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This is a blog about writing. Mostly short fiction. And occasional personal rant once in a while, if I may. Feel free to make your comments and feel sane again.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Have I Missed It?

I am not a book person but my bus is not due yet. Reluctantly, I check with the roadside hawker of old, musty books. A tattered book with faded cover catches my eye. 
"How much?" I ask. 
“Fifty rupees, each and every one of them. Good for time-pass,” the hawker answers, barely looking at me.
“Thirty-five?” I taunt with no intention to buy.
“Forty, or you can walk off!” 
Forty bucks, that is less than what one spends on nail polish these days. I make an impulsive decision and pay the hawker. I climb into my waiting bus and open the threadbare book, ready to start reading. The bus lurches forward as I notice that some words on the first page are underlined with a faint pencil. Intrigued, I make the first sentence from the underlined words. ‘You’ is the first word. ‘Are’ is second. ‘A’ is third. Followed by ‘Moron’. The period is circled too. 
Am I a moron? It should irritate me if I take it personally but I smile. Thankfully no one in the bus is looking at me. I start looking for the next set of underlined words and count them. There are twelve of them. Clearly they are not in a linear order, unlike the first sentence. That was easy, but these? I look hard at the challenge: 
I try to construct a proper sentence from the above mentioned words and the period but it takes an awful lot of time till I get them right. Almost fifteen minutes!
Next one is short and easier to arrange.
The following set of words is complicated and it agonizes me for a good thirty minutes. I arrange and rearrange the words, this way and that way, but it gets more and more confusing. I write them down in the margin of the book for a better feel but no result!
I look out of the window, I look at other passengers, I check my nails; but the puzzle comes back to me and taunts me again. I am about to give up when the sentence forms itself like magic.
The next sentence is again easy:
I turn the page and make a list of the underlined words.
Labyrinth - Coaxing - At – Frozen - Imparting - Surmised -Somber - Zephyr - Ghost - Seamier -Churn - Turnstile -Pluto - Craggy - Hoax - Jar - Duffer - Layers - Buttons - Dingbat 
This set of words is apparently a random mess; nothing like clear nouns or verbs. No connecting words like 'and', 'or', 'than', or 'which' to help me in anyway. After half an hour of struggle, I conclude that this bunch doesn't make any sense at all and there is no period to suggest the end. There is no logic here, no pattern to speak of. Some words like ‘surmise’, ‘zephyr’, ‘dingbat’ and ‘turnstile’ are totally alien to me. I have never come across them, let alone use them knowingly.
           I feel thoroughly pissed and try to read the book. It is boring. I look out of the window. Still more stops to go. Irritated beyond limit, I ruffle the pages, from beginning till the end. Almost all pages have words underlined with a pencil. To hell with it, I am not a moron, I mumble and go straight to the last page. There are more underlined words indeed! That last set on the final page is easy to crack because it is mercifully short: it has a ‘YOU’ to begin with, and an exclamation mark to get a sense of the ending.
If this is not enough, there is a final handwritten word, to rub the salt in:
I snap the book shut and look around in panic. The bus is speeding like a bullet. Everything outside the window is a crazy blur; there are no passengers, there is nobody in the driver's seat. There is no telling whether I am well past my stop or way ahead of it. 
Out of options now, I start reading the book the way I have never read before: one word at a time, one sentence after the other, one paragraph followed by the next, one page after another...

Monday, May 7, 2012

Untitled Chef

A glossy cookery book, not a grown man’s hunger,

That cast an irrational, evening spell

And set the strange chain reaction of

Wayward memories and misty images.

The aroma of onions rings fried to golden brown perfection,

That mixed with the special dough fermented overnight

To achieve a rare, fluffy consistency the following day.

The Interminable wait as I sneaked around our cramped kitchen

Eyeing the old-fashioned pressure pan on blazing blue gas flame,

Forgetting the coins on my carom board and my classroom buddies.

The steaming dish would finally arrive on Formica centre table;

Thick, round, sizzling, crunchy monster masala handwa loaf

Laden with dabs of melting butter and spices on top,

And a deep China saucer full of secret-recipe chutney,

Held with the wrinkled white hands and smile of my shiny-eyed mother.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

How to Sell an Eight Million Apartment

I climb in carefully from the passenger side. The swanky car smells as if it is barely out of the show room. What is she making as an estate agent? I wonder as I try some small talk with ever-smiling Nina. 

“You didn’t sound so young, organized and efficient over the phone.”

Nina shoots me a sideway glance and shift gears with a veteran’s ease.

"Both sides of my family have an army backdrop. If that could be an explanation.” She turns the car into a side street and parks outside the apartment block.

"I have the keys,” she tells the uniformed security guard.

