You win some...and Lose...?

It’s 9th March, 1996. She is an 11-year-old, bright-eyed but naïve kid living (temporarily) in the suburbs of Calcutta with her aunt. She hates living away from her family but circumstances have made her accept this arrangement for the time being. Along with that, she has also accepted the fact that every day, 6 days a week, she would have to take the same path home from her after-school classes and get bullied by the gang of neighborhood boys playing cricket in front of her block. Never before had she hung her head so low but in this acceptance spree, she accepted this too.

Everyday she counts down to the time when her stint in Calcutta would be over. Today is different – today is India – Pakistan World Cup Quarter Finals which means that the boys will not be hanging out in the playground. Lately, cricket has become the center of the universe and all daily activities including school, mealtimes, etc have to meander around its significance. And since everyone’s rooting for the same team, unity and brotherhood has taken over the daily tiffs and fights on the playground. Suddenly the place seems not too bad, she thinks muses.

The match begins and everyone in the house is watching intently. It’s an exciting match – the doors have been left open and the echo of cheers at every four and six can be heard down the hall and from the floors above. India makes a respectable near – 300 score and they break before the Pakistan inning. A simple hasty dinner is on the stove since no one has the time to cook or eat.

People step out of the house and into the road outside, catching up, replaying the game again in again in theirs heads and conversations – the voices are loud, the mood, festive as if we’ve already won. Some of the abovementioned boys find leftover sparklers from the New Year and light up in a pre-emptive celebration. She joins the fun too; some of the boys are her classmates. Slowly the crowd starts to move (with the celebration et al) towards a block behind. She wonders why they are moving towards the other block but joins them nonetheless, thinking it’s to collect more people. The boys who bullied her join the crowd too, dancing along and even exchanging high fives with her. She’s relieved - thinking this may be the end of the daily hung-head-stinging-eyes-hidden tears before entering home ordeal. She has another reason to celebrate - she’s free.

The crowd comes to a halt and become louder as if it’s jeering something. Someone. Why has the tone changed, oh so slightly, she wonders. She’s not imagining it because the crowd is not moving any more. There is nothing special about this block, is there. Why then are we here, she’s about to ask when she hears parts of a conversation – where all she catches is the name Aslam and more laughter. Not the pleasant type. It all becomes clear. Aslam and his family – the only Muslim family in that entire community live in that block, just above the spot where the crowd is.

A few hours later, India won the match.

But did he – I don’t know.

Gyan

On a side note, check out:
http://advaitian.blogspot.com/

My (overnight) attempt at becoming a prophet. Comes complete with voice clips (coming soon).

Topic this week.

You are a straight person in a gay world. And you're finally coming out.

How to enable expanded posts and why there is a "Read More!" at the bottom of every post now

When you click on Create Post and then Edit Html tab of Post Editor you will see the following

Replace the line "Here is the beginning of my post." (Type your summary here) with your summary paragraph. Then replace the line "And here is the rest of it." (Type rest of the post here.) with the rest of your post. Do not delete the other lines and . Also add your summary paragraph above both the lines and your rest of the post between the lines. Then click Publish to publish post.

10 years (Part III) - Riots

Now if you’re thinking that getting thrashed was a bad thing, think again. He has a strange way of playing his cards, God.

The next day when I went to school, He made his presence felt through a particular History teacher who, until that day, had never taken notice of me, but who, upon seeing my black and blue adornments, decided to take me under wing.

This was a good thing, for the History teacher in question was to play a crucial role in my rediscovery of myself in the time to come.

The chapter being taught that day was “The Revolt of 1857”...


The chapter was heavy and all of us were expecting to be crushed once and for all under its heaviness in the heat of the last period of school in that electricityless Lucknow summer afternoon. The ripple of a suppressed yawn left its briny residue in many a watery eye and the clock seemed to be ticking ever so slightly slower every time we looked at it.

However, our history teacher had plans for our salvation from boredom that we were unaware of.

I studied in a school with more than a hundred and fifty years of history behind it. With an institution that old, the perspective with which history is taught acquires a strange familiarity for, many a time, the characters in history are also associated intimately with the institution’s past.

Our school being as old as it is and also being founded by, strangely enough, a Frenchman who defected from the French army to join the British army, was involved intimately in the revolt.

Consequently, the “revolt” of 1857, became the “mutiny” of 1857 in which our old boys were heroes and we were even awarded battle colours by the British Army for the defence of the Residency in Lucknow.

Stir up pride and an ability to relate to a story in an Indian and you’ve won over his heart. We found ourselves mesmerized by how we had suddenly begun to relate to History and enjoy it.

Now in this strange concoction of an Indian identity, with a British and French history, one particular student, an individual by the name of Shiv Prakash Sharma, decided to sow the seeds of dissension.

