A Grassroot Solution

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hardik fixes his gaze on Mohan. "You are not going anywhere till the we turn this right side up."

"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.

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."

"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.

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?"

Praksh looks at me.

"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.

"Everyone wants out, but how?" Mohan asks no one in particular and drags hard on his cigarette.

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."

"You will take care for her? To bury something like this is hard, if not impossible," I say.

"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."

"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.

"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.

"What is the alternative?" I ask. "Apart from the dough delivery?"

"Self immolation." Mohan spits the flakes of tobacco in the wash basin and glares at me.

"I never thought she could go to police. She was almost enjoying it by the end," I say.

"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."

"There is no way this tribal specimen can make anything stick to us."

"If the investigation does not start, that is."

"There is another possibility." Prakash says.

"Oh yes?"

"I marry her."

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.

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."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

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.

"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."

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.

"What will you do with the money?" I ask the stupid question to fill the deathly silence.

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."

Hardik takes control again and stomps his Reebok on the floor. He decides for all of us. "Okay, let's do this."

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.

A Call After Midnight

These little flash jobs are great exercise 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 definitely won't.
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A Call After Midnight

Madonna in black velvet costume disappeared. 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.

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, Simla. 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.

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 Simla 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 Derreck 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?

The throbbing in my head reached a crescendo as I pushed the blanket away and reached for the phone. It had stopped ringing.

Dear, You Should Be Near

I am missing someone. So here is my poetic license

................................................................................................................

Oh, what a sickly strange morning it was,
Milkman delivered a bottle of cold beer.
I saw a blue bird flying through the window,
It sang a sweet stanza I could barely hear.

The sun rose, tall trees shuffled in the wind,
Afternoon was no better, I could only fear.
I searched shapes of hopes, felt much worse,
How do I explain my plight—I am not a seer.

As the clock galloped, I waited and waited,
But I could feel only the spicy touch of a tear.
Then I saw through the blanket of loneliness,
The terrible truth is—Dear, you should be near.

..........................................................................................

The Business Of Life

I went under the 'Are you depressed' quiz developed by the University of Philadelphia. The verdict? Chronic. Immediate hospitalisation recommended.

Here is a story to match my mood.
.........................................................................................................

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.

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 Kishor Kumar tune from sweet sixties.

"Get me a drink." He handed over his briefcase and sat down.

She massaged his neck and asked in a small voice: "Hard day out there?

"As hard as it can get."

She poured a dose of whisky for him and sat down on the easy chair in front of him.

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.

He lit a Charminar. His thoughts floated on the tired traffic noises.

"Women are either bitchy or witchy. What type are you?" He asked.

"That is some question. I am not bitchy, that makes me witchy."

"It figures. You scare me."

"Why do I scare you? I don’t get it." The woman smiled.

"I feel like I am playing in your hands." His voice was getting drowsy.

"I never try to-"

"That’s it. You make a soft putty out of me without really trying."

"I can’t argue with a drunk." She playfully punched his shoulder and removed his tie, then led him into her bed-size bedroom.

He put his head in her lap and stretched across the bed. She fingered his dry hair and pouted.

"Not tonight dear," he closed his eyes.

"It’s okay."

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.

Early afternoon noises penetrated her sleep. Instinctively, she reached for him before opening her eyes. He was gone.

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.

She kissed the note and stuffed the money in her purse. "Back to work," she mumbled and fought her tears.

She hated to do last minute errands before the business begun. She checked the wooden cabinet in her bathroom for scented soaps, Dettol 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.

"How cleverly I have separated my love and my work life!" She smiled and prepared for the night ahead.

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To Whomsoever It May Concern

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.

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.
This one has no claim to high brow literature; it is written for an entirely different reason.

To Whomsoever It May Concern - a poem in shape of a flower pot.




Instead of your slow smile,
or a warm, self-conscious hug,
I had to face that cloudy look
in your eyes.

You didn’t cry,
But it was worse.
Tears gleamed
Despite your
feminist bravado.

You smudged your
fautia lipstick by mistake,
And ran into bedroom while
I stood in the neutral territory,
Of our modest drawing room,
Under the eyes of nosy neighbors.

I felt like a thug who had kicked
a helpless child. I had broken the
promise to fetch you for a boring
done-to-death tearjerker movie.

You probably forgave me later,
But I could not, and learnt to
sleep through the tearjerkers
So that I do not have to see
the real thing in your eyes.

.............................................

Mr. Nameless

How I wrote it / Why I wrote it:

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.

................................................................................................................

Mr. Nameless

We are at a place nobody would expect us to be. I am nervous because this is my first time.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"I need some fresh air. Are you ready?"

I thrust a hundred into a Nepalese girl's hand, signal for the bill and pay in cash.

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.

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.

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.

"Are we ready yet?" He asks.

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.

"You can count the bundles."

