Melting Pot

Three Fat Ladies with Purses (Part 3)

2010-11-07T16:44:00.002+05:30

“I’m so glad to finally meet you. You are more beautiful than I had imagined you to be”

This was what Pat wanted to say. Instead, he said – “Ahem. Grrr. Ahem” or something to that effect.

“This place is quite boring. Don’t you think?”, Patricia looked intently at Pat when saying these words. The words and the stare were singularly potent enough to unnerve Pat. The combination, was lethal.

“I agree. I am actually quite poor at the choice of places. If I ever date you again, the chances of which seem very remote, I’d rather have you choose the place. For me, your company is all that matters”

This was Pat wanted to say. Instead, he said – “Errr…the soup is good”

“You don’t speak much. Do you? Anyway, men shouldn’t speak much”, Patricia decided to give the soup a try.

“Yes. Yes. If you want, I will keep my lips pursed all my life”

This was what Pat wanted to say. And he said it as well. But his volume was so low that Patricia didn’t hear the stupidity rolling off his tongue.

“And when they speak, they should sound powerful. As if they command the world”, Patricia said, while taking a whiff off her soup.

As Pat was digesting these words, his cellphone rang. He did not want to answer it, but he had to. It was his boss.

“Pat, where the hell is the document I had asked you to send this morning”, barked a shrill voice from the other end.

Pat glanced at Patricia. She was busy with her soup. He whispered,” I will send it out in an hour.” The phone got disconnected. Pat raised hi voice,” or maybe tomorrow. Listen, I am busy with someone, I mean something, important right now. I will do that later. Now, don’t disturb me”, He kept pressing the ‘disconnect’ button, fearing another call while he was dictating his emphatic monologue.

Patricia was still gazing at her soup. Apparently, she had not noticed. “Damn it”, Pat mumbled.

Patricia laughed a quite little laugh to herself.

Three Fat Ladies With Purses (Part 2)

2010-06-12T17:50:00.002+05:30

Before Pat could comprehend the sudden and strange gesture, Professor Darlington had already made himself comfortable on the opposite seat, placed a glittering silver box on the table, taken a cigar out of it, lit it, pursed it between his lips, pocketed the box and even made a perfectly circular ring of smoke.

Perhaps, it was the ring that blew Pat’s top.

“Who the hell are you?” he cursed.

“My name is Christopher Darlington; Professor Christopher Darlington”, the sing-song voice was so flawlessly rehearsed that Pat had a déjà vu.

“Professor what?”, Pat cried, as if he hadn’t caught the name, though it was hard to believe given the Professor’s enunciated diction.

“Professor Christopher Darlington”, the rhythm reverberated. Pat would have had another déjà vu if it wasn’t for the Professor doffing his hat synchronously with the enunciation of his name.

Pat looked at him. He looked at Pat.

Pat raised his eyebrows. He smiled.

Pat sniggered. He smiled.

Pat winced. He smiled and blew out another ring of smoke from his cigar.

Pat smiled. He began to speak,” You must be wondering why I am an unwelcome guest at your table. Well, don’t”.

Pat kept his ears focused in anticipation of a few more words. Apparently, none were forthcoming.

A waiter arrived; a different one. Perhaps, it would have hurt the self-esteem of the previous waiter to see the man he was trying to throw out, enjoying the costliest wine in town. He poured the shining liquid into two glasses and promptly left.

By now, Pat had started feeling indebted to the man, strange as he may have been. Not only had he jumped in to rescue him from an uncomfortable situation but had also bought him expensive wine. Questioning the motives of such a generous man would be blasphemy. Mum’s the word, he thought.

“So, how is Patricia?”, the professor enquired as he put out his cigar against the ash tray.

Pat was surprised. Pat was shocked. Pat was afraid. This man could be Patricia’s father, or elder brother. But then he remembered – Patricia’s last name wasn’t Darlington. Was he an uncle? Was he an omnipotent man who had known everything all along and was now here to take his case? Or was he the devil?

“I believe she left before I could come here”, the professor continued. Apparently, Pat’s consternation had escaped his glance.

“Did Patricia invite you here?”, Pat murmured.