The elevator takes us to the fifth floor and she rings the door bell on 501. A short man with a paunch and powerful smell of Brute about him opens the door and says "hi" in a thin, precise voice.
I can’t possibly afford this, I tell myself as soon as I enter. The hall is larger than the apartment I currently live in. 

"This way," Nina leads me to the terrace lined with potted palms and terracotta tubs of Marigold. "Nice view of the Jogger’s Park on one side, school compound on the other side. Plenty of sunlight from this side and excellent ventilation all over the place. 

"One bedroom on either side of the drawing room," Nina says as we walk into the master bedroom. 

Dusty furniture is stacked in a corner. The double bed is covered with suitcases and stacks of old COSMOs and Vogues.

I draw the velvet curtain to look outside. 

Nina is right behind me. She knocks on the glass pane. "Air tight and insulated. No traffic noise. See?"

She takes me to another bedroom that too looks unused and dusty. 

I check the night lights and taps in the bathroom. Then we walk over to examine the kitchen.

"Black marble platform, double exhaust fans and electric chimney. I know you like it," Nina tells me with a smug smile.

The short man with Brute smell reappears. He smiles a cryptic smile and lets us out from the drawing room. 

“He has fifteen like this. He treats the real estate business as stock market. The cycle is longer, needs deeper pockets and steadier nerves, that is all. He has lawyers. Powerful friends in local registry and banks. He has a dozen agents like me who works for commission.” Nina informs me in the elevator. 

“What do you mean?”

“He waits to sell till the market hits upper circuit. He buys whenever there is a slump. Every thing is safe. Legally protected, frequently funded by banks, marketed by experts like me,” Nina winks.

We are out of the compound gate now, standing next to Nina’s silver blue Skoda. 

“I can drop you at the taxi stand on the way. When do you want to shift your household?”

I shrug, still very much non committal. “Eight million is way up for me. I can use a smaller apartment. We are just two of us, me and my husband.”

“Let’s talk in the car.” Nina turns the door key and climbs in. I follow.

Nina points at the apartment building as if it is Taj Mahal. “Look! This is made for you.”

“Can’t afford it.”

“I will knock off fifty grand or half percent from my commission. More discounts if you do something right.”

“I am not in a hurry really. Let the prices come down.”

Instead of starting the car, Nina turns sideways and looks in to my eyes. She is not smiling anymore. 

“Your second cousin Joseph. How often do you meet?”

“Joseph Gonzales.... who works in some IT or telecom company? How do you know him?” 

“Through his girl friend. Her name is Elsie.” 

“I don’t know her.” 

“Like Elsie, we are Ismaily Khoja, not more than five hundred odd family in this six and half million strong city. Our community is getting smaller because of too many marriages out side the cast, like Parsis.” She licks her lips, pauses to let it sink. “We are a smart, sensible, business community. We don’t fight. We don’t go to court. We have an informal committee that is much swifter than the government courts. We patch up, make piece and pull up, get help for each other.”

“That’s good but…”

“Elise is pregnant with your Joseph’s child and he has to marry her. Someone will put one fourth for your apartment if your Joseph says yes to the marriage proposal.”

“My Joseph?” I laugh nervously. “Two million for convincing my second cousin to marry the girl he has made pregnant? I don’t know Joseph all that well but I can try…”

“They can marry abroad. In the US it doesn’t matter if a woman bears a child six months after the marriage. They will be a happy couple, I know that for a fact.” 

“How do you know he is going abroad?”

“The company will send him. He will earn in dollars when most of them are accepting pay cuts or loosing jobs out there.”

“That’s nice but how…”

“Somebody owns twenty percent of the company Joseph works in. Things can happen.” Nina inserts the keys into ignition and releases the clutch.

I look away. An elderly man is walking out of the gate with a shiny Labrador. The dog sniffs the ground and drags the owner behind him.

“Have you met Sheila Mukadm lately?” Nina spits the question at me.

“Sheila? How does she come in this?”

“Your maternal uncle’s niece. She has two adorable kids, third on the way, her husband is working in a five star restaurant kitchen…” 

We are on the main road now.

“Yes, of course.”

“Her husband can lose his job, can get transferred to Beijing, he can walk out on her…”

“Wait a minute, what is happening? That wasn't an arranged marriage for sure. They met during college, he courted her for five years for all I know. That was a love marriage. "

“This too will be a love marriage, your Joseph and my Elsie.” 

Something is churning violently in my stomach and it probably shows on my face as I say:

“I love it. I want this apartment.”

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Mahendra’s Last Story

Mahendra arrived at the decision in the dead of a chilled December night.

