tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46487194252201753282024-03-05T07:04:43.323-08:00Art CartThis 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.Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-15894752643684458172023-05-12T23:45:00.003-07:002023-05-12T23:45:53.914-07:00<p> Results In: The Judgment Day</p><p>The results came in on the net at 7.30. I downloaded the file at the cafe and returned home at about 9.30. Only my younger sister knew the exact date and time, most probably. I walked into the front door and froze for a moment because Dad was on his first whiskey, going by the level in the bottle. It was not Friday, but it was one of those nights for Dad. He may have more than two but, there won't be ice or soda in the fridge, mom would make sure. Dad poured a spoonful of ketchup on his chips and sprinkled black pepper on the salad as if there was no tomorrow. He emptied his tumbler. Chini walked in and stood over the proceedings without fear of repercussion because being the youngest daughter, she had some advantage over us.</p><p>"Dad, Mom says dinner is ready," she announced as I slinked into my room. I stood next to the door, trying to catch the conversation. Beyond two drinks or 10.15 pm, dinner would be ice cold, my mother's iron-clad rule. Dad wouldn't go out after drinks or bother to turn on the stove to warm the food. Meaning I would go get something for him. That rarely happened. </p><p>Chinni sat down next to Dad.</p><p>"Shanu results came on the net, a few hours back."</p><p>"11nth?" Dad asked and took a sip.</p><p>"12th. I am in 10th."</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>"No college in the city will take him under 90% on the mark sheet.</p><p>"Hmm."</p><p>"No one in the state will touch him for entrance if it's less than 70%."</p><p>"Hmm."</p><p>" Are you with me Dad?</p><p>"What's his score?"</p><p>"Dad, you know this, he tells no one. This is not a test match score we are talking about."</p><p>"Hmm."</p><p>"You should be talking to the nutjob girl he is moving with. Her dad works in RTO. He can get you a driving license without showing up. Changes his car every two years."</p><p>"Is that how you want your license? Without a test?"</p><p>"No. I am for the test."</p><p>"Later. I'll finish dinner soon."</p><p>"You'll forget by the time you eat dinner." </p><p>Chini answered her phone and went out to see her friends nearby.</p><p>I closed the door and waited behind the wall as the TV volume went up. Finally, my dad walked in and sat down on a chair facing my table, diagonally across the bed. I silenced the game on the phone.</p><p>"Chini reminded me. Who knows? But I might forget this conversation or your score in the morning."</p><p>Dad has two distinct modus operandi. Immediate marching orders without much regard for the consequences. Or prolonged, studied silence till the moment is ripe for maximum damage to the opponent. I didn't have to wait.</p><p>"Do you have the printout or do you see it on-screen these days?"</p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-71523121904557013032014-03-08T03:59:00.001-08:002014-03-11T02:18:06.739-07:00Have I Missed It?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 144.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 144.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj355Xh5VFbQlUYTLhyphenhyphen0BQQhrm7VTdmUYxXuU3SLDAHXbBHIqGk8-T0edeLQMSvaBEkWgzPtu76rWb9XtrD3uOfGk83TMklPDtbN2LHP670RQMMvjCMY0IF88E9328Uqv3PE84wcsFvvA/s1600/Bus.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">"How
much?" I ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">“Fifty
rupees, each and every one of them. Good for time-pass,” the hawker answers,
barely looking at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">“Thirty-five?”
I taunt with no intention to buy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">“Forty,
or you can walk off!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">YOU
ARE A MORON.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Into-That-like-why-you-sucked.-this-are-is-something-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">THAT
IS WHY YOU ARE SUCKED INTO SOMETHING LIKE THIS.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Next
one is short and easier to arrange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">YOU
ARE NOT ALONE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">THERE
ARE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS LIKE YOU, MERELY PASSING THROUGH, WITH NO SENSE OF
PURPOSE OR DIRECTION.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">The
next sentence is again easy:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">NOW
STOP THIS NONSENSE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">I turn
the page and make a list of the underlined words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Labyrinth -
Coaxing - At – Frozen - Imparting - Surmised -Somber - Zephyr - Ghost
- Seamier -Churn - Turnstile -Pluto - Craggy - Hoax - Jar - Duffer -
Layers - Buttons - Dingbat <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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.<br /> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">YOU
HAVE MISSED YOUR STOP!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">If
this is not enough, there is a final handwritten word, to rub the salt in:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">IDIOT <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">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...<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-69702593437752573172012-05-07T21:33:00.000-07:002012-05-11T21:41:20.365-07:00Untitled Chef<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A glossy cookery book, not a grown man’s hunger,<br />
<br />
That cast an irrational, evening spell <br />
<br />
And set the strange chain reaction of<br />
<br />
Wayward memories and misty images. <br />
<br />
<br />
The aroma of onions rings fried to golden brown perfection, <br />
<br />
That mixed with the special dough fermented overnight <br />
<br />
To achieve a rare, fluffy consistency the following day. <br />
<br />
<br />
The Interminable wait as I sneaked around our cramped kitchen <br />
<br />
Eyeing the old-fashioned pressure pan on blazing blue gas flame, <br />
<br />
Forgetting the coins on my carom board and my classroom buddies. <br />
<br />
<br />
The steaming dish would finally arrive on Formica centre table;<br />
<br />
Thick, round, sizzling, crunchy monster <i>masala handwa </i>loaf <br />
<br />
Laden with dabs of melting butter and spices on top, <br />
<br />
And a deep China saucer full of secret-recipe chutney, <br />
<br />
Held with the wrinkled white hands and smile of my shiny-eyed mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br /></div>
</div>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-82885862829268480542011-08-07T04:29:00.000-07:002011-08-08T10:19:05.352-07:00How to Sell an Eight Million Apartment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">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.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“You didn’t sound so young, organized and efficient over the phone.” </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Nina shoots me a sideway glance and shift gears with a veteran’s ease.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">"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.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">"I have the keys,” she tells the uniformed security guard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">"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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">"One bedroom on either side of the drawing room," Nina says as we walk into the master bedroom.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">Dusty furniture is stacked in a corner. The double bed is covered with suitcases and stacks of old COSMOs and Vogues. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I draw the velvet curtain to look outside.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">Nina is right behind me. She knocks on the glass pane. "Air tight and insulated. No traffic noise. See?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">She takes me to another bedroom that too looks unused and dusty.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I check the night lights and taps in the bathroom. Then we walk over to examine the kitchen.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">"Black marble platform, double exhaust fans and electric chimney. I know you like it," Nina tells me with a smug smile. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">The short man with Brute smell reappears. He smiles a cryptic smile and lets us out from the drawing room.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“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.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“What do you mean?”</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">“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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">We are out of the compound gate now, standing next to Nina’s silver blue Skoda.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“I can drop you at the taxi stand on the way. When do you want to shift your household?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">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.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Let’s talk in the car.” Nina turns the door key and climbs in. I follow.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Nina points at the apartment building as if it is Taj Mahal. “Look! This is made for you.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Can’t afford it.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“I will knock off fifty grand or half percent from my commission. More discounts if you do something right.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“I am not in a hurry really. Let the prices come down.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Instead of starting the car, Nina turns sideways and looks in to my eyes. She is not smiling anymore.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Your second cousin Joseph. How often do you meet?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Joseph Gonzales.... who works in some IT or telecom company? How do you know him?”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Through his girl friend. Her name is Elsie.”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“I don’t know her.”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“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.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“That’s good but…”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“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.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“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…”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“They can marry abroad. In the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> 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.”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“How do you know he is going abroad?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“The company will send him. He will earn in dollars when most of them are accepting pay cuts or loosing jobs out there.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“That’s nice but how…”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Somebody owns twenty percent of the company Joseph works in. Things can happen.” Nina inserts the keys into ignition and releases the clutch.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I look away. An elderly man is walking out of the gate with a shiny <st1:place w:st="on">Labrador</st1:place>. The dog sniffs the ground and drags the owner behind him.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Have you met Sheila Mukadm lately?” Nina spits the question at me.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Sheila? How does she come in this?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Your maternal uncle’s niece. She has two adorable kids, third on the way, her husband is working in a five star restaurant kitchen…”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">We are on the main road now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Yes, of course.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“Her husband can lose his job, can get transferred to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Beijing</st1:place></st1:city>, he can walk out on her…”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“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. "</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“This too will be a love marriage, your Joseph and my Elsie.”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Something is churning violently in my stomach and it probably shows on my face as I say:</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“I love it. I want this apartment.”</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-20238539126001646142010-10-16T10:20:00.000-07:002010-10-16T10:20:08.819-07:00Mahendra’s Last Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Mahendra arrived at the decision in the dead of a chilled December night.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Another birthday bypassed him.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">His editor friend suggested the idea of a break in routine: “A complete change of surrounding will put you back in circulation.