Without Reason

Swapna & Arjun

June 4, 2011

W ITHOUT R EASON

Swapna & Arjun

June 4, 2011

c 2011 Swapna & New Nonentities a.k.a. Arjun All rights reserved Forget reality. Fiction suits life better.

to

S.

as usual

Preface
For once, let me be true. I am doing this without reason. I think that is true. S WAPNA & A RJUN June 4, 2011

Acknowledgements
To those few friends who were there always: I thank you for your time and consideration. The friends told me what they thought when the acquaintances behaved like strangers and kept quiet.

For hosting this virtual existence, I thank:

Blogger.com: Discarded/Gathered Thoughts - Swapna http://discardedthoughts-swapna.blogspot.com/ http://gatheredthoughts-swapna.blogspot.com/ Sulekha.com: swapna3ss - Swapna http://discardedthoughts.sulekha.com/ Blogger.com: New Nonentities/Just an Avatar http://newnonentities.blogspot.com/ http://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/ Sulekha.com: NewNonentities - Arjun http://new-nonentities.sulekha.com/

S WAPNA & A RJUN June 4, 2011

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Contents
Preface Acknowledgements 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 I do not know . . . Tell Me, My Love . . . Questions & No Answers Every Dog Has Its Day My Funny Valentine School Reunion The Best Thing Ofce Inconsequential v vii 2 3 5 7 9 12 17 18 20 22 25 27 31 38 40 44

10 Unofcial Mills & Boon Club 11 I See 12 Trips 13 Is This A Blog About . . . 14 Time Flows Both Ways 15 Memory of a Girl 16 Tattoo

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17 Memory of a Gift 18 Today That Year 19 Company 20 A Story-tellers Sabbatical 21 After Nights In White Satin 22 Confession 23 Say Goodbye Silently 24 Remembrances 25 Laid Off

47 50 52 55 75 80 81 82 83

Swapna

a.k.a. Discarded/Gathered Thoughts

1
I do not know . . .
I do not know Who to hate more. Enemies, or Kith and kin? Strangers Suitably Slaughtered Sufce? Do I not know Who will hurt more? I do, I know. I do not know.

2
Tell Me, My Love . . .
I have returned after a long train-journey. In the last two-hour stretch, there were just eight or ten people in the whole compartment. We were familiar with each other, exchanging polite smiles if not words while waiting near the toilet, stinking alike the smell of secondclass sleeper compartments, running for water bottles at train stations, getting the same packets of food, and helping each other climb back on. My companions scattered across the compartment included a sweaty middle-aged bookish man with hairy armpits who should have worn something more than his much-holed undergarment; two young ladies, nurses in some city hospital; a mid-forties British couple, cheaply but decently dressed, the only ones laughing and enjoying in that budget group; a military man of about thirty going home, sleeping most of the time; and, a young man with a novel and two textbooks for government interviews. It was late evening, still one hour away from home, where the green backwater lakes are barely separated from the blue frothy sea by a thin shimmer of brown sand, when the British guy started to sing. I could hear his voice across those separating walls. Bass voice, not really a good singer, using an old style, a mixture of Bob Dylan or Al Stewart or Cat Stevens. Along with the chug-chugging train, the rickety-rackety beat of wheels on tracks, the evening birdsong and the rush of cool air from outside, he sang in bursts, with pauses while cooking up those lines I suppose, but clear and slow. Nothing great but I still tried to catch each word with the guilt and delight of a voyeur and an eavesdropper. Grasping, gasping, grappling . . . for life . . . with life . . .

Tell me, my love . . . Why do these trees take a hundred years Creeping growing for birds and pests? Why do these fools shed a hundred tears

2 . TELL ME, MY LOVE . . .

Chopping cutting for men and pets? Tell me, my love . . . Why do these young ones play together Flirting laughing from God knows where? Why do these forget to hate each other Chanting praying for their God there? Tell me, my love . . . Why should I care when I have you? Tracing caressing everywhere Sucking tasting everywhere Why should I care when I hear you: Shut up, my love . . .

References:

Bob Dylan, Love Minus Zero/No Limit Lyrics:http://www.bobdylan.com/songs/love-minus-zerono-limit Video: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=177800432244396&oid=501413525227&comments Al Stewart, The Year of the Cat Lyrics: http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/yearofth.htm Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QM7LR46zrQU Cat Stevens, Moonshadow Lyrics:http://guitarngerpicking.org/guitar-ngerpicking/cat-stevens-moonshadowlyrics-and-chords/ Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGNxKnLmOH4&feature=related

3
Questions & No Answers
I love the morning after With dawn light coffee brew Crumpled sheets Possessive pillows Will I make a cuppa for you Or leave a note before I go? Like those questions For a bloody matrimony I dont have to go I do I dont know your ways I do? With last January mist Past sweepers joggers On the rst bus to a lonely beach Without your sweet words And other crap Loves sweeter alone bereft? My ways are simple Boring routine Of give and take Without doubt I will give myself Will you take it? Do I have time for proud men Who wish to speak but not reply? Do I care for wise women Without humour to mock oneself?

3 . QUESTIONS & NO ANSWERS

Do I prefer the judge that idiot Or friends happy with the award? Do I listen to your studied silence Or wait for you to speak? My ways are simple Boring routine Of give and take Without doubt I will take you Will you give it? You have your answers I will listen For once with mouth wide shut I will remember you Sounds like ckle indelity Without my answers?

4
Every Dog Has Its Day
History has a problem with start dates. There are always precursors. At times, we have to enter the story in the middle and move on. What do you remember about May 1991 - the assassination of the Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi, right? Do you remember a story which fought for print space for a day or two, the case of Roy? Try to jog your memory. Roy was a district-level government employee, age around 40, a sincere chap in charge of giving licenses to small-scale enterprises and monitoring their activities. From a FIR of May 1991, we learn about Roys problems with a businessman called Das. The latter owns a chain of budget hotels with a dubious reputation. There are various allegations against him - illicit liquor, sex racket, money laundering, real estate and sand mining maa, income tax evasion, extortion, murder and blackmail are some of the charges. Roy alleges that, following a few confrontations between the two, Das abducted him, his wife (age 35) and two daughters (ages 15 and 13). Roy recounts the following details: . . . He (Das) told his men to remove wife and daughters after using. To me, he said Spoils of war, huh? He and his assistant then thrashed me but kept me alive. If you die, who will tell the story? he gloated . . . The police searched for Roys wife and daughters but they could not nd them, dead or alive. There was no evidence to support Roys complaint. Roy tried to pursue the various charges against Das via the judicial system. For 17 years, he followed postponed and prolonged cases in front of bored judges. The les got thicker with irrelevant details year after year while the relevant sheets and evidence got misplaced or expunged. The lower court ordered psychological evaluation of Roy and he was found to be mentally fragile. Before the end of 2008, Roy decided to take matters into his own hands. Through a blackmarket dealer who had once been his informant, he managed to procure a long-range rie with telescopic sight and a silencer. He had learned shooting in school as a part of NCC. After joining government service, he had continued to practice. He could have competed

4 . EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY

at a high level but an early marriage and kids prompted him to relegate this passion to a mere hobby. In 2008-2009, though rusty, he was still a very good shot. In the months that followed, he practiced with great discipline. During that time, for nearly two years, he also tracked and followed Das. In January 2011, he had nalized his plans. He decided to target his victim from an empty at opposite Dass ofce. On last Friday, he waited for the arrival of Das. At 8 am, he saw Das enter his ofce. He smiled while he centered the crosshairs on his victims skull. He hardly felt the touch of cold steel against the base of his own skull. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Roys world went black or blank. Das received a call on his cell-phone from his assistant. Done? Yes. These idiots - from where do they get such ideas? It must be the senseless violence in todays movies. Das then realized that his assistant had ended the call after the Yes. The assistant, a sincere professional, had kept track of Roys activities and he was cleaning up the killing area of any evidence. Roys photo is in the Deaths & Other Engagements page of todays paper. Poor chap. Well, he is not the rst to think that every dog has its day.

5
My Funny Valentine
I got to know my husband on my rst St. Valentines Day, incidentally the rst time away from home. I was 19 that lovely February. Intermittent drizzle gave the fading winter a chilly touch; the grey clouds parting and meeting like new or old couples unsure whether they should be mating or irritating; the sun showed its ckle face just to make one sweat to feel the cold rather than remember its heat. Two of my batch-mates were down with pneumonia. The hostel mess and bogs resonated with rasping coughs, blowing noses and heaving chests clearing phlegm. On that lovely February day, I held with loving care his latest telegram with the sweet succinct misaligned message, me et me. After the rst-semester break, we were on the same train back to Campus. Manoj had got in at Salem without reservation. During the day, he sat between me and a newly-wed couple from Jhansi. That single night, he slept on the oor right next to my berth. The 40hour long journey and that cold January made us enjoy each others company. I had heard of him. He was great in studies, sports and dramatics. He told me that his family hails from Mehboobnagar and that he was brought up in Arcot. Six-feet, broad-shouldered, handsome in a rugged way, deep-set brown expressive eyes, well-read and passionate; I gauged all that. He is the kind of guy represented in the popular ad where the sales-girl says Sorry, no change and she compensates him with a packet of condom. (These things do happen. Yesterday, at the supermarket, the cute sales-man told the lady in front of me, Sorry, no change. She waited for the prophylactic or the mouth-freshener. She didnt get anything. I carry change, always.) That January, on Campus, he gave me a Valentine card every week. He started sending Valentine messages via telegram too, the rst one being i u ok. I guess punctuation marks and a few letters got lost in Morse code but I got the meaning. I responded seriously. Between classes, we shared chai and samosa in the Campus canteen. We went together for the weekly screened movies (English and to express my affection, Hindi too). I was offering nothing more or less than promised allegiance. Then, that Valentine telegram arrived. To me, it announced the intention to cement our relationship forever on that day.

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5 . MY FUNNY V ALENTINE

That evening, Manoj escorted me from the ladies hostel to Pappus, the joint on Campus for milk-shakes and paneer Maggi. We sat on rattan seats outside the makeshift stall. The Valentine setting got more rustic when I realized that Manoj had also invited three other acquaintances. The rst one, Raju, sat opposite to me and to the right of Manoj. I watched Raju slurp his shake loudly and masticate the mushy Maggi with equal vigour. His body shook like a dysfunctional wet grinder when he laughed with a full mouth and even without a joke. The second, Preethi, sat to the left of Manoj. She is a dancer, an intellectual and she works with NGOs during vacation to help the poor and the downtrodden. She is also sexy and a serious poet. So serious, I nearly yawned when she recited a few lines of her poetry; so sexy, I was the only one who nearly yawned. A guy named Shekhar sat next to me, one of those non-descript guys trying to impersonate Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. I looked at him once. He gave me a bored one-raisedeyebrow look. After that, he remained on my blind spot. Manoj entertained them with campus Valentine stories. He started with the comic; then, promised much with the sentimental and the passionate; the ribald soon followed and he continued in that vein. Midway through his fth story, he nished his shake with a long noisy gulp, leaving a trace of milk on his upper lips. Preethi leaned towards him and wiped his lips with her nger. He looked at Preethi with his deep-set brown expressive eyes and much later, turned them towards me. My time was up long before that day, I realized. If I was younger or older, I would have felt angry; I would have campaigned against imperialist, consumerist, non-Indian ideas; I would have joined a group of neoNazi nitwits if they had a sense of humour. All I felt then was relief. After the Valentine party, I returned to the hostel, alone. I thrashed my pillow for a while and then, decided to study. At nine pm, two hours before curfew, I received the message that I had a guest waiting for me at the hostel gate. I rushed to the gate still hoping for the right climax. Raju was waiting for me there. He told me about how he loved me dearly. He said that he was sorry for being opportunistic but he wanted to realize his dream. I did not tell him that I could see his future. After the 4-year course, he would reach the shores of USA (with or without an ankle tag); a big fat dowry before 25; a wife and few kids before 30, all uncouth gluttons like him; a successful professional before 35 and death not before 75. I did not tell him all that.

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I told him that I still had to recover from the shock and that I needed time. He seemed happy to hear that. With drooping shoulders and a forlorn look, which I feigned rather well, I bade him good night. I watched him walk away, with a spring in his step, towards that friend of his called Shekhar. That voyeur had watched the whole scene, again. He gave me his bored one-raised-eyebrow look and shrugged, at me or my predicament. They left me standing there on that St. Valentines Day, alone. Decades have gone by without another Valentine note or card or celebration. My husband Shekhar reminds me of that night once in a while, when I am in a good mood.

