evening. Karan introduced her, and his friends were enchanted by her person. One of them even admitted to being jealous of Karan.

Dinner was served, along with Vodka and Wine. The conversation took off with Karan’s novel, then moved to movies, books, authors, politics, cricket, corruption, each other’s love life, and finally, Jhanvi’s unconventional choice of working in a Life Insurance company, when, according to everyone at the table, she could have easily made a career in Banking or Finance. According to Karan, she could have been a successful cyclist as well. Everyone laughed as they got up.

Several minutes later when Karan’s friends were about to leave, Jhanvi put her arms around Karan’s neck, and started kissing him on the mouth. The silence that followed was interminable. It was too conspicuous that everyone, except Jhanvi who looked her regular self, was uncomfortable. None of Karan’s friends showed any reaction. Instead, they hugged him, wished him luck for his next novel, as if nothing had happened, and bid farewell.

‘What the hell was that?’ Karan asked when his friends had gone.

Jhanvi switched on the TV. ‘What the hell was what, dear?’

‘Are you crazy? What’s with the kissing?’

‘Why, you didn’t like it?’ she asked, picking up the remote from the couch.

‘I would have, if we were alone. But in front of my friends? What has gotten into you? The worst thing is that you are not even drunk. How do you justify that behavior?’

‘Oh, come on. I don’t have to explain anything. Hey, come, sit. Die Hard is on.’

Karan stood with his arms akimbo. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Now, come on. Let’s watch the movie. By the way, could you get me a glass of wine for me, please?’

Karan threw up his hands in the air. There was no point in arguing. He slumped on the couch beside her.

A couple of minutes later Jhanvi switched off the TV, turned to him and said, ‘All right. I’m sorry. This won’t happen again, I promise.’

Before he could respond, she switched on the TV again, and stayed glued to the TV. Karan didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t.

***

Karan was upset, and he made sure he expressed it. Jhanvi went about behaving as if nothing had happened. Karan didn’t bring it up again.

Now, after three months, they had stuck to a routine. Karan wrote throughout the day, and met with Jhanvi in the evening. Everything came back to normal again. Or at least he thought so.

Karan wasn’t sure whether Jhanvi had always been like that, but lately he had started noticing her dressing sense. If she was dressed elegantly one day, she would dress up in rags on another day. The occasion didn’t matter to her. Sometimes, when they had planned to spend the evening at Karan’s house, she came wearing a Silk Sari; and when they had planned to go to a movie or a restaurant, she dressed up in her night dress – capris and an old, dirty top. She snubbed him every time he commented, and changed the topic.

Nothing she did made sense to him anymore. But then again, some days were delightful to him. Those were the days when Nischal and Akansha made some startling decisions for themselves, and thereby taking the story in an unconventional path. Everything that happened to Karan affected the story; not the content, but the voice and the mood. Although he was happy that the story was taking a good shape, he felt that somehow he was not in control. Some unknown entity was guiding the story, and not him.

Slowly, but steadily, the routine started changing. Jhanvi would call him in the morning, and ask him to meet her in a café or a bookshop. Scheduling his work for the evening, he would spend his day with her. Later on, he was compelled to spend his evenings with her too. Although he was uncomfortable with the disturbance, he went ahead with her plans, thinking it wouldn’t turn out to be regularity. But it did.

One day he made up his mind to talk it out with her, but before he could say anything, she admitted to being selfish, and left him alone. She neither called nor showed up at his place. He called her the next day, and they watched a movie together.

- 4 -

Crossword Book Store was filled with bibliophiles, and for a reason. Ruskin Bond was invited to the book releasing function: Renascence by Krishna Patil.

A few kids looked busy with Harry Potter, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys; some adults were trying to make friends with Archer, Rushdie, Ludlum, Puzo and the lot; and some were ambling around the bookshop, with their hands clasped behind their backs. The place was buzzing with words like Language, narration, voice, grammar, characters, twists, entertaining, boring, etc. In the midst of all this was a man who stood silently in front of a rack, going through his favourite passages from J D Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. No sooner had he closed the book and kept it back in the rack than he felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘Jhanvi!’

‘Am I late?’ she asked.

‘Actually you are early. We both are,’ said Karan as he put his arm around her waist.

‘Great. So Ruskin Bond is coming, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hey, look. Your friend’s here. Didn’t know he was coming.’

Karan waved at his friend.

‘Hey, Jhanvi, how are you?’

‘I’m beautiful. How are you, Rakesh?’

‘Ha. Can’t argue with that now, can I? Well, I guess I’m OK.’

Ruskin Bond made his entry as everyone greeted him with raucous cheers. The organizers and Krishna Patil, whose book was to be released, escorted him to the podium. Everyone on the podium took their seats. The programme began with an introductory note by the head of the organizing committee. It was to be followed by Ruskin Bond’s speech, and the unwrapping of the book. Finally, Karan would be called upon the podium to deliver a two-minute speech. It was Karan’s agent’s idea.

A few minutes later when Ruskin Bond took over the microphone, the bookstore suddenly grew silent. That silence could only have come from the respect the readers had for Bond. Everyone listened with rapt attention. He held the audience captive with his subtle humour and wit. There came a point during his speech when everyone broke into a prodigious peal of laughter. It was then that Karan felt a rush of blood to his cheek. He looked around, and noticed a few people staring at him. Rakesh had a bewildered expression on his face. Jhanvi crinkled her eyes, and flounced from the store. Karan and Rakesh followed suit.

‘Jhanvi!’ he called out as he jogged.

Jhanvi neither stopped nor responded. Karan was too confused to chase after her.

‘What was that all about?’ Rakesh asked him. ‘Why did she slap you like that?’

‘I have no bloody idea,’ said Karan, his voice rising with every word. ‘All I know is that I’m utterly humiliated.’

***

If Karan was honest about it, his attempts at forgetting Jhanvi’s misdemeanors turned out to be difficult. After deciding not to take refuge in alcohol – which, according to him, would have been silly – he tried to enter the colourful world of Charles Dickens. But that, too, turned out to be futile. Tossing the book on his writing table, he lay down on the bed. Sleep wouldn’t come either. He got up from the bed, switched on his computer, and ran the game, Call of Duty. Two minutes later, he exited, and ran Sniper Ghost Warrior. He couldn’t last thirty seconds with it. Goddamn it. He moved the cursor to start menu, and selected Shut Down. His phone rang when he was about press enter. He jumped out of the chair, happy to have been released from the captivity of confusing thoughts, and made a dash towards the hall.

‘Hello?’

‘How is the novel coming along, Karan?’

‘First draft is almost complete, Mark. Only the climax part is remaining. Six more months, and it should be ready to go.’

‘Hmm. All right.’

Screw Jhanvi. I have a story to finish. Placing the receiver back in the cradle, Karan went to his room, sat at his writing table, steered the cursor away from the Shut Down button, and opened the file named, Dusk. He glanced through the last paragraph, and began to write the concluding part of the novel. The denouement of the story lay not on his mind, but at his fingertips:

The city was throttled with cold wet chill. The people in the park went about their matutinal activities with flourish. Akansha and Nischal met in the joggers’ park like they had every day. But unlike most days that had been filled with laughter and happiness, a decision had to be taken today that would alter their lives forever. It would be agreeable if things in this world always finished with all the ends neatly tied up, but that is seldom the case. If Nischal and Akansha hadn’t agreed with this before, they did now…

Karan wrote for three hours, without being disturbed by his troubling thoughts. But then he knew in the back of his head that he’d have to deal with them later. Writing was his only sanctuary now.

He finished the first draft of the story with Akansha’s final words:

‘I’d read somewhere that every departure is the new beginning of a new meeting. I don’t know if this is true, Nischal, but let’s hope it isn’t. Instead of being together and dying everyday, let’s stay apart, and live with our memories.’ A tear trickled down her cheek. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Funny how things change in this world. There are no reasons, and no answers for the unasked, but obvious questions. In the end we are left with nothing but memories. That’s all we have now. Memories.’

Nischal opened his mouth to say something. Akansha put a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t, love. Don’t spoil it by saying it aloud.’ A jet of cold breeze hit them. Nischal shuddered. But Akansha knew it wasn’t because of the breeze. She moved into his arms, and he held her tightly. She lay in his arms for sometime, then pulled herself away. She looked at him one last time, kissed him on the cheek, turned round, and walked away, without looking back. Nischal didn’t take his eyes off her until she had completely disappeared from his sight, thereby his life.

For most of the joggers in the park, a beautiful day had just begun. The early rays of the Sun symbolized hope. But hope was blighted for two souls, for Dusk had arrived in their lives.

Karan saved the file, switched off the computer, put on his jacket, and wended his way out of the house. Two hours later he was sitting at the top of a hill.

- 5 -

Karan wasn’t a religious person, but Chamundi Hills was one of his favourite spots in Mysore. He went past the temple, and reached an empty spot, hidden behind rocks and bushes. He reached the edge of the hill, and sat down. With the whole world below him, he reviewed his past, or to be specific, his past six months.

Karan admitted that Jhanvi had given him some inspiration by questioning his intellect, by mocking at his stories, and sometimes, by openly encouraging him. Still, he never believed in the concept of a muse, saying it was a myth. But then, even if it was a myth, it was shattered, too. Was he in love with her? He wasn’t sure. At least not anymore. He was a practical man, and he couldn’t be in love with someone who disrespected him. Was she a friend? No. He had better women friends; and friends don’t slap you, especially not in front of others. Then what was she to him? He stared into emptiness for a few minutes. The Sun had set. Dusk. He laughed at the irony. He looked up to see the shimmering orange unevenly spread across the sky. The darkness was about to seize the dusk. It was in that moment of partial darkness that it hit him. Jhanvi was a bad habit, and he was addicted to her. Like cigarettes and alcohol, she sometimes acted like a tranquilizer. He needed her to question his abilities and challenge his emotional intelligence. But like any other bad habits, she, too, came with harmful side-effects. He had to quit her. Karan nodded, as if saying yes to his alter ego that had provided him with a plausible answer. No sooner had he got up than he heard a familiar voice:

‘It was not that hard to find you, you know.’

He swiveled round. Jhanvi stood in front of him with a sense of repose on her face. She was wearing a maroon sleeveless salwar suit - a gift from Karan.

‘You?’

A sudden gush of wind blew her hair. She brushed her curls delicately to the back of her ears. Karan had always loved to see her do it.

‘Whom were you expecting?’ Katrina Kaif?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Another silly question. Was it rhetorical? Never mind. I came looking for you.’

‘It’s over, Jhanvi,’ said Karan, putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

‘What is, Karan?’

‘Us.’

‘You are wrong.’

‘No. This story is over. The end.’

‘You are wrong again, Mr Writer. This is only the beginning.’

‘You must be crazy. Anyway, as I said, it’s over. You are just too much to handle. You are too unpredictable.’

‘Really, Karan? Unpredictability is the very essence of romanticism, didn’t you always used to say?’

‘Yes, but everything has a limit. And you crossed it. Kissing me in front of my friends, showing up in your night dress when we are going out, mocking me, ridiculing me, making fun of my writing, my stories. Once in a while it’s all OK. I can take harsh criticisms. No problem with that. But there has to be a reason for everything. Lately, your whims had become obstacles to my writing as well. And slapping? What was that all about? Have you any idea how humiliated I was?’ Karan said it all in a single breath.

‘I slapped you, because I felt like it.’

‘What?’ Karan almost screamed.

‘Yes,’ said Jhanvi, as calm as ever. ‘You are wrong, darling. Everything doesn’t need to have a reason. I don’t need reasons for the things I do.’

‘God, what the hell are you?’

‘To quote Oscar Wilde, “To define is to limit.” And I don’t have limits.’

Karan opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come out. He stood there, like a rock, staring at her.

Jhanvi continued, ‘Oh, come on now. Don’t be a sissy. Can’t you take a slap in the face now and then? I mean, what harm can come from that, huh?’

‘What harm can come from that? You slapped me in front of fifty people. One of them was my friend.’

‘Look, listen,’ Jhanvi spoke at length. ‘This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been. Right from the day I was born to this very moment. And trust me when I say this. I shall always be like this. It’s in my nature to do things that can’t be reasoned with. I am unpredictable way beyond your capacity to understand. It’s just the slap you’ve experienced till now. Someday I might even kick you in the gut or punch you in the face, when there are people around. If you are lucky, and if I’m in the right mood, I’ll do that when you are alone. So you’d better accept me for what I am. There is no other go for you.’

‘You are totally insane.’

‘Am I now?’ Jhanvi retorted. ‘Let me ask you something. Have you asked your mother about me?’

Karan knitted his brows. ‘Yes.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘That you were our neighbour.’

‘Did she confirm that? Does she remember a girl named Jhanvi?’

‘Not … exactly.’

Jhanvi shrugged her shoulders, and kept mum. Karan felt his heart beating faster. It took a few seconds for him to understand the implication.

‘Oh, my god. You are not real, are you? What the hell has happened to me? Am I hallucinating?’ He cried as he reeled back. Jhanvi stepped forward, and pulled him towards her.

She gave him a few seconds, and then said, ‘Relax, you moron. I’m not your imagination. You are not suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder either. We are not some characters in your story. This is real. I’m as real as I could be. Everything that’s happening right now is real.’ She paused, and then continued, ‘This is your problem. You always want your stories to come with twists in the end. They are not always necessary. Some stories are better off without twists and turns. And I can assure you, there is no twist in this story.’

Karan buried his head in his hands. Jhanvi went on. ‘Your mother clearly doesn’t remember me. That’s all. But I’m quite sure your friends know me well. You can ask them later.’

Karan didn’t respond. Jhanvi said, playfully, ‘See that? I got you for a minute, didn’t I? This is what I do. Mess with your head. Why? I don’t know. I just love to do it. It’s pure fun. Am I a sadist? Hell, yes, I am. Sometimes. So be a man, and deal with me. Don’t try to understand me, for you’ll definitely fail. Don’t try to change me, for you can’t. I love me. You’d better love me too. Take me for what I am, and you’ll be happy. And mind you, as you once admitted, I’m beautiful.’

Karan opened his mouth. Only a single word came out of it. ‘Bitch.’

Jhanvi smiled. ‘I am whatever you say I am.’

‘Jhanvi?’

‘Yes, honey?’

‘Get away from me.’

‘I can’t. And you have only two choices. Believe me.’

Karan tilted his head sideways, as if asking her to go on.

‘You are at the top of a hill. Look where you are standing. Look around you. You are just one step away from death, and one step away from me. Take a step back, and you’ll die. Take a step forward and embrace me, and you’ll live. Make your choice soon.’

A heavy drop of silence hung in the air. Jhanvi waited patiently. She had said everything she wanted to. A thin layer of darkness had started to hover above the city. Karan stood silently with his eyes shut as his whole life flashed before his eyes, especially the last six months. Starting School, getting bullied, beating up the bully sometime later, coming first in class, then failing in a subject, first crush, a slap from the teacher, friends, starting college, friends, girlfriend, breakup, reading hundreds of books, then falling in love with writing, falling in love with another girl, writing the first story, appreciation, getting obsessed with writing, ignoring girlfriend to spend time with authors and words, breakup, finishing college, starting the first novel, finishing it, getting rejected, finally finding a publisher, getting a pat on the back from Dad, getting a kiss on the cheek from Mom, moving to Mysore, living alone to write, novel not doing well, failure, confusion, chilly morning, coffee, girl in a bicycle, Jhanvi, the first words, ‘Whatever happened to chivalrous men?’

The following chapters of his story began to unfold in a lightening speed. And it was when the story came to a halt with Jhanvi’s final words did he understand that the end of his story was actually the beginning. Jhanvi was right. He was only a step away. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He had made his choice.

********************The End********************

P.S. Although it’s been a few weeks already, 2012 is still taking its baby steps. Hoping and believing it’s still new, I wish you all a Happy New Year!

Haunted - Review

2012-01-11T10:50:00.004+05:30

I enjoy reading all genres (except Romance), but action/thriller/mystery rules the roost. Ludlum, Forsyth. Sheldon, and the lot continue to keep me busy. I’m not complaining. I wonder how an author’s brain works. Imagining him sitting alone in a dingy room and working his way through the novel is itself fascinating, let alone reading the final draft. And when it’s an action/thriller, it’s much more exciting.

No doubt there are plenty of authors that write action/thrillers, but unfortunately, such genre authors are scarce in India. This was before Haunted happened; a rare gem by Douglas Misquita.

If I was a tad paranoid about picking up the novel, the blurb got my attention:

FBI Special Agent Kirk Ingram’s life is torn apart when his family is brutally murdered before his eyes. Devastated physically and psychologically, he vows to destroy organized crime in all forms.

Across the globe, an international trade houses brings terrorist activities and organized crime together in a deadly nexus that threatens to bring the world-order to the point of anarchy.

And only one man stands in the way of global terror and paranoia – one man seeking redemption, and waging a personal battle against the demons of his past …

The novel kicks off with a brilliant action scene, and before you know it twenty-five pages have flipped by. Pace is something I expect in a novel, and Haunted doesn’t disappoint. The story moves with a rattling speed. Mind you, it’s not easy to write a pacy story. Douglas Misquita scores in this department, and how!

The beginning reminded me of the movie, The Punisher: An FBI Agent’s family is massacred; he comes back and has his vengeance. But I was proved wrong as I read on. I was happy it changed its course. The following chapters are filled with car chases, terrorist activities, excellently choreographed action scenes, a few good twists and turns; my personal favourite: the underwater action scene.

The plot is a bit complex and demands your complete attention. With so many characters and parallel constructs, it tends to get a bit confusing. But wait till the end and everything is properly accounted for.

Although Haunted is one helluva fun ride, there are a few weak points; at least in my opinion. The first one being characterization. Kirk Ingram, no doubt, is a typical hero, but I couldn’t sympathize with his loss. Action scenes are vivid, but it would have been much better if equal importance was given to develop characters. One more grouse is the protagonist himself. After creating so much gravity for him in the first chapter, he doesn’t have much to do until half the book is over. I can understand the plot was being developed until then, but in a revenge saga (although not in a conventional way) like this, the protagonist should have been given more importance. Then, some of the action scenes, although well narrated, are clichéd; seemed straight out of Hollywood blockbusters.

That being said, Haunted is a welcome change. Douglas Misquita has certainly broken a barrier in Indian fiction writing. To my knowledge a novel of this kind is new in India. I’ve always enjoyed novels with multiple hues: too many things going on at the same time in different parts of the world and all the things linking with each other as the story moves forward, giving that nail-biting finish. To that extent it doesn’t disappoint.

Pick it up. You might be amused.

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Haunted, by Douglas Misquita

My rating: 3/5

Publisher: Leadstart Publishing Pvt Ltd

Number of pages: 372

Price: Rs. 350/-

Let me breathe

2011-11-13T22:55:00.003+05:30

Life. It’s one of those lousy words you keep hearing all the time that will practically make your life hell, if you know what I mean.

Existing has taken precedence over living, ‘follow your heart’ has become an overstatement, you talk about your passion and all you get back is a lecture on reality; you find ways to motivate yourself, you somehow deal with your frustration in your own way – by listening to music or with an intense workout session or by drinking that hot cup of coffee, whilst enjoying the nip of cool breeze or maybe by doing something utterly crazy; and just when you have started to think that you are in good shape, it all begins – ‘Look at him, look at her, why can’t you think and be like everyone, why don’t you just swim with the current, why don’t you go to temple, why don’t you believe in god, why do you take so many chances, why can’t you be pragmatic, what’s wrong with you, what’s your problem, what have you thought about your future, what are you thinking now, what are you going to do, why do you have to run so much, your legs are going to give away someday, be in your limits, when are you going to settle down …?’

Well, why can’t you just let me breathe, for heavens’ sake? I’m not trying to be different from the rest of the folk. I simply don’t care about what others do. Now just leave me alone, goddammit!

As if this is not enough, the world is rotting. Hell, yes, it is rotting in hell. People don’t have courtesy anymore, they don’t have manners, they’ve confused assholitude with attitude; those presumptuous bastards! Yet they have the audacity to point a finger at me and say that I ain’t good. But you know what the crazy thing is? They are right in their own way. That’s the way to live. Be a dissolute asshole and you are a cool guy. So listen to me you freaking pieces of shit, here I come. The ‘cool’ guy.

Some loser once said, ‘Manners maketh man.’ Bring him to me and I shall break his neck, for I committed the sin of believing in his words and paid for it. It ain’t true, what he said. Bad, uncouth guys are the cool ones these days. Even the super-duper hit Ra. One says that. No, seriously, trust me on this. You are not supposed to reply when someone sends you a text message, you are not supposed to call them back when they are trying to reach you; courtesy, anyone? Come again. What’s that word? Nope. It’s obsolete. You are absolutely right when you say you are busy. Some pathetic losers visit your blog and read your literary masterpiece and leave behind a comment. What next? You are not supposed to reply. It’s as simple as that. I mean, why should you? Those morons don’t have anything to do, right? They are worthless, they are miserable. You don’t have to acknowledge them. Really.

You should learn some profane words and brazenly use them. Why? Because it’s the in-thing, man. You shouldn’t hesitate even when there are elders or children or women around. You should learn to use the word ‘fuck’ in different ways; as a noun, adjective, adverb, etc. If you don’t learn this art, your English is no good, believe me. I have thus learnt it and learnt it well, you fucking freaks. Oh, wait a second. It feels good to use the word. It feels fucking good. There you go. A gerund.

You don’t have to know the meanings of words like joie de vivre, ebullience, blithe or entrance, but you should know how to use ‘fuck’ in each and every fucking sentence you use. It doesn’t matter if your grammar is bad, but you’d better know how to use ‘fuck’. Or else your ‘additude’ gets fucked up. Big time. Also, you should incorporate phrases like, “I was like, ‘oh, what the hell!”, “yes bro, no bro”, “howz you?”, etc. Mainly, the preposition ‘like’ is the new rule. Even facebook believes in it.

Talking of language, there is one more thing: never use your mother tongue when you want to get across with someone at, say, a kick-ass mall. If Kannada is your mother tongue, you’d better hide it and speak English. People may not respect you if you go about speaking Kannada. You then have a petit bourgeois mentality. You don’t believe me? I dare you. Go to some Café in Bengalooru and try.

Did you understand everything I said, you fucking assholes? And hey, get a tattoo. Tattoos have a history of their own. Tattoos, like perfumes, should reflect your personality. I don’t know which freak said it. But don’t you worry about it. Just get a tattoo, all right? Any design will do. Many film stars and rock stars have them, you know. That’s why you should also get them.

Do you understand, you freaking phoneys? Do it because everyone else is doing it. That’s the law. Support slut-walk, support tomato festival and support everything that’s western. Watch and encourage shows like Roadies and Big Boss and the lot, and learn how to be an asshole, for assholes and bitches are the new gentlemen and ladies. Did you get my drift? So, arise, awake! Stop not till you become an asshole!

I believe in every word I said. I have sworn to be like that. Maybe I already am. But if you think I’m not and yet to achieve the above standards, I promise you I’ll try my best to be one, soon. All I ask in return is one little thing: stay the fuck away from me and leave me alone. I don’t care about your success, I don’t care who your girlfriend is, I don’t care if you’ve bought a car, I don’t care if you’ve cleared some super-difficult exam; unless you are an important person in my life, I don’t care about anything that’s related to you.

I’ve lost interest in Cricket, I’ve no interest in reality shows, I rarely watch movies; for my world is something else, something beautiful, let me live in it. I don’t want to attend your parties and functions; so stop inviting me. I have no interest in your affairs, maintaining two girlfriends doesn’t make you a hero, so stop boasting about how and when you did them. I don’t give a rat’s ass.