“Not really”, the Professor seemed quite matter-of-fact now. But then, he smiled and said,” Drink the wine, my boy”

Pat was transfixed into a limbo. Quite awkwardly, he found the circumstances of the situation resembling those of his first date with Patricia. In both cases, he didn’t know the next step, but kept taking it as if an invisible hand was leading him. He gulped the wine glass empty in one shot.

“What are you thinking, Pat?”, the Professor asked.

Wine had the strange power of disabling Pat’s lying faculties. He knew Patricia had exploited it several times. Did this man know about it too?

“Nothing, just about my first date with Patricia”, he uttered, and then realized he had uttered it.

The Professor placed his hat on the table and leaned back on the chair, wine glass in his hand, and spoke colloquially - “Tell me about it”

Three Fat Ladies With Purses (Part 1)

2010-06-07T11:53:00.000+05:30

“Would you like anything else, sir?”, the waiter’s honey-soaked voice broke his reverie. He turned around and found his eyes meeting the disdain-filled ones of the man in the white pantsuit. He replayed the words in his mind; the tone was more sarcastic than considerate.

The waiter spoke again, “Anything else, sir?”. The derision was unmistakable. He might as well have said,” Pay the bill, get up and get moving. She ain’t coming back and I have customers waiting – other customers whose better halves don’t have to go through the ignominy that was inflicted upon the lady who was sitting opposite to you. So, make yourself scarce, will you?”

“Can you give me a moment please”, Pat found the strength to say something intelligible.

“Most certainly, gentleman”, the waiter curled his lips and proceeded to the next table.

Pat sunk his head into his palms, trying to figure out something that he had not been able to figure out for some years. He was not expecting such an abrupt end – either to his plans of a perfect evening or to his relationship with Patricia.

He lifted his head and found the head waiter making his way to his table. They really wanted him out of this place, quick. As the burly moustached man inched closer, Pat found his self-respect screaming for redemption. There was a pause before the head waiter spoke.

“Sir, Would you like anything else or should we get the bill?”, he hissed.

“Yes, most certainly. 1976, Bordeaux. Quick”

Pat could not believe his ears. Who was this man who had lunged from behind the head-waiter and cackled an order for the most expensive wine in the restaurant? The head waiter promptly departed.

“My name is Christopher Darlington; Professor Christopher Darlington. Mind if I take a seat?”, the strange man bellowed.

The Sixth Day (Part 6)

2010-04-30T12:47:00.002+05:30

Day 6

“Your smile is glittering as brightly as the glass door of the coffee shop”, he uttered, shifting his glance from the doorman cleaning the entrance door to her.

“Was that a compliment?”, she asked, bemused.

“Did it sound like one?”, he replied.

There was a momentary silence.

And then, both of them burst into laughter, on a joke that only the two of them could understand. But then, did it need to be understood by someone else?

His phone rang again. He saw the display, and stood up, excusing himself from her presence and started to walk towards the door.

“What?”, he scathed into the speaker, visibly miffed.

“Nothing sir, just wanted to apologize to you. We could not accommodate your recommendation of the out of turn promotion your friend.”, the voice from other side spoke.

“What? Are you insane…”, the voice interrupted before he could express his bewilderment, “Sorry sir, but we had to promote an employee whose performance had been too exceptional this year that it could not have been ignored. And we had only one vacancy.”

“Do you know my friend’s name?”, he queried, gradually coming to terms with the turn of events, his voice tinted with pride.

“No, sir.”, the voice replied.

The Sixth Day (Part 5)

2010-04-26T10:21:00.001+05:30

Day 4

“Why are you disconnecting my phone?”

“I can’t talk right now.”

“Go to hell”

Day 5

“Don’t be angry. She must have a genuine reason”, he repeated to himself, as his indifferent eyes scanned through another cursory turn of the newspaper pages. As he ran out of pages to turn, he scanned the room – searching for some other means to calm his thoughts with. It is amazing how the littlest of things can trigger off a volcano when your anger is close to reaching its escape velocity. This time, it was the familiar ring of his phone. He swore as he searched for the source of the sound, unable to locate the contraption buried deep beneath the piles of strewn about clothes. He finally found it. The ringing had stopped. He was about to shatter the instrument to pieces, as it rang again.

It was her call.