6
School Reunion
Today, I attended my school reunion. It is a pleasure to see those faces and to remember one of the best phases of my life. Usually, it is held in the last week of December when those abroad come to these shores. This time, for some reason, they requested for the rst Sunday of February. I try to get there early, around 10 am, along with the organizers. I like to grab my seat and watch my old mates enter. People start trickling in at around 11 am. There is ample time to mingle till lunch is served at 1 pm. Till a few years back, the party used to be held at a friends farm. Then, the venue shifted to the new Taj in town. The cost of attendance has shot up but it is really worth saving for. I have attended every party since inception. And, to make it memorable, something always happens. Till ve years back, alcohol used to be served. That year, one of the oldies groped a mates wife and the scene got ugly. That wife was sporting a rather indecent dcolletage and her sari kept slipping all the time. She made such a big fuss. That popular guy was always like that, even during our school days. Anyway, he let bygones be bygones and never misses these reunions. The other one (he is a bit weak in the spine, everyone knows) and his wife have not attended since then; really, quite unfortunate and unforgiving. A year or two after that, two kids created a bit of a utter. Around lunch-time, the respective parents realized that their wards were missing. It was fun actually, searching and shouting for them. The two were found on the terrace, discussing Physics they said but nobody believed that. Some advised the parents to take it cool. But they left immediately. The guy and the girl, they belong to two churches. Anyway, since then, even kids are not allowed. Most nd it easier now to let their hair down. Till date, none of the adults have gone missing. That would have been interesting. I love to watch them enter, with their casual wear and the careful carelessness. It is so different from my usual life. The new Alumni secretary Mathew received everyone at the

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door. This time, Zach was the last to come. Poor chap, his wife is an invalid and it is beginning to show on him. Mathew greeted him at the door, Hey Zach, great to see you here. Hi. I could make out that Zach was trying to t the face with a name. Unperturbed, Mathew introduced himself, I am Mathew. We were together in XI A. I went to C division in XII. Ah! Zach responded and the two joined the others. I got up from my seat ready to it from one group to the next. Most of them have aged so gracefully and done quite well. I went to the large lot in the middle. It is not like the early days when the ones from abroad used to stand apart. Nearly everyone from everywhere get together these days: comparing notes about kids education in Portland, Sydney and Bangalore; the latest in Kochi, Dubai and London; life in Singapore, Mumbai and Vancouver; opportunities in Shanghai, Technopark and Frankfurt. It is amazing to hear how they adapted, the nasal twang, the tough life when they come to India, the recession, the uncertainty and how they had to settle for a vacation at Aspen or Cyprus. I left that lot and joined Shekhar and Deepthi who were standing a little away. We watched as Gopi made his way through the crowd towards us. Shekhar whispered to Deepthi, There he comes . . . Go-pee . . . your love. What was that song he used to sing for you? Deepthi hushed him, Shhh . . . poor chap . . . he is in a miserable state now . . . a widower, divorced too. Which order? How does it matter? If divorced and then a widower, still rich; otherwise, bloody poor . . . Shekhar, shut up! Deepthi hissed. Gopi reached us.

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6 . SCHOOL REUNION

Shekhar greeted him, Ah! Gopi! We were just talking about you . . . how are you, old man? Look, let me leave you two love-birds alone . . . Laughing, Shekhar moved quickly without acknowledging Deepthis stare. I followed him to Shajeeb (I.A.S.), Suresh Namboothiri (doctor) and Rajeev (professor). Those three are always together. Till 2008, they were into stocks. They claim that they exited when the index touched 21k. Now, they are into real-estate. Shajeeb was asking Rajeev, I am trying to get that hill near Technopark . . . and develop it, man . . . only one more acre to get. It is your brother-in-laws land, man . . . any chance of getting it, man? Rajeev conded, He is in a tough position now . . . up to his neck in debt . . . his latest venture has also opped . . . prawns, he managed to op with . . . prawns! Only my brotherin-law can manage that. I can introduce you . . . good time to approach him to sell that land ... Shajeeb replied, Wonderful, man . . . Dont forget the brokerage for me . . . Rajeev joked rather seriously. Of course, man, of course . . . Shajeeb smiled widely, indicated that he has to go to the loo and left. Bloody Muslim . . . they are grabbing everything . . . Rajeev told the others. Shekhar, the Cupid, entered the fray and needled Suresh, Oye Suresh! Your daughter married recently, right? You didnt call us . . . Suresh reluctantly nodded but refused to comment. Rajeev joined in, Come on, Suresh . . . her guy is from my caste . . . it is not too low, you know . . . chin up . . . you look as if she married a mongrel! Suresh also indicated that he has to go to the loo and left the scene. Bloody Brahmin . . . Rajeev remarked. Shekhar moved to another group and stood behind Anna. In school, he used to sit behind

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Anna. She is a dentist and he has got a perfect set of teeth. I moved away to join a gang of girls. The professionals compared their trips abroad. The homemakers talked about their social welfare groups. They talked collectively about an absent gang-member, Oh, she has become so girlie these days . . . can you imagine . . . she was so tomboyish . . . now, she is all sari, gold and lehenga . . . Lehenga at this age . . . can you imagine . . . They discussed the old days, the tricks they played in boarding school, the old teachers (dead and alive). They took stock of the gang-members. With regard to another absentee, Sheetal, they came to the conclusion She was denitely not in our gang. . . Sheetal is the daughter of a Party leader. She got a job in that co-operative bank, you know . . . courtesy the Party. The gang was denitely against that Party. It was close to lunch-time when I heard a commotion. I knew it . . . something always happens. The whole lot crowded near the entrance. I could hear a few remarks from the front, Shit, man . . . is she dead? That must have been Shajeeb back from the loo. Yeah, not long though . . . hey Mathew, was she in our class? Was it Suresh or another doctor in the group? Hmm . . . I think she was in B . . . dont you remember her? She was just like this even then . . . Mathews voice came clear. What? Dead even then . . . ? Shekhar had to quip. Someone mentioned that we should call for an ambulance or something. Damn! Right before lunch . . . Some of the girls grumbled. I looked at myself, that slumped gure that used to be me. I felt like announcing, Well . . . for once . . . I am the soul of the party . . . That sounded cheap and used. How about, Add spirit to your group . . . or . . .

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6 . SCHOOL REUNION

I felt sad for spoiling their party, my last reunion. I should not have tried to be one of them . . .

7
The Best Thing
As a baby in pink or blue, or red-faced when dress tangled with curls or pudgy limbs; Gurgling, shitting, smiling, spitting, suckling, they called my wily charm sheer innocence. As a precocious nymph at Iyengar bakery, bread, butter, I pirouetted, cake too, I pointed; The young men glanced, the old men drooled, they locked me in dirty dungeons, dreams of desire. As a pioneer late or a wordy poet, at Loharu Junction, at deserts edge, with the photogenic, the heat, A lorry driver, a loud woman enter exit a shady shed, they walked past me, a mirage biting dust, unseen. As a lover, a partner in strange beds, homes with half-lies, faked orgasms, true charades, The barter for old times sake, to be safe, secure, I gave, they looked at me with pleasure, that as love, I took. As an old hag with tattered hopes, shattered defense, easy to be cynical, bitter, wise, stoic, bloody fool, The truth is easier - while I nd, lose, misplace, they keep their best thing in their world, not me.

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8
Ofce
Theres no poetry in my ofce. It is ten feet by ten feet, a tight pack Of four places - for me and another And two love-birds that coo elsewhere. Open windows face the shut door. Two nameless trees wait for me To hop on, to climb, to descent, to go Somewhere, anywhere, but I stay. I watch the ants perfect a straight march. I have named the spider in the left corner. There is plenty to do till the other arrives. Then, I put on a busy show of being clever. The other opens my shut door, Standing there, quietly waiting For me, to move, remove, my feet, Post siesta, from the others chair. I glare and stare and challenge. But, it is a duel the other refuses With a bloody smile in those eyes, Those eyes could see, really, see. I could, if I stretch my arms, Knock the other down, or touch. When the other cried, close by, I did not touch. I am not that kind.

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Arjun

a.k.a. New Nonentities/Just an Avatar

9
Inconsequential
The local paper thrives on the inconsequential. Consider this on page 3. Raju, age 27, stabbed to death. His parents, retired school-teachers, teach underprivileged kids at home. His elder sister is a homemaker and her husband is a lift technician working in the Middle-East. The younger unmarried sister is a clerk in a government ofce. There is a picture of their modest house in a respectable lower middle-class locality. Poker Raju was a notorious rowdy. The title of the news-item is Poker Poked. The paper mentions that at the age of seventeen this youth with a decent background turned into a cold-blooded hit-man. The overnight transformation could be a result of careless upbringing or abuse or mental imbalance or extreme provocation, the report conjectures without details. I asked him about that once. Raju replied nonchalantly, You are good at accounting. I am good at what I do. Regarding his nickname he said, Its a bit like the one given by parents, just anothers whim. Personally, I would have preferred Stiletto Raju. That sounds Italian, huh? Raju used to intimidate his victims with a stiletto. He would make the victim place both hands, with ngers splayed, on a table. Using the stiletto he would try to poke between the ngers with increasing rapidity. After the hands, he would shift to the toes and the groin. I am not really good at this game, he sheepishly admitted. I got to know him six years back during Radha Auntys case. She is a widow and a close friend of my mother. She called me to her house one lazy Sunday afternoon. She served tea and lightly buttered cucumber sandwiches, hesitated and dgeted, hum-hawed and pulled at threads of a cushion, and after a long while I got her request which could be summarized as I need someone ready to dirty his hands. Through a friend, I arranged a meeting between Poker Raju and Aunty. She served him

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tea and freshly-baked cookies. His sharp and dark features contrasted well with her fair and chubby countenance. With him, surprisingly, she displayed efcient professionalism. I was present while they negotiated the price. She gave him a name and address. No reason was mentioned to me or Raju. It was after all her grievance and not ours - property or nancial problem; violation of son or daughter; physical or mental threat; marital issues or tussle with relatives; something less or more severe. Some go to court, some confront on their own, some lie low trying to forgive or forget, and others deal with it this way. Thats all. Raju then asked me if I wanted to be present, remaining concealed though, during the job. I was curious. I said yes. It was over rather fast. He exhibited his skills, or lack of it, with his stiletto. Operation successful but patient died, he quipped at the end. He was joking - the man was only nearly dead but a bloody mess. I have used his services a few times over the years. Yesterday, he was supposed to nish a problem that has troubled me greatly. I made the mistake of waiting and hoping. But, problems are like cancer. Finally, at wits end, I told Poker Raju what I wanted. Raju completed the rst part well. He abducted the man, his wife and kid-daughter and brought them to an old deserted building on the city-outskirts. I instructed Raju to kill the wife and daughter rst, in front of the man. For the rst time, he broke our contract. He took the wife and the kid to another room. There, he knocked them unconscious but did not kill them. Hearing their horrible cries before the silence that followed, the man assumed that his wife and kid had been killed. Still, he begged for mercy. Raju returned and started with his stiletto and, nished him off. For me, Raju had failed. I had heard from others that Raju had, on recent jobs, shown signs of softening. That is dangerous. Anticipating Rajus failure, I had contracted two new kids on the block who worked as a team. They were there, remaining concealed in that building. While Raju cleared the dead mans mess, I sent a message to the team. They killed the wife, the kid and Poker Raju and, completed the job. There are two kinds of people in this world: people like him; and, people like you and me.

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Unofcial Mills & Boon Club
Small towns have small clubs. I remember telling you about small town guys some time back. This time, let me tell you about a small club called Unofcial Mills & Boon Club. Three years after I joined as the 17th member, the club reached its peak with 121 members. Only 23 attended the last meeting though there are 76 members in the book. The foundermember is fond of telling the tale about how she was expelled from a convent school for having two M&Bs in her school-bag. For the generation after hers, it had lost its clandestine character but the books still offered hope and dreams. My rst love introduced me to the rst one. She told me that it is different, that there is a working class hero and a kid involved. I dont remember the details. She left but my interest continued. We meet for an hour at 2 pm, on 2nd and 4th Sundays, when we are least likely to be missed at home. In the early days, a rumour spread in town that our club is about free love and loose morals. In those days, girls in jeans and men in shorts had to face the same. Not much has changed since I joined. Marie or Glucose biscuits and black tea are served before the meeting starts. Someone usually jokes about how it matches with caviar and champagne. The rst part of the meeting is a quick review of what people have read. Then, we discuss about what we would like to read in future issues. Once, we sent a letter with these suggestions to the publisher. Since it is an unofcial club, there was some confusion as to who should assume responsibility. In the last part of the meeting, members read their own attempts at writing about love the M&B way. I am a back-bencher in these meetings. I like to listen, remain silent and relax. At times, I dont even listen. Swathi used to sit next to me. She joined a few years back. We rarely talk during the meetings. After the meeting, we walk together till the market where she turns right and I go straight. Given the state of the roads, it is tough to talk while walking. She has a nervous charming girlish smile. It is her delicate face that captivated me and, of course, her eyes. I am not sure when we started exchanging notes during the meeting. I have a notebook for these meetings. We jot down our notes in this. We did not touch on

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home or work. We wrote about the places we have visited, the people we met there, about what we observed, about relationships and light anecdotes. We started writing about the places we wanted to visit and the kind of people we wanted to meet. I would write about Macau and the casinos. She would ask if I would go alone or with company, then she would ask for details about the game I would like to play, why blackjack and not roulette. She would then write about visiting Simla. I have never been there and I would ask for the details. The notebook would pass silently from one hand to the other. Then, we wrote about a place where we were together. A cottage by Kodaikanal Lake, sitting on the porch at night, watching the hotel staff light a bonre. We would go for a late-night walk around the lake, or stand against those thick trees with branches drooping to touch the water. I would try to write about what she would like to read. I would lie about what I liked. I guess she did the same. We wrote about marriage and how we would give space to each other. We never got to kids. At each meeting, we would continue from where we stopped or start on a fresh day, a new morning or another night there. We kept on writing, meeting after meeting, till that day she stopped coming to the Club. I could have got her address and her phone number from the Club register but I did not. I wondered if I had written something wrong. I checked in my notebook, in our story. I could not nd anything amiss. I was worried if she was sick. I waited for her to send a message to me. After the second meeting without her, I found two men waiting for me outside the meeting room. One, a lean man with intense eyes introduced himself as Vishnu and the other as Arjun. The latter remained silent eyeing me suspiciously from head to toe. Vishnu informed me that they are friends of Swathis family. I blurted, Wheres she? Is anything wrong? She is missing. 3 weeks now . . . Vishnu replied. I leaned against the wall, numb and shocked. He continued, It is not the rst timeEthe last two times, she returned after a week or two. This time, too . . . we waited . . . we searched her room once again. We came across this, hidden quite well between old books. He gave me a thick diary. I scanned the pages. It was a love story she had written on her own. I could make out that it was written with the typical M&B formula and I smiled. What are you smiling for? Arjun asked. This is what this Club is about . . . I tried to explain.