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">...................................................................................</span>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-21480609668750534922010-05-27T11:22:00.000-07:002010-05-29T12:11:44.944-07:00One Hot Afternoon Somewhere in Western India<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Hallo,” I spoke in Clint Eastwood’s deep timber.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“I have a broken AC duct here. You just bring a new duct. Take down the address!” Some queen of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place> demanded.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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.”</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Sure sure,” I muttered my standard survival line.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">I gave a contemptuous glance to Chuck Norris looking out from the poster on the sidewalk before kick starting and got it rolling.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Cardiff</st1:city></st1:place> 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. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Noorie Shroff?” I removed my stylish shades.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Spectrum Repairs? You sure take your time.” </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">She opened the window next to her dressing table and pointed at the air duct hanging from the concealed AC.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">”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?</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“This is so stupid,” she looked at her Cartier watch. “I am already running late. My maid should have turned up by now.”</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">I stuck the mauve and white curtain between the iron grill above the AC and rolled up my sleeves.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">”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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“I am due at the rehearsal; they will throw tomatoes if I fudge the lines.” That was not for me but I heard.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Who?”</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Look, fuse and main switch are here. You just finish this repairing fast. Ok?” This time our eyes met.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Who is comatose?”</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">She stood in the doorway showing off her freshly painted seashells planted on her hips.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“It is working fine now,” I said.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“How much?”</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Three forty.” I gave her my fluorescent business card.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">"I missed my rehearsal because of you and that scrawny maid.” She gave me the money and threw the card back.</span><br />
<br />
Then <span class="apple-style-span">we heard a faint noise.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“There, she is back.”</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“You check the AC!”</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Don’t put her to sleep, goddamn it! You will carry her all the way? Idiot! Just gag her.” Third, the leader hissed.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“This is a clean, ransom job. No one gets hurt ok?” He released the safety catch.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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:</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;">“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!”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Blueshirt jumped and lost his balance trying to avoid the ricocheting bullet.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">Noorie turned and kept the Brokennose busy by repeatedly slamming the door in his face.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">I jumped over the Leader and pounced on the gun.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">The Brokennose ran out in the open, his nose bleeding afresh from Noorie’s door slamming treatment. I heard the car engine catch.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">She finally freed her hands, grabbed a terracotta pot from the compound and destroyed it on Blueshirt’s rib cage as</span> I <span class="apple-style-span">saw Brokennose speeding the car out of our sight.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="apple-converted-space"></span><span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“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 <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Canada</st1:country-region></st1:place>. 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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Still, I felt elated. I wanted to savor the triumph of my lucky monkey wrench.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">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.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"> </span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-12727716885854152952009-12-13T10:14:00.000-08:002009-12-13T10:40:02.612-08:00The Appointment<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Next day, he compliments me for my Benaras silk sari and asks me about the photo on my desk.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
My legal secretary walks into the chamber to get my signature on something.<br />
<br />
He snaps at her: “Not now, she is not feeling well.”<br />
<br />
I don’t look up for a long time. I am crying.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
My maid walks in with mugs, a pot of coffee, and a plate of chocolate pinwheel biscuits for us.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“My mother,” he sniffs. “Breast cancer. I was eleven at the time.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Coffee?”<br />
<br />
I do not switch on the light for the fear of breaking something delicate.<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;">.............................</span></span>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-67440984179987252462009-08-30T09:54:00.000-07:002009-09-01T12:44:32.089-07:00How To Become A Poet<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana;font-size:18px;">This is a published story (Stories At The Coffee Table, www.caferati.com), but it is free here, of course.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;">..........................................</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;">How To Become A Poet<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana;font-size:18px;">"This One Really Sucks."<br /><br /><br />The four hand written words made Charvak decide to kill the editor of the highbrow poetry magazine The Bombay Review.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“This is the cutting edge poetry magazine, this is the standard you should aspire to.” His genial teacher had told him.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />It was 48th rejection slip from The Bombay Review with the four handwritten words that snapped the gears inside Charvak’s fuming head.<br /><br />"This one really sucks."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Next day he called up to find out the whereabouts of the cocky editor.<br /><br />“I am in the office all the time because we are putting together the New Year issue,” the editor answered.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“Sure, come after eight p.m., I won’t have time during the day,” the editor replied and hung up.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Yes?” The editor looked up from a manuscript file and removed his thick glasses.<br /><br />Charvak pulled out the crumpled rejection slip from his shirt pocket and threw it on the metal table.<br /><br />“I'll kill you for this.”<br /><br />The editor looked at the dagger in Charvak’s hand and started laughing.<br /><br />“You sure?”<br /><br />“I am sure,” Charvak hissed and bared his teeth.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />The editor took a gulp of water and leaned back in his battered swivel chair.<br /><br />“Let’s make it easy for you. I have a revolver, an official gift from my ex-army father. It is loaded.”<br /><br />The editor got up and unlocked his iron safe. He checked the bullets and placed his 0.45 Colt on the table.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />The editor scribbled a sucide note in hurry and showed it to dumbfounded Charvak. He placed the note under a glass ball paperweight.<br /><br />“The note is your insurance if anyone has seen you coming here,” the editor said.<br /><br />Charvak sat as if hypnotized.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />Charvak's eyes bulged looking at the gun but he couldn’t move his hand to touch it.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Why can’t I write good poetry?" Charvak asked miserably and licked the blood flowing from his split lip.<br /><br />The editor slapped him again, this time on the other cheek and propelled him out of the door.<br /><br />“Why? Why? Why?” Charvak stood in the deserted lobby. He was crying now.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br /><br /></span></div></div>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-55631241423226248562009-07-12T10:50:00.000-07:002009-08-23T22:20:01.467-07:00A Chance Meeting With The God<p>It was 10.30 p.m. and the city traffic had lost most of its verve by the time my bus reached Nagarjun Nagar. </p><p>I held my breath as I passed the garbage dump and reached the apartment building. The lift as usual was not working. So I climbed forty odd steps and reached my one room plus tiny kitchen bachelor pad. My mail, my phone and my plastic bag tossed on the three and half legged table, I locked the door from inside.<br /></p><p>Another boring, lonely, tasteless dinner tonight. I cursed my ancestors, my college degree, the gloomy weather, my girl friend and the God silently. Once again, I had seen the blood-red, roof-down Mercedes streaking in Banjara Hills this evening; the sight of the torpedo shaped, dreamboat of a car had clipped my mood.<br /></p><p>One broad sweep of the wet rag on the kitchen counter and I was ready to cook my meal. I ripped open the quickie noodles packet and poured the water to boil. I diced a tomato and two onions, and kept a spoonful of masala maker ready. I had twenty minutes before my ancient gas stove could boil the rice in the blackened-beyond-washing aluminum pan. To hell with the washing for tonight.<br /></p><p>I returned to the dreary room of mine and adjusted the pillow on the headrest of my bed. Head on the lumpy pillow, bum on the bed, my fingers aching, I put my feet on the plastic chair and looked at the grime covered ceiling fan. The clock struck eleven in nearby church tower and my head begun to spin. May be I dosed off for a while. It was not to be.<br /></p><p>The plastic chair jerked a feet backward. My feet fell down and I almost sled down from the bed.<br /></p><p>"Hey!"<br /></p><p>In a blink of my eye, a harmless looking man of about sixty, maybe seventy, occupied the chair.<br /></p><p>"I wasn't looking for a magician's trick. I was just looking for God," he said.<br /></p><p>He stole my words, stole my line! That was the exact, witty kind of response I was fumbling with under the circumstances. Obviously he could read the weird mess in my mind and keep a step ahead.<br /></p><p>"You are God," I said. I was feeling stupid and hopelessly inadequate but not tongue-tied.<br /></p><p>He crossed his legs and shifted his overweight frame to a comfortable position. </p><p>His complexion was whitish pink, shining with good health. Big shoulders. Tall. Rasping breaths of a seasoned smoker. His sparse beard reminded me of an aging Shakespeare. His nose was blunt and almost rounded, typical of him, since he would be used to profit from other people's brains and browns. His fingers were thick, like farmers. A ring with peanut-size diamond glinted from his third finger, probably to ward off the sexy, miniskirted hot bottoms at the paradise office. A gold Rolex on his wrist. His suit was Georgio Armani or some other snooty Italian brand, I could tell by its daring lapel cut and the elegant, snug fit. A violent pink paisley silk handkerchief peeked from the charcoal gray breast pocket. He looked like a steelclaws-in-kidgloves CEO of a mid size start-up with global tentacles and killer profit margins.<br /></p><p>"The fancy suit comes with the job. It's 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. No perks, no breaks, no stock options, no paid up vacations and definitely no profit sharing," he barked.<br /></p><p>Was he being sarcastic? Jocular? Serious? Or was he trying to burn a lowly subject like me? The crazy, ever-shifting, white glow behind his head made it impossible to read his exact expression. One thing I was sure about - he could disappear as easily as he had materialized. Other problem-there was a premium on his time and I had a plateful of tricky problems on hand.<br /></p><p>Not wasting a second I asked, "What should I do?" He would know my back story, so there was no need to bore him with a lengthy build up.<br /></p><p>"Son, the woman you are tangled with is thirty six, not twenty six. She is carrying a child, apart from the girl she has put at the Panchgani School. And her former husband's death was not an accident as she claims. Did you go to Kanpur to check the official records?"