Google Maps

I’ve been stuck. I need directions. Couldn’t think of anything and finally managed to blurt this out…

Google maps had become her best friend lately. Every morning after coming to office she will dutifully log on to the website and like the day before would check upon the distance between her soon to be new office and new home.

This was also one of those days, when she was staring at the screen and recounting the number of stations that she’ll now have to cross on her way to work.

“God! How will I do it,” she murmured to herself. She could visualize herself wading through a multitude of crowd that descend from no where and then as the whistle blows...fade into oblivion. The picture that she conjured was more so based on what she had seen on the silver screen rather than by her own experiences.

Cinema surely has played an important role in each of our lives. It has created cities within cities and opinions when there should be none. But this was not cinema, as she often said to herself, there is never a happy ending…there is always a new day, a new task and perhaps a new life…

Charu by no means was a small town girl. She had seen half the world. Brief stint in different continents and she is what would some call as the new-age-Indian-woman. But this time she was scared or may be apprehensive is a better substitute.

Fighting all these thoughts, she turned back to her best friend…the stations were marked with blue spots and the end points with pink. “Perhaps, they’ve also deciphered the colour of the face when you start or end your journey,” she wondered.

Suddenly, her mobile came to life. Name of her soon-to-be-husband sprang on the screen. She had thought of saving it as ‘hubby’ but than decided not to. He was yet to be coached. He was yet distant. She was still in her city.

She picked up the phone and sounded cheerful – “Yes, Mr Ravi. How may I help you?”

“Morning Sun shine. Just thought should wish you a nice day,” he said. From the voices in the background, she could make out he was at some station. “Which?” she thought as her eyes ran over all the blue dots on the screen again.

Charu had already replied to his morning text message and had deleted it disdainfully. She was yet to find the connect, sometimes forcing things make it more difficult, sometimes things need to forced…sometimes things should be left the way they are…million ways…google maps…

“Oh! So what was it that reminded you of me?” she cooed into the phone. Genuine question. Everybody wants to be loved.

“You’re always there on my mind and…..,” he tried to be funny. Being funny is safe..

“Hey Mister…I don’t talk dirty in mornings…,” she sounded like a tease…Like all girls, she loved to be like that but this time it was not for play. She had to do it. He needs to be coached, he was living with parents…he needs a lot of training…

The short conversation ended with those three magical words. The magic was yet to reveal itself…there was hope…there was google maps…

It was dry afternoon and like all days it had been hot. As kids moving to a new place is exciting, sharing a bed is comfortable…here it was different, “or, perhaps, sharing bed..mmm..is not too bad…” she laughed at her own wickedness…yes, there was some of it… little…need to find it…

While the fight between emotions and hormones was to be build, the phone rang again. It was one of her admirers, the one who fell in the race. There were many, some ran, some watched from the sidelines…some were real close…some never had a chance…she didn’t encourage…Charu never liked giving ideas. Food for thought!

“Yes,” she sounded like a damsel in dire straits.

“Nothing, just called. How art thou?” he sounded like Hamlet from Shakespeare. The world was yet to crumble, marriage was some months away…

“Oh Thanks, I was bored…how are you?” she enquired. This conversation was shorter. There was nothing to share. Conversations also need directions and he was yet to discover google maps…he was still unsuccessful!

Trophy Wife

The walls in this house were screaming pride. Or, perhaps it was the owners, who want to silently convey it by adorning the walls. If there is no shame in displaying your success,putting them on walls is possibly the most subtle way to do it.

“So, what’s happening in your life?” she asked abruptly, perhaps the third time during the conversation. They always had less time for small talk, getting straight to the point was the only best part of their acquaintance as colleagues first and later as friends.

But that was some summers ago. Those were the days when he was a struggling with life and she was making noises about living. But what glued them was different, something like a vague sense of demise, as if two people have met during mourning. And hence they spoke less but definite. Acknowledging the loss and hoping to look forward.

He looked at her face, it betrayed happiness. “Well, nothing much. It’s all the same,” he replied. He had repeated himself thrice. He had hoped to find the pain in her words; at least some. The sense of demise was somehow missing.

He mostly kept silent during the conversation. Actually, he was looking for keywords. Sad words, or expressions that point towards a loss. Old habits die hard and he expected them from her even after a gap of almost a decade.

But today she was on a different tangent, talking animatedly about a trip to some off shore location, and on home redecoration plans. How was she going to use her college degree for some good, and on how finally she has started enjoying shopping...

“Does he hang you too?” he finally blurted.

“Excuse Me!!” she sounded visibly hurt.

“No does he? Or you feel proud to be among one of those animated objects?” he continued unfazed...“Sorry, let me rephrase it, do you compete with them?” pointing at the wall.

“Sometimes I do. And yes there are times, I feel proud,” she blurted.

They were now talking. The shadow of death had crept in and words flowed easy.

“Is it good? Sense of achievement?” he drilled.

“Mixed bag. Not really,” she answered.

“And what about leaving footprints,eh?” he probed. Gloom was yet far.

“I removed the tattoo,” she retorted.

Yes, sight of despair, he rejoiced in his heart but managed to keep a straight face.

“So what do you dream of now?” he asked casually. Expecting nothing.

“How to hang there without getting replaced, EVER,” she answered with a firmness in her voice.

The servants had cleared the tea by now. He had to rush. He was still struggling with life and perhaps she was still making noises about living...

Bastard

“You’re a bastard,” she said that again. Perhaps, this time stressed more on the word – bastard – may be her tongue pushed against her teeth a little more. For this time, it sounded distant...erotic and then simply like bastard. Abusing is a funny business, sometimes you just do it for the fun of it, and at times you mean it. I guess here she was trying to manage both.

She looked at me, perhaps, trying to gauge if any sense of guilt has loomed on my face. I remained quiet. In fact, I was thinking how to hide my malnourished frame. I guess I was trying to pull the bed sheet, which somehow got stuck under our state of undress.

It was early morning, more than four hours, when the exchange of limited body fluids would’ve happened. Limited because I knew this was to happen and bought what need to be bought. Anyhow, I had managed to catch a wink and had completely forgotten that I was sleeping next to a unclothed woman.

Believe me; yours truly, have been extremely unlucky in matters such as these and at some point of time was almost going to renunciate the means to genesis. Naturally, I was disappointed with myself when I realised I had wasted such precious time sleeping. But this has always been the case with me and sleep has taken precedence over various important tasks of mine.

Adding to my disappointment was the berating behaviour of my object of desire. And, here i was trying to hide myself both from her gaze and her verbal volleys, shielding my uncovered display of skinniness with the crumpled bed sheet and fighting her barbed remarks with supersonic silence.

“Light up a smoke,” she ordered. I promptly did. I don’t know what possible conversation was apt for the moment. I mean what do you ask – was it good? Or hope you enjoyed! Or can we do it again? Or simply say it was fun – but somehow none of this seemed to be fit, and I kept silent.