“You know what? I got promoted.”

“What? When? How?”

“I just got off the phone with my boss, he told me I’m getting a raise from next month, and my own office. Can you believe it – my own office?”

It took him some time to digest the information. As the words assimilated themselves into his brain, his anger seemed to evaporate away in wisps of fume. He forgot why he was angry.

“That is brilliant. I am so happy for you.”, he shrieked into the phone, his voice louder than hers.

“Thanks. I could not have done this without you.”, she replied.

“Without us”, he corrected.

The Sixth Day (Part 4)

2010-04-20T13:48:00.000+05:30

Day 3

“Why can’t you behave yourself in public?”

“What did I do now?”

“Couldn’t you have been a little nicer when my friend was around? No, you had to throw your tantrums at that exact moment, didn’t you?”

“I was as nice as I could have been given the way you have been talking to me today.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about?”

“Yes. I was hoping you could have at least appreciated my coming to town to meet you.”

“Then don’t come if it is such an inconvenience.”

“I can’t understand you. You don’t believe in public display of affection but have great affinity for public display of anger.”

“Yes, you can never understand me. And you will also not understand how tense I am about my promotion.”

At that moment, he got up on the pretext of attending a call on his cellphone and walked out of the restaurant. Five minutes later, he returned with a small teddy bear clutched in his hands. It elicited a feeble smile from her.

The people in the restaurant had been treated to their share of entertainment.

The Sixth Day (Part 3)

2010-04-15T15:02:00.000+05:30

Day 2

“You have no new messages” – his cellphone displayed the same message for the forty seventh time in the last forty seven minutes. As he continued his diatribes against the poor network and things related, his watch testified that he had now been waiting for a full six hours in that “stupid” leather jacket she had bought for him. He was prepared to wait for more.

As the perspiration started running down his spine, he decided it was high time he took off the jacket, only if temporarily. And as he was in the process of doing that, the phone rang.

He tried to shrug off the jacket but it won’t budge. He made a valiant effort to pull it off with his straitjacketed hands as the phone went on buzzing. Hands weren’t doing the trick, he buried his teeth, against his pro-vegetarianism resolutions, into the expensive animal hide. The phone stopped ringing.

Fifteen minutes later, he was rushing off his bike as the jacket lay still on the couch.

He met her at the designated place. She had her head clasped in her hands. As he greeted her, the headache-ridden smile on her face was evident. He offered her tea, coffee, pizza, ice cream and his head in that particular order. She would have none of it. Then, she exclaimed – “You know why I asked you to come here?”

He looked around at the tall pillars and the Victorian sculpture of the building, tried to make some pseudo-romantic guesses but only managed to descend a grade further in her eyes in terms of his emotional intellect.

“This is the place I wrote you my first letter from. This building used to be the city’s post office”, she winced.

His mind went back to that framed letter that had remained closeted in his drawer since ages, and the emotion that had overwhelmed him when he had first read it. He saw a second version coming.

She turned around. “I’m really worried about my promotion. Hope everything works out for the best”, the concern in her voice was unmistakable.

The Sixth Day (Part 2)

2010-04-13T20:44:00.003+05:30

Day 1

“It is supposed to be a proper date today, and I promise not to make any more foolish loose comments”, he repeated the refrain for the seventeenth time since morning, as he tried to tame a stubborn cowlick with his dilapidated comb.

As he was taking car on to the driveway, his eyes fell onto the newspaper he had forgotten to pick up in his haste to be ready in time. He got out of the car, picked it up, placed it on the front seat and climbed back into the car. As he was turning the keys, he made an effort to glance the headline. His heart sank as he read the topline – “Chief Minister assassinated, Statewide bandh declared”. “Perfect”, he exclaimed and banged his head onto the steering wheel.

Life plays small tricks with us as we meander through the maze it set up for us to negotiate. But the same life also creates clandestine furrows to circumvent the maze walls.

Dust kicked up in generous amounts as the jeep screeched to a grinding halt in front of the palatial residence. Had Martin Scorcese or Quentin Tarantino been around, they might have scampered for the camera. As a pair of big leather boots stepped out of the vehicle, she pulled the curtain to the side to catch a glimpse of the burly moustache-clad man. She could hardly stifle her giggle.