For once let me live in the moment. Let me have my coffee, without your bugging about my life. Everyone has his own baggage and I have mine. For it’s heavy with lots of dreams and my creativity, it takes sometime for me to lift it. I’m not in a hurry. Let me travel, both inside and outside of me. Freedom is one of the easily available things in life, yet so costly. You have made it that way. Let me buy it for once. Get away from me. Get away from my world. Let me enjoy the silence around me, and if possible, the silence inside me. Let me run peacefully early in the morning, and while doing it let me try and grow wings, let me fly, leave me alone, let me breathe, let me live; let me live, while I’m still alive…

The Secret of the Nagas

2011-09-29T16:36:00.005+05:30

The Secret of the Nagas promptly takes off from the point where the story was stopped in The Immortals of Melluha. Sati, Shiva’s beloved wife, is attacked by one of the sinister Nagas. The novel begins with a fierce battle between Shiva and the Naga. As anyone would have guessed it, the Naga escapes, but not without giving Shiva enough reason to doubt the actual purpose of the Nagas.

Shiva is no longer the unsure nomad, but a confident man who completely realizes his responsibility. He’s now sure that the Chandravanshis are not evil, but people with different priorities. He has to avenge his friend Brahaspati’s murder, destroy evil and restore peace.

Shiva is happily married, Sati gives birth to a boy, Karthik; the uncomfortable romance between Anandmayi and Parvateshwar goes on blatantly, Ganesh is introduced and so is the facsimile character of Bappi Lahiri (yes, the ‘gold’en music director).

Along with all these interesting characters, Shiva’s journey into the world of Nagas and their kingdom begins. Now, the Nagas are all humans with physical abnormalities and have been abandoned by their own families. Their own place, Panchvati, is a guarded secret. Shiva soon realizes that the Nagas are not so serpentine and looks can be deceptive after all. However, there is a secret to be found.

Just like The Immortals of Melluha, this too has a few flaws. For example, after having listened to innumerable stories on Ganesha, Amish’s version doesn’t make much sense. Maybe to portray that character in a different manner was Amish’s intention, but one cannot connect with it.

Although the battle scenes are intricately explained, I couldn’t understand why Shiva had to “pirouette” all the time. Characters are “flabbergasted” whenever someone “whispers” something. It seems like the author simply loves to use these words again and again. If this is not it, the narrative gets too subjective sometimes. Instead of making the reader form his own opinion on the characters, setting, etc., the author himself thrusts his opinions on them, thereby making it too conspicuous. (“The buildings were superbly built”.) And what’s with the obsession with exclamation marks, I wonder. Sometimes there are two exclamation marks for the same phrase.

Nevertheless, the story gets interesting with each chapter. That’s the only savior. A subtle twist here and there, the pace with which the story moves forward and fine battle sequences make the novel strike a chord with the reader. But the (forced) twist that comes with the queen of Nagas is rather silly. It seemed like Amish desperately wanted to give a twist. But if these things can be overlooked, it’s definitely a good read.

All in all, it’s just a mediocre book. It doesn’t live up to the hype it has created. The idea is great, the imagination is marvelous, but everything is poorly executed. With all the action in a wonderland, there is so much scope to make it a compelling read. Unfortunately it’s presented in an ordinary way. It moves with rattling pace, though, and maybe that saves the day. At least it can be finished soon.

The novel again stops at a very interesting point, thereby infusing enough curiosity towards the final installment, The Oath of Vayuputras. I sincerely hope the author comes up with a rather amusing way to tell the story.

The Secret of the Nagas: The second book of the Shiva Trilogy

My Rating: 2/5

Publisher: Westland

Pages: 384

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This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Immortals of Meluha

2011-09-24T19:02:00.005+05:30

It’s been quite a while since I wanted to read this. Thanks to BlogAdda, I could finally do it. Everything related to the book – the impressive jacket, Lord Shiva as the central character, treating him as a mortal with flesh and blood – makes anyone eager to read it. Needless to say, I was one of them.

The novel sets the pace right from the first page. The protagonist, Shiva, is introduced in the very first sentence. By the end of the first chapter, you are already hooked beyond means. The story moves with a tremendous pace, the battle scenes are breathtakingly explained and ends with what feels like a tap on the head.

It is 1900 B.C. And Shiva is the chief of Gunas, a mountain tribe, which is always at loggerheads with another tribe, Prakritis. Nandi, a captain who is sent by King Daksha of Melluha, invites Shiva and his tribe to join them, promising that their land is much better than every other land in India. Fed up of Prakritis and their obstinacy, Shiva agrees to go to Melluha, the land of Suryavanshis.

On his arrival, Shiva and his tribe are given Somras, a sort of elixir, to decontaminate them. Shiva’s frost-bitten toe is fixed, his dislocated shoulder is fixed, and mainly, his throat turns blue in colour, making him the Neelkanth. Everyone is stunned. Reason: a legend that everybody believed in, has come true. Neelkanth, the lord who is not from Sapt Sindhu, will come and restore peace in Melluha by destroying the evil; the evil being the Chandravanshis in Swadeep.

He is soon taken to the King and introduced. The legend is explained to him. He is supposed to complete Lord Ram’s unfinished task. Although he doesn’t believe in any of this, he nevertheless goes with the flow.

The story from this point onwards goes on smoothly, with Shiva falling in love with Sati – the daughter of King Daksha, terrorists attacking Melluha and Shiva standing up to the people, marrying Sati, and up to the point where many innocent people get killed in one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in Mount Mandar. Finally, the war between Suryavanshis and Chandravanshis is on.

Imagination is one of the most important aspects for a writer. And Amish certainly deserves a round of applause for coming up with something very innovative. Imagining Shiva as an ordinary man with extraordinary physical and mental strength becoming God through his Karma, is splendid.

However, the novel is not without a few flaws. One of the major drawbacks is characterization. Although Shiva is the central character, I couldn’t care much about him and the legend that surrounds him. Characterization, I believe, is the backbone of a story. You neither feel sad when he is vulnerable nor feel happy when he battles the wrongdoers. None of the characters make an impact.

Some sequences are too filmy and flimsy. Till the end of the novel Shiva is praised and complimented by almost everyone, and every time he either blushes or shows too much modesty. The obvious is always spoken. Subtlety is what is missing. None of the characters miss the opportunity to praise him. They laugh at every PJ he cracks. They say “Brilliant” for everything he says. Creating gravity is fine, but where it should have been shown, it’s brazenly told. OK, he is The Neelkanth. We get that. But it seems like the author is forcing the reader to consider it seriously. This continues throughout the novel.

Thirdly, the dialogues. Listening to the dialogues, or perhaps reading them, I felt like I was reading the story of Shiva set in the present day. Apart from “My lord”, the rest all almost seem like college lingo. This is the reason it doesn’t transport the reader to 1900 B.C. The ambience of that time, that generation is not felt.

Although the novel doesn’t live up to the hype it has created, it’s still a good book written with love. Unfortunately, that love is too conspicuous. The narrative gets subjective, is what I mean.

There is, however, a subtle message in the story. The concluding chapter brings up many prominent questions. The answers, I believe, is left to us to figure out. It ends with a very interesting note. The subtle twist and the message in the end leave you yearning for more.

It’s certainly worth reading. It’s so much better than many other Indian novels that are hitting the market these days. Hope the sequel, The Secret of the Nagas, is as interesting as this one.

Immortals of Melluha: The first book of the Shiva Trilogy

My Rating: 2.5/5

Publisher: Westland

Pages: 397

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This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Chanakya's Chant

2011-08-11T16:15:00.010+05:30

I’ve been fascinated by Chanakya ever since the show was aired on Doordarshan. A saga of revenge, love, betrayal, politics – it is certainly one of the most inspiring stories of an inspiring personality. And when I heard about Ashwin Sanghi’s Chanaky’s Chant, I was eager to pick it up. Thanks to BlogAdda, I was able to read it soon enough.

The novel starts with a bang – Gangasagar Mishra, an old man lying on his hospital bed, is watching TV with bated breath. Chandni Gupta is being sworn in as the Eighteenth Prime Minister of India. As he watches on, Chandni, his protégé, is shot. Watching the scene unfold on television, Mishra starts chanting, “Aadi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarah Shakti, Namo Namah; Pritham Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.” And thus begins Chanakya’s Chant.

Soon the story elegantly shifts to 340 B.C. and we see a sordid and a dissolute King, Dhanananda, brutally murdering and punishing those who voice against his actions. One of those murdered men is Chanak.

Chanak’s son, now an orphan, vows to avenge his father. Born as Vishnugupta, he now calls himself as Chanakya – the son of Chanak, and hatches an impossible plan to overthrow Dhanananda and install Chandragupta Maurya on the throne. And thus begins Chanakya’s story. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Both the stories go in parallel. One is set in the present day, whereas the other takes place in 340 B.C. Gangasagar Mishra is the modern day Chanakya – a ruthless genius, who is hell bent on getting what he wants no matter what. Chandni Gupta, a girl he finds in a slum, is his protégé. And the ultimate goal: to make her the Prime Minister of India.

Although the setting is fantastic, it doesn’t retain the same intensity throughout. One of the proven, powerful techniques to write a fast-moving thriller is to take the story in a parallel fashion, merge them as they near the end and bring it to a shattering climax. Unfortunately, here, the stories never meet. They are treated as different stories altogether. Of course it is led to believe that they are connected in a subtle way, it is nevertheless uninspiring.

The story moves at a rattling speed, there are many bright moments to enjoy, the research done is impressive; but still there are simply too many clichés – sometimes too filmy – that take away the fun.

One of the main drawbacks is loose characterization. None of the characters – including the protagonists – are etched well. You won’t feel a thing when Chanakya’s father is murdered. It is treated as just another routine accident in a dull city. The scene where Chanakya vows to take revenge is slothfully presented. On the contrary, the modern day Chanakya, Pandit Gangasagar Mishra, is just the same. One simply can’t empathize with him. Whether it’s Chanakya or Mishra, one cannot care much about their strategies. I wish the author had taken more pain to make the characters come alive.

There is a particular sequence in the novel, where the Central Home Minister shoots a man in the head in front of several policemen and laymen. At some other point in the story, a plane is hijacked by terrorists. Flip a few pages and this is already over. Plane hijacking is not an ordinary issue. A whole novel can be written on it, and yet here, it is treated like a game of hide and seek.

Another negative aspect is that it is riddled with dialogues. No third-person narration, just dialogues. Maybe it is intended to be a dialogue oriented novel, I don’t know. But it didn’t work for me.

Although it has some negative points, it’s still worth reading once. There are a few instances where you simply can’t stop admiring Ashwin Sanghi. The political game is presented flawlessly, the dialogues are witty, the language is wonderful (although he could have done away with unnecessary cuss words – esp. while narrating the story of Chanakya in ancient Bharat), and mainly, as I said earlier, it’s pacy.

In the midst of so many awful novels that are hitting the bookshops these days– novels by authors that have clearly written more books than they have read – Sanghi’s Chanakya’s Chant certainly stands apart. Give it a shot. You might be pleasantly surprised.

My Rating: 2/5

Book: Chanakya’s Chant

Author: Ashwin Sanghi

Publisher: Westland

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This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Kaivalya

2011-07-18T21:02:00.009+05:30

Stories have always ruled my world. Right from my childhood. Whether it's fiction or a real incident, as long as someone narrates it in an interesting way, I am game. Nothing fascinates me more than a good story.

When I grew up and started reading novels, I entered into a whole new world – a world where I made a lot of new friends, a world in which I want to spend the rest of my life.

Talking of reading novels, thriller/mystery has always been my favourite genre. Although I enjoy other genres too, a good thriller on any given day works better. Nothing beats that. Romance is the only genre I don't prefer. And horror/paranormal is the only genre I wished to have read, but never could (for reasons unknown).

After watching the movie, The Shining, I cursed myself for not having read the novel first. However, that got me thinking. When it comes to Indian authors, there are of course superb storytellers like R. K. Narayan, Amitav Ghosh, Vikas Swarup, but there has never been an author who could make up for a thriller similar to Forsyth or Ludlum or King. Sure there are plenty of award winning writers like Adiga and Rushdie, but in my humble opinion, they are not as entertaining as Archer, Sheldon, Brown and the lot. (Ashwin Sanghi and Amish are exceptions, maybe. I haven’t read them yet. So can’t speak for them.) Genre authors are scarce in India. But this all changed when I picked up a brilliant novel called Kaivalya, by Sumana Khan.

Until Kaivalya happened, as I said earlier, I had never read a paranormal thriller. Set in the midst of lush forests of Sakleshpura, Karnataka, it starts off with a bang. Before you know it you are sucked mercilessly into deep forests and the mystery that unfolds there.

Kencha, a tribal, is found dead in the forest under strange circumstances. His body is branded with a mysterious message written in Halegannada, an ancient and defunct version of modern day Kannada. As Dhruv Kaveriappa, the Chief Conservator of Forests, starts investigating, it gets more and more complicated with each step he and his team take in the forest. Animals die for no reason. An ominous shadow hovers around the people. A vacationing tourist finds an ancient gold and diamond studded pendent in the forest. If you find all these things horrific, then wait till the woman wears the pendent …

Parallel to what is happening in and around the forest, a handsome man in his mid-twenties, Neel, starts experiencing strange things in his lavish penthouse in Bangalore.

The branded message on the tribal man written in Halegannada speaks of Vijayanagar Empire of the 1500s.

What is Kaivalya? Or perhaps who? What is Kaivalya’s story? What is the relation between Kaivalya’s story and the dreadful things that are happening now? How is the Vijayanagar era linked to the present day, i.e. 2005? (Yes, the story is set in 2005. There is a reason for it and you’ll know when you read it) If these things don’t stir your curiosity, then what will?

The two stories (one that is happening in Sakleshpura and the other in Bangalore) that seem unrelated to each other merge towards the end and bring the story to a shattering climax. The truth is far more terrifying than you could have imagined.

I have watched a lot of horror movies that provide a lot of good thrills. But can a book provide the same amount of goose bumps, I wondered. That was before I picked up Kaivalya. Sure it has a lot of scenes that will make you jump. And this is where Sumana Khan scores. Scaring the readers is not easy. For instance, a movie has a lot of things to offer – performance of the actors, a forbidding background music, camera angles, etc. But when it comes to a book of a similar genre, it’s a different ballgame altogether. You only have the power of your words to paint that scary picture.

As I read on, I could hear the screams of the victims, I could smell the foul smell that occupies the house and forest, an indication that something terrible is about to happen, or perhaps, that has already happened. I could even feel that menacing shadow hovering above me when I’d slept for a while after reading about 80 pages. That’s the effect the book will have on you.

Then again, it’s not a typical whodunit story. The twists come subtly, when you’ll be least expecting. The characters come alive beautifully. All are ordinary people going about their lives in an easy manner. But when the same ordinary people are thrown into an abyss of horror and mystery, when pitted against an impossible enemy, they don’t have any other option except to fight the battle in an extraordinary way.

Characterization is one of the most important aspects of storytelling. And Sumana Khan handles it expertly. There are plenty of characters and each one of them has an important role to play. None of them is sidelined. Be it Drhuv, the hero; his love interest, Tara, DSP Joshi, Dr. Bala and Dr. Nithya, Shivranjani and her husband Ravikanth, Inspector Rao, Neel and his friend VJ, Inspector Shakti, Arundhati and finally, a bewitching, cold-blooded villain, Matchu – one of the best negative characters I’ve ever come across. Brutal, handsome, a genius in his game. He’s certainly one of the highlights of the novel. Whether you are a man or a woman, you just can’t stop yourself from falling prey to his charms.

Each and every character will be etched in your memory. Although some of the characters are away from the main action scene, yet fighting their own battle, they are all interlinked and brought together in the end to fight the bigger enemy. As a reader and as a person with a lofty ambition of writing a novel someday, this, to me, was an important lesson in storytelling.

Right from the first page to the last, the pace never falters. It moves at a rattling speed. And when the climax hits you, you’ll be dumbfounded. The last paragraph or for that matter, the last line is like a kick in the gut. It takes sometime to come out of Kaivalya’s effect. This is how a good story should be. It shouldn’t leave you even after the last page is turned.

There are one or two weak points in the story though, but they are trivial and sure to go unnoticed. Not related to the main plot. For example, a character called Shivanna, (a close associate of the protagonist Dhruv), who is depicted like an important character in the beginning of the story, suddenly disappears. He never comes back into the story. Whatever happened to him is never revealed.

Anyway, in the midst of stupid novels with stupid names (Oh, Shit! Not Again, to name one) that are coming into the Indian market, Kaivalya is a welcome change. For one, no other Indian author (at least not to my knowledge) has tried this genre.

All in all, this is a brave book written for brave readers. Definitely not for the faint-hearted. If you enjoy horror / mystery / paranormal thrillers, then don't miss this.

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

You can order the book here.

The Girl in Orange Dress

2011-07-01T22:41:00.009+05:30

The following post is written for the topic, Take Flight with Colour; a contest on
Indiblogger, in association with HP Laserjet.

Contest Rule: Think of anything that is Black and White. A picture, a movie, etc. Now would you like that to be in color? Tell us why.

*********

A few years ago … well, I’m not going to tell you when exactly, for time is irrelevant here. The only things that matter are that specific moment when the picture was captured and the events that led up to that moment

If computers had not been invented, if technology had not been advanced, if there were no ATMs, then probably I’d never have met her. It was at the ATM that I saw her for the first time. As always I was with my three best friends. And she was alone, waiting for the person inside the ATM booth to come out. Standing with her arms folded and lips pursed, she looked out of place. After all she was standing in the midst of four hooligan boys.

It was a cold July. The rain had just stopped and a jet of cold breeze pricked us out of our senses. “I hate this season,” grunted one of my friends. I didn’t respond, as I was busy watching her. She brushed her curls to the back of her ears and stood silently. There was a delicious sense of repose on her face. The person inside the ATM booth was really taking a lot of time, the wind was chilly; but nothing irritated her. It was as if she was in a meditative state. If this wasn’t enough, she looked divine in her orange salwar suit.

It wasn’t love at first sight. I never believed in it. But still, for some reason I didn’t want to lose her. Some people say that it’s a small world we are living in and wherever we go, we keep bumping into each other. That’s utter nonsense. It’s a big world out there, all right. And when it comes to a beautiful girl, it’s a bigger world. You see a girl like that and you don’t talk to her immediately, she’s gone. You are never going to find her again. Co-incidences never occur. Not unless you are a hero in a movie. I knew I wasn’t. So I had to talk to her somehow.

Now what are you going to say to a girl you have just seen? If you don’t have any romantic thoughts about her, it’s easy. But what if you are mercilessly attracted to her? What’s your opening line going to be? I didn’t know. I decided to think. It was a mistake. If only I knew then that one should never think before approaching a girl!

You see, approaching a girl is like writing. You should never think. The first line, the first paragraph, or even the first chapter, should be written without thinking. Write what your hands write, is the rule. Thinking comes at a later stage, when you re-write those parts. Got to go with the flow. Got to be spontaneous. Go stand in front of her and whatever that comes out of your mouth is just fine. Even blurting out ‘Eureka, eureka!’ is fine. Maybe you can edit the lines later. But first say something, anything. If you talk to her, say something, there is always a 50-50 chance that she is going to respond positively. But if you don’t say anything, don’t make a move, then there is no hope at all. Unfortunately, I didn’t have this gyan then. I hadn’t started writing then. I kept mum and started thinking, or perhaps, started dreaming.

The man, who was busy printing money inside the ATM booth, finally emerged from there, grinning, as if he had got more money than he had asked for. The girl in orange dress went inside. I continued to float in my dream world as my friends continued with their nonsense talks. By the time she came out, I was having al fresco dinner with her in a fancy restaurant. She was in a magnificent red dress. With so many types of dresses that girls wear these days (leggings, handings, headings, etc.), I didn’t know what exactly she was wearing. Nonetheless she looked lovely. Her wavy light-brown hair was let loose; a winsome smile lingered on her face as she listened to my narrative. I don’t remember what I was saying, but whatever it was, she was completely immersed in it. I think my storytelling skills were just developing. Anyway, when I was having such a heavenly time, the waiter arrived and said in a gruff voice, “Don’t you have to draw money?” It was only then did I realize that it wasn’t the waiter, but my friend, Chandi. I was back at the ATM. The girl was gone. The dream was over. I was a loser.

“Where did she go?” I almost screamed.

“Who? The orange girl?” asked Gilly.

“Yes.”

“She’s gone, I think.”

“I know that, you moron. Where did she go?”

“She just drew money, right?” Praveena began, “If my analysis is right, she must have gone to buy a pair of sandals.”

“What?” They were really getting on my nerves.

“Yes.” Sherlock Praveena Holmes continued, “Didn’t you observe? She was in an orange dress, but her sandals were brown in colour. From the looks of her, she was going somewhere. A party, perhaps. So her dress and sandals should be matching-matching, no? She really wants to buy a pair of sandals that goes well with her dress, trust me. Girls and sandals go hand in hand, don’t you know?”

“Girls and sandals go hand in hand? Irony, that,” said Chandi as they all started to laugh. I’d have joined them too had it been a different girl.

“One thing is sure. She is definitely not from our college,” said Gilly.

I nodded. So did the other two. Our nods were with respect to a theory we firmly believed in: Girls in your college are never beautiful. And girls in your class are definitely, definitely not beautiful. There might be room for some argument when it comes to the former though. There are always exceptions. But it isn’t the case with the latter part of the theory. Definitely not. So when a boy goes out with a girl from his college (with exceptions), or worse, from his class (without exceptions), you can be sure that he has run out of patience. The lazy bugger is just not ready to look outside. Open your eyes, get out, explore the world, said the crazy four. That’s we.

Coming back, I was deeply disappointed to have lost the girl in orange dress. I hung my head and walked back, without drawing money. I thought I was never going to see her again. Luckily, I was wrong then.

I sat pillion as Praveena kick-started his bike. “By the way, she is not that beautiful,” he made a frivolous comment on the girl with whom I had had a dinner date, with whom I was planning to go to New Zealand, Switzerland, England, etc. I mean only countries, whose names end in ‘land’. You get the picture, right? But that filthy twit had the audacity to say that she wasn’t beautiful. Saying the girl in orange dress was not beautiful was like saying Cameron Diaz was beautiful. And those of you who say that Ms. Diaz is beautiful can go to hell. So, I had to teach him a lesson and make sure it didn’t happen again.

I got off the bike, kicked him in the gut, he screamed, the other two laughed, I sat pillion again, he muttered something as he shifted gear and we rode on.

I didn’t see her again for another two weeks.

***

It was August. It was cold. She was still missing. University Cultural fest had begun. We were on a roll.

We regularly took part in cultural programmes. Not because we wanted to win prizes and make our college proud, but because it was an opportunity to bunk classes – officially. We missed a lot of classes and still got the attendance. That means we had the cake and ate it too.

The fest was hosted by NMAM Institute of Technology, Nitte, Karnataka. The place was marvelous; the architecture of the college, exquisite. Rainy season in a coastal region, that brooding silence all over, wonderful friends for company, coffee and pretty girls everywhere – we were in a paradise. Only those who have spent some time in a coastal region in the rainy season will know what I am talking about.

It was slightly drizzling on the early morning of the first day. My friends and I had got up early and were headed towards the coffee shop. Unlike our college, where we only had a pathetic canteen that served awful coffee, here there was a separate coffee shop, along with a bakery and a canteen at different locations in the campus. As far as we were concerned, the basic necessities of life were not food, water and shelter; but food, coffee and food.

I didn’t mind the rain, I didn’t mind the cold; I only minded my camera, given to me by my uncle after many days of begging. A Nikon D40. On that memorable morning, I didn’t know that my camera would soon play an important role. I shifted my sling bag, which held my camera and walked on, rubbing my hands together. It was horribly cold.