As the smell of nicotine burnt my nostrils, I started questioning myself. Did she like it? I guess she did. She even counted my ribs, six of them, the first five were too obvious...gawking out of my sparsely distributed flesh, but the sixth one...she traced it too. Or did she just enjoy it, perversely. You know, the way, people enjoy watching poverty struck children. Slum Dogs, Poverty Tourism.

May be she did. For she compared our wrists, length of my shoulder, bony fingers and the non-availability of flesh around my stomach. But then why we went this far? Did she took pity on me? Pity, that i was deprived. Pity, that am so pitiable or was it some “motherly” instinct that my pities aroused. And as when i tried to dechipher this unnatural behaviour displayed during a natural act, i started feeling that may be, and mind you, dear reader, that may be, she offered her as a mother to a child. And if it was so, it’s a pity.

“Here,” she broke my chain of thoughts, with rings of smoke blown on my face, as she passed on the cigarette. Perched on her elbow, staring at my face, she continued, “You know, you ruined it all for me. I would never be normal. Friends we were. It was so good. “Bastard,” she said that again.

I maintained silence. And sucked on the cigarette bud, which nearly burnt my lips... “You would keep it to yourself, right?” she was looking intently at me, perhaps for an answer. I guess here was my chance to retort. “You won’t?” She asked again. I was trying to think fast. But only managed to utter, “I don’t take myself seriously.”

She stared at me, for a full minute. I stared back. “I can see that,” she said. Pointing towards perhaps my only body organ, where there are some muscles, which were already flexing. I don’t know, at that moment, i tried to look – ashamed, proud, confused or just relaxed – but I remained silent.

Some days back, I saw her with another friend. They looked happy. I smiled, and so did they. As they moved ahead, she turned back. Her lips made a non-audible “bastard”. I smiled. I guess she’s wrong. I’m only unsuccessful...

Bye, Bye Summer

This has been an uneventful summer. Well, I don’t have any data to prove that if the past 26 summers in my life have been exceptional or eventful, but this summer somehow stands out from the previous 26.

People like me need no introduction. And it will be a waste of time, if I go back into history and start narrating that how I became what I’m. But if you look around, you’ll find many people who you can conveniently say – would be like me.

In a nutshell, I’m one of those silent, non-descript, unnoticed guy in your office, who sometimes appear lecherous. I mean if you would’ve been my colleague, you would have not once spoken about me. I’m surely not that important to figure in office gossip and somehow I never am a part of those who gossip.

Before the summer came, many people somehow had left our organization. I never knew, why and I always thought that may be they’re advancing their summer vacations.
Since, I was made to sit just below the air conditioning duct; I somehow forgot to take a vacation. So, every second day, people taking their stuff, walking out from office and I would peep from my desk, watching them and wondering why they leaving so soon.

If you think I’m an idiot like that guy in your office. Hold on. I’m not. I read newspapers, I watch business channels and I surf the web too. I know people are losing their jobs but not in our organization, because my salary always came on time. First day of each month, month by month.

And then came summer. All of a sudden the air conditioning vent died. I heard people complain about it. In fact, I should tell you that it was really funny, the way it died. It made a large sound…like someone taking deep breaths, it whizzed and then it died.

And when it died, the office became alive. I was scared for a while, that may be they’ll notice me and perhaps…ask me something or the other. But they never did and I guess I was the only one, who was happy that the duct died.

I’ve never met my boss. It’s a male name and it’s a window on my computer. He orders through chats and I answer through mails. I don’t know where he sits and when the other day a new window opened on my screen telling me that she is the new boss…I wasn’t surprised. It was all the same…

Yesterday, the window told me to go on a vacation. Well, I thought good for I never took one. I’ve been told that I’m in some virtual pool, which is very good. I’ll get 60% of my salary and I don’t have to come to office. Plus, if I find a new job I can do that too. I’m writing this from home, I bought an air conditioner yesterday. I sit below it all day. As I said this has been an uneventful summer…

Leaders & Voters

This was his second visit to Delhi. But this time it was more colourful than what it was last time. After all there was much to cover, absorb and make-up for what he had missed on last time.

It was a quick tourney in the capital when he was there some five years ago, a shorter version of even those cheap packaged tours, but even with lack of both time and money he had managed to visit...Lal Qila, Kutub Minar, India Gate, Jantar Mantar, Purana Qila, Sansad Bhawan...and what was that last juncture...aah dargah of Nizamuddin.

“Arrey Pankha Babu...you should go to Nizamuddin...the place smell of roses. Roses! And the dargah...aah, Pankha Babu it’s such a beauty....but crowded if you go in afternoon,” he sighed as he recalled his last trip.

Pankha Babu...for whom this was his first visit to the capital was already amazed at the speed and emptiness of this phoenix city.
“What are you thinking Pankha babu?” he asked when Pankha showed no interest in his praise of the dargah.
“Nothing. When do you think the rally will start? he questioned while feeling the emptiness of the large space, located bang in the heart of the otherwise densely populated city.

“Pankha babu you’re very restless. All day I know you’ve been dreaming of that TV madam who came here and took your interview and now all of a sudden you want to be in the rally,” he said and then laughed and patted his back in continuity.
“Arrey nahi nahi...when did i say anything about that madam...you know why we are here,”...and he left the sentence hanging.

Sitting at the party office, it had been six hours. Among the chaos, till now they had made only two acquaintances, the tree under which they were and sitting and the squirrel who came every now and then to feast on peanuts which they had been munching all the way from Tirkitpur.
Back in town, this time, they would not have been alone...especially during elections.

After all they were the renowned and as their peers will say, emoting the style of a television show on absconding criminals, ‘Most Wanted’ singers. Rawat&Pankha Musical was an essential for all rallies in Tirkitpur and villages in and around the district. Some 500kms away they were stars who shine, sing and play.

Rawatji...do girls here wear these perfumes and cinema clothes?” asked Pankha...who in Khan market yesterday, had accidentally brushed against two girls and had to walk the rest of the evening with visible embarrassment in his desi cotton pyjama.

“Pankha babu...Delhi is the capital. Big big personality come here. For these people its normal. Not Tirkitpur kind,” he said.
And as Rawatji was intending to tell him of his exploits, siren sounds filled the compound. The neta had arrived. Leader of the masses. The future of the country. The one to vote for.

Rawatji...lets start....1, 2, 3
And Rawat and pankha started their most renowned song for this particular party....at the peak of their voice. A few faces in the crowd surrounding the leader looked towards them...and so did leader.

The leader took a garland from one of his supporters and walked towards them. The crowd followed. Rawat and Pankha were screaming at the top of their lungs, eulogizing the party, its symbol and the leader. The leader smiled and garlanded both of them. “You’re visionary,” he said and turned towards the hoard of television reporters.

“They are the grassroot people. They know we’ll win. They are visionary and they truly are,” he repeated as he emphasised the point to the good looking female reporter on his left.

As he embraced both of them, Rawat managed to utter, “Netaji, a school in our village. Music teachers. All will sing your praise, please look.”