<br /></p><p>"Jesus H. Almighty, am I Sherlock Holmes or what? Where is the time to do the snooping ? Wait a minute now...assuming Somya is pregnant...the child inside her can't be more than three months old or it would show, won't it? Is it mine? This is a totally unexpected angle now. How should I go about it?"<br /></p><p>"That's for you to find out, if you want to." He shifted his bulk in the chair and muttered. "It's so hot for August out here. Hyderabad is getting worse by the day."<br /></p><p>He looked at the ceiling fan and made it start with his devine prowess. He adjusted the speed by the blinks of his deep gray eyes and turned to me again.<br /></p><p>I was ready with the all-important question. "So what should be my game plan, now that you know my past, present and future?"<br /></p><p>"Son, there is no point in reframing the same question again and again. My job is to give, not to take away."<br /></p><p>I didn't like his patronizing attitude and his calling me 'son' was getting on my nerve. Even my father has stopped calling me son a decade before. But it was too trifle a matter at this point of time and I wanted my question answered. I tried another angle and pressed on.<br /></p><p>"Old man from upstair, you are talking in riddles."<br /></p><p>"You have a dull job. Chicken feed salary. Miserably predictable routine. No close friends. No major vice except occasional drinking binges and lust for car toys you can never afford." The God threw his leonine head back to underline the punchline. "More importatnt - that thin woman from military family, that unborn child inside her, the little mystery of her husband's death in distant Kanpur. Let's keep some excitement alive in your life."<br /></p><p>"No, don't give me that old hat!" I almost screamed but apparently it didn't make a dent in his Armani armour.<br /></p><p>There was an unmistakable electric crackle in the air. My skin felt a strange tingle all over and in a blink, the plastic chair in front of me was as empty as a beggar's bowl.<br /></p><p>I fell back into my bed and banged the back of my head on the headrest. It hurt like hell and made me numb all over for a while.<br /></p><p>I had lost appetite, I realized. I looked at the whirling blades of ceiling fan till my eyes ached and my head felt like a solid, dead weight on my shoulders. I braced myself. It was going to be a long night.</p><p></p><p></p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-1245608527109961272009-07-05T01:53:00.000-07:002009-07-18T11:10:41.585-07:00A Grassroot Solution<p>It is two thirty in the morning and the place is quieter than a tomb. Four full-blooded man are locked inside the hostel room, all of them under twenty five, and in various stage of drunkenness. One of them is myself, yours truly.<br /></p><p>The air inside the room is thick enough to choke a diehard smoker. No one has spoken a word since Hardik's phone rang. The call was from one Mr. Kasim. He has promised to sort out everything if we do what we are told to do. He is the point man controlled and recommended by Hardik's father.<br /></p><p>Our collective adventure last weekend has gone terribly wrong and we are supposed to travel in different directions within next few hours and not get in touch with each other for six months or more. The girl's father has lodged an FIR at the district head quarter near Bhopal, stating that his daughter was gang raped by four unidentified thugs from the Maulana Azad Institute of Technology. According to Mr. Kasim's information, the girl managed to swipe the college ID of one of us. Police will be here soon.<br /></p><p>Hardik is second-oldest and a natural leader among us. His father is a class one gazette officer who has survived five changes of government and thirteen transfers across the country. He know the system, its joints, and the special lubricants that make it work.<br /></p><p>Unlike any other night, Hardik tosses his drink into the wash basin and looks at us, like we are his sworn enemies. "If anyone can get us out of his mess, it is my father and his network." Hardik speaks in a trembling, low whisper as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His thin frame and shrunken chest not withstanding, he reminds me of a determined boxer in his final rounds.<br /></p><p>Mohan ignores us and gets up from his chair. His cut-off jeans and torn T shirt make him look like a charity case but his father owns a string of sugarcane farms and molasses factories along the Ratnagiri belt. He chain smokes Bristol and he is known as Loaded M in and around the campus. He can catch the next plane to Tahiti or Bahama if he wants to.<br /></p><p>Hardik fixes his gaze on Mohan. "You are not going anywhere till the we turn this right side up."<br /></p><p>"I had to accompany you that fateful Friday, as if I can't get laid any other way," Mohan tosses a butt out of the window and lights another cigarette.<br /></p><p>I see a thin opportunity to make a point here. "No way I can travel out of my state, my brother is getting married in the next month." <br /></p><p>"No way, indeed," Prakash (not his real name) joins our conversation and scratches his arm. His face wears a clouded, uncertain look. He is a member of Lal Zanda-his nick name for the communist party of India, and writes in a four page monthly pamphlet no one reads.<br /></p><p>Hardik looks down and studies his battered Reebok before speaking. "Prakash, you are the one who planned the little picnic and promised us that it will be harmless fun. What is the alternative you have to keep us out of the jail?"<br /></p><p>Praksh looks at me.<br /></p><p>"I need a job after the college more than anyone of you. Police case will result in instant professional suicide. And my old man, my family, I don't want to think about it," I say. </p><p><br />"Everyone wants out, but how?" Mohan asks no one in particular and drags hard on his cigarette. </p><p><br />Prakash takes a minute before reacting. "I know a way out of this. She, the girl will survive. She doesn't know us by face. It was too dark and she will be in shock for a long time. I will take care of her."<br /></p><p>"You will take care for her? To bury something like this is hard, if not impossible," I say.<br /></p><p>"Kasim know the system inside out. From local constable upwards. PSIs. Sarpanch. DIGs. District Judges. Ministers and the people who can make the files appear and disappear at will," Hardik says. "We just have to pay up fast, that's all."<br /></p><p>"How do I tell my old man that I need Rs 5 laks for pocket money this month? That too here and now?" I spill the rum in my hand as I imagine the maddening scene with my school teacher father.<br /></p><p>"We have a day or two. Kasim can buy some more time. I can pay something upfront on my own and Mohan can chip in a bit. Don't worry about that," Hardik looks hard at Mohan and turns to me.<br /></p><p>"What is the alternative?" I ask. "Apart from the dough delivery?"<br /></p><p>"Self immolation." Mohan spits the flakes of tobacco in the wash basin and glares at me.<br /></p><p>"I never thought she could go to police. She was almost enjoying it by the end," I say.<br /></p><p>"She will enjoy the court proceeding even more." Hardik says. "You don't know these things. Do you remember that girl in the Baroda riot case who became the national media icon overnight? Everyone loved her and lapped up everything she said. Whatever she said."<br /></p><p>"There is no way this tribal specimen can make anything stick to us."<br /></p><p>"If the investigation does not start, that is."<br /></p><p>"There is another possibility." Prakash says.<br /></p><p>"Oh yes?"<br /></p><p>"I marry her."<br /></p><p>For a minute none of us know how to react. Hardik sits down on the window ledge and looks out at the night sky. Prakash looks dead serious.<br /></p><p>Hardik turns his head and looks at Prakash, speaks for all of us now. "You are nuts. You are the one who suggested the cheap-tribal-girl-in-the-dark-woods idea. You are the one who made a deal with her tribe. Your contact paid them to shut up and apparently, they didn't stop a thing."<br /></p><p>"I can marry her if I get the money you are going to pay out there. Believe me, in the long run, you will go over budget."<br /></p><p>"Assuming that you are not insane, what is the guarantee that she will not talk and case will be buried after she becomes Mrs. Prakash."<br /></p><p>"I am a tribal, not far from that village. I know the customs. I know their psyche and their limitations because that's where I come from. I can see this through without any hang ups, without looking back. I am going back to my roots. I will raise corn and rice, become a farmer again and never see the wind tunnels, flight simulators and you guys again." He looks at us in turn, his face rigid. "What are the alternatives you have if everyone here can't pay up and disappear without a trace?"<br /></p><p>No one in the suffocating room has an answer for that. Prakash doesn't look like an aeronautics engineer anymore; he looks like a brown skin tribal man from a dusty Hamlet of mud huts we have never seen. He shakes his head, clears his throat before speaking. His voice is cool and precise now.<br /></p><p>"I don't have to wait for the result date to find out I haven't got through the final, I know that for sure."<br /></p><p>I believe him because we are in the same class, stay in same hostel room. After years in the making, he still can't get through the most basics of math and formulas. He is lagging behind in every semester. I have written half of his research papers. Despite being his best friend, I have to say this - a reserved ST class or a BC is forever.<br /></p><p>"What will you do with the money?" I ask the stupid question to fill the deathly silence.<br /></p><p>Prakash's face goes blank. "What can you not do with half of that money," he asks in return. "It's a different world out there. You can travel ten kilometres on a bullock cart for a cigarette. Change a course of life for a few thousand."<br /></p><p>Hardik takes control again and stomps his Reebok on the floor. He decides for all of us. "Okay, let's do this."<br /></p><p>So we come to an agreement that should save every one's careers, reputations, well being and future. There will be no records, no loose ends, no cross connections, no reunions and hopefully, no memories.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-17089041822286044392009-06-27T09:42:00.000-07:002009-06-28T00:05:21.753-07:00Our New Year Eve<p>A story about the dark side of fame. </p><p>Some built-in Hollywood trivia here. Frank Capra (Amercian Madness, It's a Wonderful life, State of the Union ), was one of top Oscar studed director among several others who was black listed and finished off by openly politicised and hugley manipulated HUAC (House Un-American Activites) . </p><p>In 1947 the committee’s purpose was threefold:<br /></p><p>First, it intended to prove that the Screen Writers' Guild had Communist members.<br /></p><p>Second, it hoped to show that these writers were able to insert subversive propaganda into Hollywood films.<br /></p><p>Third, J. Parnell Thomas, head of the committee, argued that President Roosevelt had encouraged pro–Soviet films during the war. Although none of these claims was ever substantiated, the committee’s tactics worked to force many talented and creative people to leave Hollywood.</p><p>Fresh after the onset of Vietnam war that lasted twenty one years and cold war with Russia, Republican senator McCarthy worked the system with paranoid right wing effciency that can blush all the dictators and despots funded by U.S.A. across the globe. </p><p>Many thanks to my dear friend Asha Jacob who proofread this story despite having a DJ-like son, a job and a husband. Some F word slang here, so you are warned.</p><p>..................................................................................</p><p></p><p>Our New Year Eve</p><p><br />“Tak takk takakat ttttttt tkat.” </p><p>That was Willy knocking the door with his Mustang’s keys but I didn’t want to burn the omelet. I removed the frying pan from the stove and placed it on the kitchen table before opening the door. He walked in with his air of ownership.<br /></p><p>I poured some melted butter on the yellow rim of the omelet and put the frying pan back on the flame. Onion fumes filled the room.<br /></p><p>“All papers in order? Let’s go figure out the place,” he said.<br /></p><p>“Let’s have some grub and then—” I turned the omelet.<br /></p><p>“Okay.” Willy came near me and sniffed the spices.<br /></p><p>That giraffe-like bend and sniffing habit have not changed. Otherwise, he has begun to button his florescent shirts. The gaps between his teeth have widened. His outlandish long hair has lost most of its sheen. Those guitar-fondling fingers are now roughed up with cable handling. His rum-drinking days are over. Three stretched out stays at the public hospital to cure his ‘mild touch of liver infection’ have taught him that. Now he drinks only beer. In Willy’s Bible, beer doesn’t have enough alcohol content to affect him. I know better than to get in an argument with him for something like that.<br /></p><p>Willy doesn’t swing into his rhyming moods any more. For the bad weather, he used to say ‘slime clime’. For a knocking session, he would say ‘chic prick.’ For a wild drive in the country air, ‘windy sandy.’ For a good foot-tapping guitar riff, ‘footsy cutesy'. Not any more. He is all dried up and brittle and sour now.