“With all due respect Sir, please call it the first war of Indian Independence”

Details, definitions of “war” and “mutiny” ensued. Debate followed. The matter seemed to be nearing resolution when Shiv Prakash Sharma said “Sir, you are a Christian and that’s why you are siding with the British. Next you’ll be preaching the gospel and trying to convert us.”

The entire class was in shock. If there was one thing eleven years of education had taught us in La Martiniere, it was that religion was always to be respected and never used as a point of discrimination.

And then, an even stranger thing happened.

An Anglo-Indian boy by the name of George Ducasse stood up and said “Just because this country has a Hindu majority, are you going to re-write history?”
It seemed as if things were going to get riotously ugly but the ringing bell signalling the end of school saved the day.

As I went home that day, my own dilemmas of where my life was headed next were completely replaced with thoughts on where our country was headed. With governments using religion as a political agenda, how long was it going to be till another Shiv Prakash Sharma said something to offend another George Ducasse? How long before that George Ducasse fought back? Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Who could change this?

And that moment left me with a certain something that was to influence the course of actions for the rest of my life; a humbling.

(to be continued ... as usual ...)

At the End - before the Beginning.

He stood before the man with the flowing beard

“How do you justify your existence?”

“I did not choose to exist. I don’t have to justify it.”

He wasn’t sure if that was the right answer. He did not know how things worked here.

“Were you a good father?”

“Yes”

“Were you a good husband?”

“Yes”

“So were a million others. What did you do?”

“I thought you knew”

“I want to hear it from you”

“I started my own company. I introduced a new concept to the world.”

“Did it help people?”

“Yes – it was something they needed but did not realize they needed. I helped them.”

He could not stand it any longer. He blurted out, “Are you going to send me to Hell?”

“Where do you think you were for a part of the past 75 years?”

That made sense. He smiled – “You know – there were times when I did think I was in Hell. The days before my company started doing well. The days immediately after the kids left, when the wife and I had not yet started taking those amazing vacations -you know…” His flow was stopped by a wave of the hand. He stuttered again – “Is this Heaven?”

“No”

“What is this?”

“Nothing”

“Where am I?”

“Nowhere”

“What am I doing here?”

“You tell me.”

“Who are you?”

“No one. Do you like helping people? A couple is trying to have a child – would you like to help them?”

“Yes”

“Would you like to go to Heaven?”

“Yes”

“Which would you rather do – help these people or go to Heaven?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Not at all. I assure you that this is not a criterion. I am just curious. I never lie. You know that.”

“I would rather go to Heaven.”

“Ok”.

The trap door began to open – “What are you doing?”

“What you asked me to do.”

He was falling. He was crying. He was screaming. “Why are you sending me back?” “You will understand – I did not lie.” Then the screams were gone.

The old man laughed. Softly. Lovingly. “The fool!” – he thought. “The blessed damned fool!”

A sperm met an egg.

Admin replies

Hope the new look is good with everyone.
If not, guess I'll be notified
I'm SO IMPRESSED with the quality of work here that I don't mind being reduced to admin.

Keep up the good work =)

Love,
Admin.

Chapter 1: Remember the day I set you free?

It was a Sunday afternoon. Actually it was that time of the day when the afternoon gives way to the early evening and the heat of a Delhi summer begins to soften. I lay in bed watching you sleep. If I stayed perfectly still, I could hear mummy muster every inch of her strength and hold in the tears that would’ve killed your childhood.

Mummy came in and asked me to wake you up and take you outside to play. Hurry up, the smudged mascara on the corner of her right eye, begged. You were still a child. Too young to see, to hear and to know. I was expected to understand and not question. I was seven. A full two years older than you were.

I shook you awake but you just whimpered and turned away. I told you we could go to the swings and I would make you fly. You woke up and asked me if I would stop if you felt afraid. I nodded with a suspicious smile. We both knew you were never got scared on the swings. You jumped up in your frilly frock, and we trodded off to the backyard.

I pushed you. And high up into the air you went with your tiny legs dangling, your hands grasping the sides of the swing with all your little might. While you flew, thrilled and shivery, I could see Mummy and Daddy in the living room. I saw Daddy right behind the door to the backyard, with a big brown box and a small faded suitcase. Suddenly the childish delight in your eyes gave way to an unusual fright. You begged me to stop and jumped off the swings and began running to the door. You had seen Daddy.

I caught hold of you, and sat you down by the swings. I told you that Daddy was sick. And he needed to go away for a while. With silent tears in your afraid, innocent eyes, you asked if he was going to die, And if he did, ‘who would open the tight bottle caps?’ I assured you he wasn’t going to die and he just had to live away for sometime, and Rama Auntie next door had strong arms and would open all the tight bottle caps that Mummy and I couldn’t, if need be. Before I could finish the sentence you ran back to the swings, all assured and a child again.