“Of course, after elections. First thing. Make sure you give your name to my assistant. Ok. Anything else?”
Pankha and Rawatji bowed their head in reverence. They had done the same in 10 party offices in the last two days. After all someone will win.

“Let’s go Pankha babu. Work is done,” said Rawat as the leader moved away and with him the crowd of sycophants, leaders and reporters.
“where will you go now?” asked the leader’s assistant’s, assistant’s, assistant as he diligently noted their names and the village address.

“We’ve to visit some places. This is Pankha Babu’s first trip to capital na,” replied Rawat.
As they moved towards the gate, the assistant’s, assistant’s, assistants asked his assistant.

“Our netaji is great. These guys are blind. And he calls them visionary!”
“Yes sir, visionary he is. Visionary they are and you too sir...you had this vision to understand netaji’s vision,” he affirmed.

Quickie

Wasn't intending, no meaning, plain words, jumbled up....


She says' play with words
search reason to existing none,
invite, entice and excite
each letter missing or spoken;

Shuffle, twist and turn
few in order, most for fun,
strip, part and push
every sequence in the book;

Near when master the art
remember play is only what i asked....

NewS

There are two things that I would love to escape from, watching news channels and reading newspapers. Or if I can shorten this sentence, I’d say – I want to run away from news.

But this was one of those days, when there was no escape. Sharma called up from nowhere. Funny, that I don’t even remember his first name. Since I’ve known him, I’ve called him and heard of only his last name – Sharma. There may be a million other Sharmas’ in the globe but for me and many others there is only one Sharma. Loser Sharma. Sucker Sharma and now jobless Sharma.

Anyhow, he called from nowhere. I mean it had been weeks and we had supposedly gone underground, since we lost our job. Or Pink slips as pink, white, and blue papers said. Pink slip is a strange shock. Strange because, it’s first rude and then pleasant.

For the first day when you wake up, you suddenly realize that you’ve so much time. You are shocked; you don’t know what to do. No Office, no traffic worries, no Monday blues, No Saturday binges and no more sucking up. It’s like staying clean – if you understand what I mean.

And slowly, you start feeling good about it. It’s like, your lungs breathe in more air, you sleep sound and you suddenly realize that your maid, is actually better than the girl, who perhaps still sit next to your…err…the old cabin where you used to sit. So I stopped recharging my cell (thanks to free incoming), no more cable TV or newspapers, started smoking bidis. But continued with the maid. Besides being good looking she had stories to tell.

This was one of those many days, when I was finally starting to hit off with my maid. My girlfriend had dumped me exactly after a week when I told her, I was not interested in any job. She had tried her best to circulate my CV. I guess we broke, because I told her she can sleep with her boss to get me a job. I thought she was already doing that to save hers and ouch!

Anyhow, Tara (my maid), was telling the story of another maid who ran with her employer and I was lustily looking in her eyes, when phone rang. Sharma, the sucker, who lost his job with me, was calling. Loser, I mumbled to myself as I motioned Tara to stop.

Oye Sharma, aren’t we underground?

“Not me, not anymore,” he chirped

“Oh…you got a job?” I asked disdainfully

“Yes. And they’re paying me 7k plus transport allowance. But this is not why I called you,” he continued

“Ok. So what is it then?” I blurted. Sometimes people can be mean.

“They want another salesman. Preferably MBA, but I told them you are experienced. They’ll take you too. 7k isn’t bad, and then we can share your apartment and your maid,” he said it as a matter of fact.

Lecherous bastard, I thought and then looked at Tara…She was playing with her thumb. Her hair was messed up. Wrapped in a dirty saree, she looked like a goddess from Kamasutra tales. 7k was not worth her.

“Nah…Sharma…I think, I’ll wait. I read in papers yesterday, market will surge and then my stock picks are getting me enough money. I’ve got clients. (I winked to Tara…as I emphasized on clients, I was getting good at lying). She smiled back.

“OK,” loser Sharma grumbled. More than getting me a job, he was interested in my apartment and Tara. Son of a bitch Sharma, sucker Sharma, I mumbled.

“So you got a job friend?” asked Tara. Two days ago we had graduated to address each other as friend; my next step was calling each other by names. By now she had told me about her old mother, and me about my bad girlfriend who left me once I lost my job.

“Nah Ta..Friend. (I was still struggling with not calling her name). He was trying to sell me some insurance,” I replied.

She looked at me, as if I knowing that I lied. “Need to go. Three more houses and I’ve told you about that bitch in second floor. She wants every corner clean, it takes me 2 hours at her place only,” she complained.

“Yeah, carry on with your job. If you get time after you’ve finished, come over, I’ll make you some tea friend,” I said while ushering her out. She turned back and smiled as I eneterd the lift. Needed to buy some bidi packets.

AFTER 15 DAYS

I was smoking the leftover bidis from ashtray. I have not gone out since last 14 days. That was also the day I last saw Tara. There was no money in phone…. I couldn’t have called her. First three days, I thought she was ill. A week later may be severely ill. And today I had lost hope. I raised myself somehow and went to the second floor. The bitch may know, her house would be a garbage dump by now…I laughed to myself as I knocked her door.

“Yes,” a middle-aged lady opened door through a latch.

“Tara…the house maid. She used to come at my place for sweeping….hasn’t come since last two weeks,” I said, while trying to peek inside, as if this old hag has caged my Tara.

“Yes Tara… oh she ran away with a salesman,” she said, closing the door further.

“Salesman?” I put my fingers on the door

“Yeah….Rupa will know better. Did she owe you money?,” and then she turn around and called Rupa…a teenaged girl.

“Jee Memsahab, arrey tell him about that Tara?” the old hag asked the teenaged girl. “That small time maid is a celebrity now, tell him,” she coaxed the girl.

“Sahab, she ran with some salesman. The news even came in a local daily. Some guy who was earlier rich. Someone named S…Sh..,”

“Sharma?” I blurted out.

Yes Sir, the teenage girl recalled with surprise. Some say he was with some big company before.

The old hag was staring me, the teenaged girl was saying something about some TV channel, coming to their wedding planned next week. Tara & Sharma were already a celebrity.

I just happened to miss the news…

Valentine Day Special:

“Fast love in times of slowdown. Recession hit stock broker marries maid”

Economic Times

I never knew that my fate and that of the world’s economy was so interlinked. I mean being my modest self, I never-ever thought of the co-relation between the two. After all, neither I’m the finance minister of the country nor do I manage any investment (either mine or that of others). Complex things such as derivates were long left behind in college corridors and chemistry labs, and debts were relegated to coins that I sometimes borrow for smoking cigarettes.

So all in all I had no reason what so ever to worry that such an insignificant character like me will be bludgeoned by the grammar of economics - used, distorted and rehashed – at the global platform. For I was living in my small world, fighting the inflation of my own dreams and goals until the day my boss spoke – Melt Down. The explanation of this word looked like a rip off from Paulo Coelho’s Alchemist – the much abused - Universe conspiracy theory.