We were about a hundred yards from the coffee shop when I noticed her. The girl in orange dress. Only this time she was in blue jeans, shoes and white woolen jacket. She was drinking coffee, holding the cup in both hands. Her friend said something in her ears. She almost spilled her coffee as she laughed. I was in a trance.

I had already stopped walking. My friends stopped walking too. They knew instantly. Chandi had already spotted her. Gilly was already yelling, “Girl from the ATM.” Praveena grinned and jogged my arm.

Without thinking further, without any preamble, I started walking towards her. My heartbeat was normal. Going and talking to her seemed like the most natural thing to do. I walked on with certitude. My friends followed me, slowly. After all, they needed some fodder for the day.

She and her friend were still giggling. I stood a few paces away from her. She didn’t notice me. It wasn’t surprising actually, for there were a lot of students around. I was just one among them.

I took a few steps and stood right in front of her. They stopped chatting and giggling as they looked at me. Before I could give them an impression of a psychopath by staring at them continuously, I said, “Hi.”

It was the safest way to start a conversation. They furrowed their brows.

“I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes,” I said, not knowing what I was going to say.

Her friend took a step back. I held her gaze and said, “No, no. Please stay. It’s OK. She doesn’t know me.”

The girl in blue jeans was looking at me curiously, with the same calm expression on her face I had noticed at the ATM.

I hopelessly searched for a hint of smile. Nope. No luck there. She took the last swig of her coffee, threw the paper cup in the nearby wastebasket, folded her arms and flashed her eyebrows, as if asking me to go on. Must admit, her confidence made me a bit nervous.

I started with a big smile, “You are from Davanagere too, aren’t you?”

She nodded. That’s it. Just a nod. No words.

I was still smiling. I actually believed that it was my James Bond smile, but seems like it wasn’t the case. It’s a big baby monkey’s smile, she would later tell me. OK, let’s not get there.

“From GMIT, I guess.”

“How do you know?” her friend asked.

“I’m from BIET and obviously you are not from my college. The only other engineering college left in our city is yours.”

“Right.”

The girl in jeans kept mum. I tried again, “OK, tell me something. You were at the PJ Extension ATM two weeks ago, weren’t you? In an orange dress?”

Her friend smiled. I could also feel my friends’ gaze on my back.

“Well, I could’ve been there. In fact I was there two days ago too. And the day before that. And the day before that.”

“Why, you think it’s a video game or something? With so many buttons and a touch screen, did you get confused? It’s ATM, my dear. Why can’t you draw enough money at once that would suffice for the whole week?”

“Huh?”

“All right, smarty,” I grinned from ear to ear as I continued, “Listen. Beating about the bush is not in my nature. So I am going to tell you directly. I saw you a fortnight ago and was kind of hoping that I could meet you once again. But then, I didn’t believe in co-incidences. Until now. When I saw you here today, I couldn’t stop myself from coming and talking to you.”

Though I was still a stranger to her, I could sense that she and her friend were quite comfortable in my presence.

She looked at her friend once and almost smiled. “So?”

“So I was wondering, would you like to have some Vodka with me sometime?”

“What?” Well, this time she did laugh.

I was still smiling sheepishly. I shrugged.

“Vodka?” she said and stood with her arms akimbo.

I copied her stance and answered, “You know, all great people say, ‘aim high, think big, dream big’. That way, if you aim for a Ferrari, even if you don’t get a Ferrari, you’ll at least get a Jaguar. But if you start off with Maruti 800, there is absolutely no hope. So I figured if I asked you to have Vodka with me, chances are that you’d at least have coffee with me.”

She threw her head back and laughed wholeheartedly. For a moment I was confused as to who was more beautiful. Her person or her laughter? I usually don’t like to have confusions, for I’d like to keep things simple. But now, I was enjoying those simple confusions. Life had never been simpler.

“What are you?” she asked.

Notice the question. It’s not ‘Who’ but ‘What’. Maybe she was still thinking that I was some silly clown, who was trying to flirt with her. I didn’t mind and answered her ‘what’ question as honestly as possible.

“Well, Senorita, to define is to limit.”

“Ah, Oscar Wilde.” She seemed impressed.

A few things were perfectly clear now. She was a reader. She was exceptionally beautiful. Totally my type.

“Yup. Oscar Wilde, it is. So tell me. Vodka?”

“No. No Vodka.”

“Great. Coffee then?”

Her thin eyebrows playfully danced over her sparkling eyes as she smoothed away a few wisps of hair. “What if I said ‘No’?”

“In that case, I shall have to ask you if you’d like to have a cigarette, or ganja, or gutka, or good old local tambaaku, or –,”

“Coffee is fine,” she said at last.

“Fantastic. Let’s meet here in the evening. Say, at five o’clock? After the programmes?”

“OK.”

“All right then. Have a lovely day ahead. See you in the evening,” I said as I turned to go.

“Oye, wait up, man,” it was her friend. She was kind of cute too. “You didn’t even tell us your name?”

“Yes, right,” ATM girl added, “You didn’t even ask me my name.”

“What’s the hurry? We’ll talk in the evening. In detail. And on the morrow. The day after that and the day after that.”

“If you didn’t tell me your name, I might feel compelled to treat you as a stranger.”

“Haven’t you heard? There are no strangers in this world; only friends who haven’t met,” I said with a wink and walked away.

***

I don’t remember what we performed that day, but I do remember one thing. That entire day and the days that followed, I only thought and dreamt about her.

Although she had said that she would meet me, I was still skeptical. I went to the coffee shop at 4.45 p.m. and waited. Needless to say, my friends waited along with me. She arrived at about 5.20. My hooligan friends introduced themselves and narrated the ATM incident, with some extra masala. She didn’t complain. Rather she thoroughly enjoyed the story. Then, they took her friend aside and started flirting with her. I was left alone with her. Thankfully.

That evening we talked. We talked for over an hour, until her bus arrived and picked her up. They had been given the accommodation in a nearby girls’ hostel.

It is, without a doubt, one of the best times I’ve ever had. At the end of the first day, I was almost in love.

***

The next two days followed smoothly. Coffee, laughter, fun and frolic; coffee, laughter, fun and frolic; followed by coffee, laughter, fun and frolic. Those are three of the most memorable days of my life. And with each passing minute, I was hopelessly, deeply, madly falling in love with her.

On the fourth day, i.e. the last day, she had worn the same orange dress. I don’t know whether she wanted to tease me or play a naughty game with me. But the moment I saw her was the moment I decided to tell her about my feelings.

All these days I had never given my camera to any of my friends. They didn’t complain as long as I took pictures of pretty girls they pointed their fingers at. It seemed like there was some tough competition between the memory of my camera and the girls in the campus.

Now the time had come to pass on the baton. I gave them the camera and asked them to take a few pictures of me and her – without her knowledge. I would show her later, of course. It’s just that I wanted the photograph to be as natural as possible. After warning them not to change any settings and just click the shutter button, I met with her at the coffee shop.

The campus was throttled with cold wet chill. I bought two cups of coffee and we started walking towards the basketball court. It was much calmer there. My friends greeted her, cracked a few stupid jokes and excused themselves, leaving us alone.

After talking for a few minutes, we went and sat on a nearby stone bench. The weather was cold and cloudy. The mood was warm. Coffee was hot. Even with so many students around, a blanket of idyllic quietness floated in the campus. We sat there in silence, enjoying the simple pleasures of life. None of us spoke for a long time.

There was a mild clap of thunder in the distance, an indication that it was about to rain. Then, as the first few drops of rain touched my skin, I turned to her, looked her in the eyes and proposed to her. She was startled beyond means. For a moment she thought I was joking, but soon realized that I was serious.

“Maybe you are thinking that this is all too early,” I began. “I understand that. Maybe it is early. Maybe I’m quite impetuous by nature. When I got up this morning, I didn’t have any plans to say all these. But the moment I saw you today, I realized that I had to say. Look, if not today, I’d have said it eventually. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week …”

And thus went my monologue for about five minutes. And then she spoke for about a few minutes. And then we both talked and discussed – for a long time. At one point of time during our conversation, her body was angled towards me; with her left hand tucked behind her right and her chin resting on her right palm as a beatific smile played on her lips. I, on the other hand, was enthusiastically telling her something with subtle hand gestures. If, at that moment, anyone had seen us from a short distance, he/she would have seen a beautiful girl in an orange dress, completely engrossed in an interesting conversation with a boy in lemon-yellow t-shirt and blue jeans, sitting next to her; with a cheerful setting in the background – green trees and plants dipped in mist and rain, a wet basketball court, a few boys and girls in colourful clothes, chatting and laughing. It would have made a grand, ethereal picture. As luck would have it, someone did see us at that particular moment. Gilly. And that, my friends, was the moment captured in my camera. Only I didn’t know then.

I came back to my friends when she was gone. I didn’t tell them that I had proposed to her. Gilly handed over the camera to me. And when I saw the picture, I almost yelled at the top of my voice, “What the hell is this?”

The photograph was in black-and-white. I looked at them, seething.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Gilly. “I didn’t change the settings. I just clicked. Ask Chandi. He’s the one who wanted to take pictures of those girls in black t-shirts. He’s the one who handled the camera before me.”

“What?” Chandi jumped in. “No. I swear on Pamela Anderson’s eyes, I didn’t change the settings.”

“Pam Anderson has eyes?” It was Praveena. “No one told me. I always thought…"

I ignored them and browsed through the photos. Except for the first few photos taken that morning, all the remaining ones were in black-and-white. Including the picture of me and her. To make things worse, they had taken only one picture of us. The rest of them were all girls.

Although I like black-and-white photographs, which exemplify nostalgia; I still wanted that particular picture in colour. The setting, the moment, the atmosphere, everything was impeccable. A colourful moment was discoloured by a stupid negligence. Maybe I could have taken another picture, but that magic could not have been recreated. The moment had passed.

Well, that’s all. I am not going to tell you what happened next. I am not going to tell you whether she accepted my proposal, whether she decided to remain as just friends, whether I accepted that, whether we kept in touch after that, whether we are still in touch, whether we are a couple now, or whether we even met after that day. All these are irrelevant. I’m not even going to show you that photograph. This too is irrelevant. There are two reasons for this. One, that picture is too sacred, too precious. Not to be shared easily. Two, a picture speaks a thousand words. And I prefer the thousand words.

But then again, what is relevant, what is important is the moment I spent with her that day. Even today when I hold that photograph in my hands and see, all those things flash in front of my eyes as if they happened an hour ago. The first time I saw her at the ATM, then in Nitte during the cultural fest, our first conversation and many such conversations in the following days. And finally, the last day, when I proposed to her; that particular moment on the stone bench when she sat next to me, listening and talking and laughing …

As Baba Will Smith said in Hitch, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but the moments that take our breath away.”

It was one such magical moment indeed. A moment captured in black-and-white. Every time I remember those days, those blissful moments, I can only imagine her in that orange dress. But unfortunately, the girl in orange dress was now in black-and-white.

I wish that picture was in colour. I wish I could change things. I wish I could go back in time. I wish …

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

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Artistic Freedom?

2011-06-12T09:22:00.006+05:30

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect few to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. ~ Oscar Wilde

Going by the above quote, or going by your own ethical standards (irrespective of your religion), what kind of beauty do you see in the nude pictures of Hindu Goddesses painted by M. F. Hussain? Or are you one of those who 'try' to find beautiful meanings in ugly things? Irony, eh?

I wouldn’t have bothered to write about this had it not been for some 'intellectuals' going gaga over M. F. Hussain’s 'artistic freedom' and crying as to how he was humiliated in his own country. He was forced to leave the country and for a valid reason.

I don’t believe in superpower. I don’t believe that there is someone else above my parents. In this regard, I’m an atheist. But it doesn’t mean I don’t go to temples along with my mother when she wants me to. It doesn’t mean I don’t take part in Poojas and festivals. It doesn’t mean I don’t belong to a religion. I do. I am a Hindu – who enjoys listening to the stories of Gods and Goddesses, and believes that there is something good to learn from them. I do have immense respect towards those teachings, towards those who believe them and pray without asking anything in return. It’s just that I don’t believe that I have to please someone I don’t see (or feel) to get things done. It’s irrational to me.

Stories have always ruled my world (they still continue to do so). It began with my mother. I never went to sleep without a story. Gods and Goddesses, Ramayana and Mahabharatha – that’s all Mother India chose to tell me about when I was little. And I enjoyed them to the core.

As I grew up my convictions about an external influence began to falter. Bhagavad Gita says that one should first believe in himself. I believed in that. In the midst of these doubts and confusions and arguments (with my mother and also with me), my respect for the mythological stories and what they had to offer to us never deteriorated. When I go to a temple and see the deity, Saraswati or Lakshmi or Hanuman or any God that is beautifully adorned with festoons of flowers, vermilion, turmeric, tulsi leaves, etc., I automatically join hands. I, like most Hindus, have grown up with this culture. I am used to it.

‘Mother’ is the most beautiful, most sacred and the most powerful word. No matter what language the term is associated with – Maa, Amma, Mummy – the feeling behind it is same. That’s why Goddesses like Lakshmi, Saraswati, Durga, Kali are prefixed with Maa or Amma. And when a person, who doesn’t know anything about these sentiments, about the culture, paints these Goddesses in the nude, in the name of artistic freedom, how can it be tolerated? When I’m used to seeing these Goddesses clad in beautiful saris, how can I tolerate when they are painted in the nude? Artists have always painted nude women, but they were just common, unknown women, and not Goddesses. But M. F. Hussain did the exact opposite.

Goddess Durga is shown copulating with a lion/tiger, a nude Sita is sitting on the thigh of Ravan, while a nude Hanuman is trying to attack Ravan; then a nude Sita is sitting on the tail of Hanuman; a nude Hanuman with his genitals pointing towards a woman, a nude Lakshmi sitting on an elephant, a nude Saraswati playing Veena, a nude Parvati, and finally, a nude Bharat Mata. These are M. F. Hussain’s so-called artistic works.

It wouldn’t have been termed as blasphemy (maybe a pervert mind’s output) had he just mentioned them as common women, but he had the audacity to mention their proper names. Is doing whatever one wants is freedom of expression?

If painting Hindu Goddesses in the nude is indeed artistic freedom, as some say and believe, then why didn’t he paint his own mother and daughter that way? Why did he choose to dress them up when he painted them? Double standards? Maybe it’s inappropriate to say this, but nonetheless this point does come up. To hell with being inappropriate, this point should be brought up.

There is another painting where a nude Brahmin is standing next to a fully clad Muslim King. Why not paint both in the nude? Didn’t his artistic freedom allow him to do that? Wonder how the people of Qatar (and Muslim people in India) would have reacted if he had painted a nude woman and given the name, Fatima or Nasreena! Maybe it’s easy for him to play with the sentiments of other people.

Page 3 darlings cried at the top of their voices when he was forced to leave the country. They did it again when he passed away, saying that he wasn’t understood in his own country, that people didn’t know what artistic freedom meant, that they didn’t have respect for an artist’s freedom of expression. They continue by saying that although he yearned to return to India, he was forced to stay away. Without an option, he accepted the nationality of Qatar – a Muslim country. Now, would the people of Qatar have kept quiet if he had painted some Muslim prophet in the nude?

In the early nineties, in the children’s section of The Hindu, a cartoon picture of a Muslim prophet had been published. In that cartoon strip, the prophet was found teaching some lessons from Koran. It was all done in good faith, to teach children some valuable lessons in the form of a cartoon strip. That is all. A public outcry broke out in the country for showing the prophet as a cartoon character. The Newsstands that sold copies of The Hindu were burned down. Goons rushed into the office of The Hindu. A threat to raise the issue in the Parliament through a Private Members Bill was held out. The very next day the newspaper published an apology letter in the front page. Ironically, the editor of The Hindu, N. Ram supported M. F. Hussain, saying that the latter was an artist and was free to imagine things (read Hindu Gods and Goddesses) in anyway he wanted. Talk about secularism!

Those who support him bring up the question, “Khajuraho sculptures also depict sex. When that is acceptable, then why not Hussain’s paintings?” That’s because those are just sculptures of ordinary men and women. They are not labeled as Durga, Saraswati, etc. like Hussain did. Those were the times when electricity was not invented, let alone computer or Internet. So people could not have visited any porn sites. No Raginis and their MMSs. Some sculptors chose to sculpt their fantasies. Maybe Khajuraho sculptures have deep meaning, I don’t know. But what I do know is that they are not the sculptures of any Gods and Goddesses.

Agreed Indians gave Kamasutra to the world, but then again, imagining a nude woman is totally different from imagining one’s own mother or sister in the nude, isn’t it? Only people with pervert minds are capable of imagining like that. What kind of sick comparison is that anyway? Comparing Khajuraho to Hussain’s nude paintings of Goddesses?

Apart from these, his paintings range from a woman copulating with a bull, a horse and other animals. How is this art? Oh, no, wait. This is modern art, eh? Anyway …

Almost every Hindu family’s Pooja room is adorned with those famous portraits of Saraswati and Lakshmi. Saraswati, clad in an elegant white sari, is sitting on a small rock and playing Veena; whereas Lakshmi, clad in an orange sari, is standing on a Lotus flower in a small pond, with a few elephants and swans playing in the background. These are painted by Ravi Varma, one of the most profound artists. Now after seeing these portraits regularly, try and have a look at the so-called Indian Picaso’s nude paintings of the Goddesses. If your stomach still doesn’t churn, then maybe you are having some serious mental problems.

Art should inspire people. It should never hurt anybody. It should drive people towards betterment. An artist should create things, beautiful things. In that process of creation, he transforms himself into someone more than a mere mortal. Creating something new, something that doesn’t exist is not easy. It requires tremendous hard work coupled with an incredible imagination. An artist calls upon his creative faculty and creates a world of his own. Ordinary mortals are mercilessly sucked into that world and are not allowed to get back to reality that easily. This is the power that an artist holds. But it becomes ugly when he creates a despicable thing in the name of creative liberty and conveniently tries to convince people that it is art, that it is beautiful, that it is creativity. Some people that cannot think from their own brains believe him; some can’t differentiate between right and wrong, and end up supporting the famous names in the society (thanks to media); only a few stick to their convictions and know exactly which art is and which isn’t.

He is no more and as I said earlier, I’d not have bothered to write this, but some people don’t seem to shut up. According to them it’s the people that were hurt by his atrocities drove him away from the country, thereby making India suffer a great loss of a great artist. According to these connoisseurs, those who complain about his ‘modern’ art are the ones with bourgeois mentality; and the ones who admire his nude art are the elite. Morons, I say.

Sure he has contributed a lot to the world of art and has been one of the prominent artists who made other countries crane their necks towards our country, but sadly, whenever I (and many like me) remember him, only those ugly paintings flash before my eyes.

Doing whatever you like is not freedom. But doing whatever you like, provided it doesn’t cause any problems to others, doesn’t hurt anybody – that is freedom.

May his soul rest in peace.

***

Here are the links to Ravi Varma and BKS Varma’s paintings:

1. http://www.cyberkerala.com/rajaravivarma/

2. http://bksvarma.com/

And here is the link to M. F. Hussain’s version of Hindu Goddesses:

http://www.metrojoint.com/photo_view.php?userid=5&aid=119985

Beauty, Perfection and the Brand Ambassadors that represent them

2011-05-31T18:00:00.012+05:30

The following post is written for Indiblogger's competition, for the topic, What does real beauty mean to you?

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Passion.

One word that defines the true character of a man, one thing that tells whether he is really living or simply pushing time, one yardstick to fathom his ideas and ideals, and thereby his true identity; the one thing that moves the world towards betterment.

The most beautiful smiles are often priceless, as they are not easy to come by. Sometimes it takes years of hard work, mostly driven by one single entity – an unalloyed passion, towards one’s work of art.

It’s been said that basically every work is just a craft in the beginning. But it takes an art form when it’s driven by a raw passion; be it music, painting, sports, writing or even a simple clerical job at a bank. Maybe the latter cannot be termed as art in a conventional way, but it becomes a sort of subsidiary of art, when a person does it with tremendous passion.

To start with an example, I consider my mother to be the most beautiful woman on earth. No competition there. But she looks something superior to the used adjective, when I see her working (she is a special assistant in a bank). The glow on her face when she is typing numbers and names on the computer with rattling speed, or when she is interacting with the customers, is divine, is magical. And that, to me, is beauty. More than twenty years of service, and she still has the enthusiasm of a newly recruited 20-something employee. Not one single complaint about her job till now. Reason: she loves her job to the core.

Same is the case with my father. Both being bank employees, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing my parents go about their jobs, with love. I vividly remember the days when I, as a little boy, used to prance around in the bank. They simply love what they do. Although I didn’t understand these things then, and thought everybody went about their jobs in a similar fashion. But it was only when I grew up did I notice the difference. Some of their colleagues were/are way too rude with customers, and they often whine.

A person’s face when encapsulated by that magical glow and raw intense force while he is doing something that he loves and enjoys the most, is beauty. One look at him and you’ll understand that nothing in this world is more important than what he is doing at the present moment, irrespective of the standards of the job as set by some ordinary and presumptuous minds of the society. Whether he’s a cricketer, musician, writer, cobbler, or an engineer – doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is how much he loves doing it, how passionate he is about it and finally, how well he does it. And watching him do his work, with all his sense organs focused on only one thing – that’s the most beautiful sight on earth to me. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can beat that.

***

Very recently, while walking down the street with a friend, I slipped and fell at the expense of a torn sandal. There was a cobbler nearby, sitting in his tiny wooden shop. Charma Kuteera, the name of the shop said. Apparently that’s the name given to every such shop in my city. Must be some rule. Anyway, I went to him and gave the torn sandal. He went about his stitching, while I stood with my friend and watched him fix my sandal. It was ready within a few minutes. I paid the money and went my way.

Few weeks later, a similar thing happened with my friend and we went to another cobbler. It was only now that I noticed the difference. Unlike the previous one, this person started working as if it was the most supreme thing in the world. His concentration, total. The look on his face, sublime. I’m sure I saw a smile on his face when he was done with it. Mending shoes is the most beautiful thing to him, and to me, watching him do it was beautiful.

Ever wondered why we find babies and kids charming and gorgeous? It’s not only because of their tiny bodies and baby smell they carry around, but mainly because whatever they do, they do it with interest. Nothing is unimportant to them. Everything is magical. That inquisitiveness is what drives them. Unfortunately, as they grow up, that curiosity dies down. That passion is lost somewhere. Everything becomes routine. Do it because you have to do, not because you love it, is the unspoken statement. But a few people retain that passion. Unlike kids that are curious about every little thing around them, these men and women retain that curiosity towards one specific thing of their liking. And that specific thing becomes their world, it surrounds them completely, they become obsessed, they can’t talk and think about anything else except that. That’s what passion does to a man. It drives them crazy, and it’s inspiring.

And when I see such people immersed in their work, enjoying every second, I revel in it, I get inspired. Observe their faces when they talk about the work they love doing, and you’ll find a divine radiance there. That sight, to me, is delicious.

***

When Sachin Tendulkar plays that marvelous straight drive, he doesn’t change his stance for a few seconds. He just stands there, without moving a muscle, and watches the ball. Or when Rahul Dravid plays that magnificent square cut. Oh, boy. How much I love to see it again and again. They don’t jump up and down with joy, and their faces look as intense as ever. But one can easily see these men enjoying every moment of it. Although Saina Nehwal is pretty, she looks her best when she is playing. Skimming the sweat off her face, getting ready for the next serve, playing her backhand and forehand strokes with incredible brilliance – all accentuated by that winner’s attitude and winning smile in the end; that is lovely.

Though these men and women look tired while performing, one can see a beatific sense of repose on their faces.

I can give hundreds of such examples where I see beauty in its purest sense. Musicians, painters, sportsmen, photographers, writers, engineers, architects, doctors, a tea shop owner at my place (whose shop is elegantly named, Tea Lounge), a mechanic where I get my bike serviced and many others – all these people worship what they do.