‘Look mummy I can fly on my own now, without didi’s help and am not even scared a teeny bit’

Last year you turned seventeen. I called you at midnight and you were all impatient to hang up and go back to your friends. You wouldn’t even let me finish my rendition of our song ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’ You cut me right when ‘Marvin Gaye’ goes ‘To keep me from getting to you’. I hung up. I wished you were a child again and I could make you believe in things as easily as I made you believe in Rama Auntie’s strong arms by the swings that summer day.

Yesterday, Mummy called me up. She couldn’t hold in the tears this time. She told me you were very sick. She told me you had been battling deep depression for more than a year now and in the last few months had given up on everything. She told me you had slashed your wrists and were found curled up and alone in your apartment. She said you were in a hospital, not waking up. She said you had to go away for a while.

I asked her if you were going to die and if you did who was going to sing the last paragraph when we recorded ‘our’ version of ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’
She replied that all would be fine, and she would do sing it or Pooja Auntie would. She had a particularly raspy voice, perfect for the song.

I sobbed through the night, wishing for the first time ever, that I had been the innocent, gullible one on the swing. That I had been the one whose childhood had not been killed.

(Based on a true story)

Admin

I call for the template of this blog to be horizontally expanded, or to be made such that only the first 100 words of a post are visible in the main page with a link to continue reading.

Post-lengths are getting out of hand and scrolling literature is not much fun. Somebody do something about it ! We're all gonna die !!

Sticks and Stones

There were kids playing outside the window again, he noticed with casual irritation. He had warned them only this morning. Always with the cricket, these kids, always with the relentless howzzats and the interminable running between wickets. Just last week, a boy had been accosted by a timber lorry when he’d crossed the road in pursuit of the ball. The lorry got the better of that unfortunate acquaintance and the hapless fielder was hospitalized. Yet here the kids were again, one week having been adjudged a sufficient moratorium in honor of those wounded in the line of duty. His compatriots were nothing if not resilient. He stubbed his cigarette out with practiced chagrin and continued typing on his old Remington. He was finding it slow going; it had been a dull week. With only a fortnight to the election, one would expect it to be hunting season, news-wise. Even in a small town like his, a staged protest or two, numerous petitions and investigations into suspicious campaign contributions of the two contesting parties were par for the course. Baba Ramlal and Naveen Thomas had been on the election circuit for weeks and it was as close an election as any he had seen. In photo-finishes such as this, frequent and interesting news was almost a given. But no such luck this week. Not for this reporter. The only mildly interesting thing that had happened was the elephant having the runs.

The temple elephant had contracted a severe case of diarrhea and was advertising the fact with several obnoxious smelling watery turds deposited at strategic locations. That was the highlight of the news week. Roy’s editor had woken him up at 7 in the morning with the news that the Mother Mary statue on Christopher Street had just been the recipient of one of these gigantic excrements. Roy had burst out laughing. “Get on it.”, his editor had told him.

“What? You can’t be serious.An elephant is having a bad colon day. There’s no story there”

“Bullshit”, his editor said.

“You mean elephant dung, don’t you?”, Roy countered.

“Don’t give me none of your smart lip this morning, Roy. That’s atleast three paragraphs there and you know it. Now go.”

“ Fine. I’ll go look at the dung, pronounce it bonafide, write a brilliant article, maybe turn it into a long monograph that will be expanded into a Booker-winning novel. I’ll even mention you in the acknowledgements.”

“Roy!”

“ Then I’ll sell the film rights to Ashutosh Gowariker, get some money and go abroad where I can work for a real newspaper.”

“ You wouldn’t do that. You’d miss your editor too much. Now get the fuck outta bed and onto that story before I come down there and shove a zucchini up your behind.”

Great, thought Roy, here comes my two page exposé on pachyderm poop. He gargled some toothpaste, run a hasty finger over his gums and spat. Grabbing his notebook and pen, he stepped out of the house.

A tennis ball smashed into his face. “ Six”, somebody cried out in the street. He hated hearing that jubilant exclamation. “Six” usually meant another of his windows had been smashed. Damn kids, he’d show them. He went out of the gate carrying the ball and promptly collided with a 6 year old girl who’d been sent to retrieve it. She wore a fake white Nike t-shirt that was too big for her and a wide smile that fit her just right. “ Ball,” she said. “This ball?” Roy shouted, angrily shaking the dirty yellow ball in the girl’s face. “ Yes,” she cried happily, obviously not having registered his fury. “ Yellow Ball.” she said cutely, simply, grinning from ear to ear; a statement of fact, of happy ,untainted innocence. Roy almost fell for it. For a moment. Then he threw the ball as far as he could. “You know what it looks like. Now go get it”, he said, smugness written all over his face. He’d always wanted to use that line. “ …and don’t play here again.” he added. The little girl burst into tears. Damn little girls, Roy thought. Always with the crying. He bent down, “Now, now, don’t cry…”he said, trying a sentence which always seemed to work in the movies. However this only exacerbated the sobbing; the girl launched into a cacophony of sound reminiscent of a chorus of raucous jackdaws. He reached out to carry her in his arms,( another technique from the silver screen ) but she ran away frightened, her ragged t-shirt wet with tears, clutching her skirt to keep it from getting wet in the water-filled potholes that cluttered the street. The sooner kids learn that the world is a dangerous place, the better; Roy thought sheepishly, as he got on his TVS scooter and proceeded toward the scene of the ‘crime’.