I was aghast. It had been only two days since my stock had surged. I wasn’t a penny stock before but neither a blue-chip company and I had no reason to fear of sudden boom or crash. I was under the impression that my fundamentals were strong. I was not to be a short-term story. A little slackening of the bull shouldn’t have worried me or those investing in me. Also I was proud that the rating agencies have given AAA+ to me in the last two financial years.

It looked like my boss had just read Harry Potter and was trying to explain me one of the wizardries of Rowling. But my boss being from the land of Amartya Sen (check wiki for Sen’s details) the explanation was much simple. In one sentence - The company was now forced to de-leverage because of the prevailing liquidity crunch in the market.

Thankfully, I was told that still I’ve not been classified as a NPA or simply put bad asset. The boss further explained that only because the situation is so grave (and believe you may, the face of my boss just showed the right expressions) that unfortunately I have been bundled along with others as CDOs or collateral debt obligations. Henceforth, as of now my Boss advised in the personal capacity as a nice boss (yeah, most of us don’t believe but some bosses are nice) that I’m left with two options.

For a moment I was stumped almost like the Australians who don’t have a clue what stance to take on a turning pitch. Before I can mutter something, my boss continued with the two options, which were – first – I can hope against hope that the federal/central government (that’s my super boss) announces a bailout package for mortals like me.

The second option – which smells of a distant future – I better wait and hope for a revival. But as I said, my boss is one of those rare nice boss, the third advise was more genuine – seek out a Private Equity/ Venture Capitalist who can identify or nourish my otherwise now lacklustre, dated and over-rated talent, who shows interest in my valuation and then perhaps either one or the other company may acquire me or force my parent company to revaluate me in new perspective.

Struggling with this heavy overdose of economics and global affairs, I managed to ask, my near term options. The boss face showed no expression. Sentiments, my dear, Sentiments is what the boss echoed.

Dejected, confused, perplexed, annoyed and harrowed I went to a senior colleague, asking for sane advice. The person started with a disclaimer: Views expressed are personal. Well, I said, Go On. I was told that since I have no FII behind me and FDI in my career has been limited, my situation was no better than a Subprime in the US of A. So, I should be happy that I’ve been bundled as CDO, because that would mean that my fate has been now associated with the world economy.

I was told that the Prime lending Rate (PLR) is an all time high, so no organisation will offer me anything. This has been due to high inter-bank overnight lending rate. This simply means the liquidity crunch is here to stay. The rupee further depreciation hasn’t helped my case either because foreign exchange fluctuations have stalled the plans of many. Some people also showed me newspapers and websites, which had only one word - layoff.

I’m now told that there is a plan to infuse more liquidity in the system. This may happen as the global economy settles. Mornings, I watch the markets though I have no interest in the scrips that are traded there. Nights, I hope the bailout package will come soon. Surprisingly this time other people unsuccessfulness made me...

quite A death

She died quietly. A luxurious death. Such deaths have been rare in the past few days, weeks, months and perhaps years. So, when she died, quietly that is, some of the housewives took the ‘quietness’ as a sign of a good omen. It’s been long here since death was celebrated. Today, it was time, to rejoice, quietly.

Perhaps, she had spoken more words than what were due to her in this lifetime. So in many ways a death, quite quiet, was befitting. Inside those closed doors, where people were more dead than alive, where death was a knock away, where heartbeat danced in hushed smiles of the children, this quiet death slowly but surely gave birth to life.

Life-dead-life-dead--dead-dead-life.
guitarist strumming chords right,
Dead life, life dead, life, life, life
why rain drops fall from the skies?
Dead Amma, dead Amma, quiet, quiet, quiet...
in our land there is no right, right, right..

These six-lines became an anthem. Children use to chant this, while clasping their hands against each other. You miss a line, or clapped with the wrong hand. Out of the game and sit quiet.

Amma would have never liked this game. She was quite bored of being quiet. Right or wrong, she had views. And little she cared, if you liked her or not. Even in those times, which were not very different from today, her voice resonated even over a sonic boom. She could be heard fighting with the plumber, telling him, he has done a shoddy work. Discussing the increased prices with the mason. Yelling at beggars...her voice was heard over two blocks and far.

In afternoon, when husbands were away, housewives around tend to flock to her house. Amma was crude but fun. She would talk of her old days, her husband’s exploits, her son’s debacle, daughter’s marriage, society, milk, honey, gold and...yes, of freedom.

Free that she was. To have an ice-cream. To haggle with the street shopkeeper. Free not being able to talk to her son. Free to sleep alone with moist eyes. Free to raise her voice on insolent children around. Free not to be quiet. Absolute freedom?

It was another black day. There have been many black days. Black flags make it black. Shining bullets then turn it into red. Rain later washes all sins away. Remains can be found if it snows. But Amma was free not to bother about colour black, saffron, white or green. Snow yes, she had voiciferously complained about it. She also had to call her daughter. The roof was already leaking and doors creaking, oil and coil, poor amma need to toil. Oh yes, her dead husband’s pension was also due. Where is the time to be in blue??

Black or white
Amma was always right,
Red or blue
She was so true
Saffron-white-green
It’s a machine

Amma’s son, a software engineer in Hyderabad. He had asked her mom to come over and meet the grand-daughters. She was thinking about this on her way when she started weeping. First the tear-gas was used to disperse, early reports. Amma’s daughter is in New York, a human rights activist, lives in a penthouse. Amma eyes went red, she lost her spectacles. Amma’s son came to know about it three days later.

Her daughter will approach amnesty international. Amma, died of head injury, on spot. Her son came to visit her grave. He promised Rs 5 lakh for azadi. For Amma always lead, they argued. He went back. Guilt free. Promotion was around. Neighbours were happy, quiet deaths are rare. Those which have not been quiet caused more.

But Amma, she died quietly...

Indecent Proposal

NOTE: The title of this post is dedicated to all my friends who believe that in such uncertain times the only virtue to abide by is “Indecency.”

For the past 26-years, I’ve unfortunately never bothered to check one section of the newspaper. Honestly, now I realise that had I checked the same a decade or two earlier, I’m sure that I would’ve certainly made a sincere attempt in my school and college days towards a better career and who knows would've done better for myself.

I really don’t know whom I should blame for this grave mistake which has somehow gone unnoticed for such a long period. The moment this fact dawned upon me, I was shattered, ego was bruised and any hopes of what some may call – living a normal life – were dashed.

Henceforth, this is my suggestion to all students that please do read the “matrimonial” section of the newspaper for getting enlightened. Your current love interest may sign a blood oath and your lovemeter may defy earth's gravitational power but the ways of the world can only be best understood through matrimonial columns. Glancing through it every weekend, will not only provide the required impetus to strengthen your resolve for giving more hours to productive work but also help you choose a career path in the long run.

I realised this way too late. And that too by a stroke of luck. While sieving through the Sunday newspaper, i tossed away one of these supplements when a familiar surname caught my eye. This window opened a whole new world for me. For the next few hours, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. The only irony here is that this Wonderland is for real and there is no hole through which I can escape.