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10 . UNOFFICIAL MILLS & BOON CLUB

Just a story, is it, and not about you? he queried rather aggressively. I shook my head but he did not look convinced. It talks about a guy telling the girl to escape from her house . . . to him . . . Look, mister . . . I responded, then controlled my anger and turned to Vishnu, why did you come here . . . to me? She gets out of her house . . . outside her room . . . only . . . for these meetings. Vishnu paused before continuing, . . . we asked some of the members here and they told us that you are kind of close to Swathi . . . Too close . . . Arjun added. What have you done to her, man? I stared at them, unable to speak, clenching my sts, rage controlled only by my own thoughts about Swathi. Vishnu moved to stand between me and Arjun. He told me, I think you know where she is. No. I said and walked away from them. A cottage by Kodaikanal Lake, sitting on the porch at night, watching the hotel staff light a bonre. We would go for a late-night walk around the lake, or stand against those thick trees with branches drooping to touch the water. We would continue from where we stopped or start on a fresh day, a new morning or another night there.

11
I See
I saw her enter the corridor, from the right, sashaying towards me, at ngers reach I took in that familiar perfume, watched her swaying hips and crisscrossing legs and straight back as she moved away, that twenty something. The antiseptic white walls, rm plastic seats, the dull much-washed green, the chrome of stainless-steel and the black around me could so easily be what others see, those beautiful colours with lovely names, amber, azure, crimson red, turquoise, jade, even your favourite amethyst. I can see the light hair and I trace a path from the cheek to the jaw, up and behind the ear. I did that in our rst French class. I sat behind you, to your right, stared at you like a dirty lecher. My friend and I were juvenile, I know, how we made a big deal of repeating lets eat at a brasserie. For three days, you ignored me while you still talked to my friend. I did not expect that from you, you said when I confronted you. Grow up, was my defense. You and I expected a lot, didnt we? Where was I - behind the ear? I am standing right behind you. You entered my ofce, complaining of a stiff neck. Massage lightly, I suggest. How . . . ? you ask. My thumbs at the centre, ngers reaching till the back of your ears, stroking your neck with adequate pressure and down till the upper back and shoulders. I repeated it ve or six times while you kept your head tilted forward and eyes closed. I stopped on my own. You turned towards me. Your eyes looked sideways, outside those Venetian blinds and that door, checking if colleagues had seen us. You laughed nervously. Where did you learn that? Another girl . . . I boasted. With you, I could boast. Not once did you believe me. How I wanted to hold you then. It took a few months for me to reach for your hand, to kiss the space between the third and fourth knuckle. Then, on a day not much later, I held your arms tightly, feeling your muscles straining against my grip, you were hysterical, you were mad with me. I cant remember the reason. I felt like hitting you but you knew I wouldnt. We just locked ourselves in, hungry, misunderstood, crazy. I can still see that rage in your eyes. I prefer to see those eyes when you lie next to me. These eyes . . . I study the softness,

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the trust, the creases, the laughter and the smile. Then, I see doubt and suspicion icker within. Like a stranger at the door, disappearing into the night quickly but bringing the party to an end. You thought I saw anothers eyes, didnt you? I didnt, I am sure, I think. Once, you refused to open your eyes and I really felt like hitting you. I could not speak but I was shouting a stupid I-love-you. Were you already deaf, then? I did not cry. I touched your creaseless twenty something forehead, your warm dry lips before the cold entered, when I switched off the ventilator and the doctor walked away. Damn it, woman, open your bloody eyes and look at me! I did not cry. I do not cry. I will not cry. I see too much, you say. When you blow at your ngers, at my ngers, when you stand against the door with mischief in your eyes and when I let my hand move up from the toes or from the neck downwards, I see you, not too much, I say. I see you sashaying towards me, playing hard-to-get, moving away, swaying, inviting. I stood up and made my way to the nurses desk, my hand on the wall, with each step the blur shifting further. I ask the nurse at the counter, (is it the fat one or the old one?) That girl . . . who walked by just now - who is she? Which girl? she asked. I stood there, leaning against the wall. I must have stood there for ten minutes. The nurse did not shoo me away to a hard seat. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to face my granddaughter. She brought me to the hospital, I remember. Achacha (paternal grandfather), the doctor is ready . . . he says that you will be able to see like a twenty year old after the cataract operation . . . I see . . . enough . . .

12
Trips
Even as a kid, Adarsh knew that his life was different. In school, he listened to his mates daily reports about their life outside. Mostly, it was the same repeated over and over, about parties, ghts with siblings, shopping trips, visitors, gifts and punishment. He thought of it as a prop or a background rather than drama itself since everything sounded plausible and the fabricated sounded empty. He tried to be a good audience, listening well, applauding and cheering politely. For him and, strangely, for the others too, it was like a TV break for meaningless commercials waiting for the main show. During the rst week after every vacation, the stage was his and his alone, and did he deliver to his large young audience. He remembered his rst when he told them about a picnic deep within equatorial forests, by the bank of virgin rivers, with uncharted rapids and the eyes of tribal headhunters, orang utan and vicious reptiles following him and his parents. His mother and her magical rustic spread of tapioca, hot sh curry and other delicacies on a checked red-white sheet; his father disappearing behind water-falls, holding his breath underwater for endless minutes; he told them the believable truth, even admitting how he preferred to sit in shallow waters, with precocious caution and cloudy thoughts. He never had to repeat a place or a trip. He took them to cold mountains and secluded cabins with wild animals howling outside; the big cities and the high rises with the hustling bustling masses; the exclusive beaches and the resorts, the shopping for the latest and the best, the exotic and the shady. As they grew older, his trips matured and they got what they wanted to hear. He made them giggle at strange customs and perversions, wonder with wide-eyes about smoke-lled rooms and falling casino chips, drool over 14-course meals with snake-meat, shark-ns and tender-tortoise, or lick their young lush lips lasciviously listening to the sounds of boulevards where everywhere everyone had a price for everything. In the ninth-grade, Shanthi became his soul-mate. She was part of his audience but to him, she seemed different from the others. Though he found it disconcerting, he liked the

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12 . TRIPS

thought that she understood him. After each vacation, on-stage, he would search for her dusky form, try to read her dark soft eyes, the smile on her lips, interpret her gestures or the way she sat or twirled her straight black hair with her ngers. Off-stage, they talked, exchanged ideas and shared thoughts. That year, just before the long summer break, she invited him to her house for her birthday party. He broke his piggy bank and got for her a cuddly monkey, a pendant, a book and a CD with music compiled just for her. He wanted to give her everything. He felt uncomfortable in his new clothes, kept dgeting with his hair the whole afternoon and tried to get to her house on time, not too early, not too late. She received him at the door, blushed and accepted his gifts. She made him feel special, giving him company more than the others and later, she took him inside, to the dining area, where her parents were busy arranging the dishes. She introduced him. They too seemed really glad to see him. Her father kept a hand on his shoulder, like friends. Her mother gave him a kind smile and enquired, Are your parents in town? Adarsh shook his head. Her father asked him, Shanthi told us that their jobs take them to lots of places. What do they do? Adarsh told him about his parents jobs. Shanthi took him upstairs to show the bedroom she shared with her sisters. She held his hand and told him, I know you are lonely but I dont want you to feel that way ever again, ok? They returned to their mates and joined in the good cheer. Adarsh felt a heaviness creeping in with each passing moment. By the time he left Shanthis house, he was rather breathless and quite numb. He reached his house, sweating profusely as if with high fever. He collapsed on to his usual seat by the bedroom window, with a view of empty streets and shuttered windows, curled up beneath a blanket, clenching the thick material, staring outside seeing nothing. Shanthis words and that of her parents kept echoing in his mind. He felt confused and angry. She had betrayed his trust. He did not want her to evaluate him or to discuss his affairs with anyone. He did not want to be judged or condemned; evaluated or consoled; he did not want anyone to tell him about his life, a life he liked to pick, choose and create;

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he did not want others to enter or guess those parts which he considered to be irrelevant. He wanted to share his life; he did not want them to change it. What does she know about my life? he screamed in that empty room, snarling with spit frothing at the sides of his mouth. There was a knock at his bedroom room. Bhaskar, the old cook-and-caretaker-and-distantrelative, came in with a glass of chocolate milk and asked Adarsh, Are you feeling ok, son? Adarsh nodded and the old man left silently. He really liked the old couple, Bhaskar and his wife. Those two and the driver-handyman Kishore gave him everything - company, care and conversation. Adarsh sipped the drink and relaxed, allowing the earlier thoughts to slip away into the dark night like unwelcome guests, to be forgotten forever. That summer, his parents had arranged to meet him at Cargse. He travelled alone to Paris, took a shuttle bus from the Charles de Gaulle airport to Orly, and barely got the ight to Corsica. His father was waiting for him at the airport at Ajaccio. They had cappuccino and pastry while they waited for his mother to arrive on the next ight. The 50-km car-ride from the airport to their seaside resort cottage at Cargse took about an hour. The three caught up on each others life. They planned to stay together over there for two weeks. As per his parents arrangements, Adarsh attended a youth camp every morning. He enjoyed trekking, swimming and exploring the island-village with the other youngsters. On the fourth day, when he got to the camp, he was informed that it was a holiday. He trudged back to the resort. He went up to his parents side of the cottage. There was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, probably meant for cleaning ladies. He walked away trying to decide what to do on his own till lunch-time. He walked towards the two churches in the village. He sat outside, between the Greek and the Latin churches that face each other. He smiled at the thought of being a middleman taking messages from one divine authority to the other. After a while, he got up and took the road past the cottages, moving slowly towards the sea-facing cliff. He stood there at the edge, timing the waves that pounded the jagged cliff walls, counting the smooth weather-worn rocks appearing and disappearing, waved at yachts in the calm blue sea stretching till the far away misty hills.

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12 . TRIPS

He felt the old thoughts return, his breathing got heavy and he felt his mind go numb. He cursed Shanthi softly but kindly. Maybe, this time, he will not take the stage and tell them about this place and this trip. Will Shanthi still want to be my mate, he wondered. He thought of a new life off-stage forever. He knew that he had to move away from the edge, to lead that new life; or, to continue and reenter the stage and talk about his trips; or, on that edge, if he thinks about his life, if he trips . . .

13
Is This A Blog About . . .
I think I am suffering from writers block. That does not mean that I cannot write. It only means that I cannot write responsibly. The common cure for this incurable malaise is to write and write ad nauseum. I have decided to try that with a web log a.k.a. blog (for an old history of blogs, click here). The paragraph given above is a type of confession, anticipatory bail and apology. An apology seems out of place when there seems to be empirical proof which suggests that one is lucky if 50% of visitors to ones blog read the beginning, 25% read the end, 12.5% read the middle and 66.67% of those who recommend have not read any part completely (for references, click here). 1. Is this a blog about blogs or writers block . . . I dont think so . . . let me move on. . . Recently, I read an article, Dan Jacobson on the story of stories, which appeared in the London Review Of Books. The article essentially explores the character of short stories. It notes that the traditional or familiar view of short stories is as given by V.S. Pritchett: The novel tends to tell us everything, whereas the short story tells us only one thing, and that intensely.

In that article, this critical tenet is augmented, if not challenged, by: The nest short stories . . . are peculiarly concerned with the presence of a mystery which is beyond art, and which [the writer] can only partially explain . . .

The duality of a really good short story constitutes its expression of our human awareness that everything in life is full of signicance, and at the same time that nothing in it has any signicance at all . . .

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13 . IS THIS A BLOG ABOUT . . .

. . . Beyond the setting and the subject, another story begins to take shape as we read, or after we nish reading. . . .