The elephant had done a swell job of it; you had to hand it to her. Nandini, the apple of the pujari’s eye and star of the yearly temple festival had gone ballistic on the statue with such utter abandon it was almost a work of art. Roy pictured the whole thing framed in the Tate Modern captioned “Excretion Desecration” and sandwiched between Andres Serrano and Tracey Emin. The smell was unbearable, so much so that Roy wondered how The Virgin Mary didn’t take her hands (now outstretched in holy benediction) and apply them to her nose, to plug the stench. Roy spoke with the mahout, who blamed Nandini’s irritable bowels on some bad jaggery that visitors had fed her.” Pujari taking Nandini’s money, saab. For buying new radio. So poor Nandini must eat whatever she gets.” Roy figured he’d gotten enough info; he’d probably go with the animal rights angle without dragging the pujari’s embezzlement into it. This close to elections, it could cause quite a stir, and while Roy was a good reporter, he was no polemicist.

Often, Roy had buried some sensational story because it would piss off the wrong people. He didn’t see it as compromising his journalistic integrity; it was simply a matter of expediency. If you’re good to momma, momma’s good to you. You scratch my back, I won’t turn up at your house in the middle of the night with petrol cans and flaming torches. It was not right or wrong, it simply was. As an ingenuous idealist fresh out of journalism school, he’d questioned how reporting in this country could ever be objective, impartial, honest. His editor, a seasoned veteran who’d done some topnotch reporting in the capital during the war, had listened to the kid wear himself out in a self-righteous, indignant rant, then told him not to waste his time. “ You got to pick your battles, son. If you waste all your energy trying to catch little fish, you’ll be too spent to catch the shark when he comes.”

Roy biked back home, stopping only to buy a pack of cigarettes. He couldn’t write without his nicotine. He lit one up and started typing away, noting with irritation that the kids were at it again, fielders scurrying like rats, batsmen running across the wickets like chickens crossing roads, and with as much reason. Damned infernal cricket, he thought with weary affection, fatigued by his eternal, inexplicable hatred for a game that was almost a force of nature in this country. Hating cricket was like dogs baying at the moon or chasing cars, pointless and exhausting. He adjusted his imported Remington and typed out the final sentences of his article, stubbing out his cigarette in the coconut shell he kept for the purpose.

There was a knock at his door. It was Baba Ramlal, with a couple of his unsavory friends in tow. Roy couldn’t stand politicians. Yet he was fascinated and intrigued by them.

“ I hear you’re covering the elephant story.”

“ Yes,yes, do come in ” Roy replied. “ As one of the election contestants, do you have any comments?” he continued, reverting to type.

“ No comments, but I got a whole new take on it. In fact, I’ve got a whole new story for you.”, Baba Ramlal said, pausing to spit some betel juice out the window. Disgusting habit, Roy thought. “Have you spoken to the church authorities yet?” , Ramlal continued.

“No. But I heard they had no major problems. After all it was an act of God, hehe. Nothing they could do.”

“ True, true. But not enough masala in that version. I’m here to help you tweak it a bit. Say the Christians are very pissed. Calling it sacrilege. Say they’re demanding reparations.” Baba Ramlal spoke jovially, like a benevolent godfather.

“ Can’t do that, ole chap. Journalistic integrity and all that.” Roy replied in a jaunty drawl, though his voice had taken on a steely edge. Yes, definite steely edge there, Roy told himself.

“ Break the little finger on his left hand.” Baba Ramlal said casually. “ Not that left hand, you fool. His other left hand.”

Roy had always had fantasies of being captured by a radical terrorist group and being tortured for weeks. They’d ask him to write an article painting them as visionary, misunderstood prophets of truth, all the while waterboarding him and applying electricity to his testicles. In these dreams, Roy would always hold out forever, not succumbing to the pain, until finally he converted them to his way of thinking by his brilliant eloquence and unflagging clarity of vision.

He suppressed a scream as his little finger was snapped violently. That put paid to any romantic, heroic notions he had nursed. As pain coursed through his body, he looked at his curiously bent pinkie and had an epiphany; he couldn’t do this hero stuff, he had zero pain tolerance. “I’ll do it.” he screamed,” I’ll write your article. But there’s no way in hell you’ll get my editor to publish it.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Baba Ramlal continued in his avuncular fashion. “ We politicans can be very persuasive. Now let me take a look at that finger before we get started. We got some dissent to sow.”