I recently watched the latest Royal Enfield commercial. If ‘Show, don’t tell’ is the golden rule of storytelling, then the ad maker, who made that commercial knows how to tell a story. Here, the story of Royal Enfield. It’s a very simple ad, with no dialogues, no glamour and no big stars. A regular middleclass man gets ready for work in the morning, with a kiss from his little daughter. He then kick-starts his bike – Royal Enfield Bullet 350 – and moves on. The bike itself is not shown from stylish angles. It’s just another bike there, but as the ad continues, with a mellifluous piece of music playing in the background, you’ll realize that the bike symbolizes attitude. The man rides slowly through the narrow lanes of Chennai and reaches his workplace – Royal Enfield factory. At the end, an old man – probably the chairman – stands behind a basic model of Bullet as three words flash on the screen. ‘Handcrafted in Chennai.’

When they say, ‘Handcrafted in Chennai,’ they mean it. The finishing touch, those royal, radium-yellow lines on the fuel tank, is actually painted by a man, and not a machine. It’s not some graphic design either. That’s the signature of Royal Enfield. How he does it can be seen on YouTube. Seeing him paint it, without any kind of ruler or compass, is just fantastic. The only tool he uses is passion.

I experience the same heavenly feeling when I see the mechanic, working on my bike. I ask him to do a simple, regular service, but he doesn’t get satisfied until he breaks my bike into a hundred pieces and checks every part. Sitting in his garage and watching him fix my bike is terrific. His hands and clothes are all greased, his hair all rumpled, his face sweaty because of the scorching heat outside; but he looks immensely calm. He is at peace with himself.

I don’t mean to exaggerate on this, but here’s another fact. Everyday a young boy, who looks my age, comes to pick up the garbage. He’s one of the people appointed by the city municipality. Just like everyone, he’s given a particular area, from where he has to collect the garbage. He comes at about seven or seven-thirty in the morning and shouts ‘Amma’, at the top of his voice. One of us, usually my granny, goes and gives him the garbage bin. He empties it in what looks like a small pushcart and gives the bin back. That’s his job. I’ve seen many guys like him. But unlike others, he doesn’t cringe when the residents don’t answer to him immediately. He always has earphones plugged in, keeps murmuring a song until somebody shows up with the bin. Once it’s done, he moves on, singing to himself. One look at him and you’ll realize that he has no complaints about his job whatsoever. Sometimes, having woken up in a bad mood, I go out to answer his call and see him going about his job. He takes the garbage bin from my hand, all the while murmuring a song. He looks so happy. And looking at him is so inspiring. If this is not beauty, then what is?

***

Some say that watching sunrise/sunset is one of the most beautiful sights on earth. Maybe it’s true. I enjoy it too. It’s certainly beautiful. But once in a while a crazy photographer comes along, stands beside me and starts clicking. Everything changes at that moment. The definition of the word ‘beautiful’ changes for me. Watching that photographer play with his camera, who is trying to make the beautiful sunset more beautiful, is absolutely delightful to me. If indeed the beauty of nature is divine, if it is perfection, then an obsessed, passionate photographer improves upon that perfection – thereby proving that perfection exists in this world. What we can’t see with our naked eyes, is shown splendidly through the eyes of his camera. Showing an already beautiful thing in a more beautiful and innovative way is not easy. That’s creativity, that’s genius … that’s beauty.

One of my friends, who talks about nothing but photography most of the time, is crazy about that art of freezing time. We meet almost everyday and discuss about the most inane things. But when the topic of photography comes up, an unfathomable force takes over him. He just can’t break free from it. And that force is nothing but sheer passion. The glow that comes on his face then, is angelic. It’s similar to the glow I see on Jeffrey Archer’s face when I see and hear him talk about his writing.

***

A very long time back I had an opportunity to watch Rahul Dravid practice in the nets in Chinnaswami Stadium, Bangalore. It was quite early in the morning. Being an ardent fan, I was naturally excited. But when I saw him up close, hitting the balls furiously as they came, he was not Rahul Dravid, the star cricketer. He was a man possessed; a man obsessed; a man crazy about his game. Until then I had only watched him play in real matches. But when I watched him practice, it was totally something else. It was godly. Watching that process of perfecting one’s craft is nothing but beauty of the highest possible order.

Mostly we get to watch and enjoy the end game, but should I get to watch them practice, trying to hone their skills to perfection, it’d be one of the best times of my life. But these things are rare, they are sacred. We don’t usually have that pleasure. A painter painting, a musician composing, an architect planning his building, a scientist experimenting, etc. – all in the privacy of their room, their personal space, untouched and unseen by any external entity.

Of all the people, authors (novelists, mainly) inspire me the most. I’d give anything in the world to watch a great writer working on his manuscript, silently writing and re-writing, editing, in the privacy of his den. I’d just want to sit there and watch him. That would be the best. But then again, it would be witnessing beauty, although I don’t mind it, at the expense of a crime: Sacrilege.

These men and women, these men and women driven by raw passion towards their art, their work, are the people that not only love what they do, but also make love to it. And watching them do it, watching them ensconced in their place of worship and executing their jobs with finesse, is inspiring. This, to me, is real beauty.

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Manasvi

2011-05-19T21:36:00.000+05:30

I was happy in my own world, living my own life, playing with my best group of friends; cricket, football, riding bicycles, climbing trees, wrestling in the mud, swimming in the lake. It was the time (probably it still is) when we hadn’t heard about a dirty word called,’cleanliness’. Apart from our school uniforms (which looked OK only in the morning) we wore brown clothes all the time, or perhaps they looked brown, no matter what their original colours were.

We were playing hide and seek when she moved into our neighbourhood, along with her humpy-dumpty-looking parents. It was then the confusion started. It was then that so many questions cropped up in my head. Dressed in white frock and white shoes, she looked so clean and out of place. How anyone can be so clean, I wondered. When the workers started unloading the furniture from the truck, Mr. Humpty-Dumpty picked her up and walked towards their house. I frowned. When my mother came outside and stood beside me, I asked, “Is that an angel?” It was a serious question. My mother laughed, “Why don’t you ask her whether she is one?” I never did.

How could a 6-year-old boy ask that? Let me rephrase that question. How could a boy of any age ask that? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He shouldn’t. Some questions are never meant to be asked or answered. Else, the magic will be lost. And she was magical.

***

She was not seen for the next two days; although we played cricket right in front of her house to get a glimpse of her. Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty called us in. We threw our bats and ball, and ran inside. We sat on the sofa with a ‘thump’ as angel’s mother brought us orange juice. Our eyes swept the house as we drank, producing all sorts of creative sounds. One of my friends even rinsed his mouth with a gurgling sound.

“Manasvi has gone out with her father,” Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty said.

We were four boys in all and everyone chanted the name one after the other, as if the name was a difficult poem. Years later I would realize that she was indeed a poem. Difficult, yes. But also lovely. Manasvi, Manasvi, Manasvi, Manasvi … The name had a beautiful ring to it. Sitting in her house that day, drinking juice, I didn’t know that I would be chanting her name for the rest of my life.

***

The next day when I saw her in my class, my happiness knew no bounds. I kept grinning and the girl who was sitting beside me kept staring at me. “I know that girl. Her house is nearby our house,” I said, as if she was a celebrity. The girl didn’t respond. And I didn’t care.

After our class prayer, our class-teacher called the new girl and introduced her to the whole class. Manasvi stood there and surveyed the class. For some reason I’ve never found Barbie Dolls cute, but if the makers of those dolls had seen Manasvi that day they would have agreed with me too, for all the dolls looked pale in comparison to her. Her uniform – blue and white chequered shirt, blue skirt, black shoes and white socks – was spotless. Her hair was neatly combed and two pony tails were tied with blue ribbons; not a strand of hair was out of place. Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty had taken good care of her.

Her sparkling eyes surveyed the whole class as I tried to look bigger by sitting straight. A moment later our class-teacher sent her back to her place. I scowled. Years later when I asked her whether she noticed me in the class that day, she said, flatly, “I don’t even remember my first day.” Splendid.

I could never talk to her in my primary school days. Though she lived nearby (she still does), went to the same school in the same school bus, studied in the same section, I could never make friends with her. All those monkey tactics I tried to impress her and get her attention never worked: deliberately playing in front of her house, falling down and bruising my legs, smiling when it hurt like hell. Nothing worked. Now when I recently asked her about it, she said, sadly, “I was jealous of all the boys. I wanted to play cricket and football too, but my mother never allowed me. So, no. I was busy imagining as to how I would’ve played when I stood behind the gate like a prisoner.” I silently thanked Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty, for I preferred a girl who was girlie; not a tomboy.

I was in 10^th standard when I talked to her for the first time. I had practiced it for five days and when the D-day arrived, I delivered the line with utmost honesty and confidence: “How is your preparation for the exams?” And she sweetly replied, “Good.” And that was the most beautiful word I’d ever heard until then. Well, it was a start.

Manasvi had become quite popular already; dancing, singing, et al. And the competition to get her attention was fierce. As the exams were coming up, I couldn’t think much about it. But there was improvement finally. It was the day of our first exam. We were going through our books during the final moments. She passed in front of me, looking down at her book. “Hey Manasvi,” I called out. She looked up and raised her eyebrows, her lips still moving.

“Studied well?” I asked.

“Yes. You?”

Ah. She asked me something. Finally. Looking back, I don’t know whether my answer would have meant anything, but I am an eternal optimist, you see. So I really thought she was interested to know.

“Yes. Kind of.”

“Kind of? It’s our board exam, for heavens’ sake,” she laughed.

Let me not describe how she looked when she laughed and how I felt about it, for I’m afraid I’m going to bore you to death. On second thoughts, I don’t care. So listen. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her laugh. But it certainly was the first time in front of me, in response to my answer. We had our English exam that day, and W.B. Yeats, P. B. Shelley and many others’ poems were being learned by heart, ferociously, without understanding what they actually meant. Our English teacher had repeatedly said, ‘Understand the poems properly. Only then you’ll be able to enjoy them.’ None of the students seemed to have grasped it. I was the only exception – to a certain extent. When others were reading and reciting poems, I was literally seeing one in front of me. I do not know whether I understood it (I still don’t know whether I do), but I thoroughly enjoyed its beauty.

I was lost. She said when I didn’t reply, “All right. You seem to be tensed. Good luck, Sawant.”

“Huh? Oh, yes, thank you. You too.”

Do I really have such a good name or is it just that it sounded good because she said it, I asked myself. And I still don’t know the answer. Though I strongly feel it’s the latter. Well, I think it is the latter. Wait a second. I think? No, it is the latter.

***

When the results came, I had scored more than she. I didn’t know it until she said it.

“Congratulations.”

“What for?”

“You’ve scored well. You’ve scored more than I. Damn it. How did it happen?” she said in mock anger.

“Maybe because you wished me before exams.” I swear I wasn’t flirting.

She laughed, wholeheartedly. “That’s very sweet of you.”

***

School days were over. But that didn’t bother me much, for I was looking forward to my new life ahead. I was sad about only one thing: Manasvi would not be there. Luckily, I was wrong. She had taken admission in the same Pre University College as I. Boy, was I happy that day!

I had taken Biology and I was interested in only Anatomy. But my specimen had chosen Statistics. Whatever for, I didn’t know.

Two years passed in a jiffy; tensions, headaches, worries – about board exams, CETs, etc. I sometimes wonder; from the day we are born, we are made to think in only one direction. Work hard to get good grades; work hard to get good grades in 10^th standard, work hard to get good percentage in plus two, which will land you in a good college; work hard to get good percentage in college, work hard to get a good job, work hard to get a promotion, work hard to get a salary hike, work hard to get a good wife, work hard to make children, work hard to make your children work hard, work hard to get them into good colleges, work hard to die peacefully. So basically you only live to die. Is that it? Monday blues on Mondays and TGIF on Fridays. Aren’t we supposed to do something that doesn’t require hard work but lots of love and smart work? Aren’t we supposed to do something where Monday blues and TGIF do not exist? But every day of the week is pure fun?

My mind was wavering, trying to find answers to all these questions. I was also aware that nobody was going to ask me these questions. Everyone would ask only one question: how much did you score?

In the midst of all these ‘mental’ problems if there was one thing that kept my sanity, it was certainly Manasvi’s presence. Unfortunately I could never talk to her much in those two years and I thought she’d go away after plus two, to some ‘top’ college. I was about to be proved wrong.

I had turned eighteen, and along with the driver’s license, I had also secured a license to practice Ornithology. I brazenly did it. I believe practicing ornithology and flirting is every boy’s birth right. No one can take it away from him. All these things came to an end on the third day of my college life, for Manasvi arrived on the third day.

I was astonished. “How come you are here? I thought you were going to Mysore.”

“No, I chose to stay. I had come to your house last evening. Didn’t your mother tell you?”

“No. I was off station. Returned this morning. She must have forgotten.”

“OK. Seems like we are going to be together for the next four years,” she laughed. Years had passed but her laughter had never changed. Perfection can’t be improved, you see.

We were together for the past twelve years, I wanted to say. But didn’t.

“Yes, right.”

Though we had known each other and stayed in the same neighbourhood for twelve years, we had never really become friends, or perhaps I had never tried. This changed soon. We became good friends in college. And it wasn’t a good thing. Being ‘just friends’ with the girl you love is very dangerous, because there are good chances of remaining ‘just friends’ forever. ‘Make your intentions known’ is the mantra, and I never chanted it.

The only good thing was I got to spend time with her: College, library, movies, parties, visiting each other’s house during festivals and exams. But I was still ‘just a friend’. I didn’t complain, thinking that I had three more years to let her know about my feelings for her. I was wrong. Time was running out.

***

We were in our second year when she announced that she had a crush on Abhilash, the so-called ‘hunk’. They became friends very soon. As the days progressed she started spending less time with me. I was her friend and I was supposed to ‘understand’ it.

‘Hunk’ had one more name: Ghost Rider. There is a curious story behind the name. He had a Royal Enfield Bullet Electra 350cc bike. It suited well for his personality. When every boy in college either had a Pulsar or Yamaha or TVS, our hunk stood apart with his monster bike. When he was in first year he had a girlfriend named Namitha, who seemed to be a permanent pillion rider. Nobody ever saw him alone on his bike. Now, Namitha darling was a dark girl and weighed around 80 kilograms (conditions apply). She had an amazing dressing sense. We sometimes wondered whether her father owned a textile factory. Not because her clothes were distinct, but because we never believed that jeans pants came in such distinct sizes. They had to be specially made. Another thing was that four days in a week she wore tribal dress; the ones with tiny, round shaped mirrors all over. As an icing on a cake, her hair was always let loose. And like a double icing on a cake, she had loads of ‘additude’ (not attitude). Some called her African jungle baby, some of us simply called her, The Ghost. So she was the ghost, who rode pillion on ‘hunk’s bike. Hence the hunk became Ghost Rider.

And now, my love rode pillion on his bike. Though the name Ghost Rider stuck, everyone changed his tone: ‘He finally has a nice-looking girlfriend.’ Needless to say, my stomach churned.

There were only a few minor differences between me and Ghost Rider. He was well over six feet tall; I was (and am) five-seven. He had a well-built body, whereas I only had a body (like everybody does). He had a monster bike, and I had an old Hero Honda Splendour. He participated in glamorous activities like dancing and music (he played guitar for a band) and I took part in dramas and skits. He played Basket-Ball and I played chess. He anchored and gave opening/closing speeches to important college functions, whereas I wrote speeches, which somebody else delivered and got the fame. The bugger even studied well.

When an incredibly beautiful girl like Manasvi falls for such a guy, it’s not a surprise. Now what was I supposed to do? I didn’t know. So I didn’t do anything.

***

“So tell me, Sawant. Do you have a girlfriend?” Ghost Rider asked.

“No.”

We were sitting in an ice-cream parlour. It was owned by a local boxer and Ghost Rider was a good friend of his. Both went to the same gym. Since it was a boxer’s ice-cream parlour, all the ice-creams had distinct names.

Ghost Rider was about to say something when the waiter arrived.

“What will you have?” asked my arch rival.

He was already eating Rocky Marciano and I don’t know what Manasvi was eating. Perhaps she was having Laila Ali. I didn’t want to be left alone, so I ordered Raging Bull. Five minutes later when my ice-cream arrived I found that it wasn’t as good as its name. Just like Ghost Rider.

I took another spoonful when Ghost Rider asked, “Don’t you really have a girlfriend?”

I eyed him once. He was definitely well-toned. He was definitely more handsome than I. There was no way I could have challenged him and made Manasvi promote me from ‘just a friend’ to ‘someone special’. But as my Guruji Mark Twain once said, ‘It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.’ I fought on.

“As a matter of fact I do,” I said, taking another spoonful of Raging Bull.

Manasvi stopped eating and looked up.

“But there is a small problem,” I continued, “I’m not her boyfriend.”

Angel raised her eyebrows and tilted her head sideways, as if asking, ‘What are you talking about?’

“What’s the problem?” It was he.

“She is with someone else.”

“You never told me,” Manasvi cried.

“I wanted to tell you, Mans. But the time wasn’t right.” Irony, that.

“You are such a moron. Who is she? From our college? Do I know her?” It was a typical girlie question. She wanted to know everything at the same time, irrespective of the priorities.

Before I could think of something, she said, giggling, “I think I know. It’s Ashwini, right? I knew you had a thing for her.”

“So what is it? It’s just a crush or you have feelings for her?” Ghost Rider asked.

“More on that later. Now let me ask you the same question. Is it just a crush or do you really love Manasvi?” I said, smiling at both of them. It was a very direct question and it startled them to the core.

When none of them replied, I said again, “Tell me. Where is it going?”

“I’m not sure,” he faltered. I looked at Manasvi. She didn’t respond.

“So you are just friends?” I probed further.

“No,” he was quick.

“Then? You are not just friends; you are not sure whether you love her. So what’s the name of this relationship?”

“She is my girlfriend.” There was some mild anger in his voice.

“That’s the problem these days,” I said. “Everybody says the same thing. ‘She is my girlfriend. He is my boyfriend.’ But what nobody says nowadays is, ‘I love her or I love him’. Saying that you are in love with a girl is termed old-fashioned,” I paused for a few seconds, letting the words sink, and then continued. “All right. She is your girlfriend. Or perhaps your Champion’s Trophy. Right?”

Manasvi didn’t speak a word. Perhaps she wanted to know what her ‘boyfriend’ would say.

“Look, here’s the thing,” Ghost Rider began. “It’s like this. Before you buy a bike, you have to take a lot of test drives. Once you are convinced that a certain bike is comfortable, you go for it.”

I didn’t dare look at Manasvi. Rather I asked, simply, “So, how many test drives have you had so far?”

It was then it hit him hard like a thunderbolt. I had done the necessary damage. Damn it, I am not guilty of it. Everything is fair in love and war. It may sound a bit clichéd, but it is relevant.

“Oh, no, Manasvi. I didn’t really mean it that way. I was just trying to give an example …”

No use, my boy. No use.

“Answer his question, Abhi. How many test drives have you had so far? And how many do you intend to have in the future?”

Gosh, was I enjoying this! If I was, I didn’t evince it.

“Why don’t girls understand me?” he cried.

Oscar Wilde came in handy then. I said, “Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood, you know.” That was some salt on his wound.

I could see Manasvi from the corner of my eye. She was staring at me.

Oscar Wilde had fallen on his deaf ears. He said to Manasvi, ignoring me, “Come on. Don’t say that. I can die for you, you know.”

I suddenly looked at the wall behind me and checked the calendar. It was unquestionable. The year was 2010, all right. For a moment, after hearing Ghost Rider’s dialogue, I was a bit confused. I thought it was 1960.

“Oh, really? You can die for me, yet you don’t know where this relationship is going, huh?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come out.

Moments later she got up and left. I followed suit. Ghost Rider was left alone among boxers.

***

Ghost Rider was really a nice person. I liked him a lot. But the boy didn’t know what he really wanted and how to say things. If he were not Manasvi’s ‘boyfriend’ we would have been good friends.

Over the next few days he kept trying to reach Manasvi, but to no avail. She didn’t return my calls either. Why would she? After all, I was the culprit.

They were back together a week later. They had somehow reconciled. And I was back to square one. I was still ‘just a friend’.

She invited me and a few other friends (including Ghost Rider) to her house. It was her birthday. Over the past few years I had just wished her, verbally. This time I wanted to give something adorable, something worth remembering. But what? I had no idea.

Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty welcomed me, lovingly. I had grown fond of her over the years and she always treated me like her own son. So, naturally, I was the star guest. Two hours earlier I had decorated the house for the party. It wasn’t too grand, but had an aura of elegance. Manasvi didn’t speak much, as she was still angry with me over the ice-cream parlour incident. At least I thought like that.

After the cake-cutting ceremony, snacks were served. Everyone had bought cool presents: Teddy bears, big, musical greeting cards, a pair of high-heeled sandals (girls, I tell you!), etc. A huge, life-sized teddy bear was of course given by Ghost Rider.

When my turn came, I carefully took out a thin 5” X 5” square gift-wrapped pouch, with a silver-coloured ribbon on it. Manasvi said a mild ‘thank you’ and opened the wrapper. It was a DVD.

“What’s in it?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Everyone was eager to know. Manasvi ran the disc in her DVD player, connected to TV. A movie started to play on the screen.

I have always believed that going to a gift shop and buying gifts is easy. It’s too formal, it’s too frivolous. Also, birthdays are not remembered these days. Mark Zuckerberg reminds people of their ‘friends’’ birthdays. Telling the birthday boy/girl, ‘I remembered your birthday and bought you a present’ is not important. But showing how much his/her birthday means to you is. This could be your birthday, but it’s my special day too. Time is the greatest gift one can ever give to a friend.

What I had done was simple. I had compiled all her photos; right from her childhood days, right from the day she moved into our neighbourhood. Photos of her birthday parties when she was a child and all the little boys and girls of our neighbourhood were her guests; photos of school days, photos of her on stage, reciting a poem or singing or dancing along with other participants; photos of her in the hospital when she was sick with typhoid (I had taken it without anyone’s knowledge), photos of send-off parties in school and PUC; photos of little trips we had been to, along with other classmates, and many more. Almost every type of emotion was captured. In fact many photos were being seen for the first time. Even Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty was surprised. “When was this?” she kept asking me from time to time. Bottom line: Her whole life ran like a movie, with suitable captions and quotes and mellifluous music in the background.

I was increasingly becoming emotional with every photograph. I got up to go, but Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty wouldn’t let me. The movie got over. Everyone looked at me. Two girls that had come were impressed. But the birthday girl stayed silent. Not a word.

“But how come you are not there in a single photograph? Those Deepavali photos. You were here that day. Why haven’t you included a photo with you in it? Not even one?” asked Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty.

“At least you could have put your name in the end. Something like, ‘Video created by Sawant’,” said a girl.

I cleared my throat and replied, candidly, quoting Oscar Wilde, “To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.”

After that I couldn’t stay there. I wished her once again and left. Had I stayed there a moment longer, they would’ve noticed tears welling up in my eyes.

Manasvi didn’t talk to me for over a week and I didn’t try. I left her alone. Then one day she called me and asked me to meet her in the reading room of our college.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“For the memories.”

“Oh.”

I said a moment later, “That hospital photo is damn good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, right. Get ready to die.”

We laughed, deliciously, holding each other’s hands.

I began when the laughter had subsided, “Look, Mans. I never got a chance to apologize. I’m really sorry about the other day. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not with him anymore.”

I was shocked and happy at the same time.

“What? What happened?”

“Nothing big. We didn’t have a fight. It’s just that I realized that he was not my type and I was not his type. Also, thanks to you. I wouldn’t have realized this if not for you. Whatever you said made sense to me later. Abhilash is a good guy, but not good enough for me.”