Anyhow, I checked the profile of this gentleman, who had a familiar surname. Now this 28-year-old, 5’9” tall dude, who is also a programme analyst earning Rs 8 lakh per annum, is looking for a bride. For starters he is almost 2” taller than me, earns twice more than me and is only two-years elder to me. So, all in all this – double figure – in height, salary and age beat me hands down in the bride market.

I tried to calm down myself saying that may be this is one exceptional case. So straight away went to the fifth in row. Here I was pitted against an IIT-D, IIM-A geek. The bastard achieved it all in 27-years flat and is already working in an MNC. Well, most understandably there was no mention of the salary or other physical details. Hell, which girl would ask for that!!

Change the goddamned fucking caste I thought and went to another caste row. Perhaps the problem of casteism in my nation can be best understood through these sections but I guess this was not the time to indulge in trivial details. Here I was, having one of the worst days so far, realising the time that has been lost. Up against my contention was a Major General, 27-years old and a whooping 6’2” above the ground. Respect for the armed forces and instantly I sang the national anthem and moved on to ‘Grooms Wanted’ section.

Check these out and you’ll know, what made me write this post-

Match for Kumaoni Brahmin Girl
25-years-old, 5’4”/ IIM-C/ TOP-IT company, earning Rs 10 Lakh per annum

Match for V.Fair, PB Arora Girl
27/5’5”/ US-based doctor/ Prefb. NRI, Doctor, IIM Grad


After this I didn’t manage to sum up my courage and read forward. Hopes of my happy home, my future wife and kids was crumbling in front of my eyes. And, I realised what a grave error I’ve committed by missing on this – what’s perhaps the most important - section of the newspaper. Anyhow, please let me know if somebody is interested in

26/ 5’7”/ unsuccessful guy/ annual package : empty promises...

Del-Mum

There is no denying that the past few weeks have been as monotonous as the one before them were. Irrespective of the tourney which took me away from Delhi for four-long days, the nights remained as dark and long, like the one in Delhi are. Sometimes, distances fail miserably. Or otherwise, how can you explain that even at a height of 30,000 feet, I was looking from that glass window, trying to ascertain the beauty of Delhi? In my teens, I use to wonder (and please don’t attribute it to the cinematic realism created by James Cameron) that how would it be, having a berth in the unfaithful Titanic.

I guess, a few years ago, I could’ve thought of myself as a passenger in the unsinkable romanticized wreck but my first sea voyage made me aware that I would better like to die on earth than sea. Perhaps, my fear of water, and which I’m sure must have some scientific name and explanation, always gives me an extra reason to dislike any city, which has a water body near it or in it. And so happened with Mumbai, where I missed my flight after four-days of a not-so-well-planned visit.The biggest difference between Delhi and Mumbai, which I’m told is the professionalism of Mumbaikars and the lethargic, red-tapism of Delhiites.

The ‘Kars’ and "Iites" are a breed of their own. But I don’t want to go into the details. Because, it didn’t bother me. What surprised me was, that even after Delhi being the capital during the Raj, it has maintained a Mughal character of its own, while Mumbai looked like a native wife of a Burra Sahib. Not only in its appearance but also in the lifestyle.I’m sure that this observation is not exclusive to me and would have been noticed by many earlier. But certainly, I guess I could feel it better because of my estranged relationship with Delhi.

If I can place Delhi as a nautch girl, with mannerism and charms, Mumbai will be the bar girl, with a cheap scent and up front on what she wants. Delhi may submit herself and con you to believe that she is all yours, Mumbai will give you the pleasure of your life, but without any sense of attachment. Delhi may take a stroll with you talking poetry, Mumbai will prod you to run faster, discussing the work that needs to be done.
Delhi will wake up in the night and then put her head on your arm, Mumbai may not even take a single turn whole night. Delhi may wake much late than you and you may find yourself watching her face and stroking her hair, Mumbai may be all dressed and ready to leave, when you open your eyes.
Delhi may kiss you a little longer when she leaves but Mumbai can’t be expected to give anything more than a peck on your cheeks.

This doesn’t mean you can’t love Mumbai, or she can’t love anyone. But to fall in love with Delhi, you’ve to be unsuccessful, because Delhi may still love an unsuccessful person, Mumbai won’t. And so my journey continues....

Name-sake

The whole village knows that their headman wasn't able to find the right word for this new-born. It did surprise many because the headman always had a word for everyone, and he made a point to check and confirm it. Ruffling through the half-torn, yellowed pages of his pocket size dictionary where words crawled like ants, he would mutter something first and then say it aloud. Some years ago, one of the villagers who happened to make a living for himself in the city had gifted him a magnifying glass, as his eyesight was going weak. But this time even that didn't help him to find the right word for this new soul.

So, while others had names, with which they were known and called, this human flesh then weighing 1-kg was not given any name. There were rumours that going by his weight, most people including the headman thought that this boy won't survive and perhaps that's why, the headman didn't bother to make a serious effort. After all, how can one who has all the words with him and a magnifying glass too, fall short of one word? This theory also gained ground, when the next day another woman delivered a healthy female and the headman, gave her parents two names to choose from. But he never bothered to check his dictionary again for a day-old somewhat famished boy.

Some years ago, that is quite a few days after the headman died and passed his legacy to the next in number, this guy who by now well understood the importance of names, tried his luck with the new headman. But to his surprise, the new one refused him, point blank. His argument was that he wanted to carry the legacy of the previous headman as the earlier one had also done the same. And in no case legacy can be toyed with unimportant issues such as name.

After this incident, this guy who had till now seen almost 18 years of monsoon and five floods never attempted again to ask for a name. Being nameless was fun and he realised that. He had his point because villagers quite a few number of times complained that he doesn't respect them or bother when they call him. But not having any name worked to his advantage as he defended saying, how will he know whether they were calling him or someone else? And hence, the headman who had already shown his inclination towards maintaining a legacy turned a deaf-ear to the villagers.

There were even attempts by a few young guys to rebel against their parents if they were called by their name. It looked that being nameless was in-vogue at least in that village. However, after some time, these self-styled nameless people started feeling that they were neglected by their parents and relatives for unlike him they were used to being called by their names. Hence there remained one person in that village who didn't have a name.

Name or no name, this guy had dreams like his peers. While, all of them received love notes addressed to them from other belles of the village, he never received one. This was his major concern for a very long time and it was only when he desperately wanted a name. To his surprise, these love birds gave new names to their love interest when they already had one. This made him realise that people have a habit of wasting everything including names.

So when the government official who was posted to this village, to build a new school and renovate the old dam, decided to completely break down the school, this guy disagreed. According to him it was a complete waste of existing resources. The official though then chided this naive young villager but later realised that what he was saying was also true to some extent and he decided to hire this guy as local support. The only problem was that if he has to hire him, he has to put his name on the government register, showing that he was hired and paid.