The article was insidious, while not overtly expressing an opinion, it urged dissent. “ Genius, my son. Utter genius. Pulitzer-material. You should come be my speechwriter.” Baba Ramlal had urged, clapping him on the back, before ripping the pages away and scurrying off, presumably to the newspaper office to get the piece into the evening edition.

Roy went to the hospital, got his finger fixed and returned home where he fainted on his bed, sick with revulsion, with exhaustion. The things people would do to clinch an election, he’d thought with disgust, just before unconsciousness hit. Baba Ramlal’s attempt to turn the election into an issue of religion was a brilliant ploy. Nothing could get people riled up like debates over whose invisible person in the sky was more powerful.

He awoke in a damp sweat, at about three in the morning. There were distant shouts and screams in the night. Roy looked outside his window, and saw a house on fire. There was fighting in the streets, names of various gods were invoked. It aint my fault, he told himself, his penchant for rationalization asserting itself. Sticks and bones break bones, words never hurt no-one. Guns don’t kill people, people kill people. People with guns, an inner voice taunted. He cradled his face in his hands and tried to shut out the bloodcurdling screams. Later, towards dawn, he smelt burning flesh.

In the morning, he stepped out of the house and went for a walk, keeping to the corners, walking warily, hesitantly. Some buildings were still smoking, blood was splattered over the streets, but there were no bodies. Curious, thought Roy, objective, detached, his rational journalistic brain at work. I wonder who removed them. A little further on, he saw a couple rocking a charred body in their hands. A child, he realized, aghast, a damn kid – the paragon of innocence, lamb to the slaughter, collateral damage. Possible headlines zipped by in a haze before his eyes: Innocence Lost, Murder, Mayhem, Madness. Elephant takes a dump on Mary: Religious violence ensues. He looked again at the forlorn parents cradling the corpse. It wore a dirty white tee-shirt , nearly burnt out, but Roy could make out the faint markings of a Nike swoosh. Obviously fake.

No cricket today, Roy thought wryly.

10 years (Part II) - Cricket

Drama was freedom for me. I could be me in so many flavours of characters; express the silence lurking within in so many different ways and yet be removed from myself.

I could be actor on stage who was telling his own life’s story in the guise of a character and I could use the audience as my own personal shrink.

And the audience could laugh at me, pity me but never judge me, for it was the character they were emoting for and not me.

And so I decided, I wanted to be an actor.

Now since this story is set in India, naturally my ambition had to be qualified by parental consent.

On the subject of parents, I would like to talk about the incident of the cricket bat.

When I was a child of seven, as many children of seven, I had a rather strong fondness for chocolate. As I grew in years, my fondness grew with me as did my girth.

In those years, I was much of a loner and my favourite pastimes were reading, sketching and listening to music.

In consideration of my growing girth and what he considered as my rather “silly” hobbies, my father presented me, one fine day, with a cricket bat.

Now I have to tell you, I have absolutely no interest in sports. They make you sweaty, tired and generally full of misery.

Anyhow, I accepted the bat with a false smile and a “Thank you Papa”. Soon thereafter, I happily relegated the bat to the darkest and dingiest corner of my room that I could find.

That bat however, had a life of its own.

In school, when I joined the choir, the bat moved mysteriously to my study table. When I took up art lessons, the bat found itself resting against my bed. When I took up sculpture, the bat crossed all boundaries of decency and crawled into my bed.

The day I told my father that I had decided that acting was my life’s calling, there was (perhaps portentously) an India-Pakistan one-day cricket match being broadcast on TV.

My father looked at me and said nothing.

India lost.

That night, he picked up the bat, tested its weight, and let me have the best strokes that my body could take without breaking. Bleeding was a permissible evil.

And thus, my ambitions of becoming an actor were somewhat postponed.

A Night At Home

He couldn’t understand it. What had gone wrong? Again. After hours of concentrated effort, wads of cash and countless counseling sessions, things were exactly the same as they had been this time last year. He had sacrificed so much – received so little. Waves of self pity and self contempt crashed upon him and soon his face and chest were drenched. How could it be?! It was perfect – he had been sure it would work this year and yet it hadn’t. What were they looking for? His mails had gone unanswered; telephoning was out of the question.

He went through his profile again. He had described himself with humorous self-deprecation. He had confessed himself to be a libertarian and an agnostic. And it was true. He had looked up the meaning of the words – and they were exactly what he was. He had to be. It was what everyone was these days. If you weren’t one of them – you stood absolutely no chance. In activities and interest, he had positioned himself carefully – he played tennis and football, avidly followed politics – you could have quizzed him on the latest political sex scandals across the globe and he would have answered them as nonchalantly as he updated his status. He liked travelling (His Map showed he had been to 54% of the world - he liked Google Earth) and was very interested in lateral thinking – he had figured out that it was a midget who took the elevator every day. The lateral thinking bit was particularly ingenuous – or so he had thought.