They had never had a fight after the ice-cream parlour incident. As the days progressed they had drifted away, respectfully, in a decent manner. No goodbyes, no ‘let’s break up’, no nothing. Just a simple understanding.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.

“Don’t be,” she snapped.

***

Days and weeks passed and we started spending a lot of time with each other. It was just like before. One day when we were sitting in the reading room, writing our lab records, she suddenly asked, “What about Ashwini?”

“Ash who?” I asked, without looking up.

“Don’t act now. You were about to say something about your secret one-sided love story in the ice-cream parlour the other day when the conversation took a different turn. Now tell me about it in detail.”

I stopped writing. “Forget it.”

“I won’t, my dear.”

“It’s not Ashwini, all right.”

“Then who?”

I had always fantasized about my proposal; a nice evening in a restaurant, with a magnificent gift in hand, and so many other filmi things. But when I actually did propose to her, it was in the most awful, unromantic place on earth (college reading room), at the most awful time (two-thirty in the afternoon, when the sun was having its vengeance on innocent college boys and girls), wearing the most atrocious dress possible (jeans, t-shirt, sandals).

“You,” I said, flatly, looking straight into her eyes.

She stared at me, probably looking for some sign of naughtiness.

None of us spoke for two minutes. Then she said, “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course, I am. Since eternity. I just wanted to play with you when you moved into our neighbourhood; I wanted to make friends with you in high school. We did become good friends later on and we still are. Whatever happens, I hope this will never change. But the fact remains. I’ve always loved you. If there is any girl with whom I want to spend the rest of my life, it’s you.”

She didn’t respond. I continued, “Throughout the centuries people have been telling that a boy should find a girl to die for. Somehow it doesn’t apply in my case; it doesn’t make any sense to me; because you are the girl I want to live for.” I paused for a minute. Her expression remained inscrutable. “Look, I know this is coming as a shock to you. I wanted to tell you two years ago, but I ran out of time. You were with Abhilash already. Never found the right time. I still do not know whether this is the right time.”

Silence sang in the air again. “I know I am not a romantic person. I won’t say that I’m going to die if you don’t accept me. I won’t become a lovelorn tragic hero. I love myself too much for that. But remember this: You were, you are and you will always be the one. Whatever I do with my life, you’ll always be my muse, my love, my reason to live and achieve.”

Several minutes passed and she still hadn’t said anything. She never took her eyes off mine. And then, without saying anything, she collected her books and walked away.

***

The next two weeks were unbearable. She neither called me nor replied to my calls and messages. I was confused. I had already lost hope of even being ‘just a friend’. I thought I had lost her forever. But if such a thing had happened, I wouldn’t have had any purpose to write this.

She visited my house one evening. After having a pep talk with my mother she entered my room. I was writing my assignment then. She came and stood next to my table. I got up. Our eyes met. A moment later she slapped me hard across my face. What just happened? I was about to find out.

“Who said you were not romantic, you moron,” she said as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Wh … wha ... –,” she slapped me again.

“That video you made me says everything. I should’ve understood it then. In fact a thought crossed my mind, but how should I’ve known for sure? You’ve no idea how many times I’ve watched it in the last ten days. Why didn’t you tell me before?” she burst into tears as she slapped me once again and hugged me.

I held her in my arms, not wanting to let her go. She didn’t mind. A few minutes later I asked, smelling her hair, “Hey, Mans, your hair smells great.”

“Wish I could say the same about your hair, your shirt, your room. Such a dirty scumbag you are.”

A new problem had begun. Cleanliness. It was only my mother till now. Now there were two women. God, where are women manufactured? Sterilized room of a perfume factory?

***

It was Valentine’s Day. We were sitting in a cozy restaurant, enjoying every second. Today was a special occasion and she looked ravishing in her red dress. I could never take my eyes off her. “Thank you,” she said, brushing her curls to the back of her ears. I don’t know why but I’ve always loved to see a girl do it. And when the girl is Manasvi, it’s still better.

“So what’s that you are hiding in that bag?” she asked.

I took out a neatly bound book, which had Manasvi written on it, and pushed it towards her, on the table.

“Manasvi? What is it?”

“Remember that video I made for you?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I remember.”

“Well, this is the book version of it. I’ve penned down everything. From the day you moved into our neighbourhood; from the time I asked my mother whether you were an angel to the recent times. A sort of memoir, an epistle, a symphony to my Valentine.”

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes as she leafed through the pages. The book was handwritten.

“You are a nerd. Do you know that?” she said at last.

“I knew you’d say something like this. That’s why I’ve also bought a big box of chocolates, a fancy greeting card and a teddy. Here, take them. Enjoy,” I said, handing over the bag.

She pushed the bag aside, without taking a look inside, and continued to go through the book, all the while smiling. I knew she was overwhelmed with joy, but would never admit it. When she couldn’t go further she kept the book back inside the bag and asked me, “Tell me something. What’s the most you can do for me? It’s Valentine’s Day and I have a right to know.” She was anything but foolishly romantic. My lady love was just teasing me.

“The most I can do for you, Mans, is to be with you always,” I said, looking at her delightful face.

She smiled and looked away, not knowing how to react.

My Guruji Mark Twain once said, ‘Never say the obvious thing, but leave the obvious thing to commonplace and inexperience people to say.’

Sorry, Guruji. It doesn’t work always. I’ve learned from experience that when you are with a girl, don’t act smart. Just say the very obvious thing.

********************The End********************

God

2011-05-05T17:29:00.003+05:30

No. I don’t believe in god, or to be specific, I don’t believe in superpower. I’ve always believed that my conscience was my God and my parents were my conscience. Apart from this belief, if there is one person whom I believe is capable of doing the impossible, the one who is capable of turning my world topsy-turvy with his stupendous imagination, which feels nothing less than real; who inspires me every time I hear his name, or see his picture – it is certainly Frederick Forsyth. My God.

Born on 25^th August, 1938 in Ashford, Kent, England, he became the youngest pilot in RAF at the age of 19, serving from 1956 to 1958. For the next three and a half years, he worked as a reporter for the Eastern Daily Press in Norfolk and became a correspondent for Reuters in 1961, in Paris, at the age of 23 and then in East Germany and Czechoslovakia.

After returning to London in 1965, he worked as a radio and television reporter for the BBC. As assistant diplomatic correspondent, he covered the Biafran side of the Biafra-Nigeria war from July to September 1967.

He didn’t know that all this experience would come in handy during his later years as a novelist. “I became a novelist by fluke,” he says, matter-of-factly. “In January 1970, I had no job, no commission, and no money in my bank account either. So went back to the notion I had for the novel about the assassination of Charles De Gaulle. Sat down to write and finished the novel in 35 days.”

And thus the world came in possession of a genius. To this day, The Day of the Jackal is one of the most astounding books ever to be written.

“As a boy I had two burning passions - to fly for the RAF and travel all over the world,” he recalls. “Journalism National service achieved the first, and journalism and fiction writing accomplished the second.”

His style of writing is one of a kind. When most authors create a central character first and then weave a story around him/her, Forsyth creates the plot first and then introduces the character as per the needs of the story. Though the heroes in his novels are fascinating, plots play a bigger role, and a central character is just a necessity. In The Devil’s Alternative, the hero Adam Munro doesn’t realize his true role until the end, and so does the reader. There are bigger players playing the game.

The first few chapters are always slow. The reader doesn’t understand as to what is happening and why. The hero is not introduced so early in the novel. For example, Quinn, the protagonist in The Negotiator, doesn’t appear until 130 pages into the novel. Everything is under wraps. To quote him: “Unlike most novels, it (while talking about The Day of the Jackal) takes off rather slow. I’d like to set out my chess pieces in an orderly sequence. My novels start with a gentle arrangement of chess pieces.”

Reading Forsyth’s novels is like watching a masterful game of chess. You’ll have to read in order to understand what I’m talking about.

His novels are full of information about the minutest technical details: money laundering, illegal arms dealing, identity theft. The conversation between the Jackal and the gun-maker in The Day of the Jackal goes on for more than ten pages. The description of the rifle itself goes on for more than five pages. And in The Fourth Protocol, he actually gives detailed explanation about building a tiny nuclear bomb. And entire chapter is dedicated to it. And so is the burglary scene in the beginning of the novel. So is the case when he explains about the ship in The Devil’s Alternative. No wonder he takes about 2-3 years to research for each book. Every sentence reeks of authenticity; every little thing seems so real. And he doesn’t write about such things in detail to show off his research work, but to show what kind of world his characters live in. They are necessary, they are important.

Some may not want so much detail while reading a novel, but in my opinion, these are the things that make the stories look authentic. So if you are the kind of person who enjoys Twilight and Mills and Boon and the lot, Forsyth is not for you. As he says, the world is made up of predators and prey, and only the strong survive.

You read a headline in a newspaper and move on. Forsyth doesn’t. His novels are all about what might have happened behind those headlines. The “What If” scenario. His books show the ways in which mercenaries, terrorists, diplomats, mafias go about their business – behind the screens. For example, the Jackal in The Day of the Jackal doesn’t just buy a rifle and goes for the kill. He does a meticulous research on the man he wants to kill. He goes to the library and studies his target, obtains a false identity, tests his weapon in an isolated place. Months of research to kill a man. That’s Frederick Forsyth’s world.

Forsyth was the man who first introduced an easy, yet effective way of stealing someone’s identity, in a novel. That kind of identity theft was not heard until then, until The Day of the Jackal. Once the book came out, many assassins used the same technique to obtain false papers. When Ilich Ramirez Sanchez (popularly known as Carlos the Jackal), one of the most elusive fugitives, was caught, The Guardian gave him the nickname Jackal. Reason was simple. A copy of The Day of the Jackal was found in his bag.

This is one of the reasons why sometimes Forsyth is a headache for the secret agencies. When he writes about a building in a ‘specific area’ that is posing as a tax office, but in fact is a hideous front of CIA or FBI or MI5, you can believe it without questioning. The research is that accurate. When he talks about the world of ruthless arms dealers, drug dealers, mercenaries, the Nazi underworld, every scenario is entirely plausible. In The Afghan, the Al-Quaeda uses a ship to carry out an attack, similar to 9/11. In fact, there is a rumour that Forsyth coined the idea in the late nineties, about a terrorist group hijacking an airplane and how they are stopped from ramming the biggest building in the biggest city. He had to drop the idea when 9/11 happened.

But then again, as they say, one has to suffer for one’s art. Fresh from the success of The Day of the Jackal, when Forsyth traveled to Hamburg to research for his third book, The Dogs of War (a novel about a British businessman, who hires mercenaries to pull off a coup d’etat and establish a puppet regime), he ingeniously infiltrated into the group of arms dealers, posing as an arms buyer from South Africa. As co-incidence would have it, one of the gang members saw his picture in a nearby book shop under the advertisement of The Day of the Jackal. His cover was blown. A few minutes later Forsyth received a phone call from his contact, who informed him about his cover being blown. He had 80 seconds to leave the country.

In his own words, “I managed to penetrate their world and was feeling rather proud of myself actually. What I didn’t know was that the arms dealer had passed a bookshop shortly after our meeting. And there, in the window, was The Day of the Jackal. With a great big picture of me – the man he thought was a South African arms buyer – on the back cover.

“I left all my clothes, grabbed my money and passport and ran across the square to the train station. There was a train pulling out so I did a parachute roll through the window, landing on a bewildered businessman. The ticket conductor asked me where I was going. I asked him where the train was going and he said Amsterdam. So am I, I said.”

Now, can you imagine the risk involved? All for the sake of a novel. On the other hand, there are a bunch of so-called best-selling authors in India. (No, I'm not talking about geniuses like Amitav Ghosh, Vikas Swarup, Vikram Seth and the lot. I'm talking about those who write cheap and sell cheap.) The only research they do for their novels is as to how to have sex in the most uncomfortable places, in the most uncomfortable situations. In the backseat of a car parked in a parking lot, when the couple’s friends are within earshot; on the terrace, when the girl’s family is celebrating downstairs, to name a few. Anyway, let me not divert your attention.

So, coming back to the real man; the risk he took to research for his latest novel, The Cobra – released in August 2010, after a gap of four years, with the last novel being The Afghan, released in 2006 – was nothing less. He flew to Guinea-Bissau in 2009 (at the age of 71) to investigate its role in moving cocaine from South America to markets across Europe. The tiny West African country is the hub of the international drugs trade according to UN officials, and billions of dollars worth of cocaine are believed to pass through the poor, weak nations of the region.

Forsyth, posing as a bird-watcher, flew there, only to find himself in the middle of chaos.

“It was just my luck that I landed during a coup d’etat. Someone had blown up the head of the army, and the army were coming into town to avenge whoever did it, and I landed about an hour before they came. I installed myself in a hotel, couldn’t sleep, was reading and heard a hell of a bang down the street and I knew it was not thunder but an explosion.”

The blast was actually an attack on President Joao Bernado Vieira, who was killed in revenge for the assassination of armed forces chief of staff General Batista Tagme Na Wei, hours earlier.

On his return, Forsyth contracted septicemia in his left leg, from a sting in Africa, and spent several weeks in hospital before resuming his research.

During his stay in Guinea-Bissau, he borrowed a phone from someone (he doesn’t use cell-phones) and dictated about 1,000 words to Daily Express, for which he writes a column, about what was happening in the region. This was intercepted by NSA (National Security Agency) and his wife’s laptop was hacked.

“Unfortunately, the American intelligence services listened to it and wasted my wife’s computer screen and totaled all her lunch dates.”

He claims his suspicions were confirmed to him by his sources – the people who provide information for his books – whom he likes to describe as his “friends in low places”.

“Everything up there in the ether is intercepted, probably by the NSA at Fort Meade in Maryland, and I think my report ended up somewhere on a desk at Fort Meade.”

According to him, they assumed he might be involved in the attempted coup in Guinea-Bissau in some way, because he had previous experience in the region, and had written about a fictional coup in Equatorial Guinea in The Dogs of War.

He had also discussed the details of such a coup in 1973 with real-life plotters and given them money in return for information. The coup never materialized as the participants were arrested before it came off.

Now, isn’t he the man who lives on the edge?

Here is a man, who doesn’t trust the material found on the internet. He doesn’t use a computer, let alone the internet. He doesn’t even use cell-phones. He still uses an old Canon typewriter to write his novels, which he does at a rattling speed. “Twelve pages a day, 3,000 words a day, seven days a week. But it’s the research that takes time. I can finish off writing in about 40 days. And, yes, I have to force myself to write. Sounds ungrateful, I know.” He further adds, “I am slightly mercenary. I write for money. I feel no compulsion to write. If someone said, ‘You are not going to write another word of fiction,’ it wouldn’t matter a damn.”

Pretty unlikely for a brilliant author. Maybe only a man of his stature can say something like that.

He’s been chased by arms dealers, stripped down by the KGB and interrogated, and many more. Once, when he was researching for a novel in Prague, he was constantly followed by the secret agency, the StB. One night, at a disco, he met a girl called Jana. “We had a drink and a dance. It was a hot August night, and I suggested we have a swim in the lake. So we went skinny dipping, then I spread out a rug and we made love. As I drove her back to the hotel, I remarked that there were no headlights in my rear view mirror. ‘Where the hell are the STB?’ I said. She replied, ‘You just made love to it’.”

That’s Frederick Forsyth for you. I can brazenly say that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who have read his novels and those who haven’t. I am happy I belong to the former.

Read Avenger, and Cal Dexter will put Rambo to shame. Read The Fist of God and The Afghan, and Mike Martin will tell you that heroes are made of steel. Read The Odessa File, and you’ll understand what it really takes to investigate. Read The Negotiator, and Quinn will give you the real definition of intelligence. Read The Devil’s Alternative, and you’ll know how the game of international politics is played. Read The Fourth Protocol and The Cobra, and you’ll know how plans are made and executed to perfection. Read The Dogs of War, and you’ll understand the world of mercenaries and what they are capable of doing. Read The Deceiver, and marvel at Sam McCready’s deceptions. And I don’t need to say why one should read The Day of the Jackal. It is compulsory. Period. I’m yet to read Icon and No Comebacks. The latter is a collection of ten short stories. I’m saving them for difficult times. If I read it, I won’t be having anything marvelous left to read.

Whichever book you read, in the end you’ll be left with a single question: Was it fact or fiction? Believe me; you won’t be able to answer it.

With The Cobra, the 73-year-old genius has announced his retirement. He insists that he has no plans to write any more books. “I’ve said that at least three times now. So, who knows?” he says with a chuckle.

Hope he doesn’t hang up his typewriter. May he live long, may he write more, and may we read more.

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

Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

2011-04-29T08:14:00.001+05:30

I had successfully managed to avoid Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner for a very long time. The book had been silently sitting in my personal library, waiting to be picked up. But Forsyth, Ludlum, Wallace, Archer, Narayan and the lot kept dominating my world. They still continue to do so, and I’m happier that way.

One of the main reasons that kept me away from The Kite Runner is the fact that it is a morose story. Now I’ve always had a problem with such stories. Sometimes in competitions only those stories win that pull the strings of your heart. Whether it’s on the international scene or otherwise, between a tremendously researched thriller and a heart-wrenching story, it’s the latter that always wins. I’ve always hated that trend. It’s the same when it comes to movies. A recently released Kannada movie is a huge hit. It’s a tragic story and it’s pathetic. My friend and I tore our own clothes, and by the time we came out of the theatre, we were looking like beggars. Anyway, let’s not get there.

I’m not complaining about The Kite Runner though. I liked it immensely, all right; but more because of the way of writing rather than the story itself. Surely there are moments that really squeeze your heart, moments that make you stop reading and introspect upon your own life, moments that teach you to take a severe beating instead of running away and feel guilty later on, which by the way is one of the biggest lessons that one should learn. Sooner the better.

All these things are explained, or to be specific, shown so beautifully that it makes the reader relate to the characters, easily. This is the part, which really fascinated me to the core. A perfect example for, “Show, don’t tell” – the golden rule of storytelling. The story drags a bit here and there, and sometimes it gets boring too. But what a superb way of storytelling! The characterization, the voice, the language, the narration – everything is top notch. Every sentence is fantastic. Every paragraph paints a heavenly picture of a hellish world. If I’m to read the book again or pick up his next novel, it will be because of these very reasons. The entire book is like a lesson in creative writing.

Khaled Hosseini is certainly one of the most powerful storytellers that there is now. Wonder why the so-called bestselling authors of India (read Rs. 95/- authors of India) can’t learn from Hosseini! Just like Hosseini, they too use first-person narrative. But all you will read about is the self-obsessed narrator/protagonist yelling at the top of his voice, “Me! Me! Me!” That’s the only thing that constantly rings in your ear. “Me! Me! Me!” It’s too forced, too loud, and too obvious. Can’t they learn from their 3 glorious mistakes? Or is it 4 already?

Robert Ludlum once said, “To me storytelling is first a craft. Then if you are lucky, it becomes an art form. But first it’s got to be a craft. You’ve got to have a beginning, middle and end.”

So if writing is indeed an art, then Khaled Hosseini is a terrific artist. May he write more and enthrall the world!

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

Thank You

2011-04-27T08:39:00.002+05:30

I was happy in my own world, writing and reading fiction, watching f.r.i.e.n.d.s and laughing my guts out, watching Dexter slice up his victims’ bodies, hanging out with my small circle of friends, dreaming about super important things (and species with x chromosomes), cooking delicious food (maggi, I mean), happily singing super hit songs (read Phoebe Buffay’s songs) in my not-so-soundproof bathroom, jogging, all the while trying to get inspired (the only thing I’ve managed so far as to how to kill ‘9’ people in an innovative way), drinking (wonly coffee, tea, bournvita, horlicks, and nothing else) – all this until two weeks ago. And then tragedy struck when one of my hooligan friends dragged me to a super duper hit movie called “Thank You”, starring Thumbs-down Kumar, Deadly (literally) Jaitley, Wafer Thin Sonam, Extra Fat Rimmi, Irfan ‘Cool’ Khan, Single Expression Deol and finally, one and wonly, five time Oscar winner Suniel Shetty.

And now, after watching it, I’m still suffering from the side effects. Even physical ones, mind you. I’m starting to get pimples on my face. My eyes, due to overexposure of ultra super run and car chases and amazing song sequences, have lost their sparkle. My ears, due to overhearing ultra melodious songs, are itching. Tranquility of mind is a thing of past. Due to over-pulling of hair, I’m literally having bad hair days. I don’t think I need to go to hair cutting saloon for another three months, as I’ve pulled all my hair with my bare hands.

OK, let me cut to the chase and give you a sneak peak. Cool Khan, Soldier Deol and Oscar Shetty are three friends (and maybe business partners) are married to Fatty Sen, Aisha Kapoor and Deadly Jaitley respectively. All are page 3 housewives, with nothing to do except sing and dance occasionally and saying cheesy lines like, ‘Main tumhare bina nahi jee sakti’ way too often. Especially Sonam, who by the way is the main heroine. On the other hand, the three male leads can’t keep their pants on most of their time. Result: ‘Comedy’ Kumar – the private detective, the relationship fixer, the investigator of flings - makes a grand entry. He's creatively named Kisna. Jason Bourne, James Bond and Sherlock Holmes are nothing in front of Kisna’s might.

Deadly Jaitley, who looks no more than a heroine in a horror movie, has already used the services of Kumar and caught her Oscar winning husband in the act. He’s now her dog, more than her husband. When Sweet Sonam (I’m serious) starts having doubts about her ‘Soldier’ husband, she seeks her best friend, (Jai)tley's help.

When the scary eyed Celina introduces her to Khiladi turned Comedy Akshay, he starts flirting with her. Here’s the twist in the tale. It’s not flirting, as we were led to believe in the beginning of the movie. The suspense is revealed in the end. It is called caring, not flirting. He cares for the babe. Now, come on. What’s the difference between him and us (boys, I mean)? We too care for all those pretty girls out there, no?

OK, OK. Let me move on. He takes on the case with full ‘care’ and starts investigating Uncle Bob and Irrfan Khan. He arranges a New Year party and invites all their girlfriends. The wives are present too. Now here comes the Hissss Sherawat to do an item number. As she starts shaking her Snaky Booty, the lead men try to avoid their girlfriends. When the song gets over, Uncle Bob has a tough time avoiding his overweight girlfriend, who repeatedly asks him to kiss him. "Kiss na", she says in Hindi. (Understand the comedy?) Sonam Baby sees this. Bobby tells her that she is Irrfan Khan’s girlfriend, who promptly acts his part. This is again seen by Rimmi Sen (as if we didn’t see it coming). The men are caught, you say? No. You are wrong. See this is a very intelligent movie. Nothing is what it seems. Move over 'Inception', we are dealing with 'Thank You' here. ‘The’ men somehow convince their wives that they have got nothing to do with the ‘kiss me’ girl. And ‘the’ wives believe them. Here, the director has tried to show the loyalty and innocence of Indian wives. These things have to be understood by the audience. This is where our actual intelligence is tested.

Then as the movie unfolds, Kumar brings credible proof against the ‘loyal’ husbands, but the husbands are way too smart. In one scene, Deol Khandan ki Shaan, Bobby, convinces Kapoor Khandan ki Shaan, Sonam, that Irrfan Khan and he are working for CIA (yes, yes, you heard it right. Central Intelligence Agency), and that’s why they had to do what they did – sleeping around. Part of a serious mission, you see.

At a later stage, Kumar, in a fake attack in the name of a mafia don, abducts the two husbands, and brings them to their wives. They are blindfolded and they answer all the questions about their affairs to the fake don with fake voice, as the wives sit there, dumbfounded.

Interval.