<br /></p><p>His changeover has taken a long decade to arrive. From the heights of wanna be music stars to the scruffy hirers of speakers, strobes, and light equipment; this is a big, nasty slide of ours. He still has his prima donna ways from our bohemian days. We lose a lot of business because of that. The thing that still doesn’t get inside Willy’s drug-fucked head is the fact that you can’t behave like Elvis without Elvis’voice and Elvis’ success. Our equipment is hired because of my buffer-buffoon skills, my contacts. Some crowds in this business still have corners and crumbs for us.<br /></p><p>We had our fifteen minutes of fame, when we arrived on the music scene. We were all fired up, hot, hot, hot. Were it not for Willy’s cussed skullduggery with the record company and the police raid on our pad for drug possession, we might have pulled off a big one. The real New York-Paris-London concert circuit stuff. We could have blasted our kind of music to the big blue sky. Some stuff that Willy wrote was solid gold: things about dirt life in the street; lonely nights in the last subway train; heartbreaks in the flophouses. Our songs were edged with dark dirt and grime. Kind of gritty-weird. But then, they might have been lapped up just for that.<br /></p><p>We had already recorded five songs. Then the record company’s marketing VP came up with this fuckfix caveat of dividing their risk. The Armani clad vampire wanted just three songs, to promote with two other new bands in a single CD package. That kind of deal was too much for Willy’s Everest-size ego. Willy went wild and damn near strangled the suit right there in the company’s marketing office. Willy overdid it all right, but who is normal in this sickfuck music business anyway?<br /></p><p>The second break was less spectacular but it was a break of sorts, no doubt. We had done the scratch recording of other eight songs for a demo purpose. So, we started making the rounds and plugged the demo cassettes all around. In this business, pimps find the whores, not the other way. One thing led to the other, the buzz went out of the door, and we were one day from a three nights a week contract with a glitzy, big time nightclub. We decided to celebrate in advance. Ever the street cat, Willy brought eight vials of real, quality stuff.<br /></p><p>That same fucking night the drug enforcement people broke in and caught us doped. The six unopened vials were still on the coffee table, waiting to be booked when they barged in. For his own reasons, Willy has only hazy details of the raid, but I remember myself toppling down the dingy stairs in the wee hours of that chilled morning. We were handcuffed and pushed into a NYPD van. All the way, I tried to wake up Tony C, who was so zonked that he had to be carried from the van to the police station. The buzz was that the cops got the tip-off from the record company we had tangled with. After a while, you got to be philosophical about these snakefuck things.<br /></p><p>So, 3-somethree (Willy, me and Tony C), the fusion-cult band was grounded before it could take off. I never got to wear my satin pants and leather thong and brass studded thigh-length boots. I recently traded them in a pawnshop, and bought a toolbox. Those days are like ugly old scars that don’t hurt any more, but you have to look at them in the mirror every day.<br /></p><p>Tony Chaikosky, our piano guy (Willy never acknowledged him as a co-writer) killed himself. Some say because of the troubles that his spitfire girl friend gave him, but I know better. Tony C was an ok guy. He should have got somewhere with his songs and piano but he swallowed 30 Mandrax instead. He had called me the night before the suicide: “Have you read The Catastrophe Of Success? This is like the HUAC fucking Capra under McCarthy, I don’t want any of this.”<br /></p><p>Tony C was from a very upper crust, white-collar, Russian immigrant family. Probably some second-generation aristocrats, he never spilled his back story. If Willy was the right brain of the band, Tony C was the left. He had this maddening, uncanny way of to whipping Willy’s unwieldy, shapeless lyrics into something fine-tuned and music worthy. Every time Willy wrote a song, Tony C disappeared with the stuff, for weeks at times. Then he showed up with his version. Willy and Tony C would be locked in a battle, haggling over each stanza, each word, each note, each pause. Tony C simply refused to sit on the piano stool until he made Willy see his way. He could cut Willy’s song in half, or transform it beyond recognition. If you knew Willy, that took lot of balls. Tony C would sit quietly and politely, and wouldn’t budge an inch. A riled up Willy would finally say, “Ok, let’s twistfuck this your way.” In the final recording, Willy would call all the shots, but the studio would not be booked until Tony C had fiddled with the song enough.</p><p><br />When the police busted our place and slammed us in, it was Tony C’s first and last run-in with the law. He was a family reputation type. The nights he spent in lockup screwed up the wiring inside his head. If that was not enough, this local yellow rag did a little story on us, photographs and all, quoted our songs, going as far to call us closet communists. Overnight we became red poison for the record companies in the entire U.S. of A.<br /></p><p>Every week or so, Tony C comes in my dreams. He wears these Gothic wigs and dark flowing robes. Sometime he is dressed as a transvestite cowboy and sings like John Denver. ‘Country roads take me home… to the place where I belong…’ He and his huge Steinway sway on the clouds, his long, feminine fingers float, moving like liquid porcelain. Sometimes he just smothers the white piano keys without making a sound.<br /></p><p>Willy went to the hospital for his advanced cirrhosis and I was drifting a bit after the jail episode. But Tony C’s death had really rattled me. I wanted to make a connection to the real, sane world. I had no fancy ideas about my drumming talent. You know it when you have a gift, and you know it when you are a foreman working shifts in a fucking assembly line. I looked around and latched on to the guys who used to give us the lights and equipments at the club where we occasionally played. I grease-worked the entire concert circuit with them. By the time Willy came about from his liver treatment, I had a rough business plan ready. It was an awful comedown for Willy. Took him almost two years to realize that rum had finished his voice; that no one but he saw any potential in our kind of rant. We shelled out some money together, bought the speakers and other equipment. My deaf cousin came along to handle the lights. That is how our equipment-hiring business got going. </p><p>Back to present. We finished eating the onion omelets and toast I had cooked, and hit the road. Willy drove the beat-up Mustang with his reckless bravado and flung us on the location in record time. I showed the contract papers to the wrinkled sentry huddled at the gate. He let us in. The place had the silent charge of deserted public premises. We crossed the snow-covered compound, and entered from the side door of the huge modern structure.<br /></p><p>The stars like clusters of halogen lights dangled from the dome ceiling at least a hundred feet above us. Our shoes squeaked on the shining floor. A keyboard piano, some guitar cases, drums, an African bongo set, microphone stands, and spools of wire on the stage platform looked like small toys from here. The circular, stadium-like place was big enough to hold a dozen tennis tournaments simultaneously. “The kind of place we always dreamt to gig in,” I almost said aloud as I looked at the awesome interior.</p><p><br />“Here,” Willy’s gruff voice boomed, echoless. I walked along the circular border of the floor clockwise while he shuffled anticlockwise from the same point, keeping an eye for my pace. I checked my watch. It took us almost seven minutes to complete the circle and face each other roughly at the same spot where we started. Willy handed me the end of a measure tape and crossed towards the opposite side, unspooling the reel in his hand. He made sure that the tape touched the center of the floor area; the figure gave him the radius of the circular floor. The measurements helped him decide on the speaker’s capacity, number of strobes, and electricity requirements for the big concert night-- the New Year’s Eve:<br /></p><p>The place filled up with the excited cries of a colorful, wild, wanton crowd. After the firecrackers and laser show, the stoned, long-haired, leather clad zombies emerged on the stage one by one in artificial clouds of candyfloss colors. “Ladeees and gentlemen” the lead singer paused to remember what else to say, but the shrieks from the audience compelled him to signal his band right on. His spittle flew, the microphone danced, the bass guitars swung in wide shining arcs, the key-boardist plunked with fervor, and the drumsticks went berserk. The psychedelic lights roamed the concave spaces in the ceiling and laser beams cut through the over-excited air. That yell-your-guts-out-and-punish-your-instruments routine. They started with their ‘Riders of the Storm’ imitation. Soon, the young crowd on the floor begun to sway with the high voltage flow from our mammoth speakers. They lit their happy joints, opened their cans and bottles, and tilted. The sharp, sweet needles found their home in the warm-blooded veins. The gyrating youth worked up a frenzy, like a big cattle on the run. The fluorescent shirts and leather jackets flew overhead. They all danced like maniacs. The songs, the sounds, the screams, and the noise rose and fell in big crashing waves. They sang along, sweated, their bodies moving with frantic energy. Stoned-out couples clutched each other fiercely and lusted for more. As the night screamed on, so did the pounding on the floor. The dozen bouncers and armed security men tried their bit to make sure that no one got mauled or gang raped. By two a.m., the mad crowd still stamping, the floor was covered under the gum wrappers, empty cigarettes packs, chewed-up reefers, empty liquor bottle, Ecstasy blisters, twisted syringes, crushed vials, condoms, and occasional bras and broken sandals. </p><p>We are perched here, in the closet size box above the stage, with a sound engineer sitting on the equalizer and blinking controls. My deaf cousin handles the strobe lights with this fixed look on the crowd. For every new song, he mutters “Thrill-fuck them all anyway,” and throws down a fistful of confetti on the sea of pulsating bodies.<br /></p><p>Grim faced, Willy and I pass my battered binoculars between us and look down from the glass partition. Willy as usual, resolutely ignores the band playing on the razzle dazzle stage.<br /></p><p>We search our faces, our music, our antics, our mistakes, our excess, and our bitter bygone youth in the mad, milling crowd below.<br /></p><p></p><p>...............................<br /><br /><br /></p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-17502614645146509852009-06-18T10:31:00.000-07:002009-06-18T14:02:45.023-07:00Hexagon<p></p><p>In my previous avatar as a Creative Director in the big bad advertising world of Mumbai, I supervised numerous photo shoot. The toughest part of the job? Take your pick: scouting the locations at 2000 feet above sea level in Ladakh; searching an antique gramophone as picture prop; convincing the delicate models to do the impossible at three in the morning as blinding arc lights bite their skin. The real bitch however, was handling the mad photographer, each one an animal of its own kind. I actually slapped one mister A. S. Had to, when they cost your skin, your allowance and sometimes your job!<br /></p><p>I have set this story in New York, to add some exotic air. </p><p>HEXAGON </p><p>I feel as fresh as a Daisy. </p><p>I arrange the dead bodies, all five of them, in a five pronged concentric shape--a starfish. A cut open watermelon lay precariously in the center of this star. The Prussian blue carpet I bought whimsically from Cairo is kept under them as an interesting backdrop. The carpet stinks a bit, but it will change the personality of the picture. Each head is touching the other two on either side. Their fingers are interlocked with each other’s; they would not do so willingly, tricky part, because the bodies have started to stiffen. The transparent tape did not work; it was looking very artificial and crude. Now I have used a special Poly-vinyl thread to tie the fingers together. The thread does not break, it does not show, and most important, it does not reflect the lights. </p><p>"Ding dong!" Door bell rings. </p><p>I switch off all lights; lock the studio door from outside, and walk into the hall. After closing the alley door leading to the studio, I practice a yawn without the help of a mirror and look in to the peephole. Nothing. A burning smell probably. I wait for full fifteen minutes before getting back to work. </p><p>My original idea was a rectangle with four bodies. Each head touching other’s feet. The Diamond--a linear shape. But the new idea and my girl friend Gina came almost simultaneously. I will never forget that look on her face when she entered the studio and looked at the set up. She did try to talk to the bodies thinking this could be one of my practical jokes. But she passed out when she saw that Pony’s eyes were ‘pinned’ shut. I had not put on any makeup on Pony then. </p><p>Gina is little too short and wearing wrong kind of shoes but these are small compromises. Had she come a fraction earlier, she would have been made up by Pony--a professional. Pony is NY’s most finicky makeup artist. My favorite. She spent close to three hours to give them the light blue make up, one hour each. That is fast by Pony’s standard, but I had no choice. For the special look I have in mind, nobody else could be good enough. Pony was convinced about my overall theme and the triangle idea. </p><p>"Troika. Mercedes