When the official discussed this with the headman and told him that they can assign him a number if not a name, the headman refused, to the extent that neither the dam nor the school will be built if they assign a name or number to him. Finally it was decided that instead of him, the headman's name will surface on the government's register, while the payment will be made to him.

It was the 20th monsoon of his life and it appeared that will also be sixth flood that he is to witness. The dam was finally constructed and was to be inaugurated by scion of a well-known name as it was to be named on the surname that he and his family have inherited.

The official was concerned as big names were coming along and he don't want his name to drown. So as an extra precaution, a night before, he sent him to check the northern end of the dam.

Next day, the inauguration went as usual except the name issue. The papers in the city were selling like hot cakes as everyone wanted to know that why the scion had decided not to name that dam.

The report read like this:

The well-known name of the country's political party, whose family is a known name, when it comes to giving credit to other names, has set up a new benchmark. This happened in a village where a dam was to be inaugurated. It came to picture that a night before, there was a surge in the northern end of the river. A young 20-year-old man, who was guarding that area used his presence of mind to close the fusegates. He, however was unfortunate to get an electric shock in the process. Till last reports came in, his body was brought to the city hospital and his name was yet to be verified.

The leader, who came to know of this just before the inauguration immediately decided not to name the dam unless the name of this courageous person is known. A government official who wished to remain unnamed, confirmed that the headman and the government official in the village were taken into police custody. It is believed that both were involved in some corruption regarding fudging names on the government's register.
One of the scientist explained that fusegates allow to increase the normal pool of the dam without compromising the security of the dam because they are designed to be gradually evacuated for exceptional events. And had not this unidentified person closed them it could have turned into a major disaster.

Will you marry me?

So finally N got married. Now from the trio of DNZ, N is a married man. I’ve known Z and N for now 8-long years. I still remember the first night in the college hostel, when I slept next to N and he was narrating to me how he failed in the army exam thrice and how his dreams were smashed. We talked about our families, our singlehood, future plans and then slept with dreams in our eyes that after we’ll pass out from here, we’ll be doing what we are destined to.

That wasn’t the only time we had conversation on life, family, girls, sex, future, in these eight-long years we had similar discussions in various places and situations but somehow that first night is still very vivid in my memory. So when he was standing there, waiting for his bride to come, I was thinking about that night. Thinking that maybe he’ll have the same discussion with her wife after doing whatever required.

Sitting next to me was Z, who was also lost in dreams. He later told me that he was thinking that when he’ll get married and how it will be. I was amused at this thought, because I then realised that one of these days, I’ll too get married. Back in the hotel room, I told Z the possible reason why I can’t get married in the coming two-years at least. First and foremost no girlfriend!

Well, to be honest I was thinking about this when we were on our way to Lucknow to attend the marriage.

My only regret during the marriage was that I couldn’t dance. I was nursing a broken bone, so didn’t take chances. Read somewhere before that smoking leads to brittle bones, so didn’t risk dancing just sat in a corner and smoked.

Attending this marriage was very special. Not only because it was N’s marriage but more so because I was attending one after a very long time. So it did a lot to allay my fears on the marriage ceremonies and the kind of stress it involves.

Finally, when we’re leaving, I met his wife. She was nervous. N was happy, I could see the broad grin. He was looking good in his olive green army uniform. They’re leaving for Darjeeling on a honeymoon in two-days. As we bid them farewell, and the car took the turn, Z light up a cigarette and said

“Who’s next D?”

I grinned. “Don’t know. I’m still looking for one.”

“D, how much do you think we need to earn before we get married.....”

I know this discussion will go on and on....from job to our ex-girlfriends, Z’s problem with A, about his new Jaipur girl, my obsession with being unsuccessful...and perhaps when we three next meet, we’ll have some more dimension added to it.

And perhaps then, I’ll have something new to add....

P.S – Will post pictures as and when N sends them across...

Loser

There is no definitive answer to a number of queries which are exploding in my head. I wish I can list them down and answer them one by one. But unfortunately even doing that won’t solve my purpose because each passing day they become more complex. I don’t know how I will emerge out of it. Started thinking and managed to come up with this....

LOSER...

Shodam-e’- waqt, ya waqt-e’-shodam (LOST IN TIME, or TIME LOST)

I don’t know when I wrote this or why I wrote this. It’s like skeletons inside my head. I mean you may laugh at this thought. No issues. These days everyone does the same, even the city laughs at me, in fact it mocks me but what I am saying is also trueI - I can’t sleep at night. And that’s why I’m like this. I’m trying to forget everything by all means. I don’t want to lose a single moment. I have lost enough.

So, if last week I arranged for a tussle between two mad elephants, yesterday it was an orgy night, today I haven’t thought of it but perhaps a dance competition may be an apt thing. I’ve been blessed by the merciful god with two nimble feet and I can outdo anyone when it comes to dancing but that’s history now. These days I don’t dance. In fact nobody dance these days unless they are forced to. This city has lost its pulse. It now acts only when it’s forced and the same stands true for its natives. We all are losers.

You may have heard of losers, there are many examples, right from the holy Quran to the folklores of the infidels. These days I have taken a fancy for astrologers and dervishes. What an irony, a loser like me is resorting to fortune tellers. Inside the Red Fort, I’ve heard that people sometimes pay a coin or more to these idiots and ask their fortune as well. I’ll be honest with you. I know there is nothing left for me. I know everything is lost and the worst is yet to come. But I see those fortune tellers because they give me false hope; they say that I’ll not be counted as a loser. All Losers looking for that elusive hope...

I have lost the Peacock Throne. I have lost the Kohinoor. I have lost faith of my people. Nadir Shah raped this city. I stood there, looked at her clothes being shredded, her lips mauled, thighs spread and being mounted upon. I wept. Yes I wept, bitterly. But I didn’t do anything. I just stood. This was when they coined me loser. Muhammad Shah, the Emperor of Hindustan, the son of the Timurids, the king who was known as “Rangeela” lost everything.

From that day we decided we’ll try to forget this, avenge this shame. We can’t go to Iran, Nadir has a strong army. Can’t wage a war or make Delhi a virgin again. So we decided to celebrate her shame. Make her popular, just like a saucy, sexy belle and we did achieve that. Now historians may say my rule was full of debauchery and illegitimacy but will they realise why I did it? I wanted to sleep. And all of us in this city know that we’re losers. Just that we are not sure whether it was time lost or it should be lost in time.

Shodam-e’- waqt, ya waqt-e’-shodam

This was written by Muhammad Shah, also known as Roshan Akhtar and popularly called ‘Rangeela’. Nadir Shah looted Delhi during his regime. Not only he lost the popular Peacock Throne to him but also the famous Kohinoor Diamond. Rangeela died 9-years after the invasion of Delhi. You can google for more details of his interesting rule.

Region

If not for my nose, I wouldn’t have ever noticed this man. Not because I was carrying the latest magazine, I had a ticket or i was thinking about the journey, actually it was midnight and somehow in my country midnight is always associated with freedom and chaos. And, right now I wanted to exercise the first and avoid the later. Ok, let me put it very honestly, amidst this chaos, I was trying to find ‘my light of the nation.’ After all I needed a spark to part with a few seconds of my life. Freedom takes life!