“Good morning madam, I am Inspector Hari Om Tripathi and I am scouting all houses around here for outside visitors”, he spoke in a burlesque accent as her mother made tremendous effort to comprehend. “I believe there is one member of your family who has come to visit from outside town”, he continued.

As fear of the cop mingled with the incomprehensibility of his accent, the lady finally spoke with much effort,” Yes…err..it is…er…my daughter”.

“I’m afraid she will have to come with me for a few hours”, the return to his normal tone had almost given it away before he redeemed with a burly “to the police station, of course”.

And they were off.

The Sixth Day (Part 1)

2010-03-28T17:35:00.000+05:30

Day 0

Well, technically it was day 0 since the rendezvous was not supposed to happen until tomorrow. But as luck would have it, the fortuitous meeting happened twenty four hours in advance. When you have not seen someone for a long long time, the mind tends to conjure up a certain image – an image that is often too good to be true. But not in this case. As his heart jumped beats leading up to the fateful hour, the image became all the more blurred, not because of any cerebral defects he might have picked up along the way, but because of the boding nervousness that crippled him as the clock ticked. Till it was about time.

The rendezvous point was not a planned one, just like their lives hitherto. However, the splendor of nature does not lie in its structure but in its asymmetry. Entropy always sets up random patterns of magnificence, and this time it did so with the venue of their reunion – the same bank they used to bank with, before they knew each other. Of course, the fact that the bank was razed down in lockstep with their engagement did not allow them to be bank buddies anymore. But there was more to this meeting than boring chequebooks and currency notes. As he took the nervous steps by the hedge, she saw the dazzling red dress and instantly knew it was her – shading her eyes with her hands, the million dollar smile on her face. His nervousness plumbed to new depths as the steps turned slower and unsure. An awkward hug followed, his nerves had never jangled more.

A few hours later, as they were sitting in the coffee house – he could not take his eyes off her. Days had turned into months, and months into years, but she had not changed – her banter was still lively and her smile still possessed the power to set his heart racing, again and again and again. He was looking for words to make conversation.

“I am really worried about my promotion. I hope everything works out for the best”, she pre-empted him.

“You seem to have a moustache”, was what came out of his mouth, much to her embarrassment and his bewilderment. “Did I just say that”, he made a mental note to kick himself once sane. She blushed and hid her face. He tried to make up with some petty compliments but the damage had been done. As she hid her face with her upturned palms, he exclaimed ,”Only one of your hands has nail paint”. He was on a roll, or rather his tongue was, as it wagged for the second time on its own volition. “What am I doing? What am I saying?”, he questioned himself as he sat dazed on a chair that he wished could now descend a few feet below the level ground it rested on.

She stood up and left.

My Great American Dream

2009-12-17T12:05:00.005+05:30

“Fiqrana ho ke hum jeeye, Khamakha hum jeeye na kyun

Beparwah ho ke hum jeeye, Khamakha hum jeeye na kyun”

Don’t worry. It’s not that I’ve taken a fascination for Akshay Kumar’s latest dud at the box office. It is just that I have no better words to sum up the ethos of the past three and a half months of my life in the capital of the world - a phase of meaninglessness, purposelessness, leisure and well, LIFE.

I still remember the day Mayur and I were having a discussion about my exchange program. While we had spent hours at length diagnosing the pros and cons of my escapade from IIM Bangalore for a good part of the 2^nd year of MBA, the bottom-line was surely not up for debate. This was going to be paradigm changing experience of my life. Has it been that way? Sure, and in ways more than one.

On my birthday on this 17^th of December, here are what I would like to call the 17 punctuation marks of my American story:

Bada hai to behtar hai (Big is better): In this country, size does matter. The very first sight I noticed as our British Airways flight was landing at the JFK on the 2^nd of September, was that of giant sized cars and goliathan trucks. Over the course of the next few days, I wintnessed “mini” cars that could have been called “sedans” by Indian standards, coffee mugs whose “Small” version was twice as large as their “Large” counterpart in India, burgers which had more stories than the BSE, and chips packets that were large enough to feed a family of four for a month. It seemed that the very definition of what human proportions are, was different. Don’t blame me if I ask for generous refills at my next restaurant visit.