symbol comes to my mind," she had remarked knowingly. I did Pony’s face myself. No makeup artist for a makeup artist. A bit of irony there. </p><p>Samson looks down at all of us from his perch, his green face bobbing approvingly. </p><p>"Ding dong! Ding dong!" </p><p>Again, I switch off all the lights and lock the studio door from outside. I mess up my hair as if such a thing is possible and look into the peephole. </p><p>Nothing! Only a couple of cigarette butts! I return to the studio. </p><p>Shoes, I had to clean up a few of them. Now all five shiny pairs of them are glued to the floor so that they point towards the ceiling, directly into my camera. </p><p>Attention to the most insignificant detail is part of this job. For the same reason, I banged three of them almost simultaneously. No blood, no bruises showing either. A crowbar covered in a piece of blanket does it. Plug the nose, and tape the mouth afterwards for at least fifteen minutes to be on the safe side. Dear Pony! She did not take the blow as precisely as the other three before her, but I have covered the dark welt on her neck effectively with the makeup. Clever lighting will do the rest. </p><p>All-lights now, to check the exact effect. Gina’s face has the same dreamy expression she wore when she fainted. I carefully step over a tangle of wires, bend down on my knee and kiss her tenderly, taking in a whiff of Chanel. Her angel face hardly needs any make up. </p><p>My stomach growls, takes me to the kitchen. Tap…tap…tap…tap…tap in the kitchen sink drives me crazy. Where is the goddamn plumber! I munch some chocolate cookies just to block the noise and put the coffeepot on stove. The city looks strange out of my tinted glass window, a tiny crimson and black cab chugs along the Madison Avenue. If I jump from here, I can recite Beatles' Imagine before hitting the ground. No one makes that kind of music anymore. </p><p>Back in the studio, I put the light meter on Roger’s Greek god face to verify the exposure. I have kind of hammered his mouth shut, stopping the ugly show of his perfect teeth and the blue tongue. He, pure Italian blood, arrived in NY three months back. Within days of registering with Morgan’s agency, he started to make waves on the fashion circuit. The way he carried the Armani suits on the ramp is worth a few reels of film. I never knew hetro or homo about him, now I never will. He is wearing the golden dolphin tiepin he won from me at Astoria’s gym. Those spider silk ties he talked about will be never worn. This would be his last photograph. And my swan song. </p><p>Samson screams as I reach for the room freshener, so I let it be and put some grain in his cage. His red beak munches energetically. </p><p>"Ding dong, ding dong!" </p><p>I try to calm my nerves before leaving the studio. The lights off, I sniff instinctively on the way and look in to the peephole. Nothing. No one except the cigarette butts. </p><p>Back in the studio, I poke my finger into Samson’s cage. </p><p>"Asshoole," he answers. </p><p>I still do not like the hard shadows under their chins, blue skin looks nearly black. So I change the position of overhead light box. That means I have to change the positions of other three lights and reflectors also. And take the meter readings again. I do. </p><p>I look into the viewfinder. Perfect lighting, perfect composition. Class--A make up. Ditto for expressions. History making stuff. </p><p>This Photo session started in the morning with Roger. He as usual reported earlier than expected and I took some Polaroid shots for trial. Just him. Imelda and Pony arrived by then. </p><p>Paula, now as dead as the other four is, or rather was, my model coordinator. Pony and I kind of convinced her into wearing a blue make up. "Three thousand-dollar for two hours bait smoothened the change of skin color," as Pony put it. The scar on her chin is actually a cesarean birthmark she never stopped talking about. I shall miss her, her choicest Spanish curses specially. When I smuggled her out from Mexico in my Mustang, she could hardly speak English. Now she would report to St. Peter in heaven as a hardcore New Yorker. </p><p>Imelda has kicked Gina away, spoiling the symmetry of pentagon. Again! I climb down from nine feet ladder and kick her gently. Never liked her anyway. We worked on several high profile assignments together though. Whenever I called her ‘Imelda Marcos of the West’, she would grumble that she did not have eight hundred pairs of shoes. "You have as much power as your namesake used to wield" I would say. She did not deny. Modesty is not her strongest suite. She is NY’s highest paid model but you could never guess that if you look her up in Central Park. That ninety thousands dollars a day smile is partly god's, partly hers, partly plastic surgeon’s, partly Pony’s and largely mine. Spoilt as a silly brat she is. What did it take to convince her not to bring her personal makeup man! Thank god, she came in a cab. I had not thought about the limo driver angle at all. </p><p>"Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!" </p><p>I peep into the hole. </p><p>His hefty duffel bag lies on the floor as he puffs away his nearly finished Marlboro. ‘Corman Plumbing’ is stenciled on the side of his bag. His left hand holds the helmet. He will push the button again, after finishing his cigarette, I guess. What if he decides to wear his helmet before walking in? The thought makes me smile. Little noise from behind the door should give him the time to pick up the bag with his dominant hand. </p><p>The high-pitched vibrations fill the room as I draw the figure six on the metal-engraved door with my crow bar. I open the door with my left hand. </p><p></p><p>...................................... </p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-58896255022613368272009-05-24T09:42:00.000-07:002009-05-27T12:00:19.055-07:00A Call After Midnight<p>These little flash jobs are great <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">exercise</span> in plotting. Nine out of ten times you know beforehand if the extended version will be able to hold reader's interest, or it will fall apart like a cardboard cutout. While writing the compressed piece, you also test your passion, commitment and stamina to write the full version that can take months, if not years to develop. If you, as a writer, don't find it worth sticking to, the reader <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">definitely</span> won't.<br />............................................................................................................</p><br /><p>A Call After Midnight<br /></p><br /><p>Madonna in black velvet costume <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">disappeared</span>. Bulls charging at her stopped dead and fell into yellow dust. Wild roar from the stadium turned into a shrill, incessant ring of a telephone.<br /></p><br /><p>I opened my eyes and absorbed the blurry details. Reflection of a blinking neon behind the drawn curtain confused my senses for a full minute. The outline of a dresser and ornate stool with cat's paws. Dull shine of the pewter water jug sitting on the night stand. I was in a hotel room, Grand Central, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Simla</span>. Despite the woolen blanket I felt the shiver run down my spine. I found the remote from under the pillow and switched off the AC.<br /></p><br /><p>It was the hotel phone, not my mobile that was tearing the smooth, surreal quiet of the hour. I switched on the night lamp and looked at my watch. Who could that be at 2.30 in the morning. My mind felt numb but an important fact registered - only eight people in my world knew that I was in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Simla</span> tonight. Three out of them knew about my hotel. My wife would never call me except in case of emergency. Can a woman make up her mind about a divorce at three in the morning? I doubted it. Could it be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Derreck</span> Brown ? I was negotiating a contract with him since last four months. Do I get an outsourcing business worth thirty million or my company goes down under? His day in Germany begins when I have my evening coffee. It must be 10.30 in Frankfurt now. The last, the wildest and the most mind-numbing possibility - a versatile fixer who can put Michael Clayton to shame. He was the third person who knew my whereabouts because I happened to meet him in the lobby last night and we had drinks together. I had hired him 11 years back for a job that is unmentionable here. Can he call at this time to tell me something he couldn't tell in 11 years or after five pegs of whisky? </p><br /><p>The throbbing in my head reached a crescendo as I pushed the blanket away and reached for the phone. It had stopped ringing.</p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-61527171552997533752009-05-11T11:37:00.000-07:002009-05-26T08:54:58.404-07:00Late<p>I recently read an article about serious horror writing. It argued that one can write about evil only to an extent. Beyond a point the writer's reality and his/her fictional illusion begin to merge and this tango is dangerous to say the least! Talk about writers flirting with borders of sanity. </p><p>This flash story originally won in competition rounds and got published at <a href="http://www.apollos-lyre.com/">http://www.apollos-lyre.com/</a> a couple of years back. I have posted it solely for my convenience and records. Dark, deep, and with a touch of nihilism.</p><p>.................................................................................................................</p><p>Late</p><p></p><p>Kundanlal is a bitter old man of 67, who looks 57. </p><p>He has retired after slogging as a senior accountant in the statistical department of India, Bombay office, for four decades. His secret of perfect health: “I have taken orders all my life and suffered my wife’s temper tantrums.” </p><p>Now he is forced to take care of the same woman because of her never-ending illness of chronic asthma. Every few weeks, she gets an attack; it is much worse during winters. Her endless coughing gives him sleepless nights. </p><p>He pays for the doctor’s visits and medicines. He knows that it is a waste of his precious savings. He can barely pay the recently increased rent from his pension money, but there seems no way out of this. His two sons are settled abroad, very well off, but he hates seeking any help from them; they have all but forgotten the old parents.</p><p>“This winter might be her last.” The doctor has assured him several times. </p><p>Kundanlal wakes up trembling from a ghastly nightmare - he was flying as a gracefull, dark angel of death swooping down on a delicious carcass. </p><p>It is well past midnight, his throat feels dry. On his way to the kitchen for a glass of water, Kundanlal decides to kill his wife. He picks up a hefty pillow from his bed and enters his wife’s room. </p><p>Taking care not to bump into any furniture, he circles her bed. By now his eyes get familiar with shapes and shadows in the darkness. The smells of medicines make him nauseous for a minute; a tired dog barks in distance. He bends carefully over the wife’s head, gently pulls away the tattered blanket and slams the pillow flat on her face. </p><p>“Goodbye,” he whispers and leans with all 80 pounds of him. </p><p>He keeps the pressure on for a full minute or more. There is no struggle; no flailing limbs, or desperate twists of the torso for that last lungful of oxygen. Her frail, saree- clad body lies like an old lump on the mattress. </p><p>Out of surprise and disgust, Kundanlal slowly removes the pillow from her face and switches on the table lamp. He feels for her pulse but the body is icy cold. </p><p>She is already dead, with a slight smile frozen on her face. </p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-60409186527020107282009-05-07T11:44:00.000-07:002009-05-07T11:51:08.916-07:00Dear, You Should Be Near<p>I am missing someone. So here is my poetic license </p><p>................................................................................................................ </p><p> </p><p>Oh, what a sickly strange morning it was,<br />Milkman delivered a bottle of cold beer.<br />I saw a blue bird flying through the window,<br />It sang a sweet stanza I could barely hear.<br /></p><p>The sun rose, tall trees shuffled in the wind,<br />Afternoon was no better, I could only fear.<br />I searched shapes of hopes, felt much worse,<br />How do I explain my plight—I am not a seer.<br /></p><p align="justify">As the clock galloped, I waited and waited,<br />But I could feel only the spicy touch of a tear.<br />Then I saw through the blanket of loneliness,<br />The terrible truth is—Dear, you should be near.</p><p align="justify"> </p><p align="justify">..........................................................................................</p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-44687020801118692992009-04-30T11:14:00.000-07:002009-05-04T13:17:48.538-07:00The Business Of LifeI went under the 'Are you depressed' quiz developed by the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">University</span> of Philadelphia. The verdict? Chronic. Immediate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hospitalisation</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">recommended</span>.<br /><br />Here is a story to match my mood.<br />.........................................................................................................<br /><br />She took a quick shower and put on his favorite brown and black bra and matching panties. She splashed both sides of her breasts with fake Eternity. The doorbell rang when she was getting into her black gown. "Two short, three long. Him all right," she murmured and opened the door.