Books – they had been a little tricky. But if you followed the right forums, got the right feeds, it was quite easy. He had cleverly chosen a collection of humour, classic literature, history and philosophy. Of course The Fountainhead was there. That was a no-brainer. Anyone who was anyone had read it. It was the intellectual’s bible. He had liked it actually – it had struck a chord with him – he was sure only a few could identify with the book the way he had. So they really couldn’t fault him for authenticity. The movies – Ah! Those had been his trump card. He had been a movie buff since he could remember. He had displayed a rare taste – all time epics, marvellous directors jostled for space with forgotten masterpieces. He had to have stood out. This was his differentiation.

Of course, there were all the other regular features. He had been voted most sexy by 790 friends, been sent thousands of gifts, had taken most of the quizzes and scored highly on them (General knowledge was one of the things he prided himself on most – he even got a 100/100 for the “how many celebrity children do you know” quiz). He was most likely to be involved in a threesome, most likely to go on to be a Mars explorer, most likely to help a three-legged puppy and most likely to be able to detect the difference between Chateau Margaux and Chateau Haut-Brion by just sniffing them. These were only the most notable “Most Likely…” of course – there were hundreds of others. He had far surpassed the minimum requirements in all categories.

His picture had been carefully chosen – his mom had sifted painstakingly through all of them and picked the best one. He had then used his favourite image editing software to make a few subtle changes – the rules were strict and the picture had to be at least 75% authentic.

After all this work, he had sent his complete profile to KYBY (Know Yourself, Be Yourself), the best company for vetting profiles. They had gone from a start-up to a billion dollar company in 6 months 3 days. These guys were geniuses. They simply did not miss. It cost him $2000 dollars, but it had seemed worth it at that time.

Now it did not. He stared at the glossy envelope in his lap.

To: Jack Crick,

C/O Mr. Jonah Crick,

23 Hemingway Street,

New York City - 50686

New York.

The letter lay open on the desk.

Dear Jack,

Thank you for your interest in the Facebook “Do you have the best profile” Awards. We regret to inform you that your entry has not been deemed worthy of entering the second round. We hope you will work harder and return next year.

Wishing you all the best,

The Facebook Team.

P.S. We would like to encourage you to add the cool new Button Application. Each time you update your status you get one button. It is round, has four holes in it and comes in red, blue and green. When you have 233 buttons, you get an unlimited amount of string. Each time you change status to " Where is my needle?", you get one needle. We'll not spoil the surprise any further for you. It has received great reviews - please do try it out.

Sounded interesting. He would check it out tomorrow.
It was late. He had not slept for three days in giddy anticipation of this letter. And here it was. He put it back in the envelope. The monitor’s light was too bright. He switched it off. He stood and stretched. He felt free. The wait was over. He had been taking sleeping pills he got off the net to help him sleep – two a night. They had not worked obviously. Tonight, perhaps he would take a stronger dose. Tonight he would sleep well.

2. Surprise

We didn't manage to surprise her. Five above average brains put together for five days couldn't surprise her. We had planned and planned and figured we had gone over every possible loophole. We were confident we had covered all bases.

There was a beach she particularly loved, but hadn't been to in a long time. We decided to take her there. Two days before her birthday - when she would least expect it.

That night, two of us went ahead with a tent. The beach was moonlit and they found a spot under a huge dark tree to pitch it up. It would fit six in and the smokers would have to stand outside. Inside, a huge scented candle would be lit. We’d have a cake but we won’t have any paper plates. We would eat it with our hands in our sand floor cave. The cake – well, I raced the levels of our local mall trying to find the best black forest cake available. There were five shops which sold cake, and four of them had black forests staring at me from behind the glass windows. I made two rounds, ogling at each of them twice with pondering eyes before I made a decision. I based it on the looks - thankfully looks which later did not deceive. Meanwhile, our fourth accomplice was in the basement shops trying to figure out the right mix of balloons and caps and masks and whistles and horns and confetti and poppers to go inside our tent. They came in different hues and different sizes and the whistles all blew in different tones and loudness. On the other side of the town, after work, the fiancé was meeting her for dinner. Their dinner would give us a buffer in case of any delay for he had been instructed to stop eating only when we had given him the go ahead. The plan was reaching a symphonic frenzy and we waited expectantly for the dreamed crescendo.