So be it and little I care. Right now, all I needed was a matchbox. Plain and Simple. Humming “while my guitar gently weeps,” I was trying to rationalise the closure of the shops at such an important hour, which once upon a time ushered the fathers, forefathers of now a Billion-plus people into a new era. Blame it on Macaulay, but for a good part of my life, I’ve been trained like a parrot, with only difference that my low-paying job, no social-life and lack of in-vogue six-pack abs have made me a bit erratic.

But if there is hell, heaven is not far. And my nose didn’t let me down. So, in long of short, or may be short of long, this is how I met or was forced to go to this man.

“Do you have a matchbox?” I asked, though he was smoking and asking this was stupid.
“Yes,” he offered me one.
As the sweet pungent nicotine struck a chord with my heart, I felt my spirit lifting. “The Sultan of Swings,” I thought.

“Thanks. I badly needed one,” I smiled
“You too are running,” he inquired making a statement.

For a moment I thought he is some character, in worse condition then mine and this is supposedly a philosophical question, to challenge my intellectual quotient.

“Aren’t we all running?” I promptly question-answered!
He laughed and retorted – “Isn’t it simple to say this?”

I shrugged my shoulders. This discussion was going nowhere. Just like the debate on unimportant issues such as who should get more water, power and tower. I had more task at hands and things to ponder upon – like how to get my pre-paid ‘stay connected,’ or better ask my good-looking, next cabin colleague to go to bed with me. The wish-list was long and thought of getting close to her again, raised my hair and a few more things. ‘Black Magic Woman,’ mumbled my lips.

But he didn’t notice that and much to my disappointment and as is generally the case took non-responsiveness as a sign of encouragement.

“So what are you running from?”
“Hmm...A lot of things, work, life and in a few seconds, you,” I smiled again. Hit it with a caress that has been my motto.
He laughed, coughed, spat some phlegm and cleared his throat.
“I’m not chasing you, even I’m running,” he made another statement.
“Can’t you chase and run simultaneously?” here comes a googly from my highest bid player.
He stared back at me. “I guess you can, but I can’t,” he replied

Now this was certainly going nowhere. No sledging, no walk-outs, no protests, no bombings, no axis of evil and this person is ready to accept defeat. I pounced upon the chance to draw the curtains.

“So, I wish you good luck on your run and I should take an escape,” I quickly put my thoughts into words.
“You’re lucky, you can, but they never had a chance,” he waived me off with a causal gesture and an unusual remark.

I looked at my cell. I don’t wear a watch. Don’t ask me the reason. I won’t tell. I’m still in a mood to run away from personal queries. I still had time.

“And who were they?” I asked more out of empathy than interest
“My wife and my daughter. They killed them, into pieces. I don’t know if they raped them too. My daughter was young. 7...no...7 years and two months old to be precise. They can’t have raped her?” this was his third question till now.

I felt like a contestant in ‘who wants to be the poorest,’ reality show. The only difference was I had no options to choose from.

He gave me a life-line and continued; “You see, I was born in a small region, schooled in a different one, did engineering from a regional college, MBA from another, worked as regional manager, married another region girl, our daughter was born in another region and they killed them because we were not regional. Weren’t there enough regions?”

The cigarette burnt my finger as I recovered from a trance. His regions were all right. I heard a honk, the bus had arrived. And his first statement-question was right - I WAS RUNNING.

Sex, me and Bapu

Once again I have nothing new to add. There is a lot of work, which can surely keep me busy but often I find myself avoiding it. The net result is that I am left with nothing but to think.
In some other case, "thinking" could have been a constructive process. But for me it makes me feel more depressed. Now that I can’t visualise any good future or so, I keep going back to things and people, which could have gone my way and be with me.

A lot of this self-doubtedness, depression, frustration or whatever you may like to name it can be attributed to a sex-starved life. I don’t know if it would be of any help but the idea of utilising someone’s service for money is repulsive. Porn after sometime also becomes inefficient and more or less you know what’s coming your way. In fact, it becomes so mundane that it leads to abstinence.

I don’t know for how long this has been so but I can recall that for the past few months I’ve resisted the desire to exercise my only limited option. So what to do now? Go the book fair, ask a male colleague for a coffee (asking female colleagues is not worth spending your time and money because nothing ever happens and you end up talking only about office) or perhaps visit your relatives.

But when you are alone and you know you can’t sleep till early morning, night after night, it becomes a malignant tumour. Spreading right form your reproductive organ to your productive organ!

Henceforth, after a much self-debate and think aloud about some people, who I know will never-ever read this, I decided to read "My Experiments with Truth(MEWT)". Ok, hold your guns, before you jump to any conclusion, let me clarify — I am neither a Gandhian nor I make any claims to understand, degrade or justify what he did.

The sole reason of picking MEWT was to understand how can I tackle my "sexual inefficiency," in a constructive manner. Pages after Pages, I read the Great Mahatma’s (as he is called, Bapu) views on bachelorhood, self-restraint and why he thinks so low of the most necessary function in human existence. Now that I am reading the book in a new perspective, I am getting enlightened. People have raised questions on his behaviour, who cares — guess they weren’t getting to mate enough!

But what good will this do to me? Will I become another Gandhi, Bapu or another leader...I have no idea. All I know, I am 25...will turn 26 in next three months...I’m still alone and sex starved...typing this...trying to make sense out of it...and ending unsuccessful in a city, which I love till date....how unsuccessful!

Start - 101

There are few burning issues which I can write upon. However being a pragmatic all my life coupled with the onus of burdening unsuccessfulness, I’ll leave that for intelligent, intellectual masses. I’m a firm believer that unlike in some golden age, today intelligentsia is not constituted or elected from a chosen few. Simply put, nowadays everyone is a feudal lord in these realms. That’s why its not surprising that you find everyone and anyone giving a discourse on sports, stocks, sex, sensex , so forth and so on.

Since I don’t lean leftwards or right, nor I can walk straight neither bended, I’ve my home-made twisted, unformatted and biased views. Fortunately enough, they are generally reserved for my own consumption. This approach though desirable often leaves you boxed. So, if you’re such a kind and happen to join your boss and colleagues, who are discussing, debating, sharing and nodding on to views expressed upon the auto, finance, FMCG, political or sports arena, then be rest assured that your valuation may touch a new low.

Now that you're already grounded, being a silent spectator can add to your woes. Even if you dare roll your tongue, special emphasis is to be put on the kind of words that you may use. If you’re not choosy with your vocabulary it may further undermine your supposed potential. Though jargons, tongue-twisters, archaic language and codes are universally accepted and admired. Language barriers put aside, if you’re working for a multinational then it may be so that the Human Resource department will select you as a case-in-point for the need of effective corporate communication training.