It is in this respect that they are unlike novels. For all the apparent freedom and largeness with which they are endowed, novels insist on denitions and explanations; more than that, they have an ineluctable drive towards a grand settling of accounts among their characters and a judging of the issues that have been at stake between them. Of these ambitions the best short stories . . . are bound to be free. The author also introduces the idea of irresponsibility of short stories: Historically, the short story developed after the invention of the novel, and the detailed, inward explorations of individual consciousness which the new genre undertook. To that task the novel, in all its variations, remains indissolubly wed. That is its glory; and that is its trouble too. Like any marriage, it demands such a degree of commitment from those involved in it. Whereas the short story reminds us that it is possible to have rewarding relationships outside marriage, too - relationships which are rewarding precisely because the commitment they demand is a relatively modest one, a short-term one, a mutually forgiving one. The story offers both the writer and the reader some of the pleasures of the novel, with all its intimacies and surprises, and then it offers both partners to the transaction the additional pleasure of being eeting, of not making any pretence of exhaustively exploring the possibilities that lie within itself. That is what I mean by the irresponsibility of the form; and it is amazing to think how much we have beneted from the licence which writers as different as Lawrence and James, or Kafka and Wells, have been able to take within it.

2. Is this a blog about short stories . . . probably not . . . let me shift to authors and readers and their readers . . . A few days back, a blog (it could be called a short story, too) and a comment on that blog caught my attention; and the train of thoughts that followed took a life of its own. The blog For Gods Sake, Listen (click here) is about a broken relationship. The comment (click here) asks two questions: (1) Why the footnotes ? and (2) So WHY? Why Shanthi had to leave?

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Why did I nd this unremarkable blog interesting? There are three people involved here: the author, the reader/commenter and I. A fourth entity could be added to the list, too: the story, itself. And, none have a clue about how to answer any question. I worked on my take of the story:

a) The story does not give answers. b) Maybe, the protagonist has never listened to the real reason (hence, the title). c) Have we (and the characters) given up quality for quantity of information or communication? d) It is difcult to nd the real reason for a broken relationship. e) If the reason was known, the story might not exist. f) Probably, the rst reading of the story should avoid the footnotes. g) On a later reading, the footnotes might serve to give the history or era or the realtime thoughts of the protagonist (instead of thinking about his separation or his wife, he thinks about Arundathi Roy, Shashi Tharoor and, worse, Lalit Modi! But, that is not far from reality, is it?). h) Does it make any difference if it happened post- or pre- recession? i) Has time shifted focus from the reason to leave to the reason to stay?

Thus, apart from the initial air of uncertainty, there is a shift in spotlight. Rather than the author or the story, the comment and my take seems more important to me. The spotlight might return to the author or the story or another take or comment, I know. In a way, I was beginning to mimic the protagonist of that story. I seem to be more comfortable with my eeting relationship, exploring my own perception or understanding of the story. And, gradually but quite insistently, I moved away or separated from the original story and characters. Anyway, at the end of the day, it might be true to say that everyone other than the two people involved in the broken relationship will seem to know a reason for the separation or broken relationship. Everyone will have their reason; and, the real reason might remain unknown.

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13 . IS THIS A BLOG ABOUT . . .

3. Is this a blog about broken relationships or . . . is this a blog about readers, their interests and the evolving relationship with stories . . . now, let me shift to rmer ground . . . to a short story . . .

Yesterday, I asked a friend to tell me a story. Her dimple deepened, she pursed her lips, she kept staring at her toes; well, she did nearly everything other than look at me. If I was less familiar with her ways, I would have assumed that she was trying to recollect an appropriate story. I knew that she was trying to decide whether she should tell me the story. Five minutes later, she started . . . with the disclaimer: It is not really a story . . . some of it is true . . . Around mid-1999, a few months before the dot-coms went bust and the markets crashed, Shankar liquidated his portfolio of over-priced stocks. There was a simple reason for this market-savvy move. He had inherited this portfolio in early 1999 after the timely demise of an otherwise indifferent relative. He wisely decided that he should not own something he did not understand. Shankar planned to use his new wealth to build a house on a small plot of ancestral land he owned. Next, on that list of plans, he would marry a suitable woman. The plot of land is in a village called N about 40km from the capital. The Wikipedia describes N as As of 2001[update] India census, N had a population of 14854 with 6942 males and 7912 females . . . The village is with beautiful scenery and good people. People in different religion, different political parties; but friendly and co operative and eager to help others. here you can nd . . . village offce, sub registar ofce, post ofce. Strangely, it does not mention a rather famous incident that occurred in this village in the early-70s. A group of Naxalites killed a landlord. These days, most say that the landlord was a poor upper-caste gentleman who had never harmed anyone. Others say that the victim should be considered as a symbol or that the killing was a protest against centuries of torture and abuse. In some of those rumours, one of Shankars relatives was a part of that group of murderers. That relative died of natural causes soon after that killing (he was bitten by a snake on Shankars plot of land).

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Shankars plot of land agrees with the description on Wikipedia - with beautiful scenery and good people. At the bottom, there is a stream separating the plot and paddy elds. Around Shankars house, there is tulsi, jasmine and konna in the front; coconut trees, plantain and tapioca on both sides; pepper, yam, bitter-gourd, chilly and okra at the back; two mango trees, a jackfruit tree along with a few teak trees also ght for space. His neighbours are friendly and non-interfering. They share sweets and delicacies during Onam and Ramzan. The plot of land slopes upwards from the house and beyond the vegetable garden it is mostly rubber trees standing mutely in rows at regular intervals. Near the top of that plot and to the left, about 100m from the house, there is a large rock with boulders precariously balanced on top and around this rock there are two cashew trees and wild pineapple. This rock and the hollows around it are supposed to be the abode of snakes. In Shankars family, there is a belief that a king cobra takes care of them and their land. A guiltless person worthy of trust is supposed to be safe from the poisonous reptiles. It is true that in the past hundred years or so, only one person has died of snake bite on that land. Shankar was not scared of those snakes. As a kid, he had stayed there often. His grand-aunt used to live on that plot then, in a small thatched hut with small dark rooms and the sound of scurrying and scratching beneath the bed and on the roof. He was not scared of rodents either. His grand-aunt was a great cook and for Shankar, that more than compensated for everything else. On some holidays, when she was sick (her usual madness, the elders told Shankar), he was not allowed to visit her. He still remembered those dark silent nights with his half-crazy grand-aunt praying and chanting till dinner-time. He was not scared of crazy people, too. As planned, Shankar married a suitable woman. His wife, Shailaja, made his house a home; she took care of him; she cooked well for him. She helped him with his various business interests and the small-scale agriculture on their plot of land. They planned to have kids after a year of marriage, as soon as they had properly settled on that land. They shared their worries and hopes. The couple looked forward to a bright future together. For the rst time in his life, he had a steady companion. This couple, in their own ways, expressed their care and affection for each other. That could have been love. Shailaja shared her past and present with her husband. She likes to be an open book to him, she told him. It is not known if she revealed every aspect of her past. Shankar did not

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13 . IS THIS A BLOG ABOUT . . .

have any reason to suspect her. As for Shankar, there was one part of him that he did not share. He was fond of reading and he tried to write, too. He did not like to share his writing with anyone. It is personal, he told himself. And, he believed that none would understand his writing the way he wants them to understand. Five months after they started living in their new house, they got a book-shelf for Shankars vast collection of books. One day, in his absence, Shailaja unpacked a carton of his books. She found a diary. The diary was for the year 1991. But, within that diary, the nely hand-written dated entries spanned three years (1996-1998), some of the entries were on consecutive days, some with a gap of two or three days but never beyond a week. In that diary, Shailaja read about Shankars pre-marital love affair. She read about how he met the lady, how their relationship waxed and waned in the early years, how they bonded, how the relationship strengthened and how they became one. Her cheeks grew hot when she read about their lovemaking, she felt like ripping those dirty pages. She cried when she read about how the lady died. She was still crying when Shankar returned to nd her in their dark bedroom, with the evening lamp still unlit. She was still holding that diary. He took it from her hands, placed it in a drawer of his desk and walked out of the house. He returned late, smelling of tobacco and liquor. She asked him if she should serve dinner. He told her that he had had dinner outside. A brief silence followed. Then, Shailaja started asking questions. He remained silent that night and on every occasion she talked about the diary. She should not have looked at his diary. Maybe. Why cant he open his mouth and talk properly? Why not, indeed! Well, those questions and more will be raised by any audience, right? Couple of months went by. On the outside, everything remained the same for the couple. One day, about seven weeks after she read the diary, the couple was found dead in that house. She was hanging from a hook in the ceiling. He was lying on the oor. Post-mortem revealed that he had died of a snake-bite. Post-mortem could not ascertain whether he

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died before or after her. It could not even reveal if she had taken her life or whether he had killed her. Neighbours told the police that they used to hear Shailaja shouting. They never heard Shankars voice or any sound that indicated that Shankar fought back, they admitted to the police. My friend stopped telling the story right there. I felt as if she had stopped mid-way or that she had more to say. I asked her for more details. She told me that the story is better if the story ends there. I insisted. I had long since realized that her story was not ction. His diary . . . I know about it . . . she said. Know what . . . ? I asked my friend. I have read it . . . Shankar showed it to me once . . . she replied. At that time, he had completed only the rst part - only 1998. What? I must have sounded like a parrot xated with that word. Dont you get it . . . it was all ction . . . he started with the death of an imaginary ladyfriend. That was the rst entry and written on the last page. He worked backwards. The part I saw was very convincing, she admitted. He is crazy. He could have told his wife about that. I protested. When he completed that story, he must have realized that it was and would remain his best writing ever. She continued, I think the story became more than that to him. He had found love through that, unrivalled love, you know . . . the kind of love his wife or anyone would believe. Anyway, do you think his wife would have believed him if he had told her the truth? With all this talk about love, I lost interest quite quickly. Later, before we separated, I asked her, Do you think the snake bit the right person?

14
Time Flows Both Ways
Yesterday, I woke up feeling old Self-pity or delusion Made it an original thought, Self-interest or insecurity Called it thought-provoking; The late winter mist, Damp windows, dewy grass Cover-up without lies The hot dry dusty days here; I was a child when it was new Between Superman And digging trenches Sly loneliness shared my tent Before being lying solitude; I was a ghter when it became a religion For dreams and principles, Without land or company, To be nameless invisible Quite deaf, dumb, mute; Those were brave days Without love or care, But I caught that cruel cureless That ravaged inside, left me young; It comes and goes, The cruel love The older thought too

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Of feeling old; Yesterday, I slept with my love I made love the way I want to Holding on, clinging unashamed, The clock stopped ticking I could love the way I want to; Time has only one way For some, thoughts ow A chaotic spiral or a cycle Create or dissipate disorder; Tomorrow, I might end it all A minor matter, An inconvenience, Thoughtless Without epitaph; Today, I will smile at it To see, to smile, to touch, To feel, to arouse, to be there, Cursing less, harsh no more With the late winter mist; Let the day be hot dry dusty Let rains lash when it may, Without, theres a doubting world, Within, we will be ageless holding; I feel like a clever fool Old stupid wise young Without vows with trust, Care free care less care full.

15
Memory of a Girl
I love to watch the sun rise. Seated on the terrace oor, with the misty silence interrupted only by lively intermittent birdsong, I wait for the sun to rise. The climb is slow with rst light, then picks up pace with the burst of orange and red, till it is too bright for me to stare. This morning, after that, I spotted a green cloth on my neighbours clothes line, probably a childs top or table-cloth or track shorts. Was that the trigger? Or, did it happen last night at the relatives place, when I watched the toilet scene in the movie Slumdog Millionaire? I prefer the scene in Schindlers List - the concentration camp Jew kids hiding in the toilet shit-pool trying to escape extermination. One of these two scenes or maybe both, the green shorts in the morning light or the toilet shit-pool, triggered the memory of a girl. Then, I was a common adolescent in a boys high-school. It was also common then for a student to spend two-thirds of his life on extra-curricular activities. In my early years, I dreamt of making the school football or cricket team. The school football team did not exist because we were not rough and tough enough to play football outside the school. As for cricket, economics and restless pride made me quit the game. I did not enjoy being the water-boy. And, when I had to ask my parents for money to buy personal gloves and abdomen guard, I let that dream go. I could run and jump in those days. With less than hundred rupees, my kit was ready - a pair of spikes along with two track shorts. The school provided the vest with the schools emblem and my favourite number. Only one of those shorts was lucky, a maroon one with thin white stripes on the sides, and I rarely used the other. From late June till the end of the year, the calendar used to be marked with the dates of the sub-District, District and State-level athletic events. I saw her for the rst time at the District-level meet. She was participating in the same type of events as I was. She wore green track shorts. Her friend, a light-eyed fair girl, attracted