Chalna hi zindagi hai (Walking is life): I never knew something as mundane and basic as the act of letting your feet hit the turf, could bring alive the joy of life. It sure helps when you see the world walking around you. Chinese, Japanese, Indians, Hispanics, Australians, Blacks – all resonating in lockstep with the pulse of the city, carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts or a Starbucks in their hand, an I-Pod plugged into their ears, and a thrall in their step – it is a sight that has framed itself in my memory.

Subway is not just a healthy sandwich store: This city survives on public transit. A staggering 55 percent of New Yorkers (around 5 million) commute to work everyday using the city’s subway system, which is not only the city’s lifeline but also one of the marvels of urban planning and management. Grapevine has it that they have enough underground capacity built in, into the initial plan (made in the 19^th century) that can serve the city for another century. With a subway map in hand, you are literally the king of Gotham – commuting to any place is just a card swipe away.

“Somebody went shopping”: These were the rhetorically twisted words that came out of Professor Murphy’s mouth as he saw me walk into his classroom with a “Toys R Us” bag. Such levels of informality with the professor are only remotely imaginable back home, where the power distance translates itself into making the teacher-student relationship a transactional one. Here, you may eat in class, sleep in class, leave when you so desire and still none of your actions would be seen as an insult on the person standing on the dais. Capitalism gives you the liberty to choose what you wish to do with your time. And surprisingly, after a few weeks of hangover from IIMB, I found myself sleep-immune in class. The ease with which our exams got preponed to accommodate our schedules, the friendliness of professors, but most of all, their humility despite all their knowhow – all this was pretty amazing for someone who has lived in a system that by its very imposing doctrine, drives you into mocking your professors, and forced attendance in classes.

Cynicism is a virtue: If I had to come up with a clever phrase, a “constructively destructive view of the world” is what this stint at Stern has endowed me with. A good teacher must necessarily be a cynic for he would not be able to challenge the minds of those being taught into questioning the status quo, if he himself were at peace with the way things are. Every professor here was a cynic, and the scathing sarcasm the likes of Yermack, Murphy and Damodaran let loose on corporate America, was stuff Russel Peters’ shows are made of.

Private Equity is a parallel universe: Till September, PE for me was this high-fangled world where strategy and finance apparently converged; it was a wondrous world where you could mint money faster than the reserve bank; it was stuff Chusli (Ankit) spoke about with his open arms. The notions of PE being a parallel universe, have been partially reinforced, and partially shattered. But it sure was the center of attention in two of the most electrifying courses here – Investment Banking and Restructuring Firms.

Damodaran is God: What’s that? It’s a bird. No, it’s a spaceship. No, it’s superman. Cut it out guys, its Aswath Damodaran. I had heard his name and its equity in the world of valuation before coming here. More often than not, things aren’t worth their hype. But studying valuation under the undisputed world authority in the subject, was an experience that far surpassed anything I had expected. When the Prince of Kolkata used to bisect the narrow gap between gully and backward point, they used to say – “On the off side, there’s God, and then there’s Ganguly”. Well, in valuation, there is no God, there’s only Damodaran.

Nights are for sleeping, so are floors: Nocturnal habits have long been a penchant of IITians. IIMites seem to be taking the art to a new level now, where 4 AM is the new 1 AM. But while New York never sleeps, I did, and in generous amounts. 10 hours was the norm, naps and subway sleepaways not included. The lack of a comfy mattress below me couldn’t stop me for pursuing the activity that is Mother Nature’s gift to mankind.

Cumin seeds are better than cumin powder: My biggest concern as I left Indian waters for such a long period was the one posed by my “sinful stomach” (translate that into Hindi). Vegetarianism will be a problem, they had said. They weren’t wrong. In a place where McDonalds’ only vegetarian offering is Coca Cola and a $10 vegetable roll in the US open tastes like the mangled remains of an MRF tyre, eating out is more pain than pleasure. But, necessity is the mother of invention, and also, experimentation. What began as a struggle to keep the rice from burning and the omelettes from turning into scrambled eggs, ended up as a series of culinary experiments where the guinea pig didn’t mind being fed food that was much more appetizing than anything the messes of IIT Roorkee or IIM Bangalore have offered me in the last 6 years. Call me a narcissist, but I’m a fan of my cooking now. And yes, cumin powder in daal is never as good as cumin seeds.