We picked our cake, bought the right candles and loaded all kinds of birthday paraphernalia. We reached the tent and we sent him a message. All was as planned and he could now lure her for a walk on the beach. He made his most lovely face, put his arm around her right shoulder, pulled her close to him and sweetly lured, “Lets go to the beach.” She said startled, “Why ? Are you guys planning something ?” And then he gave it away.

The master of puppets

The incessant sound of ball hitting concrete did not irritate him. It was music to his ears actually – the boy was undoubtedly gifted, in more ways than one. He would definitely go a long way, all the way in fact. It was destined – and all this practise would only put the ‘deserved’ tag on him. Enough to appease the journalistic hyenas that encircled the family 24/7.

That was main reason for this sudden family vacation – to give him a breather, to gather his wits about him again. The king maker needed a rest and he had had to go to the other end of the world to get it. So here they were – and yet the boy, his son, would not rest. It’s all in the genes – he smiled inwardly. It was an indulgent smile, it was an inevitable smile. He did not like surprises – his whole life had been planned. He had always known what he wanted and how he would go about doing it. It hadn’t been easy. The convoluted, almost Romanesque circles he moved in had thrown up its fair share of surprises, mostly unpleasant, hence the unhealthy dislike – and experience had taught him to plan like a Chess grandmaster. Think three moves ahead, wrap your opponents into a warm fuzzy blanket of security, and move in – slowly, carefully and precisely. The boy had been a bonus – so talented, so industrious, so…lucky. The boy was his sole concession to fate – yes it had been fate that had dealt him this kind hand – there was no other explanation. The boy would rule – for a long long time, longer than he had. He smiled again – almost laughed. His thoughts had swerved. Democracy was the biggest hoax ever played on the most populous nation on earth. He knew – he was the hoaxer after all. And his son would continue this elaborate façade in two avatars – perhaps his son’s son after that. This empire would become a dynasty and he would be the founder. No one could have thought that possible 20 years ago. Times had changed though. His people were emotional even today, in 2025, when emotions too could be outsourced to machines. Who had the time after all? Today it is all about branding the self and everything else one could think of. Branding is business. Business has no place for emotions. Yet, his people were emotional. They would always be so – they always had been. Billions of them, their numbers combined with their atavistic emotions were his strength – their weakness. People who had two hearts and no brains deserved to be ruled and ruled they were and would be, albeit without knowing it.

The hysterical news reporter on T.V. broke into his consciousness. People had died – again. It would be tragic were it not so mundane. This time the riots had been incited by racist chants against one of the ‘home team’ players. If the effect was mundane, the cause was even more so – mundane and intricate. He could barely stifle a yawn – and yet he did; for it was a sad event –and it was good to stay in role at all times. Press inquiries would have to be addressed, banal speeches would have to be given, and politicians would have to be ‘pacified’. The Prime Minister, that brainless, lazy, disgusting no-good would be calling soon. The holiday would have to be cut short – but he was recharged, ready to keep the hyenas at bay again.

Lalit Modi, the master of puppets, called his pilot. They would leave in 30 minutes.

1.

The sand was wet from the rain last night. That is what she said, I hadn't taken my shoes off nor had I sat. The low tide had left strewn behind a coterie of clams, shells and shankhs. A bat of swollen dead wood lay at the edge of the water, one end lodged in a mound and the other zig-zagging over the surface water that came along with the waves. It was a little to the left of where we were, threatening with every lash of the sea liquid to break free from the heavy wet sand and become driftwood. But it didn't, and it gave her something to fix her gaze at. She had twisted and turned herself in such a manner that I was left standing next to her, a bit to her back, away from where she was facing. She must have wanted me to sit down by her and shut up, but I adamantly stood and told my story. She must have wished me to stop my endless barrage of over-zealous squealing. The sea was lost on me.

Last night, she had turned seventeen and I had gone to see my first cricket match.

10 years (Part I) - 17 year olds

10 years. (Laughs) It seems to just fly by doesn’t it? When you look back? Who were you then?(Laughs) Who are you now? (Shrug).

I guess I am the same person. No, I don’t believe that people change. The only thing that changes is a capacity to want, to desire, (laughs) and maybe, even to love.

What did I want then. (shrugs) To be up on this stage. And now that I am, what am I doing here? Participating in a post-modern comedy about my own past, depressing life.

And so you may ask me, where does this comedy begin? Go ahead. Ask. (Laughs). If you don’t, the universal playwright (sotto voce: God) he’ll surely make me blurt it out in any case in his usual meta-fictional ironic style. Hell! He’ll even give this moment a name!

(Playing God) “Hmm. Let’s see, we shall call this moment an ee-mo-tional moment for the protagonist. We shall call his mental state de-pression. And just to make things interesting, we shall put him up on stage for the world to admire the absurdity of his life”

And so. Where does this absurdity begin? It begins as He has already made me admit. 10 years ago. It starts 10 years ago with the introduction of a Red Hat.