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a lot of attention. I must have observed her due to these three reasons. I called her Green Shorts (Pacha Nikkar). We got selected to represent the District at the State-level athletic meet. The District team consisted of twenty to thirty kids. It was a motley group - girls and boys, fourteen to sixteen years of age, from lower and middle class schools. There were three or four adults from the Sports Council to manage us during those ve-days. The State-level athletic meet was hosted by another district that year. The train journey to that place took about twelve hours. A few parents, including mine, turned up at the train-station. None seemed unduly worried about the separation or any danger. It was not really safer then. There were rapists, paedophiles, groping adults, teenagers with raging hormones and misguided or uncouth kids. It is pointless to ask if the parents were foolish or the kids were lucky. It was just common for parents to worry less in those days. In the host-district, we were lodged in a classroom of a government school. The girls had their own quarters somewhere. We were served lling, if not hygienic, food in a large tent which served as the canteen for the visiting athletes and managers. We slept on the oor of the classroom. There was an open shower stall installed outside. The toilet was the only tricky affair in that Spartan setting. The toilets were half-lit roughly-planked make-shift enclosures with a rickety door. It consisted of a big hole in the ground with two planks placed across that hole. We used to joke about how the acoustics changed from Plupp on the rst day to Plupp-plupp on the other days. Some tried to be serious and told us tales about how a kid slipped and fell into such a shit-hole the previous year, and died. We preferred to hear the jokes. Anyway, we were in the stadium most of the day. The whole town seemed to be involved and decked up for the event. The atmosphere in the stadium made us feel like champions entering the Olympics arena. Sports and Arts Festivals always attracted such crowds, even at the school level. Our team grabbed our space in that stadium. We sat together and cheered for each other. Most of us did not have track-suits or even starting blocks for the sprints. Before an event, I would remove my pants and shirt, tuck the vest properly in my maroon shorts, put on my spikes, stretch and warm-up, and ask one of the guys to take care of my stuff. It was the same with her. She would stand, stretch, unbutton her skirt at the side, let it drop, step out of it, put on her spikes, remove her shirt, adjust her vest and the green shorts. At times, we would give a thumbs-up to each other before we set off for the event. Some times, we just smiled. After the event, we rested in that space, stretching, loosening the tight muscles. We exchanged packets of glucose, bottles of water, watched the sweat drop from

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15 . MEMORY OF A GIRL

the forehead or trickle down the neck to the heaving chest, and wanted to brush off the sand from the jumping pit on the others limbs and shoulder. We were ne being animals, admiring, distant and wild. Slowly, relaxed, we would pick up the clothes and dress. Meanwhile, on the eld, we lost more than we won. Even when we lost to worthy opponents, it was difcult to swallow the bitter taste of defeat. We did not exchange words then. Sometimes a nod, most often not even that. But, we did look at each other and we let the other see the pain, the hurt and the shame in the dark eyes. I realized soon that we were quite similar. The same type of events, the same level of expertise (a bit above average, at best), the same amateur aspirations and hopes, and the same way we fought and lost battles on our own. Before I realized the need, I started to search for her before every race or jump. And she was there, in our teams space or amidst the crowds close to the starting line. Maybe, it was because it was just a four or ve day event. Still, she was always there. I knew even then that it really mattered to me. I also knew that it was not because she affected my performance. She did not. I ran or jumped as usual. It would have been nice to say that she was the woman behind my success (or my loss). Those are just nice meaningless words. For me, it was something different, thats all. Its a bit like watching the sun rise. I can watch it alone. The scene is no less beautiful when I can also feel a womans hand in mine. It is just a different beautiful story. I did not get the chance to ask her if I was there for her every time or if she ever needed me. We hardly talked. In those days, it would not have been proper if I tried to get her alone to talk. Between races or at the end of the day, we went as a group to an ice-cream parlour near the stadium. Outside the stadium, we guys or the lady-manager escorted the girls. On the journey back home, we sang and cheered till we lost our voice. We smiled and laughed together. We hardly talked. We got off the train at the same station. I went to my folks and she went to hers. A few months later, I saw her at a theatre. She looked smart and beautiful in a lovely dress. I did wonder if she was wearing her green shorts beneath. She introduced me to her mother. I smiled, wished them well and left. I could not stay. I knew she meant a lot to me, though I did not really understand the reason at that time. It was much later in life that I realized that in every woman, I searched for the girl I called

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Green Shorts (Pacha Nikkar) - the animal, the equal, the woman to trust.

16
Tattoo
In our neighbourhood, everyone (except the old couple who lived a few houses away) thought that Shreya and Arjun were born to be soul-mates. That old couple were just a mean fussy unfriendly lot denitely frustrated being childless, those were the local comments. Arjun is a few months older than Shreya. Their families had shared a common compound wall, food, hardship and joy for two generations before they were born. They had gone together to the Holy Angels (Annexe) kindergarten. Though they later joined non-coed schools, they shared the same tuition teacher for Malayalam and Hindi; played together; exchanged notes, puzzles and books. At twelve, they read Bloodline and The Pirate, together checked the dictionary for the meaning of strange seductive acts. They defended and protected each other. Their parents considered them to be precocious but mature. They never crossed any limits of decency. At fteen, when they secretly went to a tattoo bar, the others name on the wrist seemed like a blood-oath. They were beautiful kids who grew up to be a wonderful couple. It was a match suitable for them, their parents and society. At their wedding, most of us cried with pride or envy when we blessed the handsome strong Arjun and the delicate gorgeous Shreya and wished them the very best in life. On the night of the wedding, the young couple touched each other intimately for the rst time. They made love eagerly and passionately, hardly troubled by the exhaustion they had felt after the long wedding party. Later, they held each other tightly, happy and satised. Arjun asked Shreya, I want to take this relationship to the highest plane possible. I want to be true, honest and everything that you might need. Will you share that dream with me? Shreya took it as a rhetorical question and smiled at her husband. She nearly said, I would . . . if I could . . . but stopped herself from saying it aloud. They had a wonderful honeymoon in Mauritius. Arjuns leave got over and they left to his place of work. In the Cantonment, Capt. Arjun and his new wife were received with a welcome party. Shreya settled into that new life in the Army Cantonment, adjusting well

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and got a teaching job in the Secondary school. It was a peaceful time, punctuated with parties given and accepted, for building new friendships and also developing their own relationship. One day, three weeks after their honeymoon, Arjun told Shreya, I love you very much. I will be honest with you . . . totally. She laughed when he told her about his childhood infatuations. She felt he was teasing her when he told her about his affair with an older woman as soon as he had joined the Army. He told her about the petty things he did to get the right posting or the trips abroad with the peacekeeping Corps. She believed some and ignored most of his stories. It did not really matter, she told herself. At one dinner, he introduced her to an attractive woman, You remember Anju, dont you . . . I told you about her . . . She nodded, smiled and talked to Anju, the ex-ame of her husband. Six or seven months after their wedding, they decided to start trying for kids. That is also when the problem of inltrating terrorists aggravated in the Northern hills. Capt. Arjun was chosen for a secret assignment. The night before he left, they made love passionately and as eagerly as on their rst night. A month later, Arjuns superior ofcer visited Shreya and told her gently and slowly that Arjun was MIA (missing in action). She tried to continue as usual, probably assisted by shock and a general feeling of numbness. Her parents came to live with her. His parents also visited. They gave her the support she desperately needed. The months went by without any news to change the situation. Six months later, the two sets of parents and Capt. Arjuns superiors advised her to take a break and return with her parents to our neighbourhood. We were all so sad, all except that old mean couple. Months ew by. Shreya shifted from her parents house to a at of her own. She studied further. She got an academic position in the University. One of her colleagues, a recently divorced scholar a few years older than her, became her companion. They had known each other for a long time. He is also from our neighbourhood. When she was in her early teens, she had even felt an infatuation that developed into a type of intense unrequited secret love for that brooding attractive intellectual in our area. Shreya and that scholar started living together. Three years went by rather fast. One hot summer day, just a week before the Monsoon lashed this coast, our neighbourhood erupted with joy. Arjun had been found. The Defense Ministry managed to secure his release through some covert exchange. After his

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16 . TATTOO

release, he was greeted by the President and the senior members of the Parliament. He was praised and awarded for his bravery and given a promotion. When he arrived in our neighbourhood, we greeted him with a lot of fanfare. After Arjun spent some time with his parents, he went to Shreyas at. She was expecting him. He stood outside the door waiting for her to invite him in. She stood by the door silently. The scholar, her lover, came from within to stand by her side. Capt. Arjun knew the scholar from our neighbourhood and greeted him, Hullo, Prof. Arjun . . . The scholar nodded but remained silent. Arjun turned to leave but before he entered the lift, he told Shreya, I guess you will be with me through this tattoo of your name. That tattoo on your wrist . . . I guess you will keep it for . . .

17
Memory of a Gift
[Excerpt from a recording] Its my birthday and I am stuck in a trafc-jam. Damn! (. . . vulgar words . . . ) Thank God, I got this recorder for myself, my own birthday gift. Look at the fools in those cars. They think I am crazy, talking to myself. Most people talk to themselves, right - even in a dialogue? It shouldnt be like this . . . I mean, today. Come on, move man, move (. . . horn . . . ) My wife and I should be sitting in that restaurant now. Cool and clean, with food and drink. Before or after the rst drink, she would give me my gift. I wonder what it is this year. How many years have we been doing this? Its still like the rst time. You know, the whole year seems to be a wait for that moment. To know what she has got for me. It kind of denes everything, you know. I remember the rst year. (. . . moans. . . ) She woke me up at midnight and made me cut a cake. First time cutting a cake, at midnight or whenever . . . I dont think she got anything else for me. For her birthday, I did the same midnight stuff. But, I got her something salwar? The second year or was it the third . . . when we got creative. She gave me her own painting. And, I gave her my poetry. (. . . chuckles. . . ) Hey, painting is like writing . . . there is good writing and other writing. No point classifying the other as bad, average or improving, right? Copy of a copy of Van Gogh . . . it is the thought that counts, huh?! We tried a year without gifts; another with only cards. The thought is sufcient. Crap!

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That O. Henry and his Gift of the Magi can go and hang! The cloth-gifts were the tough ones. She got me a pink shirt once. Pink! With my colour! Well, I got her a Binny silk sari. Thats what I get for my mother. She told me that she wanted a sari - Chanderi silk or whatever . . . I told her that it wont suit her. She did not like that. I like to speak plainly, you know. Oh yes! The year before the rst kid, she wore sexy red lingerie for my birthday. I felt like asking her how that is supposed to be a gift; especially, when I prefer black! I felt like wearing mens thongs or g-strings for her birthday. (. . . laughs . . . ) I did not know where I could get one. I gave her a watch instead. She wanted an eco-friendly Citizen. I got her a sleek Titan. I wonder what she has got for me this year. Could barely sit in ofce the whole day . . . And, when I was expecting her call that she had left her ofce for the restaurant . . . she calls to say that she got hit . . . what was it? Just a bike . . . why did she have to call me and spoil my day? It must be just a scrape . . . why does she have to go hospital? Thats it, move man, move (. . . blaring horn . . . ) damn you . . . nally . . . hurrah! What were these useless policemen doing? Look at his paunch . . . (. . . long pause punctuated by horn . . . music horn while reversing and parking at the Hospital . . . ) Finally here . . . I hate these hospitals . . . where is she? Must be in the waiting area . . . (. . . mufed queries at Enquiry, quick breathing . . . ) Nurse, my wife was admitted . . . in the operation theatre, why? Why should I talk to that policeman? (. . . stern authoritative voice . . . ) . . . your wife was hit by a motorcycle . . . she seemed ok at rst . . . I saw her talking on her cell-phone . . . was it you? Then, she collapsed . . . I am extremely sorry . . . (. . . breathless wheezing . . . )

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Sir, was she carrying a gift?

18
Today That Year
In a hotel on a Mediterranean holiday With fresh croissant, coffee, azure calm Boredom entered her eyes Fingers dgeted on the table Those eyes I had watched While we had sex (made love) Those ngers clasped mine Pushing (pulling) me away (close). I would love to tell you, my love That today that year my love left Leaving me with little love To give you, my love It is like love on every line Familiar courteous love That today that year my love left I would love to tell you, my love. Politics sucks me dry With accentuated smiles Dead direct depthless gaze Meaningless utterances Bloody clock, tick faster. Philosophy my foreplay As life goes on (yawn) Measuring utility returns Raped tortured by chance Bloody clock, act dead. In a room on a brief nasty today that year With hopes, dreams, pregnant dark clouds

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Kissing sucking dear life Holding caressing true desire The kiss never shared again Never given taken never The hold slipped shattered Never pinch me again ever.

19
Company
My friend Vishnu has this irritating habit of listing out his reasons for every action. To make it even worse, he loves to classify those reasons under the heading: primary, secondary and tertiary. You sound like a discarded and unused textbook, I have complained. Being my friend, he rarely listens to me. In school and college, he gave his reasons to get educated: to understand a few questions; to irritate others; and, to get a job. When he fell in love: to experience love; to have reliable company; and, to know the pain of loss. I would like to think that he added the tertiary reason later. When he got married: to have reliable company; to have kids and sex; and, to have a second income. Have you told your wife those reasons? I challenged. He smiled, I dont have to tell her. I think she is in it for the same reasons. Two weeks back, he bought a house on a small plot of land. I felt betrayed when he said, Simply no reason. I retorted, I dont buy that . . . let me see . . . to be lord of the manor; to have your own six feet for burial or cremation; and, to have a permanent warehouse to park your stuff and people. He shook his head. A week back, I got a clue about his reasons for buying that property. A mutual acquaintance told me, He got it cheap. Even though it is secluded and very well connected. But, that house is spooky - four unnatural deaths happened there. Ah! I exclaimed. I accosted my friend at his new place. He tried to evade the issue and my questions. I did not give up. Over a mug of beer and a plate of fried karimeen, I told him about a story I had read recently.