Social networking kills time faster than sleeping: When I had left for the US, my Facebook account had a barely three digit number in my friend list, ‘Twitter’ meant the activity that birds did, my blog had 9 posts in as many months of 2009 and I used to check my Orkut account once every 3-4 days. As I leave, my Facebook has 700 odd people in the friend list, I know how to use the ‘Notification’ tab and change settings for my account, Barkha Dutt regularly pollutes my Twitter page with her mind numbing frequency of tweets, my blog post per month average has quadrupled and I would have surely forgotten the password to my Orkut account, had it not been linked with Gmail.

East is always better than West: No, I’m not a spokesperson advocating for the supremacy of the culture and rituals of the East over the inhuman capitalism and imperialism of the West. I’m talking about the two coasts of America – one that I lived on, and the other was the venue of my longest and most enjoyable trip during these 4 months. LA was good, but the public transit system sucked. Too bad San Francisco could not be a part of our itinerary. But the most surprising element was how “being back to home” it felt as I returned to New York after that week long trip. Maybe the fact that I now know this city more than my hometown Lucknow has something to do with it. All said and done, East is better than the West, no double meanings intended.

Kuch hosh nahi rehta, Kuch dhyaan nahi rehta, Insaan Las Vegas mein, Insaan nahi rehta: For the benefit of those who do not know Hindi, the phrase means - You have neither consciousness nor memory, Human beings don’t remain human beings in Vegas. The crown jewel in this 4 month fiesta was the trip to a city that has no parallel in the world – the glittering oasis in the midst of the desert of Nevada. You see it in movies, you hear about it, but there is nothing like being in Vegas. The place will get to you. Troves of shining lights lined up one after another, the intermittent sounds of the counter stopping on a slot machine, the exulting cry of someone who just tripled his booty on the night and the despair of someone who lost a fortune in a drunken soiree – it all happens right here. And as they say – What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

The Mandrake hat called Internet: From repairing my laptop bugs to recipes for bhindi, from unlocking an I-Phone to purchasing a digital camera, from watching Sehwag take Lanka to the cleaners to seeing “Ajab Prem ki Ghazab Kahani” ten hours after its theatrical release – on this trip, the internet was my port of first resort, last resort, every resort. A new city became tractable, courtesy Google maps, friends didn’t stay distant and for once, my laptop didn’t turn off for weeks at length. God bless the US army for their miraculous invention.

Passions can be rediscovered, among other things: Running on a conveyor belt can often lead you into forgetting why you had set foot on the belt in the first place. This trip helped me get off the mindless flurry and take stock of where I stood. An empty mind may be a devil’s workshop, but it still is a workshop – a place for creativity. Old interests returned and old passions were reignited. Putting a night out to watch a Test innings may be considered blasphemy by IIMB standards, but watching cricket was never as much fun since the IPL-1 showdowns in the Ravindra Bhawan TV room at IIT Roorkee. Story writing proliferated, and some of you might have been victimized by my ramblings. New interests like cooking were engendered. And life came a full circle.

No booze, No party: Being a teetotaler in a land where booze is considered as normal as water, yet as mandatory as wearing clothes, is a hard task. My vow of teetotaling, taken a few months prior to leaving India was hence done away with, though the exorbitantly priced spirits meant that my enormous appetite for them was not unleashed. But it was interesting to notice that when I stood with a cranberry juice, people tended to behave as if I was a repulsive stinking street dog while the same people gravitated towards those that seemed to be out of their senses with amber liquids in their hands. Not quite unexpected in a nation where wine is a normal lunch time drink and where when a person says “Lets hang out”, it inevitably means the venue would be a bar.