He had graduated with a degree in comparative literature. The college admission was a sick, and rather expensive joke; he never got tired of telling his friends. Four years at the university couldn’t teach him anything, but it opened doors of libraries for him. He focused on a singular mission in life and lived by the simple rule: read and write. He tried writing poetry first and switched over to short stories. A tiny book on numerology convinced him that number eight would play a significant role in his life. It was a smooth ride from the day his first story named ‘Eight’ found a willing magazine editor. By the time he met his future wife, Mahendra had published dozens of stories on subject ranging from war to psychopaths to unrequited love to comedy of social climbers to petty crimes. 

He knew right from the beginning that the modest fame and personal satisfaction came at a terrible price. One of his college mates, who had gone into ship breaking business, now flew in private jets and hobnobbed with big and mighty, while Mahendra drove a secondhand scooter and lived in a derelict rented house. A gynecologist friend earned ten times more than him and changed his cars every year. But Mahendra had reconciled to the fact: writers rarely made big money. Freedom to follow my creative impulse is my real reward, he always reminded himself. He would never drive a Jaguar XKE, or live in a three-bed room penthouse in the fashionable part of town, he was sure. His kids wouldn’t go to fancy public schools. His wife could only dream about microwave and walk-in size refrigerator. Every summer, the family would look at the travel brochures showing snow covered log cabins at st. Mortiz or heavenly beaches of Seychelles.

Mahendra crossed his forties and felt the dark void after he sent out his 701st story. He ignored this strange mental blankness for some time. His non-productive gap grew from days to weeks to months. Every few days he sat down in front of his old computer, wrote a few indifferent pages, and stood up in disgust. He would read what he had written and curse bitterly: "Is this me? Am I reduced to this kind of crap?” 

Another birthday bypassed him. 

His editor friend suggested the idea of a break in routine: “A complete change of surrounding will put you back in circulation.” 

Mahendra booked his ticket in hurry, and went off to a nearby hill station to relax. But his gift of writing, his docile muse, his act of merciless self-discipline, that white-hot inspiration, the smooth flow of effortless words, all that he had taken for granted for so many years, had vanished. A quiet panic started to build inside his slight frame. He began to see what greatest of writers feared the most: he had written himself dry to the point of no return. 

He remembered the first book he read and enjoyed. He remembered one-legged John Silver from The Treasure Island, and tried white rum as the last desperate attempt to drown his private demon. Within a week, he had to be hospitalized. “You have no enzymes to digest alcohol,” the doctor announced after looking at the lab report. His wife stood by his bedside all the time; his friends, his relatives, and well wishers came over to consol him. Mahendra recovered from the prolonged illness but he knew that he was truly alone in this world now. 

Questions whirled inside his shrinking head: Is this why Hemmingway slashed his wrist and put a full stop on his life? Or did he shot himself? Is this how Raymond Chandler - his favorite crime writer fell from grace? What was that rumor about James Joyce pushing his wife to have an affair to revive himself? 

He solemnly assured his dutiful wife and requested to be left alone. She took the kids along and decided to stay with her parents for a few days. 

Now, he decided, was the time to pull down the final curtain. “I am my most desperate character,” he mumbled and went out to buy a bottle of rat poison.

He had read enough of ‘Forensic procedures for Writers’ to make an embarrassing mistake. He made a generous cheese sandwich and sat down to relish his last dinner at his writing desk. A full stomach with unsaturated fat also ruled out the possibility of vomiting the poison.

To add a final macabre touch to his plight, he wrote furiously for a few minutes, and hit the ‘send’ button. Task over, he happily tilted the brown bottle till nothing was left inside. 


Thursday, May 27, 2010

One Hot Afternoon Somewhere in Western India

An April is not a season to fall in love out here. The thin silver column of mercury climbs beyond forty degrees in the barometer and stay there during the day and the better part of the night. The ceiling fans are mere formality because the air they fling is hotter than furnace’s fumes. All air coolers including the hi-tech ones make the rooms humid: you breathe in the wet air, cough, sneeze, or suffocate. Most people cannot afford the ACs. Half of the ACs in the town breaks down during this season any way. Some say, it is easier to buy a new AC than to get some one to repair a conked one. That is where I come in. I repair ACs.

I am listed in the local hallow-yellow book. I also make do as a plumber, if a repair job includes the replacements and the client is distressed enough to overlook a few things. For a commission, I sometime help find accommodation for the people who are new in this town. Basically, I do any business as long as I can hustle it with a phone. One thing I don’t do is to hire other people to do my jobs. Also, I don’t get hired by the people I don’t like. The other day I went for a small repair job at a fifty roomer glitzy hotel. They were angling to get me on full time basis but I am not the type to punch a timer at 9.30 a.m. sharp. They needed a dog-type. I am a cat-type.