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In the story Neela Velicham (Blue Light) by Basheer, the protagonist rents a haunted house. The locals tell him that a girl committed suicide (unrequited love, I think) and no one dares to stay there or even enter that property at night. In the rst few days, either due to fear or false bravado, he talked to himself incessantly in that house, Good morning, Bhargavikutty . . . people say a lot of rubbish about you . . . let them say so . . . Bhargavikutty, some of my friends are coming to stay here, dont do anything to them, ok . . . Bhargavikutty, I am going out, take care of the house; if anyone tries to enter the house, strangle them . . . As days pass, the protagonist starts to forget Bhargavi. The protagonist explains, How many men and women have died . . . all those spirits hanging around . . . like that, Bhargavi will remain . . . just a memory. I narrated all that to Vishnu. Since I could not remember the climax or how the story unfolded thereafter, I stopped there. I looked at him expectantly. Well, it worked, partially. He did not touch on his reasons. But he told me about his new house. This room where we are sitting . . . the drawing roomEthis is where the man of the house was found. He had slashed his wrists. He was found dead, lying in a spreading pool of blood. Everyday, I clean and wipe the oor myself . . . but . . . cant you see . . . look . . . it is a shade different, right? He didnt leave any notes . . . there was nothing that explained . . . That room there . . . my study . . . his wife was found hanging from the ceiling fan. It wasnt a pretty sight . . . bulging eyes, released bladder . . . it never goes . . . that stink . . . In the bedroom, their two young kids . . . poisoned . . . the toys still lying on the ground . . . as if they had interrupted their game for a short break . . . At times, when I sit at my desk and work, I feel eyes staring over my shoulder . . . at what I write . . . I feel breath on my neck . . . Even during daytime, I can feel them next to me while I rustle up a quick meal . . . I trip while walking as if there are toys lying on the ground . . . I can hear the faint buzz of a family sharing meals with us at the dining table . . . Do you know that, at the back of this house, there are steps leading to the river? The rst time I went there, I was sitting on the bottom steps, studying the ravaged landscape . . . thirty years back, it was like paradise, it seems . . . a sandy perfect bathing spot . . . now, after all the illegal sand-mining, there are just rocks, deep hollows and dangerous rapids . . . I was sitting there, with my head on my knees . . . a young lady touched my shoulder . . . I nearly jumped with fright . . . she is the one who told me how it was before . . .

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19 . COMPANY

I have not seen that young lady again . . . I asked about her at the corner tea-shop, the one next to the grocery . . . I described her . . . they told me that it must be Branthi Shanthi (Mad Woman Shanthi) . . . a neighbours daughter . . . usually kept in chains . . . I dont know . . . the young woman I met . . . she didnt look mad . . . anyway, do I look mad or sane? I think . . . it is the woman of this house . . . Vishnu laughed. I laughed, too. Well, for once, he did not tell me his reasons. I think I know.

20
A Story-tellers Sabbatical
Zero The trip was meant to be a sabbatical. They told him, it will do you a lot of good. A story-teller is always on a sabbatical is it not, he asked. You are not a story-teller, they replied. I am not, he agreed, maybe, maybe not, he added. Whatever, they dismissed him. Who is not a story-teller, he wondered wandered alone. Some story-tellers try to write. Some become a postprandial raconteur. Some shy away from an audience. Some prefer to listen, to judge. Some try to forget their stories. Some hide theirs. Some pretend to be otherwise as if there are no stories to be told. Some assume that their story is a test quite meaningless without a grade. Some appear to know it all. Some simply ignore. Some gather kindred souls to ostracize, discourage, restrict, censor. But, stories can escape from solitary connement. Stories might not even end with death. Images, memories, experience, sensation, passion, thoughts, ideas . . . Lover, loner, rapist, father, spouse, partner, polygamous, androgynous, misanthrope, sensual, greedy, devoted, rake, sexual, impotent, psycho, fanatical, dependable, villain, hero, anonymous . . . A million lives to be lived in one . . . One When the bus crossed the state-border, he expected and waited for change. He noticed the pigs, the overowing garbage and the blocked drains. He took in the other differences: the shade of skin-colour, language, volume and tone of conversation; also, the

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new smell of people, place and air that made his nose twitch. The dress and demeanour though similar, of course, looked strange. He waited, breathing slowly, acclimatizing. For him, these days, the acclimatization process usually took only fteen minutes, or utmost half-hour - for his senses to match with that of a local. He knew that the changes were often virtual, a result of his expectations or desire to be different when he crosses any state-border. Recently, he had started feeling like a stranger in his own land. He tried to overcome those attacks with the same process - waiting, breathing slowly and trying to feel like a local, at least at home. The thought of a distant past, of those days when he had shifted from Bangalore to Bombay, made him smile. He recollected how it took him more than three months then to even notice and appreciate women in that new city. They had seemed different and unappealing. Even the street dogs had appeared different. The Bombay ones looked like lovable pathetic characters. The Bangalore dogs he remembered were strong, muscular and waiting to be a man-eater. He was brought out of that reverie when the bus came to a jarring halt. By the time he got out of the bus, he felt only mildly strange in that new place across the border where he had a two-hour wait for the next bus. Two At that rst stop, a bus-station close to the southern tip of the country, a man was shouting at his wife. The woman looked very young, late teens probably; her husband a few years older. They were part of a group of contract workers going home or to the next place of work. A few men in that group were drunk, with dhoti hiked till the upper thigh, swaying in the still late evening air. They told their colleague or friend, that husband, to be quiet. The husband ignored them and pushed his wife roughly. He shouted at her for money. The wife maintained a sullen silence. She squatted on the ground, guarding their meager belongings. The husband raised his voice, telling his wife that he needed money to get something to eat and not for alcohol. She ignored him, or at least tried to, till he pulled angrily and roughly at their bags.

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She reached within her blouse and took out a ve hundred rupee note. He screamed at her again and told her that he wanted change. She reached within her blouse once again and brought out the rest of their savings, two ten rupee notes. He snatched the ve hundred rupee note from her small hand and also grabbed one of the bags, presumably his belongings. He hitched up his once-white dirt-smudged dhoti, stuffed the note in his shorts, scratched his groin and glared at her. Then, he took that note out, crumpling it in his hand, taunting her. He shouted at her, told her to get lost, that he did not want to see her ever again. He marched off in the direction of a liquor shop. The woman sat alone, a little away from the rest of that group. Her dark unblinking eyes followed the back of her husband. Her young lips did not quiver, her jaw remained rm and, her smooth dark sunken cheeks remained as they were, without tears, whitened by smudges of powder and dust. She looked lost. She did not bother to stuff the two remaining ten rupee notes within her blouse. A few minutes later, a bus arrived and that group of contract workers entered that parked bus. The woman remained seated on the ground, holding onto her bag, looking in the direction in which her husband had gone. The tableaux remained the same till the bus started and got ready to depart. The husband entered the scene then. He stood in front of his wife, glared at her and grabbed the bag she was holding. He shouted at her, about how hungry he was. He blamed her and told her that he could not get anything to eat with that ve hundred rupee note. He gave her the ve-hundred rupee note, untouched by others, unused, crumpled. She slipped it within her blouse, treasuring it next to her small rm bosom. As they moved towards the bus, she gave him the two ten rupee notes for the bus-tickets. They touched briey, then. He stood behind her in that departing bus, his arms shielding her. Three An eight hour trip followed - punctuated by some stops and bright lights, silhouettes entering and fading within or without the bus and, a visit to a lthy wayside Pay and Use urinal. He should have pissed in the open, like the others. He should have saved three rupees and avoided olfactory, visual and unhygienic abuse. When he reached his destination at 05:30, he noted that his Lonely Planet guide-book rightly describes there are few more refreshing . . . moments than boarding a bus in the heat-soaked

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plains and disembarking in the sharp pinch of a . . . night. Before 06:00, he was in his hotel-room. He stripped and dumped his grimy travel clothes in a laundry bag, washed his face and hands, wrapped a bath-robe around his naked body and stepped out onto the balcony. He watched the early morning light creep across the lake, rippling the water and nudging life into the sleepy air, lifting a light veil of mist. He looked around. The balconies on his level were empty and the rooms dark and quiet with heavy slumber. On one balcony at the upper level, that of the suites, he noticed a lone gure. The lady was in her night-clothes, quite inadequate like his in that chilly morning air. They looked at each other for a few seconds before looking away. Later, during his stay there, he saw her twice. They were then both deeply veiled behind the purdah of matrimony or propriety, and they had walked past each other like strangers who had never shared anything. That rst morning, they had shared the same scene in that early light; they had listened to the same birdsong; they had felt their nipples stiffening as the fresh cool touch of chilly morning air on naked skin started at the bare toes, up the legs, over the navel and torso, caressing lips and hair; and, they had breathed in the same air with that faint tinge of eucalyptus. They had looked at each other once more before going back to another life inside.

5:54 AM

6:30 AM

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Four Mid-morning brought the rst blues. The usual life and routine had a protective allure. He thought about entering an internet caf. But, he walked past, without even a furtive glance within. The mail not seen, the mail not sent, hoping, avoiding an empty mail box, depending on the others sixth sense. Fool! Five He left the main road, past the usual sights. He felt someone following. He looked behind him - he saw no one. He made a sudden turn to the left, on a gravel footpath, with a steep climb on the right and a never-ending fall on the left. He battled against vertigo, moving forward slowly, his right hand feeling rigid comfort, his left tucked in a pocket, shrinking away from the airy expanse. He listened to the crunch of gravel. It could have been the echo of his footfall. Or, it could have been that of the follower. He reached a turn in that unfamiliar path. A tree blocked his way - a familiar tree on that unfamiliar path.

Trees have stories, too. Long ago, two lovers dreamt of lying beneath this tree. The man gripped the black thread and the locket lying between her full breasts. Remove it, he suggested. She shook her head. His hand strayed from her breasts to her neck, to her navel and thighs. The clouds were beneath them, the heavens too. They wanted to be wild and forget the world around them. What are you thinking, he asked her. She smiled shyly slyly and remained silent. Let me guess, he said. He told her about his dreams, about a trip to such hilly clime, about making love beneath open skies, or within a tent, beneath this tree. Did I get it right, he asked. Yes, she said. He kissed those lips that had uttered a lie. They needed such lies and they built their love on that. With the little time they had, they could not have done a better job with truth.

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He leaned against the tree, hearing no more footfalls behind him, fearing no more the fall in front. Six That afternoon, he entered a steam bath and tried to exorcise all the demons within. Each drop of sweat carried months of self-imposed thralldom. From the health joint, he walked to a tobacco shop. He asked for JPS. They didnt have that. He settled for his old usual. The shop-boy gave a cheeky grin and charged much more than the MRP. It didnt matter to him, not on this trip. He went to his room, ripped it open, after reading the warning, Smoking kills. Tobacco causes cancer. He lit a cigarette and felt the harshness of the rst take. He sat motionless, watching the tip of ash grow. Loneliness kills. Solitude causes emptiness. Seven After tea, he tried the 5-km walk around the lake. Including photos and aimless pondering, it would take him about an hour, he calculated. He realized that the best part about places with nothing much to see is that it allows him to see that he really wants to see. Along with the rst beautiful sight came a bitter thought - he was surprised by the vehemence of that un-exorcised demon.

She and her folks had decided to ignore him, he remembered. They had collectively decided to think wrong of him. Like the aftermath of a forgiven extramarital affair, it will all be ne soon, everything will appear just ne. But, just like the situation after that affair, the relationship will never be the same ever again, never forgiven, never forgotten.

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Eight He walked past happy couples, parents and kids, nearly all holding hands laughing cheering, except for two young foreigners. They walked with long purposeful strides, discussing a research topic. He saw them later sitting together in a secluded part, still talking, now with a hushed soft tone, with their feet nearly in the water. He liked walking against the crowd. He smiled at a newly-wed couple, struggling to get it right on a tandem bicycle. They smiled at him, nearly giggled. A young enthusiastic mother went past him following her young child on a cycle. A man, the father-husband, dragged his feet behind them, pouting his lips, serious and silent. A little later, he met another young family. There, it was the mother-wife who sulked. He should also try to be serious and silent, he decided, just for a change, for a laugh.

He stopped at a locked gate and looked up a path with roughly hewn steps. He could feel those steps beneath him, the climb to that lonely cottage at the top. He thought he could hear the quarrelling, the bickering, the nagging, the recrimination, the thud of slammed wooden doors and the reverberation within the deep green. He could nearly see the feet running down that path, slipping, hurting, hands opening the gate and shadows racing past him, shouting loudly harshly at the other following close behind. He felt a cold silence after, as if those ghosts had sucked the air and created a vacuum around him. He followed them to the old abandoned boat-house, shackled and forgotten. He could see that ghostly couple enact out their own version of Rebecca. In their story, it would be without the refreshing and loving second chance. There will be no Mrs. de Winter for that despondent barely surviving Maxim de Winter ever again. The man held her head beneath the surface of water, counting the bubbles till there were none. That is where they lost love and decided to believe no more.

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Nine He walked away from that boathouse, away from that memory of a second trip that never happened. He walked fast. Thats the only problem with these 5-km circuits, he thought. It is tough to get away when you are in the middle. Another memory lashed at his senses, a memory from his rst trip to this place. He felt weak in his knees, a bit breathless. It was a bright and beautiful cool evening. Was he sweating, he wondered. He was a young boy then, walking alone around this lake. His older siblings had gone ahead on bicycles, laughing, telling him to catch up with them soon.