<br /><br />He lurched in. His beady eyes blood shot, breath full of cheap whiskey, faded brown hair over the furrowed forehead and shriveled tie half way across his polyester shirt. He whistled a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Kishor</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kumar</span> tune from sweet sixties.<br /><br />"Get me a drink." He handed over his briefcase and sat down.<br /><br />She massaged his neck and asked in a small voice: "Hard day out there?<br /><br />"As hard as it can get."<br /><br />She poured a dose of whisky for him and sat down on the easy chair in front of him.<br /><br />He gulped his drink in one swift tilt and looked around the dice-size room. A cheap plaster statue of Jesus was added to the small table by the door. He smiled and sprawled his fat self on the tattered sofa.<br /><br />He lit a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Charminar</span>. His thoughts floated on the tired traffic noises.<br /><br />"Women are either bitchy or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">witchy</span>. What type are you?" He asked.<br /><br />"That is some question. I am not bitchy, that makes me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">witchy</span>."<br /><br />"It figures. You scare me."<br /><br />"Why do I scare you? I don’t get it." The woman smiled.<br /><br />"I feel like I am playing in your hands." His voice was getting drowsy.<br /><br />"I never try to-"<br /><br />"That’s it. You make a soft putty out of me without really trying."<br /><br />"I can’t argue with a drunk." She playfully punched his shoulder and removed his tie, then led him into her bed-size bedroom.<br /><br />He put his head in her lap and stretched across the bed. She fingered his dry hair and pouted.<br /><br />"Not tonight dear," he closed his eyes.<br /><br />"It’s okay."<br /><br />She patted his hairy chest as he started snoring. She carefully lifted his head and inserted a small pillow underneath. She kissed his feverish temple, turned on her side, and fell asleep in a moment.<br /><br />Early afternoon noises penetrated her sleep. Instinctively, she reached for him before opening her eyes. He was gone.<br /><br />His forgotten toothbrush and razor rested on the sink. She went to the door to get her milk pouch and noticed a folded paper tucked under the ashtray. She read the note: Please don’t do a lip-to-lip kiss with anyone else. Five hundred rupees were stapled to the perfumed note.<br /><br />She kissed the note and stuffed the money in her purse. "Back to work," she mumbled and fought her tears.<br /><br />She hated to do last minute errands before the business begun. She checked the wooden cabinet in her bathroom for scented soaps, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Dettol</span> and towels. She always kept condoms, silk ropes, handcuffs, and things in a handy plastic box. And one strip of Viagra in her tiny fridge for special customers.<br /><br />"How cleverly I have separated my love and my work life!" She smiled and prepared for the night ahead.<br /><br /><p>..................................................................................................................</p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-32368858294357329422009-04-26T09:56:00.000-07:002009-04-26T10:40:50.792-07:00To Whomsoever It May Concern<div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center">I enjoy reading good poetry. Robert Frost is one of all time favorite. I like the work of late Mr. Arun Kolatkar, P. Surendran (very depressive) and Jeet Thayil. I am a hopeless fan of Tishani Doshi.<br /></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">I write terrbile poetry but writing them them is very useful when I feel blocked. Probably because it is a practically sensor-free form. I don't have to show off my junk to anyone else.<br />This one has no claim to high brow literature; it is written for an entirely different reason.<br /><br />To Whomsoever It May Concern - a poem in shape of a flower pot.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Instead of your slow smile,<br />or a warm, self-conscious hug,<br />I had to face that cloudy look<br />in your eyes.<br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">You didn’t cry,<br />But it was worse.<br />Tears gleamed<br />Despite your<br />feminist bravado.<br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">You smudged your<br />fautia lipstick by mistake,<br />And ran into bedroom while<br />I stood in the neutral territory,<br />Of our modest drawing room,<br />Under the eyes of nosy neighbors.<br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">I felt like a thug who had kicked<br />a helpless child. I had broken the<br />promise to fetch you for a boring<br />done-to-death tearjerker movie.<br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">You probably forgave me later,<br />But I could not, and learnt to<br />sleep through the tearjerkers<br />So that I do not have to see<br />the real thing in your eyes.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">.............................................</div>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-44407779621761981482009-04-21T09:55:00.000-07:002009-04-23T11:22:45.745-07:00Mr. Nameless<p>How I wrote it / Why I wrote it: </p><p>Loud elections, promise-spitting politicians and forthright voting are the flavour of the season. However, the real kingmakers are the bureaucrats. Khadi-clads you can change after five years or less, but those supposedly form-filling, stamp-wielding, file-pushing bureaucrats remain still as a statue, permanently frozen behind their desks. After two months of follow ups my election ID card exists only in my imagination. I will miss that one-second-in-five-years glory. </p><p></p><p></p><p>................................................................................................................<br /></p><p>Mr. Nameless<br /></p><p>We are at a place nobody would expect us to be. I am nervous because this is my first time. </p><p>It is well over midnight, and the swirling, colorful strobe lights and their wild, psychedelic patterns reflecting on everything else in the dancing bar make my head spin. I am bored to teeth. We have chosen a table that is far from the cash counter. We are facing the two feet high stage decorated like a garish dance show set. An overhead speaker camouflages our words from the possible eavesdroppers. Two dozen odd girls with various degrees of skin and flab are dancing to the tune of a fast Bollywood track. Most of the patrons are male, too absorbed in the show to notice each other or us. </p><p>The place smells of alcohol, spicy food, cigarettes and cheap perfumes. There is plenty of booze on the table but I cannot afford to lose my nerve or senses at this moment. Once again, I reach under the table and feel for the heavy plastic packet clasped between my ankles. </p><p>Mr. Nameless from MSEB dips his salted wafers into the sauce bowl and munches thoughtfully. He shows no sigh of hurry. He doesn't have an electronic punching machine, locks and levers at his office, but I do. He doesn't have to worry about minimum 54 hours a week record, the cut throat quarterly business reviews or promotions. I do. No matter, I have no choice but to comply and sit tight. So I take a sip from my watery whiskey and look at the girls. They look as bored, as desperate and as tired as I am. </p><p>Mr. Nameless looks every inch a fat cat bureaucrat in his olive green safari suit and sports a football size pot belly. His lined face shows the signs of forty years of pen-pushing and his desk bound routine. His sharp nose, pointed chin and the habit to jerk his head this way and that way reminds me of a human-size woodpecker from cartoon films. How I wish they could be extinct. </p><p>We have finished our little dialogue within a few minutes before the drinks arrived. He knows my company's requirements in black and white. Double the three phase, 440 watt, industrial lines at our Panvel factory. Put up a few additional poles between the power station and the Thane factory with capacitors and boosters to improve the Ampere ratio and the voltage. Make sure that the stolen power is not billed to the company. Make sure that local crowd or farmers do not share, damage or disrupt the power supply. Keep the transmission lines in pick conditions specially during monsoons. Maintain the minimum transmission loss ratio. Do not give new connections to other factories without our tacit permission. Keep the coals and diesel in full supply at the nearby substation irrespective of the shortage or fluctuating market rates. Do all these without involving more paper work and more sanctions from various government agencies and khadi-clads. Do this before the construction of the new unit at the factory gets in the final stage. Give informal but accurate updates on work progress. I know this chart by heart because, as per the company policy, the trial production run date from the new unit is cast in iron. </p><p>Mr. Nameless earns a salary of Rs 21000 plus allowances but he lives in three bedroom apartment at Walkeshwar, Mumbai's A-list area. He changes his car, his interiors and his physician every two years. He was operated for appendicitis at Breach Candy recently. His 19-year old son is studying at a snob-job foreign university. His daughter owns three 1000-acre farms in Nerul and Lonawala each. Her personal investments run into crores. Our company has no details of the family's bank accounts or other assets but we can make a wild guess. </p><p>The music in the dancing bar changes to a crude kawaali number. A fresh set of girls dressed in mujra costumes arrives on the stage and start their act. I feel like chewing my tongue off but I need not worry. The change in music is a boon in disguise. Mr Nameless doesn't like the kawaali either. He shakes off his slumber and tosses his final drink down the gullet. </p><p>"I need some fresh air. Are you ready?" </p><p>I thrust a hundred into a Nepalese girl's hand, signal for the bill and pay in cash. </p><p>I lift the plastic packet from under the table and follow Mr. Nameless out of the place. The road is deserted but I keep an adroit distance between him and myself. After a hundred yard walk, he turns, looks around to assure himself and enters the dark street. </p><p>He knows this place and his routine inside out. I don't. Sweat rolls down my back as I try to catch up with him. </p><p><br />We face each other as Mr. Nameless lights a rolled joint. His thick glasses reflect the dancing fire of his lighter. I feel the rush in my blood stream as the intoxicating smoke hits my face. My skin crawls in crazy anticipation of a weightless, free-floating feeling. For an illusive moment, I forget the reason why are we here, whose payroll I am on, the load inside the package and the time on my wristwatch. </p><p>"Are we ready yet?" He asks. </p><p>I fight an irrational impulse and hand over the hefty plastic packet. "You can count the number of bundles inside," I say. My voice is steady and matches my normalcy level.</p><p>"You can count the bundles." </p><p>Mr. Nameless drags hard on his white roach, like a super efficient suction pump. "I trust you." </p><p>My mobile rings as I hand over the booty and I am back to reality. The call is straight from the top. </p><p>"Excuse me." I mumble and walk a safe distance away to talk. </p><p>"Where are you? Don't drop it. It'll be done through other point man," the bossman informs me without a preamble. </p><p></p><p>"I have already dropped it." </p><p>"Damn. Get it back. Get it all back." The phone is slammed down to make it count. </p><p>My heart rate goes up like a wild bull charge on Dalal Street. After a moment of confusion, I approach Mr. Nameless from MSEB. </p><p>"It's taken care of this time. I'll tell you next time," I say, half-expecting the packet back. </p><p>I can't see Mr Namelss's face but I can hear his alcohol-tainted, ganja-induced smirk. He tosses the joint on the garbage dump and watches it die a slow death.</p><p>"May be, I am the one who gets it done," he says. </p><p>"That's not possible. We're using a different channel for this." </p><p>"Look at it this way. May be I can get it undone. I know the keys and catches, nooks and corners." His laughter echoes through the dark, witness-free street. </p><p>I have no retort for that. I don't have the advantage of being a government-protected drunk dabbler either. </p><p>Mr. Nameless from MSEB stops laughing. "The sweet is for... not getting it undone, you can tell your management," he says. </p><p>He places his fat paw on my shoulder and lets it slide down. He slips a little something into my hand. </p><p>"I pay the taxes. I am covering your end too, do you get it?" He says. </p><p>It is my turn to laugh now. We part as friends, with pearly gates of bright future wide open for both of us.</p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-37215785357850326942009-04-14T09:55:00.000-07:002009-04-16T14:34:36.055-07:00My Name Is...How I wrote it / Why I wrote it:<br /><br />It's a familiar feeling. I sit down in front of my computer and look at the blank screen with a peculiar dread. Nothing happens. So I start typing at random. Words. Phrases. Overheard remarks. A piece of headline from here and there. Loose, irrelevant, absurd, snatches from distant past and not-so-distant past. Images from half-remembered, half-imagined dreams. All of them take a stroll on the computer screen. In less than five minutes, my head feels empty, reasonably clear and certainly lighter. Receptive is the perfect word for that state of mind.