My phone rang when I was dreaming about getting shipwrecked on an island made of cottage cheese, where the potato chips grow on maintenance free trees and the sea of fine Scotch surround the cheese land. It could be near the South Pole or the North Pole, so that I don’t have to worry about fresh ice all the time. I still hadn’t solved the soda angle, I made a mental note. What about the hangovers? But the phone was still ringing. 

I picked up the phone with a pair of pliers on twenty sixth ring, or twenty seventh, or thirty second, whatever, I am not a math man.

“Hallo,” I spoke in Clint Eastwood’s deep timber.

“I have a broken AC duct here. You just bring a new duct. Take down the address!” Some queen of England demanded.

“Let me check things out myself first. What if there is Freon leakage?” This one can befuddle even a nuclear scientist and give the repairer the strategic advantage.

“It is nothing. You just clean up the air passage and fit in a new water duct. If you can’t make it in an hour don’t bother, I have to go out.”

“Sure sure,” I muttered my standard survival line. 

I didn’t like the snooty tone of the caller but I liked her voice, probably young, there were some fresh tartly mangoes in that voice. Worth a pickle. Besides, what kind of face, features and figures go with that voice? I am curious by nature. I like people with minor imperfections, brusque tone in her case. Maybe, it is the heat in the air and the insecticides in the wheat that does this temper trick, I thought charitably.

Back to business, I scribbled her address and stuffed the foldable job book in my shirt pocket, along with an electric tester, my tobacco pouch, a wet-lime tube and couples of tooth picks. I murmured the address again: one of the bungalows out of town, at least forty minutes drive if my scooter cooperated. 

I removed the phone from the hook and picked up my once-white cricket cap, scooter keys and sunglasses. As usual, the elevator was out of order. Lugging a tool bag is a kind of exercise, the sweat helps you drench out the poisons, so says the diabetic columnist in the health pages. So I ran down the thirty steps and walked into the parking area. My fingernails, the angle of my cap, air pressure in tires and petrol gauge I always check no matter who has called or where I am heading. 

I gave a contemptuous glance to Chuck Norris looking out from the poster on the sidewalk before kick starting and got it rolling.

I cut through the afternoon traffic, the heat waves and the harassed drivers. I felt like The Desert Fox, General Romel during Algerian campaign, destroying one allies bastion after the other and following Hitler’s express command. I sped out on the rubber melting highway, my scooter faster than the Panzer tanks. After a dozen kilometers of lush green farms on the both sides, a dug-in-haste signpost led me to the inside plots. 

The Cardiff bungalows were a recent addition spread over five kilometers area. Yards and yards of manicured lawn, water fountains, landscaped gardens, old tamarind trees and arrogance separated the fifty odd bungalows meant for the diamond display class. My scooter conked out two lanes before I could reach bungalow No.14. The sun worked on my nerve as I walked on the tar road. The stiff canvas handles of tool bag made a red dent in my palm. To avoid the long walk I jumped over a fence and stepped over the private lawns. Barring the two toddlers playing outside a servant quarter in distance, the place was deserted. Every body was either absent, taking siesta, getting laid or could not be bothered. A shining lock was hanging on the service door, so I circled the squat building and came out in the front. I did not find any ‘Beware Of Dog’ sign, so I opened the walk-in gate and saw a ‘99 model red Merc convertible resting under the tiled roof. A Metallic blue Esteem was parked in the driveway front of the vehicle gate. 

The compound was strewn with shovels, trimmers, watering jugs, and other garden equipments. Two slated benches yet to be assembled were stacked near the low cement wall. The main door burst open before I could cross the diamond tiled portico and ring the door bell. She was my height if I could discount her two-inch stilettos. 

“Noorie Shroff?” I removed my stylish shades.

“Spectrum Repairs? You sure take your time.” 

Noorie looked at my tool bag as if it held a priceless treasure, avoided my eyes and led me in. We skirted the silk carpet of the drawing room. A serious looking entertainment center, a row of Chinese Buddha on the oak wood mantle, a life size white marble bust of Tagore, mauve silk curtains and half a dozen tables of different size, style and pedigree and a palace size sofa set; all these  made the room look a bit smaller that it was. A sandalwood incense stick burnt somewhere, or it was her perfume. 

We passed the Scandinavian style kitchen and a closed oak door on the right. The passage on our left lead to the service door. All walls, including the passage next to shoe rack wore rare prints, lithographs, and paintings of doubtful images and real value. 