He must have reached the turn in the path. He must have been looking at the tree house. A respectable-looking middle-aged man was peeing behind a tree. Grey hair, prim and

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proper, he could still see what his young eyes saw then. The half-sweater over long-sleeved shirt, a pant with well-ironed creases, polished shining black shoes; and, those stern eyes staring at the young boy, like a predator eyeing a prey. The mans left hand was holding his penis and with his right, the man waved at the boy, beckoning him to come close. The tree on one side looked like that mans hand, reaching for him. The tree on the other side will remind him of the shadows reaching over him, over the water, engulng, incarcerating and dragging him into those depths away from innocence.

The young boy ran away. He knew the man would not chase. But the boy did not stop till he reached his siblings. They were resting on the green slopes, having an ice-cream. He had felt weak in his knees then, sweating profusely, too. Seeing him in that state, his siblings had asked him, what happened. Later, when they joined their parents, they asked him again, what happened. He kept quiet. Young boys were not supposed to talk adult stuff. Now, decades later, he had the same fears. He walked away. He could not run. Maybe, when memories are just stories, he thought, they will be easier to live with. Ten On the second morning, he set out on a sight-seeing trip along with a motley group of serious kids, hyper-excited parents, stout wives and thin husbands. The trip started late. Everyone expected that. He tried to mimic the stoic expression of the other passengers. But that scene with admirable sang-froid suddenly changed and soon got taut with tension. The Christian driver explained the situation succinctly and disappeared. The people in the bus realized that the delay was due to two over-sleeping Moslem kids.

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Seated next to a fat Hindoo, he precariously hung on to his small narrow seat and every spoken word. He listened to the curses and the outrage expressed within that tempo-van. Everyone had a root cause ready to explain the problem. Ancient and new culture; new and black money; the majority made to give all to the minority; and, even the beard of the errant kids father joined the list of causes. He tried to think of a suitable contribution. When the two bleary-eyed over-slept kids entered the van, they were met with stony silence and dirty glares. At the rst stop, he relaxed and admired the scenery for too long, feeling comfortable with the company of surprisingly benign well-mannered non-human monkeys. This time, when he entered the van, it was he who was met with stony silence and dirty glares. The silence seemed to echo all the complaints against Mallus that must have been aired while they had waited for him.

At the next stop, the group got out, ran down a moderate slope with innocent exuberance and climbed back up feeling as if they were paying for past sins. They felt good when

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they returned to the van, hufng, pufng and breathing hard. The exercise is good, they all said. The driver-guide suggested another spot to the group, great for a nice trek, he said. The group laughed, smiled, hum-hawed and shrugged their heavy shoulders and gut. They prefer to stay close to the van, they all said. That helped to keep the trip short and sweet. At that second stop, the Sardar family in the group got lost in a lm-shoot on that tiring slope with never-ending rows of pine trees. This time, he joined the rest and cursed Sardars. That Sardar family looked apologetic when they returned but he and the rest received them with stony silence and dirty glares.

On the way to the next stop, the driver apologized for the Forest Department. The inconsiderate department had closed the way to Sue Zed Point because it became too popular, the driver explained. But, try the next spot with the two pillars, came the helpful advice. If it is not cloudy, you can see the way down, the driver-guide advertised.

At that stop, the lot from Bihar went missing for a long time. He along with the Sardar family, the Moslem kids and the rest joked about the end of Biharis at Sue Zed Point. When

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the Biharis returned, the whole lot forgot the jokes and greeted them with stony silence and dirty glares. He mastered the rules of the game before the 3-hour trip got over. He took the initiative in gathering the majority within the bus and played the game with vicious delight. Together, they treated the last ones to enter the bus the way anyone should treat any inconvenient minority. The driver-guide kept his choice of shops for the last stop, Sir Madam, here you get pure eucalyptus without kerosene, fresh chocolate daily change, of course, you should buy only if you want to, he implored the group. At that stop, everyone got back late to the van. They forgot to play the game. When it comes to commerce there is no majority or minority, he noted his left-leaning thoughts with rightful distaste on a disposable scrap of paper. Eleven On that day, mid-afternoon brought the blues.

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He thought about another trip. Abroad, attending a summer school or conference, on a measly ofcial allowance, he recollected. He had managed to get a telephone card. Precious little card, limited and irreplaceable, beyond his means actually. He had called her. Her father had picked up the phone. Casual chit-chat followed, formality made him ask for her mother, her sister, her brother and the minutes slipped by. Finally, he could ask for her. She came to the phone. He heard her say, Hello. He heard her breathing hard into the phone. He held the phone rmly, roughly, nearly squeezing, as if it was her. He asked her, How are you. The telephone call ended. The cards life was over. He never got to know her reply. Twelve He was still in the same state that evening. Cigarette stubs, full ashtray, watching a movie with unseeing eyes. It was a movie about a letter in a bottle thrown into some deep dark water.

He has this box of unsent letters at home. On top, there is one to a friend he has known all his life. Nearly all his life, he corrected, he didnt know her till the age of four. That time, so long ago, he had received a letter from her. It had taken months to reach him, trying to follow and keep pace with his nomadic travels. On that night, he had had a dream in which she was in trouble. He got up in the middle of the night. He wrote a long reply to her letter - wishing her well, lling the pages with care, thought, purpose, praying for her. He signed at the end, beneath With lots of love.

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He did not send that letter, wondering about what she would think. It remained in the box with the rest, unsaid thoughts that meant a lot more than all that he has ever said, then, before, or later. Thirteen Around the time dusk bade farewell and night knocked lightly, he entered the near-empty bar, strangely a bit too early to be empty. He played with a peg of his favourite, for old times sake, he thought. A young man sat on a stool two seats away, sporting a sardonic or wry smile and hazy eyes, downing mugs of beer, chasing it down with whiskey more frequently. The barman looked at them, shrugged his shoulder, polished glasses and wiped the bar-top.

A bar is like a train at times - strangers become bosom buddies for an hour or so, then forget and leave. The young man told him, without any preliminary, about a beautiful lady he had met. He had helped her carry a heavy bag of shopping from the departmental store to the bus stop. For the rst time in his life, he had gathered courage and decided not to let the opportunity slip. Before she boarded the bus the young man told her, I would love to have coffee with you some time. He had been stunned when she said Yes let us meet at the caf coffee. She had suggested, how about 4 pm tomorrow. The young man had dressed well and he had reached caf coffee early. She was there even earlier. The young man told the rest after gulping a mouthful of beer. She asked me to join her and her husband, the young man recollected and continued, I had coffee with them and left quickly. I think I heard her laughter behind me.

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Fourteen A loud cackle, followed by the rough gurgle of phlegm, from behind him brought that discussion to an end. He and the young man turned to see an old man nursing his glass. Rough shawl draped over narrow stopped shoulders, creased face which had seen many summers, a crooked toothless mouth sucking greedily at a beedi - the old man looked t to be a stereotype of the veteran bar occupant. The three maintained silence for a few minutes, interrupted by loud slurps, burps and careless farts. He settled the bill with the barman and stood up. That is when the old man grabbed his wrist and asked him, do you believe in ghosts. When love dies, ghosts appear everywhere, the old man said. He continued, you will see a ghost, you will say, that is her hairstyle, that is her gure, her way of walking, the dialogue sounds familiar, the situation and the meeting places all remind you of another time, another place. But, there will always be disappointment at the end, the old man concluded, that is what ghosts do to you. He broke away from the old mans grip and got out of that bar. Fifteen He entered the restaurant. He was shown to a good table. He had a mismatched supper of soup, sh and chips, and chocolate mousse. He ate the sh and chips with style and nesse, using the proper knife and fork, wasting little, all properly done. He remembered an old visit with a best-friend to Indian Coffee House. He had struggled to eat the mutton cutlet with fork and knife. He had stabbed, pierced, chased the pieces, spilled and nally, he had stooped low to get the pieces in his mouth rather than to get the act right. His friend had suggested, use your hands, dummy. He had learned later, how to eat, how to be proper. Along that path of time, somewhere sometime, he and that best-friend had parted ways, and he preferred to eat alone. He could not remember why or when. That is one story he has managed to forget. Sixteen

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A young couple sat at the centre-table. A waiter placed a vase with a beautiful rose on their table, right in between them. The man removed it. They looked at each other, oblivious of the world around them. That will probably be a moment they will store for years, among the good ones. They will talk about it. It will help them forget the unspoken bad times. Her sari slipped. She knew that her husband was looking at it slip a little on the right. She knew he loved to see the mole above her right breast revealed by her low-cut blouse. A few seconds passed before she covered it and arranged her sari. She knew that her husband wanted her to do that, too. Seventeen In the special area between the main dining hall and the lawn, an elegantly-dressed lady and her teenaged daughter were discussing the latters projects in school, probably the International school there. The daughter talked about her boyfriends thesis on Macbeth, about how the play revolved around the carefully concealed extramarital relationship between Duncan and Lady Macbeth. The mother smiled at the idea. We have The Merchant of Venice too, the daughter complained. The mother leaned forward and picked up the daughters textbook. We used to have a censored version, the mother noted. Oh yes, the taunts, the vulgar, the stones, the anti-Semitic parts right, the daughter afrmed. Her boyfriend had told her about that too, the daughter informed her mother. The father joined them. The textbooks disappeared from the table. The father called the waiter and enquired about the wine-list. For a minute, the waiter tried to sell his wares. The waiter failed to observe the sneer developing on that fathers face. Later, for seven uninterrupted minutes, that father educated that waiter and his boss, the head-waiter, about what was lacking in the hotels wine-list and where and how that father had had the best. The waiters listened respectfully. The daughter rolled her eyes on the sly. She smiled at her mother, a quick smile. The elegant lady sat with great poise, expressionless. Eighteen Next morning, he woke up with the pitter-patter of little kids feet outside the door. Every morning, the hotel staff managed the fun-hours for the kids and they took exceptional care. The kids loved the clowns, the amusement, the games, being away from their parents with

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whom they will later tag along, get cuddled, smothered, scolded, instructed and coochicooed. They had two hours of their own, with their own kind. The parents had two hours of their own, too; sometimes separate, sometimes together within or without locked rooms. Nineteen The staff always greeted him cheerfully. He tipped generously. It has been a long time since he stayed in such places. When the staff started to greet him less cheerfully, he wondered about his generosity, whether it had kept in touch with the times. Since it will be a long time till he stays in such places again, he stopped tipping. He stopped thinking about cause and effect. Causality is tough to prove, correlation is easy to calculate, his nal thought on that subject. Twenty He loved walking, on clean footpaths, without sweating, wearing a light jacket, munching fresh chocolate, sipping soda, watching a game of soccer on the school ground and listening to kids from every part of the globe cheering their team. Foreign kids do not pick up an Indian accent, he noted. He likes to speak but he tries to speak very little. Indians nd his accent laughable, he knows. Foreigners think it is quaint. Life around him moved in slow motion - visible, carefree, laughable life. Three unrelated couples walked on the footpath on the right side, avoiding people and at varying distance from each other. In front, an Indian boy and his South-east Asian girlfriend walked together. The girls arm was around the boys waist, the boy had his arm on her shoulder. Once or twice, the boy kissed her, on her hair or the side of her forehead. Each time, they laughed after the kiss. Behind them, a young married couple walked, talked, hardly noticing anyone else. They held each others ngers. They looked at each other once or twice, smiled sweet secrets, laughed too. The third couple watched the two pairs in front. They didnt touch each other, not even once. But, more than once or twice, they looked at each other. She looked at the smile in his eyes, at the laugher wrinkles, his eyes crinkled at the edges. He studied her dark brown eyes, the dimple on her left cheek, her front teeth biting her lower lip. When they looked at each other, they slowed their walking pace. They too laughed and kept on walking.

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He watched life go by in slow motion. Some had a life like his, some lives seem different. He was comfortable with the familiar stories, people he wanted to see, people who seemed to be like him. He preferred and yearned for the uncomfortable lot, the real strange ones, stories he wished for as his own. Twenty one On the journey back from that hill-top place, he took a taxi rather than a bus to reach the heat-soaked plains. He decided to pamper himself with no thought of saving for tomorrow, for that rainy tomorrow. What if that rainy tomorrow brought an earthquake or a tsunami or a nuclear disaster, he wondered. The taxi stopped at a petrol pump. When the taxi was ready to go, the taxi-driver came to his side and mentioned, policeman. He wondered why a policeman wanted to meet him. He felt nervous. The policeman, a sub-inspector, requested for a lift till his village, quarter of the distance down the hills. My kid is sick, the man in uniform explained. He sighed with relief. He asked the policeman to sit with him in the back. I do not want to cause any inconvenience to you, the policeman said and got in front.

The policemans presence helped at the various check-points. The car was not stopped. The policeman talked about a curious case. A man had been caught with a two-day old human carcass in the boot of his car at one of these check-points, the policeman narrated. There are lots of places to dump a body, the policeman added, it is a popular idea in these hills, the policeman laughed.

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It would be tough to dispose a human body in the plains, he knew. If he had a human carcass in the boot of the taxi, it would be a good idea to have a policeman in the car to cross the checkpoints. He noted the ideal places to dispose the carcass before hitting the hot plains.