Needles to say that this may also affect your personal life. Lack of recognition at work place compounded with the adversity to 'talk-in' to a girl’s mind and heart through your simple, inane and wayward quippings may ultimately confirm your unfounded fears of being "socially rejected." As many examples have proven beyond any doubt that any female specie in today’s professional, well marketed, advertised world will demean you for the lack of prowess to quote Kafka, Shakes&Pear, Camu, Milton or Bloomberg and Reuters. This is a must-required qualification in your otherwise loosely pieced CV. Without these credentials it's almost impossible to hold an intelligent conversation. This may diminish any chances of yours to find your way to to someone’s heart or bed! (DISCLAIMER: If you look like a model or you earn in eight figures you can discard this statement)

So what’s the point in talking about my inefficiencies? Well, this New Year, I started on a semi-religious note. Though, my reverence was killed by commercialism. My wishes were dashed by silence and I really cant find anything worthy to comment after the change of calendar. Well, this is the face of being unsuccessful, for the spirit — "Thou shall live by humour."

Grandma and D

She is sitting in front of me, recounting her old days, telling me how her husband gave money to everyone whenever required, how they brought their nephew to Delhi whose kids are now a doctor and an engineer. How now no one visits her because she is old, and how tomorrow I have to go with her to the nearest shop and get the repair done for the washing machine. Life with my grandma is exciting. Now that she and I get to meet over dinner, because its winters and I try to be home early, we’ve been talking. Ok...I have been listening. And now she is telling me that how she tries to lure the cat so that it can kill the rats which are a menace!

Sundays, she and I watch Hollywood movies...Mission Impossible III, United 73, The Mummy, Mummy Returns, Independence Day, Spiderman...we’ve watched them together. She is amazed at their stunts and though I’ve to translate the dialogues for her...it is worth attempting that.

What else? Life is moving at its snail pace. And am trying to find solace among work, work and some more work. Not that it has increased my productivity, or as if I care about it. But for sure, it has kept my mind engaged, which is desirable.

A friend of mine told me about Lord Byron, fancied myself as if reading his mind and this came out:

Thy touch and I smiled
pressed and moaned,
Rubbing against my lips
spark on roll,
Hilt yet not close
her smell and pose,
Spaced between my fingers
both entwine
raging debate, life serene or she divine?

Winter...

Winters are here. I absolutely detest them. They make you feel gloomy. In my country they also remind you of your social responsibility. Come January end and there will be news flashes about how many people died due to the mercury dip. Writing this on my laptop, secured inside the four-walls of my home doesn't bring me any closer to the harsh reality. And unsuccessful that I'm, makes me aware that practically there is not much I can do about it. So what to do? Can't cut on my nicotine sticks and buy blankets for the needy. Also, can't be a revolutionary and walk to a polo ground with playcards and shout slogans against the who's who of society and remind them of their social responsibility.

Contemplating these romantic ideas my feet start feeling cold, I snuggle inside the quilt and start dreaming....can't dream of any real things....it would be just like thinking of going to the polo ground...so I start dreaming as if I'm a noble. A noble in the Mughal Era. The noble who don't have much money to spend but thinks highly of his intellect. A noble whose only source of income is what his father left for him. A noble who is single, lonely in the majestic city of ....

START

Today was no different than any other day except that I went to Mirza's house. He was also bored and felt like dying. The moment I entered, he welcomed with a couplet:

"In distress you seek my company; little realising company is source of agony,"

Mirza believes he is a great poet. And his verses have a sharp sting.More less than often, I completely miss the sting. But Mirza keeps you in good humour and that's why whenever I don't want to be with myself, I just walk down to his house. Mirza was not in the best of his moods today. His muse, the famous courtesan of Chandni Chowk has caught cold and he is afraid that if he goes there, he will also catch it.

But lust is like a spasm, which hits you in the right places. Anyhow, we both decided to take a walk in the Meena bazaar. Such walks which I half-heartedly undertake are mostly limited to appreciating and aspiring for things – both beauty and its holders.

Mirza is a little bit more proactive than me. He makes a point to meet all the known faces, hoping against hope that perhaps his luck may smile on him and his visits to Chandni Chowk come to an end. Most of the time, I try to ascertain why a particular girl is walking with a guy, how is their relationship, why are they attracted to each other and also about the family background of the people. It's a funactivity.

Mirza and I were lucky enough to be invited for tomorrow's big poets meet. These kinds of activities have seen a surge since the King is in Agra. I heard he is busy building a mausoleum for his beloved queen, who died during childbirth. I am unsure why not here, can any city be more beautiful than this city. I have not been to many places, but of whatever these two eyes have seen nothing can be compared to the beauty of this heaven.

Mirza is hopeful that tomorrow he will get to recite his verses and this is his only chance. Perhaps that made us to cut our small outing short and return to his place. Mirza has a good stock of wine, and he is more aware of my state of penury than anyone else. So I'm liberal with eating and of course drinking to my heart's content at his abode. As wine touched my lips, he came with another of his one-liners:

"I don't drink because I miss her; I drink so that I get reminded of her"

Well, I guess Mirza's muse can be cured of her cold after having some good wine but Mirza, his condition only deteriorates after having a few glasses. Before Mirza can come-up with another of his famous verse. I decided to call it an evening, in fact I was feeling heady and a good walk back home was the only thing on my mind.

It was dark and foggy. I couldn't see even my own hand. But somehow I was walking, choosing lanes by instinct and moving among the barking dogs, who sounded like demons. It was the fourth lane, where I stumbled. A feeble cry and I realised it was some old lady who must have been hurt. I profusely apologised and asked if I could be of anyhelp. Her quivering voice resonated in that dense fog as she clutched my overcoat and said:

"It's not the fog outside which blinds you; it's your soul which needs warmth"

Enigma

I can’t start...there is nothing that attracts me to the hilt that I open my computer and start molesting the keyboard. The orgasm of jotting it down on a paper has been lost. Whatever I write today or that I’ve been writing upon doesn’t make any sense — at least this is what I’ve started feeling.
But, there is something that urges me to mount again and slowly but painfully get that erection. I look around. I try to find peace and salvation in faces, memories and events. And somehow they’ve been abound. But there has been nothing amongst this crowd that has been pulsating enough to massage my lost sense of pain. I want that wound to remain evergreen, slowly draining out any sense of pleasure that I may derive from any worldly thing.
It is not the existence which oppresses me, the will to keep this lean body moving is the real pain that hounds me day and night. I don’t know to what extent a person can carry his own burden of an unsuccessful past and probably a more unsuccessful future. But as the same time I’m surprised at the energy which I feel that pushes me to get out of the self-created black hole.
There is no end in sight. But again, I know the end. And this is what which enrages me and tempts me to revolt. But revolt against whom and what? Isn’t this a self-created dungeon, where ants are slowly crawling at my ankle. I know they are moving up. I can feel the sensations. But I still grip the dead soil to climb-up and out of this slippery ground.
I can keep on writing. List down what affects me. Put into perspective, the art of self-annihilation. But how will it matter? Will that change anything? And if not....then shouldn’t I stay buried...unsuccessfully?