We went into the room facing us. “Look,” she told me without telling me where. It was her room. A life-size poster of Jim Morrison faced another of Britney Spear on the opposite wall. Hundreds of CDs, audio cassettes were stacked neatly on a rich walnut brown corner table. A glass cabinet showcasing her perfume collection reminded me of the sample counters in the malls. A well-worn, open and upside down Diary of Anne Frank waited on her bedside table. The rice paper nightshade looked new but the stands were genuine antique brass. A treadmill exerciser and small weights rested next to the bathroom door. A silky gown kind of magenta dress with gold piping and heavy embroidery works covered the part of scarlet bed sheet. Two pairs of absurd looking shoes, sandals, sneakers and one pair of bathroom sleepers sat under the edge of rose wood bed. A small table facing the foot of the bed held a fourteen-inch TV with built in DVD player. 

She opened the window next to her dressing table and pointed at the air duct hanging from the concealed AC.

”I will need to switch off the mains, remove the cover and the front grill, and check the controls and air vents before I do any thing,” I announced. I felt desperate without the toke of my tobacco, but where to spit?

“This is so stupid,” she looked at her Cartier watch. “I am already running late. My maid should have turned up by now.”

I stuck the mauve and white curtain between the iron grill above the AC and rolled up my sleeves.

”Whenever it splutters with that funny noise, it is the duct, always. These ACs are designed for European countries where the temperature don’t go beyond fifteen degree,” she muttered and pushed her curly black hair away from her eyes.

“I am due at the rehearsal; they will throw tomatoes if I fudge the lines.” That was not for me but I heard. 


“Look, fuse and main switch are here. You just finish this repairing fast. Ok?” This time our eyes met.

“Who is comatose?”

“Shut up and finish,” Her nostril flared up like a thoroughbred racehorse, the only imperfection in that high cheek-boned face with crinkly shampoo commercial hair.

One thing I have learnt over the years, a simple philosophy about this work. Slow down to standstill when you are ordered to hurry. Be a yogi. Shut off all your senses, it keeps the pressure off. It might infuriate the people around you but at the end of the day, it makes sense. I have successfully tried this approach in my plumbing assignments also.

“My vehicle broke down on the way. I walked the rest in this heat. Can I have a glass of cold water please?” I asked looking at her seashell size nails. 

This time our eyes met for a long time. She blinked first and stormed out of the room. I heard the sharp clap of water glass on her dresser after a while. The water glass again reminded me of a chilled whisky soda and the gamut that goes with good a whisky.

I removed the grill, and ran the air blower over the interior of the AC. I changed the duct also, she was right about that. I checked the wiring and controls, no problem there. I switched on and the AC begun to hum. 

She stood in the doorway showing off her freshly painted seashells planted on her hips.

“It is working fine now,” I said.

“How much?”

“Three forty.” I gave her my fluorescent business card.

"I missed my rehearsal because of you and that scrawny maid.” She gave me the money and threw the card back.

Then we heard a faint noise.

“There, she is back.” 

“You check the AC!”

“After my maid check the AC you can go,” she let the air cushioned door shut on my face and went to the service door. To receive the maid, I guessed.

I faintly heard the service door opening as I went about to wipe my tools with her napkin. I neatly folded the napkin and put it back on her dressing table, the clean side up. Then to loo to relieve myself. I heard a scream, her drama artist scream, no doubt. I did not run the flush. I silently walked into the room and pried open the air cushioned door ever so slowly as I heard another scream and a violent scuffle outside. I looked out from the vertical slit between the door and the doorframe. 

They were three of them, about fifteen feet from me. Beyond the passage gap leading to the service door. One man with a broken nose had secured Noorie’s shoulders against the wall. The other one in blue shirt, his face savagely scratched, had clamped his left palm on her mouth. He punched her in the stomach, twice, to stop her screaming or to revenge her claw-work on him. She whimpered in pain, probably fainted and sled down along the wall.

“Don’t put her to sleep, goddamn it! You will carry her all the way? Idiot! Just gag her.” Third, the leader hissed. 

They made a ball out of two handkerchiefs and stuffed her mouth. Blueshirt produced a reel of tape. Two of them together fastened the skin color tape on her mouth, circling the head several times. All three men hovered over her now. From her flailing legs, I presumed that she was trying to get up again. 

“No pranks. We go out of the back door and you get in the white car waiting outside. If you act smart, I shoot your head off. Get it?” He patted her tape covered cheek gently and branded his revolver. 

“This is a clean, ransom job. No one gets hurt ok?” He released the safety catch.

She struggled against the two men as they pushed her in to the passage leading to the service door. Brockennose grabbed her hairs, pulled, and went first. Noorie’s hands were tied behind her back now. Blueshirt pushed and kicked her from behind. The Leader followed them.