Why the hat was Red has kept me up on many a sleepless night, but you can’t fight fate. It was meant to be.

And so. This Red hat approached me and said with a benign smile on his face, “son, have you thought of dedicating your life to God?”. Now, let me tell you something about myself. (sotto voce: I never lie.) (Recovering as though the statement has taken the strength out of him) Yes. Go ahead. I know you want to. Go ahead and distrust me now. Everyone else has in the past, why should you be an exception?

Yes. A Red hat, pointy, with a yellow cross changed my life 10 years ago. Bishop Rodriguez was its name.

I was seventeen then. A devout catholic. Full of love, for God of course (under breath, nostalgic : and others). Sigh. And so, what could I do? I signed up! After all, she was in my catechism class!

Ah! I see now that you might be beginning to grasp what all this is about. Alright. I admit it. A teenager who professes a devout love for God and mentions a girl in his catechism class in the same breath is perhaps not the most reliable source for information. No?

Well, as I said earlier. I don’t lie. Both my loves were true. One had the mighty name of “JEHOVA!” and the other one, sweet, gentle, beautiful, Renata.

Now I had tremendously more success with one than the other. When I spoke, Jehova listened. Patiently, caringly, comfortingly. He was always there when I wanted to speak. He filled my heart with hymns of gladness; made my teenage soul rise above the clouds and be hopeful. He made me find a voice that I did not know I had.

The other muted that voice.

Oh! Friends, I’m sure you’ve felt that lump in your throat too. When you have so much to say but it gets lost in that endless chasm between heart, mind and voice box.

The hormones waged a mighty battle within me, my soul was a sea that He had parted to allow safe passage to his chosen people.

Only, I was the sea. I was the sea He was parting. I was not the chosen one.

I see recognition for the plot upon your face. Unrequited love? I hear you asking. No friends. It was worse. It was unconfessed love.

Thankfully, whenever a story settles into a rut, He gets bored and adds change to it. Renata’s father was in the army and he got transferred ending my long and sordid love affair with silence.

At around the same time, he sent to me a confessor. Now this confessor came to me with a handful of letters and heart full of love.

He was in love. He had been caught. The girl was his neighbour. Their love was a sickness that their parents would not tolerate. Letters were burnt. No place was safe for their teenage love, and so, he came to me.

(Poetic) With letters that he had saved, and bookmarks and dry, pressed flowers and other such relics of a blossoming love, he came to me. (Laughs)

With a sombre demeanour, and tearfully dry eyes, reflecting an untold future, he came to me.

What!? Poetry? Oh don’t worry. It’s just the me 10 years later mocking love. Tut tut. Really, sarcasm is lost on you.

So, anyway, his letters and relics were safely locked within my cupboard. A place so safe, that it has housed them till this day.

We became friends Deepak and I. We shared a common interest in dramatic irony. We would treat each other as if we were characters in a story that had absurdly brought two stories together out of the blue. We were playing a part yet we knew that it was merely a play.

Around the same time that Deepak and I were measuring our respective existences in terms of dramatic irony, our class English teacher decided to ask us to audition for our Annual English play.

I suppose God must have decided I had been loveless for just about long enough, for he made it “Come to pass” that I fall in love again.

This time, it was not a girl.

Oh God! Come off it. I know what you are thinking. Ridiculous. Besides, didn’t you notice the rating of this play? If there were gay themes involved, it would definitely not have a universal rating. (Very gay-ly) Shame on you.

No. I fell in love with drama.

(to be continued...)

Regretably...

Dear Writers and Readers,

It is with utmost regret that we inform you that our panel has found Mr.Varma's contribution, out of sync with the vision of the M & N agency of Unsung Talent. His article only displays that his talent does not wish to be Sung for at all. As a result, we have been forced to revoke his membership.
We have offered Mr. Varma a consolatory position as Mascot and if he wishes to take it up, we shall yet be blessed with his light hearted presence. He may also redeem authorship status at the burnt parchment, by a contribution of the usual (rib-tickling) quality that readers of his blog are usually spoilt with.

The thing is, we are not that serious, but we are certainly this serious.

Much Love.

Reply 1

17 year olds-anywhere-cricket-riots

1. 17 year olds : too young for me to legally have sex with.

2. anywhere: yes, i'll go anywhere they serve beer. or cake. or mmm... beer and cake.

3. cricket: GHEY!

4. riots: riots are for losers, and talking about riots is for emo kids.

wheres my money?

okbye.

Welcome note

Hello everyone. How kind of you to have come :D
Now lets gets down to business. This week's hints for development in the order of people-place-thing-variable (The 'variable' bit is for the fiction writers) are...* drumroll*

17 year olds-anywhere-cricket-riots.

(Banal topics force creativity, if you please)

(OR)

Any topic of interest.
Genre no bar.

Happy parchment scratching!