Should I go on? I will. So, after the interval, Kumar hatches a mind-blowing plan. Oh, by the way, Sonam tries to commit suicide and he saves her by playing flute. Now, this is the scene to look out for. This is where we get to see the real Sonam Kapoor, with limited makeup and all. Let me not get into detail.

Akshay Kumar is now Sonam’s fake boyfriend. This makes Bobby Uncle jealous. On another parallel plot, Rimmi also seeks the help of Kisna. She cunningly gets the signature of Irrfan Khan on the property papers and throws him out of the house. The three men now come to Akshay Kumar for help. They also get the impression that the reason for their downfall is a single person. They too start investigating.

What happens next? Watch the movie for an excellent climax. Oh, I forgot one thing. There is also a guest appearance by the overweight, over-mature, extra large Vidya Balan aunty in the climax. She is the dead wife of Akshay Kumar. Oops. Sorry, I spoiled the surprise for you.

A note on performances: Every time I saw Deadly Jaitley, I could hear ‘Gumnaam hai koi’ song from the film, Gumnam. She really scared me to death. Rumours are that she is the one who’s been paid the highest for her small role. Reason: for wearing saris throughout the movie. For a change.

Sonam Darling is really sweet and cute sometimes. But it’s really hard to tolerate when she cries. She is getting thinner by the day. One day, she might just vanish into thin air. Literally.

Rimmi Sen, although she has gotten bigger, has a good comic timing.

Irrfan Khan is naturally brilliant.

Bobby Deol still thinks he is acting in ‘Soldier’.

Suniel Shetty is after all Suniel Shetty.

Last but not the least, Akshay Kumar is good. Nothing new in his goofiness.

Please, please don’t miss this movie. It’s really life altering. This morning while having coffee in a cafe, I desperately, unsuccessfully tried to convince a few of my friends that they should definitely watch this movie, explaining that it would refresh their minds. I even gave so many good reasons as to why they shouldn’t miss this. But they just wouldn’t listen to me. People don’t trust me nowadays. Don’t know why.

***

On a more serious note, I would like to extend my real ‘Thank You’ to all those who took time and read my novella, ‘9’. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart, for all those lovely comments, compliments, wishes and reviews. Three months and 34,500 words – it was worth the effort. Love you all.

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

Mood Swings of a Seductress

2011-02-05T00:07:00.005+05:30

Hearts do not have grammars. ~ Srini

*********

Anuradha

Ever since the verb Love was coined, it has been defined in all possible ways known to the human brain, or perhaps the heart. And one such definition, the most clichéd one, is, ‘Love is blind’. But in Anuradha’s case it was not only blind, but deaf, dumb and also crippled.

Like most girls her age, she had nourished beautiful dreams about her dream boy, and when she met one, her happiness knew no bounds. Her friends were jealous of her, which made her haughty, happy. He was such a boy indeed; handsome, smart, scrupulously polite, and above all, caring. But little did she know then in the beginning of the relationship that her dream boy would become her nightmare.

Nothing happened in the first three years. Everything went smoothly, like it does in every relationship; Siddharth, coming from a wealthy background, bought her expensive presents, took her to movies and restaurants, and mainly, took care of her whenever she was depressed.

Being a motherless child, Anuradha had been brought up by her father, who was a farmer in a small village called Kalhalli, in Mysore district. Poverty being the sole reason, her childhood days were not carefree. But she was a prodigious child. She dropped out of school when she was seven years old in order to help her father, and started working as a maid in a Police Constable’s house. Her father, who grew wheat and paddy, and suffered losses all the time, could do nothing but shed tears in silence.

Two months later, the Police Constable and his wife urged her father to send her to school again. Realizing how smart the girl was, they offered to cover half of her school expenses. It was a big step for them too, as they were not well-off either. Her father’s ego wouldn’t allow him to accept it in the beginning. But a look at his daughter’s sad face made him say yes. It wasn’t an easy decision for him.

The girl started going to school again. Everyone believed that the girl’s happy days had begun; and they were right to a certain extent. Her nightmares were yet to start. And they didn’t know that.

Anuradha didn’t disappoint her father and guardians, and performed extremely well in her studies. She knew that her father would always be in Police Constable’s debt, which prompted her to work hard like never before, when she entered Pre University College. Nobody had any doubt left that she would get a free seat in one of the best Engineering colleges.

She had just written her last board exam when tragedy struck. The Police Constable and his wife, who had taken care of her like their own child, died in an accident. It was the biggest blow of her life – until then.

As her father had prophesied, she secured a free seat in Sri Jayachamarajendra College of Engineering, Mysore. It would have been easy if her guardians were alive, but now that they were not, her father found it difficult to arrange the money. He somehow managed it, but Anuradha knew in her heart of hearts that it would be impossible for him to arrange money for her second year. For the moment she tried to forget it and focus on her studies.

She was in her second semester when Siddharth came into her life. And the very first thing he said to her was, ‘I’m in love with you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you’. She was startled beyond means. She ignored him and moved on, thinking that it was just another rich guy’s game. Besides she knew her limitations. Though she had had her dreams and fantasies, her background didn’t allow her to explore them. And when it came to Siddharth, she was not interested in him anyway. Not yet.

Over the next few weeks Siddharth kept trying to woo her in all possible ways, but to no avail. She was a tough girl and would not give in easily. But one thing she noticed and also appreciated was that he never misbehaved with her; never crossed his limits. His attempts were always honest and funny. If she enjoyed the attention she was getting, she did not show it.

Unlike his other rich friends, Siddharth did not belong to ‘spoilt brat’ category. He was smart, well-behaved and good at studies. He partied when it was time to party and studied when it was time to study. And when it came to Anuradha, he was romantically attracted to her and ready to drop all the ‘rich boys’’ activities and spend all his time with her. Though his friends found her beautiful too, they were puzzled as to why Siddharth was after her. In their opinion, she was simply not his ‘type’.

Siddharth

One day when Anuradha was sitting alone in the library, unable to focus on her studies, Siddharth arrived and took a seat in front of her. She was two months away from finishing her second semester and the thought of not being able to continue her studies had already crept up in her mind. She looked up.

“Please leave me alone, Siddharth.”

“I know you are worried about something. Tell me what it is.”

“It is none of your business really,” she snapped.

“Of course it is, my dear. Look, listen,” Siddharth began, looking straight into her deep-set brown eyes, “I am in love with you, all right. I’ve confessed this a lot of times, directly and indirectly. I don’t know to say this in any other so-called romantic way. I don’t know all that lovey-dovey stuff. At the same time I also know that I can’t be hopeful about your saying yes. It is OK. I shall live with it. But whatever it is, please don’t be like this; sombre and melancholic. I can’t take it. I want you to be happy each and every second of your life.” He paused for a few seconds and continued, “Now, if you don’t want to say what it is that is worrying you, fine. I shall leave you alone. But do remember what I said, OK?”

Anuradha could not sleep that night. Between her financial condition and Siddharth’s feelings for her, she did not know what troubled her more. She was sure of one thing though: Siddharth’s feelings for her were genuine. And she was right.

Two days later, as Anuradha was walking towards her class, she saw Siddharth in the parking lot, standing with his friends. As usual he was waiting for her. Their eyes met and she smiled at him for the first time. She had given her answer. Siddharth was so happy he could only express it in one word, in the most unusual way possible to an unromantic person: “Oops.”

Days that followed were heaven for both of them. They realized with all of their hearts that they were meant for each other. Anuradha put aside her worries and lived the moment. In those blissful days Siddharth also became aware of her financial condition and his heart bled.

Days and weeks passed, and Anuradha’s worries returned. Siddharth never left her side during those tough moments. She never spoke a word about her troubles and he never asked or expected her to say anything. ‘I understand’ was his unspoken statement. Anuradha was a sensible girl, but sensible girls have mood swings too. And Siddharth, unlike most boys in a relationship, enjoyed her mood swings.

***

When the last exam of second semester was over and everyone was getting ready for the vacations, Anuradha was sitting alone in the canteen, worrying about her future. She knew she had to quit college. Several minutes later Siddharth arrived and took a seat in front of her.

“I am coming to meet your father,” he announced, making her jump.

“What?!”

“You heard me, love. I’m coming to meet your father.”

“But why?”

“You’ll know soon.”

“Please tell me you are joking,” she begged.

“Not at all. I am serious,” he said. When she opened her mouth to say something, he held up his hand and said with austerity, “Now let’s not argue. I am coming and that’s final. You will not stop me.”

Two days later Siddharth accompanied her to Kalhalli. Her father wasn’t home when they reached. He must be in the fields, she thought, as they waited. Half an hour later when her father arrived she hugged him and cried joyously. He cast a curious glance at Siddharth and led them inside.

The lunch was over, and so were the introductions. Anuradha’s father asked, “So why are you here?”

Siddharth didn’t hesitate. “I want to marry your daughter, sir,” he said, flatly.

Anuradha was dumbfounded. She could only stare at Siddharth in horror. He didn’t take his eyes off her father and waited for a reply. The elderly farmer, on the other hand, looked as calm as ever.

“Who did you say you were?”

He spoke at length. “I’m Siddharth, sir. Anuradha’s college mate. My parents passed away three years ago and I’m the only heir to all the property. I have enough wealth that would last for three generations. You might be thinking that I’m being presumptuous and pompous, but I assure you I am not. I don’t have any other way to say it. After my parents passed away, my only way to ease that loss was to spend money on unimportant things. I was irresponsible and impudent to the core. Until I met your daughter. I love her and she is the only person with whom I want to spend the rest of my life.”

Father and daughter were bemused. The discussion between Anuradha’s father and Siddharth went on for more than three hours. In the end Siddharth was successful in convincing Anuradha’s father that he would take good care of her. He didn’t forget to add that she didn’t have to quit college, as all the expenses were his responsibility. Also they would get married only after their graduation, which is after a minimum of three years.

Anuradha’s father was convinced that Siddharth was a good person, but giving consent to marriage was just too early. After a long debate with himself he agreed on only one thing, with a condition: Anuradha could continue her studies with Siddharth’s help, and marriage was possible only after she got a job and cleared the debt. Until then Siddharth was just a caretaker and friend. Nothing else.

Siddharth gladly agreed. Though the old man would not be there to keep an eye on them, he had immense faith in his daughter. For any father, getting his daughter married into a good family is a big thing. However, for a man like Anuradha’s father, it was the sole purpose of his life. He was happy, thinking that his daughter’s future days would be happy. He was mistaken.

***

Anuradha swam in bliss for the next two years. Siddharth was protective towards her, but never possessive. He was charming and funny, and made her laugh. Though he preferred to spend as much time with her as possible, he respected her privacy and knew when to leave her alone. He never smothered her.

Siddharth was not romantic in a conventional way and he never tried to be one. Anuradha didn’t complain. In fact she liked his ‘I-am-what-I-am’ attitude. They had fun, they studied well, her father was happy, they were happy, life was beautiful. And a beautiful song was being written.

It was towards the end of third year Engineering when Siddharth’s friends planned to go on a short trip. Being a boy who loved traveling and adventure, he was excited. That evening he took Anuradha to a café.

“When are you getting back?” Anuradha asked.

“Just two days, love. We’ll be leaving tomorrow before dawn,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder.

“OK. Have fun. Take care.”

“If you don’t want me to go, I’ll cancel right away. Just say the word,” he teased.

“Ha. You can’t be romantic even if you try. Just go and enjoy, all right,” she said, punching his stomach, gently.

They spent the rest of the evening, laughing and cracking jokes and making fun of each other. Those were their last happy moments.

Kodachadri

About 140 kms from Shimoga, Karnataka, is place in the Western Ghats, situated at a height of 1343 meters above sea level. This picturesque hill, Kodachadri, attracts young and old alike throughout the year.

It is believed that Adi Shankaracharya meditated at this place about 600 years ago, and Goddess Mookambika came from Chitramoola, which is three kilometers below the summit (the path that leads to it is almost vertical), and followed the sage. She then prompted him to establish a temple in Kollur; since not everybody can climb up to visit the moola-sthana of the Goddess.

But 90% of the people that visit Kodachadri are attracted to the nature surrounding the place. Clothed in lush, dense Shola forests, it offers a unique trekking experience. Those who trek there will realize what ‘living on the edge’ literally means. The temptation to tread through the jungle is irresistible for those who have adventure in their blood. And Siddharth was one of those adventure enthusiasts.

13 kilometers short of Kollur, on the left side, is a small, lonely path that leads into the jungle. It is a ‘blink and you miss’ path. Throughout the journey Siddharth and his three friends were standing on the footsteps of the bus, their eyes searching for that particular spot to get down. As the bus passed in front of it, one of the boys cried, ‘Stop’. The driver brought the bus to a halt. A few passengers eyed the boys, inquisitively. They got off the bus and swept the surrounding area with their eyes. Not a sound, not a soul. The four boys stood facing the jungle. The muddy red path in front of them, which looked like a tongue of a green demon, stretched straight for a few yards into the jungle, then turned right and disappeared. It was June and the monsoons had just begun. The jungle looked like a seductress, and the boys were ready to explore her.

The driver shifted gear and drove on, towards Kollur. It was four o’clock in the evening and the young trekkers took their first steps into the jungle. They had to get to the top before sundown. Distance: 10 kms. Time: 2 hours.

As they walked on, they felt as though they were taking a stroll in paradise. The cold breeze, the mist, the greenery all around, the rustling sound of leaves, the ‘krruck krruck’ that their shoes made – all accentuated by adrenaline rush made it a breathtaking experience.

The only proof that civilization existed was a small shop that sold Soda, Buttermilk, Glucose and a few other eatables. They had covered four kilometers. When everybody was resting and drinking buttermilk and soda, Siddharth was busy taking pictures. And when the shopkeeper told them that covering the first four kilometers was easy and the real challenge lay ahead, they became alert. They looked at each other, communicating nonverbally, and decided to walk fast, as getting to the top before sundown was extremely important.

There were two reasons for that. One, if they got stuck in the jungle at night, there would be no way to continue their journey. And getting stuck in the jungle at night is no joke. Apart from the presence of a few wild animals and snakes, the hill is very steep. If it’s the dense forest on one side, it’s a bottomless nothingness on the other. Also, the possibility of rain is always there. Cold, rain, eerie silence, zero visibility – all enough to scare anyone. It was a kind of place, where, should somebody come without informing anyone and slip, he would go into the ‘missing’ files, and remains missing forever; as the body would never be found.

And two, they didn’t want to miss the sunset, which has the reputation of being one of the most splendid sights on earth. The time was now four forty-five. They walked on.

Covering another six kilometers in one hour was no big deal for the young lads. It was fun; they shouted and screamed, clapped and sang, cracked jokes and laughed, threw banters at each other and posed and photographed. Covering the last two kilometers was the toughest, as the path was almost vertical, maximum 30 degrees bent. All their jollification came to a halt. The time was five thirty.

The weather was cloudy and they wondered whether they would be lucky enough to witness the sunset. Then again, sunset came second in their list of priorities. Nobody spoke as they climbed on, panting and breathing heavily, one behind another; as the narrow path would permit only one person to tread at a time.

It was five minutes short of six when they finally made it. They tried to hoot, but could only manage a dull whistle. On the left side of the last step there is a water pipe, where natural groundwater flows continuously, every minute of the day, every day of the year. No attempt has been made to store and use it effectively. The boys washed their faces and hands, and drank copious amounts of water, one after the other. When their energy levels had been restored they let out a loud raucous cry of excitement. And it was only when they high-fived did they realize that a pair of hands was missing.

***

Sundown. The inside of the forest looked like it had sucked in all the light of the world and converted it into a dead, ominous darkness. The silence was so grave that every little sound was clearly audible. In spite of Kodachadri being a reputed pilgrimage and a trekking spot, it is devoid of electricity to this day. The people that reside there have got acclimatized to candles. The houses are as old as hundred years. One of the houses’ backyards is such that if one took a walk in the middle of night, sleepy-eyed, to use the bathroom and took one unnecessary extra step, he would never see a sunrise again and his family would never see him again.

Siddharth widened his eyes and tried to catch a glimpse of some tiny yellow dot in the distance, but to no avail. It was his only hope, and his only hope was now blighted. He looked up. Leaves and branches that looked beautiful during daytime, dipped in mist, now looked baleful, dabbed with starlight. He took two careful steps to his right and looked up again. The clouds had moved and he saw a canopy of fiery stars sprayed against the dark sky. He could not figure out whether the stars were twinkling, or mocking at his stupidity.

It had been entirely his mistake. When his friends climbed continuously, he halted every now and then to take pictures. Although he never let them out of his sight, he lagged behind. He lost them completely when the paths diverged. They took the one on the left, whereas he took the one on the right. They were nowhere to be seen by then. But he was quite confident that he could catch up with them. It was too late when he realized that the path he had taken was the wrong one. It was already dark when he started to climb down. He tried to find his way up, but the darkness wouldn’t let him. It was impossible to take a step forward. He stood still and considered the position he was in. No torch, no water in the bottle, no matchstick or lighter, no mobile network. Alone. Thirsty. Hungry. Lost.

He stood there in silence for few more minutes, not knowing what to do. And then it struck him: he could use the light of his mobile phone. It also had a torch. He slapped his forehead for not thinking about it earlier and pulled out his phone from his trouser pocket. He switched on the torch. There was sufficient light now. He smiled and began to tread again.

If one is not used to it, Kodachadri’s cold could be unbearable in the monsoons. He shivered. He knew if he just kept climbing, the body got heated up and the journey would become easier. He continued climbing.

But no sooner had he covered a distance of fifty meters than it started raining. He took another few steps, slipped and fell; rolled down and hit his head against a tree. He lay there for a while and managed to lift himself up. His mobile phone was nowhere to be seen. Darkness had reigned supreme again.

His head still hurt and he felt slightly dizzy and disoriented. Having nothing else to do, he slumped down and sat with his back against the tree. It was hardly seven thirty and it was going to be a long night, he knew.

He opened his backpack and rummaged through its contents. A few seconds later he found what he was looking for: an energy bar he had saved for the next day. He wouldn’t have eaten it if it wasn’t raining. The problem of not having water was solved. But then again it wasn’t the only problem he had. He had about eleven hours before sunup. And spending eleven hours alone in a dense forest is no joke, and he knew it. The time stood still.

He widened his eyes and tried to get accustomed to the darkness. A few minutes later the rain stopped. All he could hear was the ‘tup tup’ of rain drops and all he could see was the dark expanse of the forest. The cold, brutal breeze was piercing through his skin. He zipped up his jacket, folded his arms, drew his knees to his chest and kept himself as warm as possible. And then he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Nothing happened for the next few hours as he slept blissfully. Somewhere in the middle of night his sleep was disturbed by an ant-bite on his neck. He wriggled, scratched his neck, and when he was just about to fall asleep again, he heard it.

***

They were distraught. Though they were all famished, they could not eat anything. The thought of their friend being stuck in the jungle scared them. Their imagination was running wild. If the thought of Siddharth falling off the cliff had crept up in their mind, they didn’t dare mention it. When they had tried to get the help of village people, they only got pity, but not help. Going down the path all by themselves was out of question. Having nothing else to do, they decided to wait till morning. If he didn’t show up then, they would call the police.

***

It didn’t bother him much the first time, but when he heard it for the second time a few seconds later, it shook him out of his senses. He slowly got up and looked around. Nothing. He stood there for the next two minutes, without moving a muscle. Still nothing. He was about to sit down when he heard it again. He didn’t recognize it, for he had never heard such a sound before. It wasn’t the sound of footsteps, it wasn’t the sound of an animal, it wasn’t the sound of a bird, it wasn’t the sound of rustling of leaves, he knew. He also knew that the greatest fear known to mankind was the fear of unknown. And it was the sound of the unknown.

He heard it again. It was a sound of sawing wood, of metals clinking, of a tiny bit of music being played on a defected gramophone, of women and children shrieking, of teeth chattering, of a snake hissing, of a dog howling, of an owl hooting, of a tiger roaring, of a siren – all mixed together. But then if anyone had asked him as to what sound it was, he would not have been able to tell. It was indescribable. Every time it came from a different direction, sporadically, and sustained for about ten seconds. It took some time for Siddharth to realize that it was slowly surrounding him. If it came from north once, the next time it would be from east, then south, and finally west. He started shivering as beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

Seconds later Siddharth felt that the sound was approaching him from all directions. Instinctively, he reached for his backpack and took out his Nikon D3000; an expensive, high-resolution camera. He opened the lens-cap, switched it on and enabled ‘always flash’. Whatever it is or whoever it is, I’m not going to die without seeing it, he said to himself, determinedly. He skimmed the sweat off his face with his jacket sleeve and stood his ground, waiting.

As the sound advanced towards him, he pressed the shutter button, pointing the lens at a random direction. The flash was bright, but when he took a quick glance at the 3-inch LCD screen, he saw absolutely nothing. He didn’t falter. He started clicking, rapidly, pointing at every direction. The sound was louder now and he realized that it was just a few yards away from him. He kept clicking. A few seconds later when the sound was in his nearest vicinity, he pressed the shutter button – for the last time. And in that bright flash of light, he saw it, convulsed and froze.

The sound stopped with a ‘whack’ after encapsulating him. The surrounding area grew silent again. Siddharth, holding the camera in his hand, stood like a rock, looking at nothing specific. Three kilometers up and away, his friends had not been able to sleep. When one of them checked the time, it was exactly 2 am.

About 400 kms away, a girl, who was unable to sleep, picked up her phone and dialed a number. Two kilometers short of Kodachadri village, on the edge of a hill, a cell-phone rang. The display said, “Love calling”. No one picked up. When it rang for the second time, it moved a little, as it was in vibration mode, and fell off the edge. It would never ring again.

***

When the sun rose at six in the morning, Siddharth was still standing in the same position, with the camera in his hand. He had not moved an inch. His eyes had not blinked a single time. The battery of his camera was dead. The LCD screen was blank.

All of a sudden, as if waking up from a deep slumber, he yawned, rubbed his eyes, kept the camera back in his backpack, and started walking towards the village of Kodachadri.

***

His friends were ecstatic when they saw Siddharth. He didn’t react. He didn’t respond to their queries. When he did it was in a word or two. When one of his friends found dried blood near his left ear and brought his hand near it to see it properly, Siddharth said just one word: “Don’t”. There was venom in his voice. It was a voice his friends had never heard before. They were all puzzled.

When he was asked about his camera, he said that it was dead. They didn’t know what to make of it. Was the battery dead, or was the camera damaged? They didn’t probe. They thought that he was angry with them for leaving him behind. Though they knew that it was not their fault, they felt guilty.

Siddharth was the cynosure of all eyes in the little village. The temple priest was so dumbstruck; he performed pooja in his name without taking any money. It is nothing but Goddess Mookambika’s miracle, he said to everyone.

Siddharth neither took bath nor had breakfast. He didn’t even wash his face and hands. More than everything else, what surprised everyone was that he never asked for water. Without saying anything he started walking towards the summit, which was two kilometers up. His friends looked at each other, shrugged and followed suit.

He climbed so fast his friends found it difficult to catch up with him. He was in front of Adi Shankaracharya’s temple within fifteen minutes. When his friends reached the spot ten minutes later, he was nowhere to be seen. They knew where he was: on the way to Chitramoola, two kilometers below the summit. The precarious path that leads to it is behind the summit on the western side. They didn’t follow him.

The path that leads to Chitramoola is narrower and steeper than the paths that lead to Kodachadri village and Adi Shankaracharya’s temple. Siddharth moved dangerously fast and covered half the distance in ten minutes. He came and stood at the edge of the cliff. The only way was on the left side. He saw a white cloth, fluttering, about a kilometer away. He started walking. Five minutes later he was climbing a ladder to a cave, which is perched midway in the rock.