I could not see any of them anymore as they turned the passage corner but she must have kicked the shoe rack on the way. A bronze head of Buddha banged down on the marble floor and clattered out from the passage.

May be my mood mechanism is directly related to state of my scooter engine. I grabbed the monkey wrench from my canvas bag, opened the door, and padded out. 

My wrench is about two feet of cast iron, badly rusted and rough as they come. The snout is blunt and smooth from use. It weighs about five kilos or more. I have grooved its handle for a good grip. By reflex, I raised my left toe that was plastered for fifteen days because the wrench had slid out of my hand. 

I heard the bolt on the service door sliding. The Leader holding the gun could not be facing my side, that is the chance I took. He wasn’t, as I peeked along the wall. 

The passage was flooded with the bright day light; Brokennose had opened the door. He was already on the steps, out in the sun surveying. Noorie was struggling on the threshold, held, and pushed out by Blueshirt. She started to thrash about violently at the door. The Leader, his gun dangling from his right hand warned her once again: 

“You get in the waiting Ambassador real quiet. You will be released in a day or two, probably earlier. Or you die in the compound here, alone. Your dad’s millions won’t bring you back. Now!” 

The leader, his back to me, must have seen the bulging eyeballs of Blueshirt who saw me bounding into the passage. The Leader turned in complete surprise. Noorie took her chances and flung a kick at his kidneys. This was his bad hair day. I swung the iron brute down on Leader’s confused head. Either the monkey wrench or the back of his head split on impact. His gun spat one bullet into the plaster before it fell down from his hand.

Blueshirt jumped and lost his balance trying to avoid the ricocheting bullet. Noorie turned and kept the Brokennose busy by repeatedly slamming the door in his face. I jumped over the Leader and pounced on the gun. 

Noorie kicked Blueshirt viciously in the groin before he could get up properly. He let out a slow, painful stanza and fell headlong over the steps. 

The Brokennose ran out in the open, his nose bleeding afresh from Noorie’s door slamming treatment. I heard the car engine catch. 

She finally freed her hands, grabbed a terracotta pot from the compound and destroyed it on Blueshirt’s rib cage as I saw Brokennose speeding the car out of our sight. 

Out of the danger now, I helped Noorie peel off the brown tape from her face. Sandalwood was her perfume, I confirmed. She spat out the wet gag. 

Blueshirt stirred and alarmed us, but only for a second. Then he lay peacefully unconscious in the lawn. We used his tape to tie his hands and feet.

“Put that gun away!” Noorie hollered at me so I complied. We stepped over the dead body of the Leader lying peacefully in a big brown-red puddle and entered the drawing room to get the phone. She called her father in Canada. She talked and cried. Cried and talked until she could talk without overlapping her words. Then she promised “no going out until you arrive”. Noorie convinced him not to rush over and wished him goodnight. Then she called her mother on mobile and talked as if talking to her grand daughter. I watched her in silent amazement. 

I asked Noorie if she knew her maid’s whereabouts. She didn’t. A new recruit, she said. We checked out if the key thugs had used was the key given to her maid. It was. For all the commotion including one bullet blast, no one from the neighboring bungalows peeked out. They took it for a cracker probably. I called 100. 

Despite the heat wave outside and a working AC inside, we flopped in the bamboo chairs kept in the portico and waited for the police. 

I knew the future scenario. The bastard who actually ordered the kidnap job will never be caught, let alone prosecuted. We will make endless visits to the police stations and the courts. We will give our detailed statements to the police that no one will ever read. The case file will catch dust, silverfish, and then termites will make a feast out of it. We, I specially, will be cross-examined thoroughly, first by the police and then by the vulture lawyers. It will be years before the law will run its course and the case will be buried for the lack of sufficient evidence. 

They might find Brokennose, if our sketchy descriptions of the car could be of any consequence. Blueshirt would spend some time in the hospital and then probably in a jail. 

The visits to the courts and the police stations might improve Noorie’s manners. She will definitely learn patience. She might not venture out for weeks. And she will have to find another maid.

Still, I felt elated. I wanted to savor the triumph of my lucky monkey wrench.

My mouth watered as I plucked out the tobacco pouch and my wet-lime tube. I poured the prized dose of dry tobacco in my left palm and added a judicious goop of the lime paste. I squashed the mix between the right hand index finger and the hollow of the left palm. I massaged the heady mix thoroughly. Then I transferred the powdered tobacco to my right palm and blew off the excess lime dust from the left. I repeated this delicate palm changing operation thrice. 

Before I can take a hit, Noorie said “how disgusting,” and slapped my wrist. She spilled the fruit of my precious labour. The powdered tobacco got in our eyes and nose. She sneezed and sneezed. There was nothing else to do but look at the heat haze, the barren gardens, the empty plots, and each other until the police arrived.