<br /><br />I pour out the first draft in thirty minutes or less. And finally, word by word, sentence by sentence, a story emerges like a shy princess out of her super-protective cocoon. Pretty she is not, till I lose the sense of time and place. My tea forgotten, terrace garden overflowing with water, and I am late for the gym already. But there it is. A flash story. A princess in her perfect gown, even if I say so myself. <br /><br />................................................................................................<br /><br />My Name Is...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOrfnb8f8yLiAjWnkD6FjCtqC07BIgPQmvZsqf33epoL7iUEdSCYDnmNb82is_FZcP8F0LqGjUpiHj64FFtHgKSQHZL5a89wi7G2qbGt1YH3Qwy72olJpGOPaymaF_RmcQpKsH9sebA/s1600-h/SUCCESS.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOrfnb8f8yLiAjWnkD6FjCtqC07BIgPQmvZsqf33epoL7iUEdSCYDnmNb82is_FZcP8F0LqGjUpiHj64FFtHgKSQHZL5a89wi7G2qbGt1YH3Qwy72olJpGOPaymaF_RmcQpKsH9sebA/s320/SUCCESS.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324632791502662834" /></a><br /><br />I am late for the interview. Not because I wanted to but because of my rickety bike. I am soaked in sweat and disgust when I enter the hotel lobby. Feeling like a cheap thief in the five star ambiance, I run down the corridor, try to wash the black soot off my hands, and enter the glitzy restaurant. <br /><br />Mr. Success is waiting for me. I had met him eight years before, when he was a wiry young man, barely out of IIM-A, brimming with ideas to rock the business world. He moved faster than my imagination. The next interview took place over the phone, when I was in a telephone booth and he was in Silicon Valley, California, on the day his start up company was listed on NYSE and stock exchanges across India. He must be in his early thirties now but it doesn't show. He has added a patch of white hair, a bit of paunch and the hint of crow feet is evident, but he still wears rumpled linen jackets and looks as restless as a gnat. <br /><br />After becoming a dotcom billionaire, he started a chain of boutique hotels and organic food chain. He sold most of his patterns for undisclosed sum in US market, got married to a pretty air hostess who turned out to be more headstrong than she was supposed to. His investment went down the chute in the recent meltdown. Soon after he returned to India. Reportedly his wife branched out. Nowadays, he is seen more on party circuit than in boardroom battles. I give him my visiting card.<br /><br />He stifles a laugh and shoves the card into his pocket.<br /><br />"Funny name. I remember you alright," Mr.Success says cheerfully. "Order!" <br /><br />We start with a beer but I am slow with it. I need a clear head and a good story. I have less than 24 hours to write and file a story.<br /><br />"There is no story this time." Mr. Success looks around the place and tells me. "I am sorry to disappoint you."<br /><br />I switch on the Dictaphone anyway and take a careful sip. My beer tastes like tap water. My stomach feels hollow. I try to think of a different angle fast and draw a blank. My last three stories have landed in the editor's waste bin. This one is make or break for me. End of life line. <br /><br />"Give me something. Anything other than recession, stories of losers and promises of charlatans," I say. "I want the readers to feel good."<br /><br />Mr. Success laughs. "I am through with my retailing venture. We can never meet the projections we made to shareholders. I am selling the company to our competitor while most of the assets still hold good."<br /><br />"Still in profit?"<br /><br />"Personally yes. As a business model, no. My other investments have shrunk beyond recognition. You know that down to the last penny on the balance sheet, don't you?<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"Not much else. I am moving out of the bustle of the city. Shifting to a remote village in Uttaranchal. My wife is starting a school there. I'll have plenty of time for my family now. A long vacation away from sharks in suits. I can use some free time."<br /><br />"Yes, there'll be plenty of free time out there."<br /><br />Mr.Success shuffles the menu this way and that way. He orders a big dinner. "My last super from company's perks. Like everyone else, before the company changes hands." He raises his glass. <br /><br />"Cheers."<br /><br />I see red everywhere. There is no point in hiding my disappointment now. "This is not the kind of story I had in mind," I say.<br /><br />"No drama. No twist. No high-voltage corporate intrigues." <br /><br />"Right."<br /><br />Mr. Success leans forward, his face inches away from mine. His Brute makes me hold my breath.<br /><br />"But you are delivering, ain't you ? With a name like Failure, you are supposed to deliver a lame duck. And this will be one. Right?<br /><br />Mr. Success smiles once again and we drink the final toast to that piece of sharp dart.Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-19107105355995183412009-03-19T10:48:00.000-07:002009-03-25T10:40:50.793-07:00Joke and GraveHow I wrote it / Why I wrote it:<br /><br />I dedicate this, a little plastic gem to renowned Mr Bush and his famous expression Shock and Awe. My <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">tounge</span> is -without doubt- in cheek. So please don't send a CIA operative to my house. I have yet to place orders for some really smart American weapons!<br />........................................................................................................<br /><br />Joke and Grave<br /><br />A 14-fact file about Joke and Grave<br />(Please jot: all spilling mistakes are international)<br /><br /><br />Fact.1<br />The historical origin of the catchy title (Joke and Grave) goes back to the time when a Neanderthal picked up a fist size stone and hurled it at another. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span>’t miss. The other Neanderthal took the hit on his temple and the impact killed him on the spot. The hitter laughed and buried the other. Joke and Grave.<br /><br /><br />Fact.2<br />This directly contradicts the Fact 1 by a simple argument that millions of years before the Neanderthal roamed the earth, there were monkeys who could pick up a missile and throw it with a fair degree of precision. Despite their ridiculous status in animal hierarchy, the wild boars and certain species of wolves are renowned for their grave digging skill that rewards them with an easy meal. It is on formal records that they are still faster at it than your <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">average</span> Neanderthal. As for their joke telling skill, the arguments are equally strong, but too technical, lengthy, and full of confusing jargon for the limited scope of this simple file.<br /><br /><br />Fact.3<br />Nearly all good Jokes are at the cost of somebody’s life (and Grave). We eat (and laugh) when somebody else dies.<br />(As a practical example of this rhetoric, a Joke derived from Fact 3 is illustrated in Fact 4.)<br /><br /><br />Fact.4<br />Above mentioned Fact 3 is reversible. We die when someone has to have the last laugh.<br />(Do me a favour, think about it.)<br /><br /><br />Fact.5<br />Despite its obvious musical value, several army-chair theorists have questioned the popularity of the term Joke and Grave. They argued their case with an alternative term called Block and Rave. Its neat rhyming value notwithstanding, it never really caught on. Maybe, they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">didn</span>’t have sufficient advertising budget. These things happen.<br /><br /><br />Fact.6<br />Two hungry cats were fighting for a loaf of bread. As a result, they tore the loaf into two unequal pieces. After mauling each other, bruised and bloodied, they went to a monkey for justice. The monkey placed the bread pieces on his old fashioned weighing scale. As a result, the bigger piece tipped the balance needle, so the smart (and hungry) monkey took a hefty bite and put the remaining piece back on the scale. Now the needle tilted in favour of the other piece. The monkey chewed up a mouthful from the larger piece to balance the scale. The first piece again weighed more so... And so on and so forth.<br />By and by, the monkey had a hearty meal. Finally in his element, he grabbed both the cats by their necks, strangled them, and buried them. Joke and Grave<br /><br /><br />Fact.7<br />We finished reading the first half of the 14-fact file, the Joke part. Now let’s enter our Grave to read the rest.Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-254790678086434022009-03-17T03:46:00.000-07:002009-03-25T11:50:20.152-07:00A New LifeHow I wrote it / Why I wrote it:<br /><br />This is speed writing. It works best when you feel blocked, or get stuck with a dead-end story. Happens to me every other day! So you start writing in a void, without an idea, or a single conscious thought, or any kind of systematic planning. It takes a few minutes to put down the first skeletal draft (pure drivel), and if you believe in it, then some semblance of character/s and a plot emerges-if you are lucky. It might take a few days, weeks, or months to shape and polish it to perfection. This might be rewritten, so let's be open-minded about it!<br />...................................................................................................................<br /><br /><br />A New Life<br /><br />Her Swift <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Dsire</span></span> is doing 170 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">kms</span></span> per hour, tyres screaming, overtaking every other car on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mumbai</span></span> - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Pune</span></span> highway. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Geera</span></span> Punjabi is in the driver seat: her eyes blood shot and puffed, her blood laced with rounds of vodka, her calf muscles aching from constant pressure, and her pride shaken like a rag puppet. This is speed therapy, cleans the mental <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">clogging</span>, according to her best friend. Works best in a top down car with cool wind blowing in your face!<br /><br />"I can use a cigarette," she mutters an oft-repeated sentence from her college years.<br /><br />Irrationally fragmented images of her life wheezes past like green trees and waving shrubs in the car window. Dad's posting all over the country. Schools, schools and more schools. Bicycle injuries. Cousins' marriages. Love affairs that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">costed</span></span> a few years of life and her college degree. Sudden marriage into money and high-rise respectability that turned out to be hollow. Wayward husband. Kids that grew too fast. She lifts her foot from accelerator paddle against her wishes She slows down the car and stops at a toll booth. The uniformed man touches her white, manicured hand on sly as he accepts the money and hands over the ripped receipt.<br /><br />"Sick bastard," she mumbles and slams her foot down. The speed needle hits 180 in a few seconds. She enters an endless claustrophobic tunnel. An intestine of a giant beast. Overhead lights reminds her of an endless, fake diamond necklace. She blinks, breathes easy as her car emerges into blinding bright sunshine. She has an idea to punish her husband. But there are catches. She still loves him. Two kids who can go either way, so divorce is out of question. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Nevertheless</span> she has to teach him lesson for being a regular customer of certain 'pleasure establishment,' as the the detective agency has phrased it in the report. Why can't he be open about it and talk to her instead? There is no answer.<br /><br />She check the truck and her face in the rear view mirror. Is that nose too big? What happened to the full bloom lips that fascinated him so much? Has she grown that old and unattractive? She studies the mirror. It is a split second delay in her reaction that glances her car against an overtaking car. Impact makes a terrible metallic scream. An impatient Jeep rider from the other side forces her to twist the steering wheel, but the air pressure in the wheels hasn't been checked for a week, so the car skids a few feet before it can go straight. She brakes hard, a terrible mistake. Her elbow hits the door panel from the impact and goes numb. Next moment she is in the way of a truck too loaded to slow down in hurry. Her car turn a neat 90 degree on sudden impact, is thrown clear off the road. It slams into the railing that comes loose, twists and breaks. The car turns over like a cheap plastic toy. A slow black out.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Geera</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Panjabi</span></span> is sprawled in her seat, hanging on the cracked steering wheel, her feet still in one piece. The engine finally dies down. She passes out on and off. In her subconscious state, she pulls up her feet and waits in the wrecked car. A lapse of time she is unable fathom and an overpowering <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">stuffiness</span> resulting from fumes of petrol. Her eyes open as if in deep sleep. A white Ambassador taxi stops by. A thin man climbs down. He examines the damage and looks inside the car. "She is probably..." he yells to his companion sitting in the car. They try to open <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Geera's</span></span> car. She pretends to be unconscious.