There is a small, black Shiva Lingam, enwrapped by a rock, forming a tiny cave, thereby protecting it from sun, cold and rain. The roof is extended by about five feet, horizontally. On the left side of Shiva Lingam flows a stream of water from the rock. Chitra-moola. There is a famous saying in Kannada that the sources (moolas) of Rivers, Rishis (Seers) and Women are impossible to trace. But it is found false in Chitramoola’s case, for it is the source, the birth place of Souparnika River.

Siddharth climbed up the ladder, turned round and sat in the cave, cross-legged, facing the impenetrable forest of Ambavanam. The Goddess Mookambika’s temple of Kollur is visible from Chitramoola. But he didn’t notice it, as it didn’t matter to him.

Several minutes later, he climbed down and started back. At a certain point in the journey, he tripped and fell on the ground. He got up, removed his shoes and socks, threw them off the cliff, and started walking barefoot. Ten minutes later when his friends met him at the summit and asked him about his shoes, he just stared at them.

They found a deviation on the way down. ‘Way to Ganesha Guha’ said a board and pointed left. Siddharth walked past the cave without stopping. Two of his friends stopped at the cave, offered a small prayer to Lord Ganesha, whose idol is carved in a black stone, and hurried to catch up with their friends. They traversed through the forest and reached the temple complex of Kodachadri village in ten minutes. It was nine o’clock in the morning.

Siddharth’s friends paid for their accommodation and hailed a jeep to climb down. One and a half hours later they reached the bottom of the hill, took a bus to Sampekatte, then from Sampekatte to Kollur, and finally from Kollur to Mysore.

Throughout the journey Siddharth didn’t speak a word. His friends failed to interpret his silence. They finally convinced themselves that he would be all right once he was back in Mysore. But that would not happen. He was a changed man and they didn’t know it.

After Effects

Anuradha’s calls were not answered. In the beginning she thought that they had not returned. But when she saw one of his friends in college, she was surprised. Under normal circumstances Siddharth would have contacted her first. No such thing happened this time. She caught hold of the boy and asked, “When did you all get back, Darshan?”

“Yesterday,” he answered, meekly.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

“No. Nothing is wrong. Why?”

“Siddharth has not contacted me. My calls are not getting through. Tell me, what is the matter,” she demanded.

“Oh, that? He lost his cell-phone in Kodachadri. Nothing serious. He is a bit tired. He must be taking rest. After all, we trekked twenty kilometers, up and down,” said Darshan, and managed a smile.

Anuradha didn’t believe him.

“OK,” said he, “I’m getting late for class,” and scuttled away.

That evening Anuradha paid a visit to Siddharth’s house. His housekeeper answered the door. As usual, his uncle, who managed the business, was at his office. When she inquired the housekeeper about Siddharth, he said he was in his room. She was well acquainted with the housekeeper and Siddharth’s uncle. She smiled at him and walked towards his bedroom.

He was lying on his bed, with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. “Hi, Siddu,” she said.

He slowly craned his neck to see her. He didn’t show any excitement at the sight of her. She was surprised. She smiled and approached his cot. He kept staring at her. She drew a chair and sat next to his cot. “How are you” she asked, ruffling his hair.

When he didn’t respond, she continued, “I tried to reach you on your cell-phone a million times, you know. I didn’t even know you’d returned until I saw Darshan in college today. He said you’d lost your cell-phone. So I came to see you.”

Siddharth got up and sat with his back against the wall and continued to stare at her. Anuradha couldn’t interpret anything. A few seconds later he asked, “Why?”

“What do you mean why? I was worried about you. You didn’t call after getting back. I thought you were sick or something.”

“You expect me to report everything to you? When I got back, what I did there, what I’ll do next? Huh?” his voice kept rising with every word. It was the first time he had yelled at her.

Anuradha was flummoxed. “What’s wrong with you, Siddu? I said I was worried about you. All your friends were at college today, except you. Why are you yelling at me like that?”

“I don’t have to answer your every question, understand. Now get out.”

Tears had already welled up in her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” she mumbled as she got up and wended her way out.

Siddharth lay on his back again and continued to stare at the ceiling.

***

Exams were nearing and Anuradha couldn’t focus on her studies. Siddharth hadn’t called her after their last conversation at his place. Siddharth’s friends tried to keep in touch with him, but to no avail. He wrote four out of six exams. Anuradha knew she would only barely pass this time. Expecting a distinction was out of question.

When she was packing her bags after her last exam, she got a call from Siddharth.

“I’m sorry,” he said the moment the phone was picked up.

She didn’t respond.

“I really am sorry, Anu. Can you meet me now?”

“OK,” she said.

“Fantastic. I’ll come and pick you up in a while,” he said and hung up.

They met at their regular place, a café near college. Anuradha was still hurt over their last meeting.

“I wasn’t in the right state of mind, Anu. I’m sorry again,” he pleaded.

It took him nearly half an hour to make her smile. Then he vividly narrated his trekking experience. Only the first part. She didn’t probe further. Even if she had, he wouldn’t have been able to tell her.

They sat there for another two hours, talking and laughing. Anuradha was happy that Siddharth was all right. Whatever it was that made him behave rudely a few weeks earlier, she never found out the exact reason. And she never would.

Everything was fine until the waiter came with the bill. There was a small error in the billing. They hadn’t ordered cheese cake, but it was billed. Siddharth stood up and slapped the waiter hard across his face. For the next five minutes he hurled abuses, directed at the waiter and his family members. Everyone in the café looked at Siddharth with distaste. Anuradha was shocked. The ever polite, decent and respectable gentleman in Siddharth she once knew was gone.

***

Anuradha spent her vacation in her village, thinking about Siddharth’s changed persona. When her father asked her what it was, she replied that her exams had not gone well. She had already been placed in an IT company through campus interview, and hence her father didn’t complain much. “Do well next time,” was all he said.

She returned to Mysore when the final year started. She met Siddharth and they had a nice time together. Nothing unusual. But one day, on her birthday, when they were dining in a restaurant, Anuradha’s classmate Anil, who was also dining with his friend, saw her and approached her. “Happy Birthday, Anuradha,” he said.

“Anil! What a pleasant surprise! Thank you so much,” she said, shaking his hand.

“I was with a friend. I hadn’t come to college today, so couldn’t wish you earlier. Now when I saw you, I didn’t want to lose the opportunity of wishing you.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Anil. Thanks again.”

When the boy was gone, Siddharth said, “You are sleeping with him.”

It wasn’t a question. Anuradha was shell-shocked. “What?” she almost shouted. A few people that were dining cast curious glances at them.

“You heard me, Bitch. You are sleeping with him. I know it very well,” he yelled at the top of his voice.

Now they had the attention of almost everybody in the restaurant. The ones that were nearby heard every word clearly. Anuradha wasn’t bothered about them. She had better things to worry.

“How could you say that, Siddu? He’s just a classmate. I don’t even know him well. And you called me a Bitch? What has come onto you?” Tears were already rolling down her cheeks.

She couldn’t stay there any longer. She picked up her purse and stormed out of the restaurant, without even waiting for his reply.

***

If it was the beginning of a relationship, Anuradha would have come out of it without caring much. But it was not the case. She was madly in love with him.

Two days later they reconciled. But she wanted to find out what was wrong with him. She met Darshan again.

“Tell me what happened in Kodachadri? Now don’t lie to me. He is behaving weirdly ever since he came back.”

Darshan knew it was impossible to lie to her. He told her about Siddharth spending the night in the jungle alone.

“I thought he would tell you about it himself.”

She was appalled.

“He never told me any of this,” she said to herself. She paused and continued a minute later, “But what’s it got to do with the way he is behaving?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. None of us know what happened to him in the forest that night. He never told us. His behavior was just not normal after he made it out of the forest. Initially we all thought he was just angry with us for leaving him behind. And then when he continued behaving in the same way, we thought maybe it was due to shock or something. Now it’s been weeks since that fateful night and he still hasn’t come out of it.”

“I am scared for him, Darshan,” Anuradha said, sobbing.

“I know. We all are,” he tried to console her.

They stood in silence for a few more minutes. “All right. You take care, OK? Everything will be all right,” He said and turned to go. And then he remembered something and faced her again, “You know, a crazy thing happened a few weeks back. It had been four days since we retuned from the trip. He had neither called us nor attended classes. So I’d been to his house to meet him. He behaved normally in the beginning. As I was about to leave, my eyes fell on his camera, which was on his table. As you know he has a passion for photography and he was the one who took pictures all the time. College functions, parties, trips, you name it and he was always ready with his camera. It was the same this time too. But he never showed us a single photograph. I thought I’d see some photos and approached the table. I don’t know what happened to him suddenly, he came rushing towards me and punched me in the stomach and said, ‘Don’t ever try to touch my camera again.’ I was aghast. It hadn’t happened before. In fact I’d borrowed his camera on many occasions.” He mulled over it for a few seconds and continued, “I think there are some pictures in it that he doesn’t want anyone to see. Maybe if you can get hold of his camera or search his computer you might find something.”

Anuradha didn’t respond. All these were new developments for her. Darshan said bye and took her leave. She returned to her hostel with a disturbed mind.

***

Anuradha waited for the right time and when she found one, she asked Siddharth about the photos of Kodachadri. He lied, easily, “I lost my camera last week.” She never asked about it again.

As the days passed, Siddharth’s condition worsened. His friends deserted him. He was thrown out of class every now and then, for misbehaving with his professors. He sometimes threw paper-balls at them, sometimes used foul language in the open class. A few girls, who were attracted to him before, now complained to Head of the Department that he behaved badly with them. The only reason he was not punished was the hefty donation his uncle had given to the college.

He called up Anuradha one day and asked her to meet him at his place, urgently. When she came over, he asked her to kiss him, without any preamble.

“Wh…what?” she was flabbergasted.

“You heard me, love. Kiss me.”

When she didn’t, he slapped her. She widened her eyes in repulsion. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything, for shock had held her incapacitated.

If he had subtly, lovingly hinted at it, perhaps she would have given in and enjoyed. She would not have complained. But he had treated her like a slave.

“You cunning, Bitch. What do you think of yourself? I am your fiancé. I took care of you. Now when I ask a little thing in return, you do drama?”

“I have to go,” she said.

“Listen to me and listen very carefully. Don’t ever think of leaving me. Don’t ever think of sleeping with somebody else. Am I not good for you?”

When she didn’t respond, he slapped her again. She ran out, crying her eyes out.

***

Nothing changed over the next few months. Hitting Anuradha became routine; every time she didn’t answer his phone call, every time she didn’t respond to his messages, every time she said ‘no’ to go out with him, every time he saw her talking to some other boy. But the very next day he would be at her hostel gate with a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates in his hands. She endured all the pain. Her friends advised her to leave him, they advised her to lodge a complaint in the police station, but she never gave heed to any of them. She had her own argument, “He took care of me when I was depressed, I’d not have continued my studies if not for him, he loved me, he still loves me, I know, and now when he is going through some problems of his own, I can’t desert him when all his friends have. He needs me. I’m sure he’s going to be all right.”

She was in his debt, she was in love.

Final year got over and she had managed to retain a respectable aggregate. She soon started working in a top IT company. When she got her first salary, she decided to give half of it to Siddharth, as per the unwritten agreement between him and her father.

“What, you don’t have any respect for me? I don’t want your money, damn it. Don’t ever insult me like that again,” he yelled, pushing her on the sofa.

“But –,” she was cut in.

“Forget about it, will you? Now let’s celebrate on your first salary,” he said, grinning.

She smiled. But it vanished when he said, “All right, baby. Get undressed. I’ve waited long enough.”

He went inside and returned a minute later with a beer can in his hand.

“You haven’t undressed yet? OK, you want me to do it? Fine,” he said, kept the can aside, pounced on her and started running his tongue over her face and neck.

She felt disgusted and pushed him away. Siddharth’s temper shot up and when he lifted his hand to hit her, she took a few steps back and said, “Listen to me, Siddu. I want to say something important. Do whatever you want after that.”

“What is it?” he asked, glaring at her.

It was going to be the most important decision of her life. She took a deep breath and started, “I love you, Siddu. I love you so much. You know that, don’t you? You too love me, don’t you? I have come to a decision. Maybe our bad times will come to an end after that. There is no point in waiting.”

He knitted his brows, as if asking her to go on.

“Let’s get married,” she said.

His lips broke into a smile when he heard it. “I love you,” he said and hugged her.

Prey

Everybody called her an irrational fool, but it didn’t matter to her. Though her father was surprised at her sudden decision, he was only happy in the end. He was oblivious of the latest developments. All her old man knew now was that she had successfully finished her graduation, had a job, and had a wonderful person to take care of her. He had only one final wish: to see his daughter in her wedding dress.

Anuradha had not told him anything. When she had been to her village after her graduation, before joining the company, she wanted to talk to her father about Siddharth’s changed behavior. But before she could bring herself to say anything, her father started praising him. He almost cried while expressing his gratitude to the boy. That shut Anuradha up.

The date was set. The place was finalized. It was going to be in her village as per her father’s wish. She invited only a few of her close friends. They once again asked her to consider her decision. In response she just smiled. Needless to say they were not happy with her decision. They didn’t believe that her marriage was going to last more than a year.

Siddharth, on the other hand, didn’t invite anybody. In fact, he didn’t have any friends left. He had somehow scraped through his final year and finished his graduation. Some believed that it was only due to the influence his uncle had in higher places. When ordinary students were made to pass under the name of ‘challenge revaluation’ which was priced at Rs. 5000/-, Siddharth was a big fish after all.

Unlike Anuradha, he was jobless. His uncle had asked him to join office and take care of some minor business. His would do so after the wedding, he had promised.

A week before the wedding, Anuradha visited Siddharth at his place, in Mysore. His housekeeper had called and told her that he was sick with fever, and that he was taking her name in his sleep, repeatedly. Though it was against their family custom to meet the groom during the final preparations, she had gone to visit him. He looked perfectly all right. When she asked him what it was all about, he replied that her presence cured his sickness. She heaved a sigh of relief and smiled. A minute later, Siddharth’s dog, a Labrador, entered his room, wagging its tail. Anuradha was fond of it and the dog showered its love on her every time she visited. An hour later she took Siddharth’s leave. Five hours later the housekeeper buried the Labrador in the backyard. Its head had been smashed with a cricket bat.

***

The big day had arrived. With festoons of flowers everywhere, the marriage hall looked grand. Siddharth had arrived the previous day with his uncle and a few distant relatives. Anuradha’s father had been made to wear suit for the first time in his life, and the old man looked happy.

Anuradha met her two girlfriends in the dressing room. When they had gone back to the main hall and taken their seats, she met Anil outside the dressing room. He had become a good friend to her during the last semester and lent his support every time she was sad due to Siddharth’s behavior. He wished her a good life and went back to the main hall.

Ten minutes later Siddharth barged into Anuradha’s dressing room. Four women that were helping her dress up left the room, leaving the couple alone. Anuradha saw him in the mirror and swiveled round.

“Why is he here?” Siddharth demanded.

“Who?”

“Anil.”

“For heavens’ sake, Siddu. We are getting married in an hour, and you still have your doubts?”

“I know your plan. I’ve seen such things in movies. You are going to run away with him, aren’t you? Don’t you ever leave me, understand?”

“Stop it, will you? Why would I do that? After all these years, after all those promises, you are talking like this?”

He kept mum.

“And please stop saying ‘Don’t you ever leave me’. Now go and get ready,” she said, caressing his cheek.

He turned and walked out without a word. It was going to be very difficult after marriage, she knew. I’m going to bring you back to normal, Siddu, she promised herself.

***

Anuradha and Siddharth tied the knot an hour later. The bride’s father heaved a sigh of relief. I can now die a peaceful death, he said to himself. The newly wedded couple departed to their dressing rooms to get ready for the reception ceremony.

Siddharth’s uncle met Anuradha in her room half an hour later.

“Listen Anu, Siddu had forgotten his camera. Our housekeeper found it under his cot and brought it. Such a careless fellow, your husband is. He’s in your hands now,” he laughed and then continued, “Anyways, he never leaves his camera behind, you know. He carries it with him everywhere. Today is a big day and he might want somebody to take pictures using his camera. I’d been to his room, but he was in the bathroom. There wasn’t anybody, so I thought of giving it to you. I have to attend some guests, all right.” He handed over the camera to her and was gone.

Anuradha stared at the camera. No one had seen or touched it since over a year; since Kodachadri. She remembered Siddharth lying about it. ‘I lost my camera last week,’ he had said. Why did he lie? She kept asking herself again and again. Am I going to find some answers to my questions in this? She turned it over, switched it on and started browsing the pictures.

They were just normal pictures about four boys having a nice time, trekking in the forest of Kodachadri. She smiled. Oh, Siddu, you were so nice back then. What has happened to you now? What is it that changed you? A drop of tear tricked down her cheek as she continued to browse the photos. And then the screen went blank. There was nothing. The photo count on the top right corner of the LCD screen said 101/143. She continued scrolling. This time she could see trees, faintly. 115/143. Why has he taken so many pictures of trees in the night? It wouldn’t even qualify as photography. It was just random clicking in all possible directions. She knitted her brows in confusion and scrolled on. 140/143. Same thing. 141/143, 142/143, and then she saw it and dropped the camera to the floor, horrified.

Before she could regain her senses, someone slapped her hard across her face.

“How dare you touch my camera?” Siddharth was yelling. “That stupid uncle of mine! Damn it. He couldn’t wait until I came out of the bathroom.”

“Wh…what was that, Siddu?” she mumbled.

“It’s none of your business, you bloody whore,” he hollered and pushed her with great force.

Anuradha reeled back, losing balance, and banged her head against the edge of her dressing table and fell down on the floor.

“Now get ready for the reception. Everybody is waiting for us,” he cried as he picked up his camera. “Don’t you dare mention this to anyone.”

He stormed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

***

Twenty minutes later Siddharth walked onto the stage along with Anuradha and stood in front of the decorated chairs. A love song from an old Kannada movie was being played in the background. Everyone in the hall was waiting for his turn to go on the stage and wish the newly married couple, give their presents and take pictures.

Siddharth smiled at them and turned to his wife. Her head was still bleeding.

“Couldn’t you do something about it?” he said, took out his hanky and wiped the blood. Siddharth’s uncle was standing a few feet away from him, talking to some friends. But Anuradha’s father was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is your old man, Anu?” he asked.

“The last time I saw him, he was busy, crying. Now I think he’s busy, making arrangements for the funeral,” she replied, nonchalantly.

“Whose funeral? Who died?”

Before she could answer his question, his uncle approached him hurriedly and said, “Where is Anuradha, Siddu? Why are you standing alone?”

“What?” he cried in utter disbelief. “She is right he –.” He turned to look at her.

“Of course I am right here, Siddu,” Anuradha said, holding his hands, “I will never leave you, I promise.”

Siddharth stared at her in horror and shuddered. A moment later he collapsed on the chair.

A song that they had so lovingly written together a few years earlier remained unsung. Life, they say, is a beautiful Seductress. But then, beautiful Seductresses have mood swings too.

********************The End********************

An Unending Conversation

2011-01-17T22:00:00.005+05:30

They were quite oblivious as to where they were headed for, or to be specific, where they were being taken. But it didn't matter to them, for the journey was pleasant and their companions were interesting.

The flight captain never communicated with the passengers and the air-hostesses kept mum. Every passenger had settled down, except for one boy in a blue shirt and dark trousers, who was as restive as ever. His seat number was 222 B, between an old lady and a bald-headed middle-aged man. He excused himself and squeezed out of his seat; at the expense of a few swearwords from the middle-aged man. “Thank you,” the boy said, took a stroll along the narrow passage of the plane, and reached the front. He cast a glance at all the passengers that seemed to be in their own world. Some were snoring, some were chatting with their fellow passengers, and some just kept to themselves.

Soon his eyes fell on a girl who looked his age. She was comfortably sitting, with a calm expression on her face, next to a woman who was reading a magazine. The girl was looking out of the window. In blue jeans and red top, white shoes, with her hair let loose, she looked spunky. The boy never took his eyes off her, and the girl never turned away from the window. I wonder what's so fascinating about clouds, he thought. Look at me, damn it! And she finally did.

He smiled at her and she raised her eyebrows.

“There are two vacant seats here. Would you mind sitting with me?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said, getting up.

Once they were settled in their new seats, he asked, “What is she reading?”

The girl craned her neck to see the woman with whom she was sitting till then, turned to him and said with a wink, “You know what she is reading.”

“Of course I do. Such a moron, I say,” he said, laughing.

“Come on. Don’t say that,” she said, laughing. It was too conspicuous from the way she laughed that she agreed with him.

“Well, anyways,” he continued, “I’m Tarun.”

“I’m Sheela.”

“Splendid! And who is your sister? Munni?”

“Oh please! I’m sick of it. Everyone made fun of my name after that song came out, you know. Why did they have to write a song with my name?”

“So that Katrina could shake her booty.”

“She does it either ways,” she said, flicking her hair.

“Yes, that’s true. And as long as she does, the world will be a happy place,” he grinned.

“Boys!”

It was two o’clock in the afternoon and an air-hostess gave them their lunch and proceeded to the next row. She didn’t speak a single word.

“These are the worst kind of air-hostesses I’ve ever seen. Such pathetic service,” Sheela murmured.

“Touché,” Tarun said, “They don't talk, they don’t smile, and mainly, they are not beautiful.” He paused for a moment and then said, “Hey, why don’t you serve food? I’m sure everybody will like that.”

“Are you flirting with me, mister?” Sheela asked, smiling.

“No, missy. I haven’t started yet. I meant it. I mean, look around. You are the only young and beautiful girl in this whole goddammn plane.”

“Sshhh. They don’t appreciate blasphemy here. Careful,” she said, with a finger on her lips.

“I don’t give a damn.”

She looked at him with mild anger as she opened the silver paper of her food packet.

“All right, all right,” he said, throwing up his hands in the air.

He too opened his food packet and took a spoonful.

“Gosh, dal rice? This has got to be the worst flight service ever.”

She just shrugged her shoulders and continued eating.

“So what do you do?” he asked.

“I’m an artist,” she said.

“Artist as in?”

“Painter.”

“How cool is that! And what a co-incidence! I’m a painter too,” he said, cradling his chin.

“Really?” she was fascinated.

“Yes. But there is a small difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you paint pictures with colours. And I paint pictures with words,” he said, taking another spoonful of his food.

“Ah, a writer, I believe. What a beautiful way to say it!” she was impressed.

The laughter they shared together then was more delicious than the food they were eating.

Sheela asked him a few minutes later, “So, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Was that a question or an offer?” he was quick to answer.

“What?” she was startled. “Of course it was a question,” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “Flirting comes naturally to boys, doesn’t it? Every little opportunity is used. Well, see where you are now. The rules of flirting are different here.”

“Really?” he said, “Let’s see. After all we have all the time in the world.”

She turned away, took a spoonful of her food and asked again, “Tell me.”

“Oh, that? No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“You don’t look like you are single.”

“I know. It’s just that I’m keeping my options open,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Typical guy’s answer.”

“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend? Wait, before you could answer; it is a question as well as an offer.”

“I’m sorry to say, my dear. Your offer is rejected. But at the same time, I’m single too.”

“Oh, great. Then I was wondering if we –,” he was cut in.

“Don’t have any imaginations about wooing me, all right?”

“Funny you should say that, Sheela. After all, this journey is going to be very long, trust me.”

“Yes, maybe,” she said with a tinge of sadness.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, noticing her melancholic expression.

“It’s OK,” she said.

A moment later an air-hostess cleared their empty food packets. Several minutes later the plane landed in an obscure location. Nobody knew what place it was. The pilot didn’t even bother to announce that he was landing. Sometime later a few more passengers got on the plane. Every one of them had a confused expression on his/her face. They checked their tickets and found their seats.