It was a long wait. Noorie wouldn’t go inside the house because of the dead body so I went in to fetch two glasses and a large bottle of chilled cola. Our glasses misted as I poured. 

Sunday, December 13, 2009

The Appointment

He bends his thin frame forward, and answers my questions with quiet confidence. His long, bony fingers are clasped together on my desk. I like his purple and electric blue abstract print tie. His tigereye cufflinks winks in the florescent light of the conference room. I hear the ticking clock above me, read his blank face, and sense his need for the job. The girl I interviewed before him was brighter, had better credentials but I don’t want to appoint a female as my personal assistant.

He shares his birthday with my son; my only child I lost 15 years back. His CV is neat, adequate, okay. A commerce graduate and a certificate diploma for computer applications. He has a driving license for four-wheeler so his family must be well off. He has written ‘collecting coins’ as his hobby. There is something about him. The way his straight brown hair fall across his forehead, his big eyes behind rimless glasses, his loose fit shirt. I hire him on the spot.

I introduce him to my staff members. Make him familiar with the responsibilities given to him. He is exceptionally polite and a fast learner. Like many of his colleagues, he brings a lunch box from home.

Within a week, we are on lunch sharing terms; I have never done this before. Our talk leads to his family. He tells me about his merchant navy father, his growing coin collection from his father’s travels around the world. Their yearly holidays at the little known beaches along the western coast. His passion for nature photography. The difference between fish the eye lens and macro lens. He explains why Hasselbled is the best camera in the world.

Next day, he compliments me for my Benaras silk sari and asks me about the photo on my desk.

I tell him my fossilized story: “He is Rohan. I lost him when he was six. I was to pick him up from his school gate but got delayed. When I reached there, my boy had vanished. We informed the police, ran advertisements in The Times of India, announced a modest rewards on TV for three long years. Nothing turned up.” I try to hold my breath despite a solid knot in my throat and slump forward on the desk. I hate myself for being so weak.

My legal secretary walks into the chamber to get my signature on something.

He snaps at her: “Not now, she is not feeling well.”

I don’t look up for a long time. I am crying.

“Let me drive you home, it’s almost five pm anyway. You will feel much better tomorrow,” he offers. His gentle voice touches a forgotten nerve center of mine.

He negotiates Delhi’s evening traffic with an expert’s ease. Cool November air works like a tonic for me, lifts my spirit. Every few minutes he looks at me but doesn’t say anything. We reach my home and I insist that he should come in.

He sits in the drawing room, embarrassed. The wall above the brick and mortar fireplace is covered with my missing son’s enlarged photos. My son with his plastic tricycle. My son buck-naked in the bathroom. My son on his birthday party. My son and I at the park. My son behind the steering wheel of my Opal. My son with his little friends at Play House...

My maid walks in with mugs, a pot of coffee, and a plate of chocolate pinwheel biscuits for us.

He picks up a magazine from the table and shuffles the pages till the maid leaves us. Reluctantly, he pulls out a buffalo skin purse from his trouser pocket, opens it, and thrust it under my throat. I see a black and white middle-aged face with a low forehead and dry, tight smile. Our hands touch for a brief second and a strange current pass through. I feel dumb till he speaks.

“My mother,” he sniffs. “Breast cancer. I was eleven at the time.”

He jerks his head away and looks out from the bay window as if hypnotized by the sight of the descending birds. I nod absent mindedly, and pour the hot brew.


I do not switch on the light for the fear of breaking something delicate.


Sunday, August 30, 2009

How To Become A Poet

This is a published story (Stories At The Coffee Table,, but it is free here, of course.

How To Become A Poet

"This One Really Sucks."

The four hand written words made Charvak decide to kill the editor of the highbrow poetry magazine The Bombay Review.

Charvak had received his first copy of The Bombay Review - a gift from his English language teacher at the school - when he won a letter writing competition. He was in eighth standard at the time.

“This is the cutting edge poetry magazine, this is the standard you should aspire to.” His genial teacher had told him.

Charvak didn’t understand or appreciate any poetry in the magazine but he preserved it. His interest grew gradually. By the time Charvak entered the college gates, he was a devoted subscriber. He began to read Blake, Wordsworth, Tennyson and of course Shakespeare. Then he entered his Lord Byron phase. He grew a beard for a month or two, became a member of a book club, and started to recite Browning as if there was no tomorrow. Despite his passion for poetry, he knew one thing very clearly: It could never feed him.