<br /><br />"She is till warm," the man mutters as they pull her out through the shattered wind shield. She is thrilled by the touch of another life. "That feels good," she mumble in delirium.<br /><br />"Are you okay?" the man asks as she tries to stand up on her feet and falls.<br /><br />She wakes up in a speeding ambulance. An unknown face looks down at her.<br /><br />"It feels good to be alive," she tells herself. "My mobile phone, three silk dresses and crockery in the backseat...Rotary meeting...younger kid's report card for..."<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Geera</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Panjabi</span></span> smiles despite a dead hand, an oxygen mask and an IV bottle swinging over her head.<br /><br />She knows what to do with her new life.Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-1308002052798428192009-03-12T12:32:00.000-07:002009-03-24T11:09:19.325-07:00Mahendra Waghela's BlogThis is merely a pompous announcement. More for me, less for the search engines and readers. A kind of self-affirmation, that now onwards I have to churn out something meaningful every week or so, hopefully with the elusive muse sitting on my shoulder. Or, as Jack London famously said, "You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club."Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-29473774300948692812009-03-11T02:34:00.000-07:002009-03-30T15:08:53.765-07:00Write Right!<p>How I Wrote It / Why I Wrote It:<br /></p><br /><p>Every budding writer thinks of making it big. Million dollar advances. Critics going crazy or baying for blood. Jealous peers. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Paparazzi</span> followers. Interview in the news papers and on TV. Wild adulation. Crazy fan mails. Invitation to exclusive parties. Honorary membership in snooty clubs. Hobnobbing with other celebrities. Joining the rich and famous circles. Standard Elvis Presley fantasies. But there could be a dark down side, or buried wounds behind flashing cameras and exclusive sound bytes. That was the idea that spurred me on.</p>...................................................................................................................<br /><br /><p>The Price of Success </p><br /><p><br /></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcPN_OS6Xpbt-ii7BrqRHrQek5E7a_dFeR9TB6GKOHgEaFc3g7cJufK7UmCpBbg-nl9geirAwA6aLGxR2GQ31y61w-NayKQN3hzj31y61_AQG3CGKt4p8wcgabFTvTq4-WwoSwy4-gQ/s1600-h/east_old_books_330_330x353.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319105782845024690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 330px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 353px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcPN_OS6Xpbt-ii7BrqRHrQek5E7a_dFeR9TB6GKOHgEaFc3g7cJufK7UmCpBbg-nl9geirAwA6aLGxR2GQ31y61w-NayKQN3hzj31y61_AQG3CGKt4p8wcgabFTvTq4-WwoSwy4-gQ/s400/east_old_books_330_330x353.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p>He parked his battered scooter in the dark, deserted basement and climbed up two stories worth of stairs. "Goddamn elevator! First thing to do is to buy a decent house in the proper locality." Overnight celebrity author of ‘PAST ’ mumbled out of breath. The impromptu press conferences after the prize announcements had left him bitter, confused, exhausted and disoriented. This was his first run in with the celebrity journalism. </p><br /><p>He saw a dozen bouquets sat waiting outside his apartment door. The sight of flowers soothed his nerves somewhat. The yellow roses in a shiny golden clasp, the daffodils in a bamboo basket, a bunch of pink-red orchids in the ornate terracotta pot and several others. Most of the flowers he could recognize, but not the names of the senders. He put down his leather case, crouched on the floor, and started reading the rectangle tags. One with the blue roses caught his eye.</p><br /><p>‘HEARTY COMPLEMENTS AND BEST WISHES FROM<br />K. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">MENON</span>’. </p><br /><p>The handwriting hadn't changed since the school days. Same outlandish flourishes to Rs and Ms.<br />"Hey," he thought, "Kali, you remember me all right, how would you get my address!" He fought tears as he visualized his friend he had not met for twenty-one years. Why has Rosanna not taken the bouquets inside, he wondered. His wife loved flowers too much to let them wither away outside. His wrist watch showed 12.45 . They must have delivered after she was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">asleep</span>. This courier people must insist on signed acknowledgement, he mumbled. He entered the apartment with the blue rose bouquet from Kali <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Menon</span>. </p><br /><p>Rosanna grabbed his arms and cried out ‘Patrick!’ </p><br /><p>He took her in his arms, and looked around in the drawing room. Every inch of space, all three chairs, the sofa, their broad arm rests, the battered coffee table, the telephone stand, the window sills, the mantle place, the top of book case and even lampshade and the entire floor was laden under flower bouquets, baskets, gift wrapped bundles and colourful junk. The worn brown linoleum floor was invisible. He accidentally kicked a flower basket when she loosened her embrace. The room held a peculiar mix of fragrance. The husband and wife looked into each other’s eyes. </p><br /><p>"You did it," she said in a tear-streaked voice. </p><br /><p>"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Hmm</span>." </p><br /><p>"What took you so long?"</p><br /><p>"My agent suggested an urgent press conference. It is all convoluted, clever marketing now. I am dead. What I say is through the media, or what they interpret and announce on my behalf. My publicist's fabrications carry more weight now than what I say, do, or feel. I am a celebrity. I cannot be myself. It is irresponsible, too risky. I cannot afford to be me anymore." </p><br /><p>"Come off it. There are some telegrams. A citation from the president, can you beat that?" </p><br /><p>Rosana, a 41-year old woman clad in faded robe, jumped over the bouquets and reached under the table to retrieve a stack of telegram among evening papers carrying his photos. He read and reread the message from Kali till he could not take it any more. </p><br /><p>"Shall I heat up the soup and serve the dinner now?" his wife asked.</p><br /><p>"I am not hungry anymore," he said as the room full of flowers begun to close in on him.</p>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648719425220175328.post-36718842648865529762009-03-09T10:39:00.000-07:002009-04-21T10:28:59.356-07:00She Wore A Red Ribbon<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDaj9R-D2-L_RgI5Ekfz5VyQGY1u44tVX5p7i2K0FMfSiFBrdbitnqNYeIAMBsu25f6Dcwb9HQOxdxWWqS8IhW9AswMa8O0_1RhIXTkpr04RQqmGT9_ozfM9M0FVMDUtjvHp62jCAbQ/s1600-h/2007-Wallpaper-Bikini.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319102169564886466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 333px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDaj9R-D2-L_RgI5Ekfz5VyQGY1u44tVX5p7i2K0FMfSiFBrdbitnqNYeIAMBsu25f6Dcwb9HQOxdxWWqS8IhW9AswMa8O0_1RhIXTkpr04RQqmGT9_ozfM9M0FVMDUtjvHp62jCAbQ/s400/2007-Wallpaper-Bikini.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>HOW I WROTE IT:<br /><br /><br />The merciless epidemic AID has inspired countless number of stories, films, dramas, and novels. Here is my take. How did I write it? The idea came when I visited a friend of mine at a Design Institute. I saw countless number of young students mingling in the cafeteria, in the lush compound, and the restaurants outside the Institute.<br /><br />I wrote the story in one sitting but had pretty tough time coming up with a twist for a few months! Then I polished and polished till my fingers ached and I felt sick my self. First person narratives sound arrogant at times, but I find it intimate, and that is the way I write most of the time.<br /><br /><br />The title sounds too much like John Wayne's Western 'She Wore a Yellow Ribbon' because, I leafed through an old classic Hollywood movie guide and got the neat idea for the title.<br /><br /><br />Here is the story. Enjoy!<br />................................................................................................<br /><br />She Wore A Red Ribbon<br /><br />Pale sunshine braved through the icy blue sky. A nip in the morning air made my skin tingles. The 1500 cc engine throbbing under me, I turned right under the arch of Pyramid, the cutting edge design institute of Asia. The happy young crowd milled about. Many of these pony-tailed and pierced ears types would take up their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">prima</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">donna</span> jobs at Esprit, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Braun</span>, or Swatch. A few might end up in drug rehabilitation centers. I passed the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">avant</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">garde</span> facade of the main building and reached the girls’ hostel complex. All the guards knew me by now, but as per the rule, I asked the guard anyway to call Nora Kandinsky from c-714.<br /><br /><br />I parked the bike and strolled between the rows of well-maintained shrubs. The yellows of marigold in pots competed with the pinks of palm-sized roses. The shiny dew on emerald leaves had yet to dry. The aroma of fried eggs and wails of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">UB</span>40 from the canteen filled the air.<br />There. A bird announced her arrival. She ran down the marble steps, all 17 of them. She wore a screaming yellow shirt, tomato red pants, and a matching wristband. A red ribbon fluttered from her hair. The only sober color about her was my khaki sweater dangling from her shoulder. The young guard gave her an eyeful as she crossed the gate. Looking at the rhythm of her breasts, I tried not to smile. She handed her leather bag to me and pulled on the sweater.<br /><br /><br />"These silly elastic bands." Her head emerged through the neck of the garment: an angel’s face without cheekbones. No lipstick for those lips.<br /><br /><br />"It is designed for men," I started a half-hearted argument.<br /><br /><br />"Not by a Pyramid designer!"<br /><br /><br />"Why don’t you return it to me? You were to keep it for only one semester." I felt a mild stir in my groin as remembered the day we went on a drive in my convertible, the bet she won because her silk scarf turned out to be wider than the seat width. She had kept the sweater from that day.<br /><br /><br />"Till death do us part," she announced.<br /><br /><br />She led me to the furthest bench from the gate. I guessed - demand for a lavish dinner today. Or she might have received a long-winded letter from her home and wanted a ‘serious conversation.’ Probably both.<br /><br /><br />We sat down under the acacia. She dug into her pocket and picked out three chocolate nuggets. She offered me one with a tilt of her head.<br /><br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Nikky</span>, how old are you?" I pointed at the chocolates.<br /><br /><br />"I am seven, 17 or 70. How does that matter now?" She started chewing. With a few deft movements, she made a peacock out of the gold foil wrapper.<br /><br /><br />"You seem to be all right. Your blood reports came back normal? Any fever since we met last fortnight?"<br /><br /><br />A long spell of silence connected us. I tried what I was good at.<br /><br /><br />"Where have you been?" She pushed my face away.<br /><br /><br />"I was down with a nasty flu for a week. And then the soda ash delivery business, I told you about. Too much travelling these days. I called you, but your hostel phone was dead." I patted my mobile on her knees.<br /><br /><br />"What are these trips all about?"<br /><br /><br />"Sales calls and stuff like that. Are you taking the medicine? Better to finish the complete dose."<br /><br /><br /><br />Her fever was the third instance in this semester. She never fell ill so easily.<br /><br /><br />She tugged at me but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">wouldn</span>’t look in my eyes.<br /><br /><br />"You missed me, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">didn</span>’t you?" I held her tight. "I have found a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">fundoo</span> Thai restaurant. Let me take you out for a spicy, candlelit dinner tonight."<br /><br /><br />A vein on her smooth brown neck throbbed imperceptibly. I kept my arm on her shoulder, but her smile was missing.<br /><br /><br />She turned to hold my face in her tiny hands and checked me, like a plastic surgeon looking for a flaw. She rubbed her nose on my chin and pecked. No comments about my new aftershave. I propped her up on the bench and started to kiss. With a sudden pull, she snatched away from me. She raised her hand and slapped me. Hard.<br /><br /><br />"What the f..." Tears in her eyes stopped me dead.<br /><br /><br />I looked around to see if anybody was looking at us. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Nikky</span> got up. She and her stupid leather bag. She pulled out some papers and thrust them in my face. I was too mad to read but the word HIV+ registered. One paper had a logo of twisted red ribbon.<br /><br /><br />The traffic noise seemed to die down; green leaves and branches above me were a green blur, the hostel building swayed gently in distance. A squabble was on in the canteen. I felt a man-size hole in my stomach.<br /><br /><br />"I am volunteering for a HIV drug experiment program," she whispered.</div>Mahendra Waghelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494316880961258666noreply@blogger.com0