Tarun was clearly enjoying Sheela’s company very much. As they had occupied others’ seats, Tarun was worried that they would be sent back to their places. If Sheela was worried about the same thing, she didn’t evince it. Fortunately for them, no such thing happened. In fact many seats were still unoccupied. There were going to be a few more stops on the way, they were sure.

“Had you ever seen an aeroplane like this before?” Sheela asked, crinkling her eyes.

“No. This is weird. A 3000-seater plane? And a black-coloured one?”

“Maybe these kinds of planes are meant to be for special purposes,” she said, looking around.

“I think so too,” he acquiesced.

“Crazy!”

A few minutes passed and Sheela still looked sombre, pensive. Tarun, in an attempt to perk her up, said, “You know what. I’m still not able to get over the idea of that woman reading Lifestyle magazine."

It did the trick. She chuckled. “She had it with her when she got on the plane.”

“I’m sure she did,” he said, with a sarcastic smile.

She shook her head, smiling; craned her neck to see the woman and started laughing hysterically as she turned towards him. They held each other’s hands and continued laughing.

“So, tell me,” Tarun said when their laughter had subsided, “How did you get on this plane?”

He finally asked the question to which there was no easy answer. And thus began a conversation that would never end. They talked about their dreams, their desires, their fantasies, their parents and siblings and friends, their careers, and mainly, they talked about how they had lived……and died.

********************The End********************

Renascence

2011-01-03T22:39:00.004+05:30

This post has been selected as BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Pick. To read a short review, click here.

*********

He died.

He now walked into a world he had never known before. Hell. As he walked on, terrified, he met murderers, rapists, sadists and the lot. Everyone stared at him as he moved. There was a clamorous activity all around, with everyone hurling abuses and throwing things at each other. The air smelt of treachery and blood and sweat and hatred and jealousy. He kept walking.

And then he saw her – who was standing with a nonchalant attitude, in the midst of all the vicious men – whom he considered his cruel mistress, the one whom he thought was responsible for his death, the one whom he loved with all of his heart, the one whose name he never knew.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, arching his brows.

“I followed you,” she said.

“Why? After all, you left me.”

“No, I didn’t. You left me,” she said, phlegmatically.

“Ha! Really?”

“Yes. You never acknowledged me,” she said, looking straight into his eyes.

She continued when he put his head down, accepting his defeat, “I can take you back, if you want me to.”

“And how is that possible?” he asked, meekly.

“Simple. You just have to close your eyes and believe that I’m real, that I exist.” She paused for a few seconds and then said at the top of her voice, “Acknowledge me.”

He didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes and said to no one in particular, “I know you are real. You exist. You are here.”

Moments passed and he experienced a mammoth change around him. It was drizzling and the sweet smell of soil titillated his senses. The music – a combination of flute and violin – which was being played somewhere in the distance filled his soul and warmed his heart. And when the girl ruffled his hair and caressed his cheek, a delicious smile flitted across his face. His mind had attained its state of tranquility.

He slowly peeled his eyes open and saw her. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. And when she smiled, with a twinkle in her eyes, she looked divine to him.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You are born again,” she said.

He looked around and found himself in a world filled with beauty, with happiness…with life.

“Take care,” she said, and turned round.

The moment she turned her back on him, the world around him started to fall apart. No rain, no sweet smell of soil, no music, and mainly, no life.

“Wait!” he cried. “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.”

She stopped and swiveled round. “I’m not going away. I’m not leaving you. You just have to believe that I’m always there with you.”

He considered it for a moment and looked around. The world he desired was right there, ready to embrace him.

She laughed. “See that?”

“You never told me your name?” he said.

She took a few steps towards him, lifted his chin with her soft, delicate hands, and said, “You know who I am. I am and was always there with you. We grew up together, played together, laughed together, built dreams together. But somewhere along the way, you deserted me, you stopped acknowledging me, you stopped believing that I ever existed.”

He kept looking at her, trying to remember her from his past. She waited.

It finally struck him after several minutes. “Are you –,” he was cut in.

“Yes, I am,” she said, and kissed him on the lips and hugged him, tightly.

‘I’ll never leave you as long as I live,’ he promised himself in the privacy of his mind as he ran his hands through her hair.

She was one. She was all. She was hope.

********************The End********************

Wishing you all a lovely new year! May all your wishes and dreams come true this year!

Kiddo

2010-12-22T12:33:00.010+05:30

Dedicated to my baby brother, whose childhood days were some of the best days of my life.

Lesson 1

Should you ask him to introduce himself, he would start in his mother tongue, which is Kannada. But his mother, like most mothers these days, wanted him to learn English well and insisted on his answering in the same. Either ways, he would just say something for the heck of it, as he always has a busy schedule. Those who hear him might find it funny, but the boy is nothing less than serious:

Hi my name is Kiddo and I am six years old. Actually I am six years and one month old. I celebrated my happy birthday last month. I study in 1st Std ‘A’ section in Saint Charles English School. Kiddo is not my real name. It is my duplicate name. My original name is Kishan. My elder brother kept that name to me and now everybody calls me Kiddo. But now I am very very angry with my elder brother so I don’t talk to him now. My best friends names are Deepak and Abdul. And I like Maggi. OK, bye.

It was Friday, the 5^thof November. Having woken up at seven in the morning, Kiddo was waiting for his mother to take him to bath. It was Deepavali, the festival of lights, and his mother was busy decorating the house. Kiddo knew that it was a festival of crackers. He also knew he would be ignored by every member of the family today, for his mother had assigned work to everyone. He would be the cynosure of all eyes only in the evening. For now, he was ignored, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Kiddo went and stood next to his brother, who was busy decorating the front door with a festoon of mango leaves. He cast a glance at Kiddo, who was standing with his head up and hands locked behind his back, like an invigilator minding the exam hall; his hair all rumpled and his night dress – Bermuda shorts and banyan – all cringed. He occasionally rubbed his face and yawned, but stood his ground until he got his elder brother’s attention: “Good morning, Kiddo.”

“Good morning. Call me if you need some help, OK?” Kiddo said, with his hands still locked behind his back. The very next moment he remembered that he was actually angry with his elder brother, and slapped his forehead for having talked to him and ran inside.

His brother smiled, shook his head, and continued with his work.

Kiddo’s next stop was the kitchen.

“Mummy,” he cried.

“Don’t come inside, you dirty boy. Go to the bathroom. I’ll be there in a moment,” his mother said, before he could even attempt to step inside the kitchen.

Kiddo made a sad face and walked towards the bathroom. Once inside, he removed his Bermuda shorts and banyan, and stood in front of the mirror in his underwear. Just like everyday, he could not see himself in the mirror, for it was hung a bit high.

‘I should grow taller,’ he made a resolution, not knowing how to do it, and stood on the stool. He could now look himself in the mirror properly. He rubbed his face once again with both hands and smoothed his hair. He then stretched his lips, baring his teeth. ‘They are so clean. Why do I need to brush them?’ he said to himself.

“They certainly look clean, but you should still brush them today,” his mother announced as she entered the bathroom.

He got off the stool and took his toothbrush, realizing that there was no way he could avoid brushing his teeth and taking bath. At least not until he grew up.

After finishing his ablutions, his mother readied him in his new pair of shorts and t-shirt. When she took the comb, he didn’t allow her to comb his hair and insisted on doing it on his own. His mother gave up and handed over the comb. He stood in front of the mirror and tried to copy his brother’s hairstyle. He tried for about ten minutes, but to no avail. He got angry, threw the comb away and ran towards the kitchen.

Kiddo’s mother heaved a sigh of relief when she succeeded in making him drink his regular glass of milk. Her next challenge was to make him eat his breakfast. Half an hour later she heaved a sigh of relief for the second time.

By the time he wore his shoes, his brother Kiran was waiting for him outside, with his bike. Kiddo went and sat behind him on the bike, without a word. His brother kick-started his bike and his mother waved him goodbye. They were headed to Deepak’s house, Kiddo’s classmate.

“So what’s your plan today?” Kiran asked his little brother.

The boy didn’t respond. Through out the journey Kiddo never responded. Should you ask him why, he would tell you:

Remember I told you I am angry with him. You know why? Because I saw him with a girl last week. I hate girls. You know why? Because last month in the class my bench-mate Sonia complained to miss about me. I don’t know why misses make girls sit next to boys. I don’t like it. Girls are always smelly. Their hair oil smell and powder smell are very very bad. Sonia smells nice but still she is a girl. So I hate her. It was my happy birthday that day and I was wearing colour dress. My 2^nd best friend Abdul sat next to another girl Priya. He sat in 2^nd bench and I sat in 4^th bench. It was the drawing class and he didn’t have rubber. So he turned to me and asked rubber. I opened my geometry box which has Harry Potter picture on it and took the rubber and throwed it towards him and he catched it. Miss saw Abdul catching rubber and asked who throwed it. Abdul didn’t tell so miss shouted looking at me. I was very very scared. She didn’t have know but Sonia told it was me. Miss made me stand up on the bench for the whole period. From that day onwards Abdul, Deepak and me decided to hate girls. I tried to tell my elder brother Kiran that he should not make friends with girls but he just laughed. So only I am angry with him.

Kiran and Kiddo reached Deepak’s house at about eleven o’clock. Deepak’s elder brother Darshan and Kiran were classmates in college. The moment the bike stopped in front of the house, Kiddo ran towards the house, yelling Deepak’s name.

Two gulab jamoons later Kiddo and Deepak headed towards the garage, which was behind the house. It was more of a Cricket and Football stadium than a garage. Sometimes it turned out to be a club when the boys decided to play WWE trump cards. At the present moment it was a Cricket stadium. An hour later it turned out to be a club.

Another hour later Deepak’s mother called the boys inside for lunch. It was a herculean task for Deepak’s mother to make the boys finish their lunch. But somehow she found it easier to make them sleep for about two hours. It was four o’clock when the boys woke up.

Lesson 2

The garage had missed its owners for nearly three hours, and now that the boys were back, it looked alive again.

The plan was to play Harry Potter. Even the magic wands were ready. But Deepak’s elder brother Darshan had a little surprise for the little boys.

“Hello, boys,” he said as he entered the garage.

“Hi,” said the boys.

“I want to show you both something amazing. Want to see?”

The boys quickly nodded, as they knew from experience that Darshan always had surprises for them.

Darshan went to a table on which lay a computer covered with a plastic cover. He was just about to pull out the plastic cover when Kiddo said in a lordly manner, “I know what it is. It’s a computer.”

“Of course you know, Kiddo,” Darshan said, smiling at the boy. “But it’s not an ordinary computer. It’s something else.”

The boys looked at each other and then turned their attention towards Darshan.

“I am going to tell you a secret. But you shouldn’t tell it to anyone. Can you promise me that?” Darshan said in a hushed voice.

“God promise!” the boys said, imitating the hushed voice.

“But can we please tell about it to Abdul? He is our group member. It is against the rules to keep secrets from each other,” Kiddo almost begged.

“Yes, yes,” Deepak cried, nodding his head vigorously.

Darshan stroked his chin, posing as if he were giving a serious thought to it. Those five seconds he took to decide seemed like eternity to Kiddo and Deepak. “OK,” he said finally. The boys looked relieved.

“OK, tell us, tell us. What is it?” the boys cried, now standing next to the computer.

“All right,” said Darshan, and lifted the plastic cover. “Boys, this is a …,” he paused, much to the agitation of the boys, and said, “Time Machine.”

The boys stood there with their eyes wide open and jaws dropped. None of them said anything. Darshan switched on the computer and the screen came alive. He opened a simple C program that solves some basic mathematical problems like addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. Before he ran the program, he said, “OK, now to demonstrate how it works, we’ll go back only five minutes in time.” He showed them the time in his digital watch which said 5:07 pm. “All right. Now as soon as I press the button you should close your eyes. I shall tell the machine to take us back in time.”

The boys nodded hopefully. Darshan pressed ctrl+f9 and the screen turned black. The boys quickly shut their eyes. A few seconds later Darshan asked them to open their eyes. The boys did as they were told and looked around the garage for any changes. Nothing had changed.

“We have only moved back five minutes, boys. Don’t expect big changes. Now see the time on my watch,” said Darshan.

The little time-travelers stepped forward and saw the watch. It said 5:02 pm. “Whoa!” they exclaimed with joy, jumping up and down. “Have we really traveled back in time?”

“Of course,” said Darshan. “See there. When I came into the garage that big plastic cover was still there on the time machine, right?”

The boys noticed it for the first time. The machine was switched off and was covered with a plastic cover; just the way it was a minute before.

“Yayyyyy,” the boys cheered as they started gamboling.

Darshan reveled in the boys’ merriment.

A minute later Kiddo stopped frolicking and became silent. Before anyone could ask why, he ran out of the garage. He returned two minutes later and announced, “This is not a time-machine.”

“What makes you say that?” Darshan asked, smiling. He knew how the boy had found out.

“You are lying. I asked aunty what time it was. It is 5:10 pm now,” Kiddo said, making a sad face.

Darshan was just about to try and convince him that it was indeed a time-machine when his mother entered the garage.

“Sonia’s parents have gone out for a while. So she will stay here with you boys, OK?”

Kiddo and Deepak didn’t say anything. It was too conspicuous from their expressions that they didn’t want Sonia’s company. Darshan knew about the little boys’ deal about hating girls. He grinned and said, “Oh, yes, ma. No problem at all. I am going to my friend’s place now, but these two will keep her company.”

The little misogynists looked up and glared at Darshan, who was still grinning. Their expressions clearly said, ‘How could you do this to us?’

“Good,” said Deepak’s mother, “And no fighting, all right?”

Lesson 3

Sonia’s house was right in front of Deepak’s house. Though they were all classmates, Deepak and Kiddo never talked to her because of a pact they had made, following an unpleasant incident in the class.

Darshan said to the girl when his mother had gone back inside, “You look like an angel, darling.”

Kiddo and Deepak studied her person carefully. Though they found her lovely, they didn’t express it. It would take them some years to know the art of flattering girls. They were simply too young for that. But if you had secretly asked Kiddo as to how she looked, he would have told you:

Sonia was wearing white frock and white shoes. Her hair was silky silky and without oil. She has two small small horns, made up of hair and rubber band, on her head. She was looking cute. But I did not tell Deepak. It is against the rules of our gang to call a girl cute.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, swaying her tiny body left and right, which looked like a little dance. She continued, “This is my new frock, you know.”

“Really?” Darshan asked, “How wonderful is that! What about your shoes? Are they new too?”

“No,” she said, and stopped smiling.

“It’s OK. They still look new though,” said Darshan.

Sonia smiled again. It was the most beautiful smile the three boys had ever seen in their lives.

“All right,” Darshan said, clapping his hands, “The team is perfect now: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Tell me, who is Harry?”

Since Kiddo didn’t want to fight with Deepak in front of Sonia, he said that he would be Ron Weasley. Deepak, who was a bit surprised that Kiddo should give up the lead role without putting up a fight, smiled generously.

Darshan was enjoying every bit of this. He said, “Oh, great. You know, Kiddo, Ron marries Hermione when they grow up.”

“No,” Kiddo almost screamed that made the girl shiver and take a step back.

“Haven’t you read the seventh part? The Deathly Hallows? Oh, oh, Kiddo, you should start reading now. Books are far better than the movies, you know.”

Kiddo turned his attention to Deepak and started fighting over the lead role. Darshan gesticulated to Sonia and whispered, “They are mad.” She covered her mouth with both hands, hunching her shoulders up and giggled, happily.

“I will be Harry,” Kiddo was saying.

“No, I will be Harry,” said Deepak.

“I have a scar, so I will be Harry,” Kiddo argued.

“Liar. You don’t have it. See,” said Deepak, touching Kiddo’s forehead.

“I don’t have it on my forehead. I have it on my neck, see,” said Kiddo, tugging his collar.

Deepak broke into a peal of laughter. “Harry Potter with a scar on the neck!”

“At least I have a scar. What do you have?” Kiddo said, seething.

“I have –,” Deepak was cut in by his elder brother.

“Deepu, let Kiddo be Harry today.”

Deepak started crying. It took about five minutes for Darshan to convince him as to how Harry Potter couldn’t survive without Ron Weasley. Deepak finally stopped crying and agreed to become Ron.

With that Darshan decided to take their leave. He kissed Sonia on the cheek and wended his way out. J K Rowling’s characters were left for themselves.

No one knew how to begin. Kiddo and Deepak took their wands and stood silently. They kept looking away from Sonia, but occasionally stole glances at her. Sonia, on the other hand, stood there, tapping her toes.

“We have to test you before we can accept you as a team member. So we are going to ask you some questions, OK?” Kiddo managed to say at last.

“OK,” said Sonia, meekly.

“What is the spell that makes things fly in the air?”

“Wingardium Leviosa,” she was quick to answer.

“Good. Tell us the spell Hermione uses against Professor Snape while Harry is playing Quiddich.”

“Expecto Patronum.”

“What is the spell that kills Harry Potter’s parents?”

“Avada Kedavra.”

The interview went on for another few minutes, and Sonia answered them all with certitude.

Kiddo and Deepak looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. A new member had joined the gang.

Deepak gave Sonia a wand – one of the five his parents had bought from a children’s gift shop for his birthday.

Sonia took the wand and eyed it as if she were building a rapport with it. She looked around the garage and settled her gaze on the computer, which was previously known as time-machine. She waved her wand and cast a spell, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

As co-incidence would have it, a gust of wind lifted the plastic cover from the computer, making it float for a few seconds in the air before touching ground.

The boys were surprised beyond means. “Wow! Your spells actually work,” Deepak cried out.

“I know,” she said, haughtily, and tucked her wand in her frock’s faux belt.

They started playing, waving their wands and casting spells at each other. They played for an hour and the boys loved Sonia’s company. They found her adorable and fun to be with.

Several minutes later a small rat fell on Kiddo’s shoulder and he started screaming. Deepak just stood there, not knowing what to do. Sonia took out her wand, waved it and said in a shrill voice, “Expelliarmus.”

The rat didn’t move and Kiddo continued screaming, closing his eyes.

Sonia cast her spell again, “Expelliarmus.”

The rat still didn’t move. She thought for a moment, took a brave step towards Kiddo, waved her wand at the rat and said, “Stupefy.”

This time the rat jumped from Kiddo’s shoulder and ran away. Kiddo was still screaming. “It’s OK,” said Deepak, “He’s gone. Sonia made him go away.”

Kiddo slowly opened his eyes and looked at his shoulder, and then at Sonia. She smiled. He thanked her. For Kiddo, for the next few years, Sonia would always be the girl who saved his life.

Deepak’s brother came running into the garage. “What happened? Who screamed?”

When he was told about the rat attack and Sonia’s presence of mind, he laughed wholeheartedly. None of the gang members understood why.

Ten minutes later Kiddo’s brother arrived in a car to pick him up. Kiddo saw Sonia standing next to Deepak and thought of becoming Ron Weasley next time. He called Deepak aside and said, “Now that Sonia has joined our group, can we not hate girls anymore?”

Deepak thought for a while and asked, “But do you think Abdul will agree to this?”

“We shall explain it to him in detail. Especially about the rat incident.”

“OK. I too like her,” said Deepak.

He then took cautious steps towards Sonia and asked her, hesitantly, “May I touch your hair?”

“OK,” she said, blushing and smiling, divinely.

He touched her hair and exclaimed, “Whoa, it is so soft.” He suddenly let go and said, “OK, bye.”

Having said ‘bye’ to all and Sonia, who smiled and waved at him, Kiddo started walking towards the car. A few seconds later Darshan caught up to him and gave him a black cap.

“But I already have one at home,” said Kiddo.

“This is not an ordinary cap. It’s a magic cap. Anyone who wears it becomes invisible. Just like Harry Potter’s cloak,” said Darshan.

“You are bluffing,” said Kiddo, shaking his head.

“All right, I will prove it to you. Wear it in front of your brother. You’ll know what I mean.”

Kiddo’s brother smiled as they approached him. “Hey Kiddo, how was the day?”

Darshan whispered, “Wear it.”

Kiddo wore the cap and stood with his arms folded. Kiran knitted his brows and looked around. “Where is he?” he cried.

Kiddo circled his elder brother, tugging at his shirt and punching him in the stomach, laughing as he did so.

Kiran continued his act. A minute later Kiddo stood in front of him and took off his cap.

“There you are. How did you do it?” Kiran asked with an astonished look on his face.

Kiddo looked at Darshan, who gestured not to say.

“I won’t say,” Kiddo said and walked towards the front seat of the car.

Lesson 4

Kiddo always sat in the front, next to the driver. But now there was a girl sitting in his seat. Kiran’s friend. He angrily muttered something under his breath, shut the front door hard and went and sat in the back seat. The girl turned to him and asked, “You must be Kiddo. I’m Priyanka.” She didn’t get a response.

Kiran took the wheel and drove off. Just when they were passing a big, empty field, Kiddo yelled, “Kiran, Kiran, Kiran, Kiran…”

Kiran brought the car to a screeching halt and asked, anxiously, “What happened?”

“See that big stone over there? We peed on that stone last week when we were returning from Deepak’s house. Remember? Shall we pee again there?” Kiddo asked, with his hands on the doorknob, ready to jump out of the car.

To Kiddo’s annoyance, the girl burst into laughter. Kiran turned to Kiddo. “Just keep quiet till we reach home, all right?”

Kiddo made an angry face and wore his magic cap again.

“Oh, no, not again. I’m sorry. Please come back,” Kiran begged.

But the boy was in no mood to forgive. He pulled the cap down, its brim covering his eyes, and sat with his legs crossed and arms folded.

Kiran sighed, feigning disappointment, turned and shifted the gear and drove on. On the way he made one more stop to drop his friend home.

***

Kiddo didn’t remove his cap until he reached home. He showed his magic tricks to everyone by becoming invisible. Everyone looked befuddled.

It was six-thirty in the evening. His mother dragged him to the bathroom and washed his hands and legs. Twenty minutes later when he emerged out of his room, everyone complimented on his new dress – a pair of jeans shorts and a white t-shirt, with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it.

His mother then took him to the Pooja room, applied a tiny dot of vermilion on his forehead as he joined hands and said a small prayer. He lighted an incense stick and ran outside to burst some crackers. His parents and his brother followed suit. The celebration had begun.

There was one primary difference between Kiddo and his elders: he didn’t need a reason, a festival to celebrate.

********************The End********************

Flight

2010-08-29T21:13:00.006+05:30

A few months back I participated in a short fiction contest. The topic was the picture below. The contestants were asked to interpret the picture in anyway they wanted and weave a story in not more than 250 words.

There were around 230 participants. I didn’t win, but I was listed among the top scorers.

I’d somehow forgotten to post it. Doing it now.

*********

Valoury, the bird, was flying majestically over the trees, high up in the sky. Even though he was born a bird, he’d never believed he could fly. ‘I don’t think I could fly, mamma,’ he’d confided in his mother when he was little. ‘Remember, son. You are born to fly,’ his mother had said. Those words had instilled the much needed confidence in him. And now, reminiscing that moment, he flew higher.

After flying for about an hour, Valoury decided to rest. He flew down to a house and sat on the compound.

***

Upon seeing the bird, Viplav, who was playing in the veranda, came running to his mother. He looked morose.

“What happened, dear?” his mother asked.

“I can’t fly like a bird, can I, ma?”

She looked at her five year old son and smiled. Viplav eagerly awaited her response. She gave a peck on his cheek and said simply, “Why not, sweetheart? Of course you can fly. You can become a pilot and fly aeroplanes.”

Viplav’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes, my love,” said his mother and kissed him again.

***

Now, Valoury and Viplav were face to face with each other. Staying true to his name, Valoury had not flown away in spite of being approached by a human. They looked at each other in mute amazement. The bird saw his past in the boy, and the boy saw his future in the bird.

********************The End********************