Mr. Nameless drags hard on his white roach, like a super efficient suction pump. "I trust you."

My mobile rings as I hand over the booty and I am back to reality. The call is straight from the top.

"Excuse me." I mumble and walk a safe distance away to talk.

"Where are you? Don't drop it. It'll be done through other point man," the bossman informs me without a preamble.

"I have already dropped it."

"Damn. Get it back. Get it all back." The phone is slammed down to make it count.

My heart rate goes up like a wild bull charge on Dalal Street. After a moment of confusion, I approach Mr. Nameless from MSEB.

"It's taken care of this time. I'll tell you next time," I say, half-expecting the packet back.

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.

"May be, I am the one who gets it done," he says.

"That's not possible. We're using a different channel for this."

"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.

I have no retort for that. I don't have the advantage of being a government-protected drunk dabbler either.

Mr. Nameless from MSEB stops laughing. "The sweet is for... not getting it undone, you can tell your management," he says.

He places his fat paw on my shoulder and lets it slide down. He slips a little something into my hand.

"I pay the taxes. I am covering your end too, do you get it?" He says.

It is my turn to laugh now. We part as friends, with pearly gates of bright future wide open for both of us.

My Name Is...

How I wrote it / Why I wrote it:

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.

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.

................................................................................................

My Name Is...



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.

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.

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.

He stifles a laugh and shoves the card into his pocket.

"Funny name. I remember you alright," Mr.Success says cheerfully. "Order!"

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.

"There is no story this time." Mr. Success looks around the place and tells me. "I am sorry to disappoint you."

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.

"Give me something. Anything other than recession, stories of losers and promises of charlatans," I say. "I want the readers to feel good."

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."

"Still in profit?"

"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?

"Yes."

"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."

"Yes, there'll be plenty of free time out there."

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.

"Cheers."

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.

"No drama. No twist. No high-voltage corporate intrigues."

"Right."

Mr. Success leans forward, his face inches away from mine. His Brute makes me hold my breath.

"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?

Mr. Success smiles once again and we drink the final toast to that piece of sharp dart.

Joke and Grave

How I wrote it / Why I wrote it:

I dedicate this, a little plastic gem to renowned Mr Bush and his famous expression Shock and Awe. My tounge 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!
........................................................................................................

Joke and Grave

A 14-fact file about Joke and Grave
(Please jot: all spilling mistakes are international)


Fact.1
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 didn’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.


Fact.2
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 average 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.


Fact.3
Nearly all good Jokes are at the cost of somebody’s life (and Grave). We eat (and laugh) when somebody else dies.
(As a practical example of this rhetoric, a Joke derived from Fact 3 is illustrated in Fact 4.)


Fact.4
Above mentioned Fact 3 is reversible. We die when someone has to have the last laugh.
(Do me a favour, think about it.)


Fact.5
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 didn’t have sufficient advertising budget. These things happen.


Fact.6
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.
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


Fact.7
We finished reading the first half of the 14-fact file, the Joke part. Now let’s enter our Grave to read the rest.

A New Life

How I wrote it / Why I wrote it:

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!
...................................................................................................................


A New Life

Her Swift Dsire is doing 170 kms per hour, tyres screaming, overtaking every other car on Mumbai - Pune highway. Geera 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 clogging, according to her best friend. Works best in a top down car with cool wind blowing in your face!

"I can use a cigarette," she mutters an oft-repeated sentence from her college years.

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 costed 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.

"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. Nevertheless 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.

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.

Geera Panjabi 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 stuffiness 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 Geera's car. She pretends to be unconscious.

"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.

"Are you okay?" the man asks as she tries to stand up on her feet and falls.

She wakes up in a speeding ambulance. An unknown face looks down at her.

"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..."

Geera Panjabi smiles despite a dead hand, an oxygen mask and an IV bottle swinging over her head.

She knows what to do with her new life.

Mahendra Waghela's Blog

This 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."

Write Right!

How I Wrote It / Why I Wrote It:

Every budding writer thinks of making it big. Million dollar advances. Critics going crazy or baying for blood. Jealous peers. Paparazzi 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.

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The Price of Success

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.

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.

‘HEARTY COMPLEMENTS AND BEST WISHES FROM
K. MENON’.

The handwriting hadn't changed since the school days. Same outlandish flourishes to Rs and Ms.
"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 asleep. This courier people must insist on signed acknowledgement, he mumbled. He entered the apartment with the blue rose bouquet from Kali Menon.

Rosanna grabbed his arms and cried out ‘Patrick!’

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.

"You did it," she said in a tear-streaked voice.

"Hmm."

"What took you so long?"

"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."

"Come off it. There are some telegrams. A citation from the president, can you beat that?"

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.

"Shall I heat up the soup and serve the dinner now?" his wife asked.

"I am not hungry anymore," he said as the room full of flowers begun to close in on him.