Twenty two He was dropped at a railway station in the hot plains. He felt like Rip Van Winkle waking up in a new world. There were no newspaper stalls at that station. For the rst time in those few days, he wanted news and started to feel lost without news, even though it had no bearing on him, even though the world went on as usual without him. He claimed a seat in the waiting room. He looked at the brave new world around him. Women sat with parted legs or with one leg on the chair, airing their groin like the men around. Men listened to their wives. Men brought food for the women. The women complained about that food, munching slowly, grimacing, spitting. Young boys and girls tried to behave like men and ladies, but with decreasing differences.

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Universal suffrage, education for all, equal opportunities, he picked up discussions on all that in that hot waiting room with few fans. Some talked about the next government to rule that state. The pan-India lot talked about corruption and governance, they disagreed to agree that each government and their followers should have a free hand. A wise scholarly man talked about a weak ineffective leader. A loud spittle-spraying woman suggested a strong effective candidate. That Hitler, the wise man queried. He tried to join their discussion. Commie, he said. Who me, they asked without rhyme or reason. He felt like Rip Van Winkle, hell, only men should sit with parted legs, he thought. Twenty three A young family sat near him in the train - a cute daughter, a handsome caring father and a sulking attractive mother. It was a sulk that faded fast and the three made a pretty picture. Their kind form the majority, he noted, the kind who dont enter stories and remain happily ever after. At the next station, a professional with a laptop joined them. The new entrant lay on the upper berth, exhausted after a hard days work, roughly stufng his wallet into the front pocket of his pants. A few stations later, the young family got out. About two hours later, the professional woke up with a start, as if from deep sleep or as if he had had a dreadful nightmare. A few minutes later, after buying coffee from a vendor, the professional realized that he had lost his wallet. While he had snored and snoozed, the wallet must have slipped from his pocket. But, where was it, the professional searched and investigated. Or, he was a victim of pick-pockets. He and that professional suspected the young family. That seems to be the only way young happy families can enter stories. It was nearly midnight when he reached his station, his hometown. The professional was still searching. Sweet home, alas! He got into a pre-paid auto-rickshaw. The auto-driver stopped midway, at a secluded place and started haggling for a better rate. He was tired, too tired to carry his suitcases the rest of the way, too tired to ght, too hungry too. He agreed to the autodrivers demands. Sweet home, alas! He felt like a stranger there. He slept tfully on his own bed, sans dreams, sans hope, with stories.

21
After Nights In White Satin
I do not know how to begin. Let me start with their tale. On that day, they had the last exam before the Christmas holidays. The exam was over by noon. The four seventeen year-old boys bid happy hols to their classmates and hurried to catch the 12:30 bus to the city center. I asked them once whether they are a steady gang. I was not surprised when they frankly admitted that they are just casual friends, and that their alliance was forged only at the beginning of that academic year when they were seated together in the back row of the class. The fattest, Gopal, is amiably called Chacka (jackfruit) by the others. The fairest and tallest is a North Indian called Mohit - a quiet lad with a pleasant face. The other two, Matthew and Shekhar, are rather nondescript, ve eight to ve ten, athletic, bespectacled and brown. Like Mohit, Matthew is also quiet and pleasant. He appears to be the oldest and the most mature one - the other three refer to him as decent gentleman, making sure that it sounds like a tease or a taunt. The last one, Shekhar, with pimples, deep set black eyes and protruding ears is a volatile buffoon and seems to lead that motley pack. The four reached the city center by 13:00. They walked to a video cassette library where Shekhar had membership. There are two types of video libraries in the city. The rst type has darkly-tinted windows and door, looks like a shady bar and probably caters to policemen and shady clientele. The second type, like Shekhars, looks more respectable and caters to the middle class. This particular library has a jovial manager called Ramanan ever ready to offer tips on selection. Shekhar asked Ramanan if the new ones were in stock. He was directed to a corner. While the four boys browsed over the collection, they could hear Ramanan giving his advice to other customers -

Ramana, how is this? Bestu, mashe, adi poli. (Crude translation: Best. Hit.) This?

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Staaary . . . (One could make out from the drawl that Ramanan had little time for story.) Itho? (Translation: This?) Aakshun!!! (With a glint in his eyes, the manager would step out of his sanctum sanctorum behind the desk and help the customer collect the sequels II, III, IV, Final and VI of that action series.) Atho? (Translation: That?) Kambhi. (Crude translation: Iron rod. This was a colloquial way of referring to soft porn. The ones who want hard porn never ask for advice. They typically approach the front desk silently and Ramanan would surreptitiously hand over a cassette in a thin black plastic bag. The young men who asked for these were at times just middle-men or couriers. Gopal used to brag about being the courier for one of his neighbours - a respectable young couple, he explained, the wife asked me to get it, the husband was too shy to ask me.)

On that fateful (or rather, ill-fated) day, the four boys tried to look sure and condent and they did not ask Ramanan for advice. Matthew made the choice and the other three agreed. The cover looked promising and the title too, Nights in White Satin. The four boys then boarded a bus to Gopals house. Gopal has working parents, an empty house at that time of the day and a VCR. He is also the richest of the four and lives in a very nice posh area with lovely neighbours. Gopals collection of music cassettes, foreign magazines and his two latest toys, a powerful pair of binoculars (military, Gopal boasts) and a good telescope (self-made, Gopal boasts again) are an added attraction for the others to visit his place (since they are well-acquainted, they are quite deaf to Gopals boasts). They reached Gopals house at 13:50. They slipped the cassette into the VCR and let the movie play. They watched silently for ve minutes. Then, Gopal started fast-forwarding the movie. Before 14:15, they realized that they had selected the wrong one. Shekhar took the initiative in giving mock blows to Matthew. Mohit and Gopal joined in, cursing themselves for allowing a decent gentleman to choose a proper cassette with at least some skin-show. Matthew took it all rather well and the frustration subsided soon. Finally, the four agreed that they had all been duped by the exaggerating cover.

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Gopal then suggested going to the terrace with his toys. Shekhar complained, On the terrace in the afternoon sun? Are you crazy? Gopal said knowledgably, At 3, there is a change in shift in the medical college hospital. The hostel is very active at this time. Mohit asked studiously, Can we see till there? Isnt it quite far? Gopal looked smug when he replied, Oh yes . . . not too far, it seems . . . that new multistoreyed hostel is a Gods gift . . .

The four boys climbed to the terrace of the house. Using the binoculars, they surveyed the neighbouring terraces and made sure that they were the only spies. They settled down behind the overhead water tanks - that was the only part of the terrace which was even partially concealed. Gopal set up the telescope on a tripod. They took turns on the binoculars and the telescope. Till 14:40, they saw nothing worth seeing.

That was when Mohit, the one with the telescope then, said, Hey, look at the fourth window on the seventh oor from the top . . . from the left . . .

The tools for spying kept changing hands rapidly. But they maintained total silence, as if stunned or laid numb and cold. They pieced together their observations into a coherent account much later. What they saw in that room was the following:

A man was standing still in the middle of that room watching a woman sleep on the bed. He was wearing a doctors coat. She was wearing a thin slip and a light sheet covered her lower body. The man sat next to her sleeping form and caressed her face. He leaned forward and kissed her lips. Even that did not wake her from the deep sleep. It looked as if she was heavily drugged.

Then, the man quickly dressed the woman in a more concealing outt as if he wanted her to look better in public. He took out a rope from a bag. Standing on a chair, he slipped the rope through a hook in the ceiling, and made a noose for

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hanging. He lifted the woman from the bed, placed her head in the noose, held her for a few moments, as if praying silently. Then, the man kicked the chair and let her hang, watched her body jerk a few times, and then it hung like a dead weight. He touched her hand once again, maybe feeling for a pulse, before leaving the room.

Around that time, Matthew had exclaimed, That man . . . he looks like my fathers colleague . . . His father is a doctor in that government hospital.

I think their tale ended there. I have talked to them a few times to gather all that. Some parts in separate anecdotes, separate moments, separate lives . . . most stories are like that ... Let me continue with the tale . . . with the little I can contribute. That woman, a junior doctor and a post-graduate student, was found dead by hanging later that day by one of her colleagues. The four boys did not watch the rest of the proceedings. They had had enough of spying. The police had arrived on the scene. The newspapers in the next two days followed the case quite well and gave all the details of the police investigation. It was judged to be a suicidal death. There was mention of the woman having rather large, though not fatal, amounts of sleeping drug in her system at the time of death. But all the other details seemed to indicate that she must have taken it herself, to calm her nerves before the nal deed. The day after the death, the four boys paid me a visit. They told me about what they saw. They felt guilty for not approaching the police.

Matthew said at the end, Uncle . . . I saw you . . .

I did not deny my part in the deed. I talked to them most of that day and the day after. We laughed about some details. We explored the insignicant parts in close detail. We rushed through the crucial part. I did not tell them about why I chose to hang her rather than kill her with drugs. I did not tell them why I had to kill her. Had to? I am not even sure if I really had to, but . . . She left me dead long before I killed her.

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Reasons, motive, method . . . that will remain our secret . . . I advised the four boys not to get involved. I assured them that I will not escape, that I will do the needful. Years from now, they will be successful young men, husbands, fathers . . . they do not have to get involved in a murder case as peeping-tom witnesses . . . nobody should ask them why they did not try to call the police or why they did not try to stop the killing. They are good boys. Years from now, one of them might release these notes of mine . . . then, people will be able to laugh or omit or curse. It will be just a story then, a just one though. I do not know how to end. Let the tale end when they post it somewhere . . . like an unmarked grave. References:

The movie: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093630/ The song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9muzyOd4Lh8

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Confession
Its time to confess. I tell all to the priest To redeem, to escape, to die. The priest smiles at my ruse To live, to resuscitate life. Its time to confess. I see her everywhere To receive, to share, to care. She smiles at my fantasy To live, to resurrect love. Its time to confess. I have no time for the silent priest. I have no time to review the dead past. I smile at my bare reality To live, to bear chanceless vacuum.

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Say Goodbye Silently
Screaming whimpering whining Wallowing cheering fawning - enough! Curtains for that endless one-act Stretched wretched dredged up play. Exit bang the door curse challenge Fuming protest seek justice revenge - enough! Comic relief ll seconds never more Try all for that dgety patrons nod. Simple truths denied senses in chains All for an old fantasy that really pains - enough! To give to get to live the common way Or to hope to dream say goodbye silently.

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Remembrances
What will you remember When a life ends After the guests are gone With stories of valiant deeds Nice false notes that linger Till the dishes are washed wiped Will you dream With anothers face With lingering memories Suitably mummied A puppet to stick pins A convenient prop Best not to know What you will remember.

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Laid Off
I felt cheated when I got laid off after Lehman Brothers led for bankruptcy on Monday, September 15, 2008. I felt cheated because it was not a surprise. I remember the coffee-room gossip. As far back as August 2007, Oh boy, is this the beginning of the end? In early 2008, when Bear Sterns collapsed, we were still saying the same thing. We stayed put. With hindsight, we were like moths seeking a ame, greedy for a speedy death. That last weekend, life depended on unknown people, Hey, Bank of America is going to bailout Lehman. We will be saved . . . On that Monday, I reached ofce earlier than usual. Colleagues, never seen at that hour during normal times, were busy copying les and revising their old-forgotten rsum. My boss sat alone in his ofce looking out through a window probably thinking about his lost big fat bonus. I did not have to think about that. I became part of a world-wide subculture. There were guys like me in Detroit, London, Tokyo, even Wall Street. I am different, I know. Those guys were part of some statistics, inuencing policy and stimulus packages. Who will consider a sweat shop guy as a data point? The rst week, relatives came home to express their condolences. They sat with bowed heads, whispering to each other. In their eyes, was I laid off, or laid to rest with cotton in my nose and coins on my eyes? Maybe not the coins . . . it is good to save for a rainier day. My father-in-law accosted me before the others, Are you really jobless? I nodded.

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He persisted, But, were you with Lehman? I shook my head. Tchah! If only you were with Lehman, I could have told that to my friends. Whats the name of your company? I told him the nice desi name. My father-in-law walked away, shaking his head sadly. My relatives offered advice. My friends called for the details. When I mentioned to them that I planned to visit, they made themselves scarce. My wife keeps me informed about their enquiries. She mimics and mocks well, Is he there? Dont call him. Has he gone for interviews? Has he tried job portals? Isnt he even applying? Where is he hiding? I made myself more useful at home though I was told that it is unnecessary. I prepared for my kids PTA meetings. The teachers listened to my wife and ignored me. I lost my cool once. These days, she goes alone. My wife says it is my ego. Sometimes, she calls it low-esteem. I hope it is that. It would be tougher if it is because people have nothing to say to me. I used to have the same problem with divorced people. There is little common ground. What do you say to a guy for whom every day is Sunday? I keep in touch with some of my old colleagues. One is facing foreclosure, a few have got some job, another is getting divorced, no suicides, so far. A few months back, my youngest one asked me, Are you now a home-maker? My wife hushed the kid with a stern glance. Maybe, she heard it as home-breaker. I cant tell them that I write, can I? In my circle of family and friends, hardworking men dont write for a living. They dont do that for fun either. I dont write for fun or living. It helps me to kill time. There are supposed to be ve stages to dying: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

Swapna & Arjun

W ITHOUT R EASON

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These ve stages apply to being jobless, too. Just in reverse - acceptance, depression, bargaining, anger and denial.