He started working for a shipping company with international operations. Pay was modest but steady. Now he began his romance with the country poets like Robert Frost. He went nuts over Octavio Paz and devoured the lines of Pablo Nerula. All the time he was reading The Bombay Review, keeping himself up to date about the latest Indian stars like Nissim Ezekiel, Moraes and Kolatkar who had chucked his lucrative job in a big advertising agency to write poetry that sang.

For next two years, he breathed only John Milton and wore only black. Then a senior poet of some repute advised him: move away or you will not grow. He had to kick himself, but he did and moved on to radical poets who wrote blank verses and experimented with different forms. Zen and other minimalists fascinated him for a year and he had a short haiku phase.

Meanwhile, he begun to write some poetry himself. After a dozen rejections, he realized that he needed some professional help. Much against his circumstances, he joined a poetry writing class. He made friends with like-minded classmates and held private reading sessions. Every weekend they would meet in a teashop or on somebody’s terrace and try to help each other with sugarcoated criticism. He kept on submitting his poetry to various magazines all the time and collected rejection slips.

It was 48th rejection slip from The Bombay Review with the four handwritten words that snapped the gears inside Charvak’s fuming head.

"This one really sucks."

Thin angular words written above the printed message did it for him. Charvak calmly decided to kill the editor on Diwali, a day before the Hindu New Year.

He visited a flea market. He had to rummage through tons of hardware and junk to find an almost new eight-inch dagger. He noted the magazine’s office address and did a reconnaissance trip. The office was in an old building in busy Fort area, right behind the noisy Bombay Victoria Terminus.

Next day he called up to find out the whereabouts of the cocky editor.

“I am in the office all the time because we are putting together the New Year issue,” the editor answered.

“I am a paper dealer,” Charvak bluffed. “I have a slightly damaged lot. You might get it at a bargain price.” He knew these things because he had recently checked similar consignments at his office and filed the papers for the insurance.

“Sure, come after eight p.m., I won’t have time during the day,” the editor replied and hung up.

Charvak reached there on the dot of eight. It was already cold and dark. But boisterous people were milling about on the road because of the heavy festival mood all around. He made his way through crowds of kids lighting fire crackers and mounted the steps of the dark and dinghy looking building. He was sweating when he reached the magazine office on the fourth floor. It was the only office open, because it was late and it was a public holiday.

“Yes?” The editor looked up from a manuscript file and removed his thick glasses.

Charvak pulled out the crumpled rejection slip from his shirt pocket and threw it on the metal table.

“I'll kill you for this.”

The editor looked at the dagger in Charvak’s hand and started laughing.

“You sure?”

“I am sure,” Charvak hissed and bared his teeth.

“You have come at the right moment. You are doing some thing I don’t have the guts to do myself.” The editor paused for a long moment to gather his thoughts. “I have tried to keep this paper boat afloat for more than 23 years now. Three years before, I was stupid enough to quit my job and run this magazine on full time basis. Now I have to go down on my knees to get the right people to write for me. I haven’t paid the printer for last three issues. You see, no secretary, no sales staff here. It is impossible to get ads for this kind of magazine. In these years of recession, corporate sponsors have backed out. Whoever had committed the ad campaigns are canceling. If you kill me now, it won’t be a murder. It would be an act of mercy. But do me a favor. I am sure, you haven’t done this before. That dagger will make a big mess, it will give you bloody nightmares and it will be painful for me.”

The editor took a gulp of water and leaned back in his battered swivel chair.

“Let’s make it easy for you. I have a revolver, an official gift from my ex-army father. It is loaded.”

The editor got up and unlocked his iron safe. He checked the bullets and placed his 0.45 Colt on the table.

“Go on, you can’t miss at this range. It’s a Diwali night. With all the firecrackers and loud speakers blasting, no one will rush here because of one shot. Shoot my head off, wipe the gun, arrange it in my right hand, go home, and party.”

The editor scribbled a sucide note in hurry and showed it to dumbfounded Charvak. He placed the note under a glass ball paperweight.

“The note is your insurance if anyone has seen you coming here,” the editor said.

Charvak sat as if hypnotized.

“Come on, be a real son of bitch, and shoot. I am single, without kids. No issues, no old mother waiting for me in a distant village.” He chuckled.

Charvak's eyes bulged looking at the gun but he couldn’t move his hand to touch it.

The editor stood up and walked around his table. He slapped Charvak hard across the face and picked up his gun in disgust. He yanked Charvak up from his chair.

“Why can’t I write good poetry?" Charvak asked miserably and licked the blood flowing from his split lip.

The editor slapped him again, this time on the other cheek and propelled him out of the door.

“Why? Why? Why?” Charvak stood in the deserted lobby. He was crying now.

“Each poet is an animal of its own kind. But you, had you been able to shoot, you could have written something worthwhile,” the editor barked and slammed the door shut.