Weekdays are weekdays, weekends are Weekends: Americans take their holidays seriously, and so did we. While weekdays are reserved strictly for work (Yes, it is not considered blasphemous if you are studying your notes in the lunch break), weekends is a time when people shun all work as if they were born to party. Just as festivals in India are synonymous with rituals, in the US it is synonymous with shopping. Stores post massive sales and discounts in the holiday season and people shop till they drop, literally. As I waited outside the world’s largest departmental store – the 34^th Street Macy’s, in the 4 AM freezing cold on Black Friday, I could barely see signs of recession among the enormous crowd surrounding me, waiting to get in, with huge bags in their hands. I was fortunate to be in the US for the onset of the festive season with Halloween, followed by Thanksgiving. Too bad I won’t be here for Christmas or New Year’s.

Swades and Pardes: As the time to depart came, I finally decided to pay heed to Mayur’s repeated exhortations of watching Swades, so that I get sentimental and start whining about returning to India. I did have a false start a couple of times but did not experience any irresistible urge to return to the homeland, as I was having way too much fun. Until today. On my way back after the last exam, I was, as customary, listening to music on my phone, while riding the subway. And the playlist serendipitously decided to shuffle the title song of the movie to the beginning of the list. Contrary to my usual reflex action of forwarding to the next song when I heard the beginning notes, I let it play. And a full five minutes later, I was overcome by an urge, though not a very strong one, to return home; to eat good Indian food that I don’t have to cook; to see my newborn niece; to talk in Hindi in public; to blow my 4.1 speakers in all their glory; to be able to call friends and family without incurring ISD charges; to be where the heart is.

This episode is coming to a close in the next few hours. A spate of challenges is awaiting me in that special place called IIMB, where human existence defies laws of humanity.

Looking back, I have no doubts about the fact that coming for this exchange program was one of the best decisions I made in my life. Given a choice, I would not want to relive the last three and a half months any differently, or in any other city for that matter. Gotham is what Gotham is – the capital of the world, and rightly so. I am still searching for a single word that can sum up my experience, but the closest I can say is that this sojourn has made me more “human”, if anything. I have started reliving my passions, pursuing my interests, talking to the people that matter, and have finally found a purpose in my life, which seemed to have been lost on me since the internship last summer. And all this after 4 months that can be safely termed as a haven of purposelessness.

These 100 odd days scripted an unforgettable chapter of my life, making the great American dream a reality for me. As I look at the ticking clock counting down my hours in this place, I am reminded of Don McLean’s words – “Bye Bye Miss American Pie…”

On The Subway (Part 6)

2009-12-10T06:17:00.004+05:30

October 11, 2003

“This is it – the perfect ring”, he thought to himself as he peered over the ornate piece of diamond, crafted in the Windy city, “I’m finally going to propose to her. Amazing, isn’t it, after what has transpired in all these years?” – the rhetoric was no one but his to hear, and no one but his to answer. “Lonely, I’ve been all my life, but no more, no more”, he said to himself and picked up the phone to call her.

It was her answering machine. His voice trembled as he spoke after the voice mail beep,” Its me. I just returned from Chicago. Can we meet tomorrow for lunch, hmm, at the Times Square subway station? I’ll see you there at twelve”, he was about to press the ‘End’ button when he suddenly remembered, “Oh, and I have a surprise for you”

He couldn’t recollect why he wanted to ride the subway instead of driving his Porsche. Maybe, the crowd of the transit comforted him, and provided the platform for transition from the cold, dark world of loneliness to the hopeful light of togetherness.

October 12, 2003

As he climbed up the staircase to reach the floor where trains from the opposite direction arrived, he realized he hadn’t gone over what he was going to say as he held out the ring before her. He needed an epilogue, a punch line, something that was befitting the pinnacle of the roller coaster life their lives had together been. As these thoughts raced through his mind, he saw her. It was too late. Impromptu was the word.

She needed to tell him that she was at fault trying to come back into his life. She knew he wouldn’t understand any which way if she tried to tell him the truth. Hurting his ego could have been the only potential weapon against the man who loved her beyond anything else in the world. But now, he had foregone even that. She was powerless. “How do I make him hate me?”, she thought to herself, taking each measured step towards him.

As they walked towards each other with totally disparate emotions in their hearts, the subways and the city crowd zapped past them in both directions. They came within breathing distance.

“Listen..”, she had barely uttered her first word when he got down on his knees, held out the ring and said, “Will you marry me, Princess?”

She was choked, overwhelmed with emotion. In that moment, she forgot who she was, what she owned, why she lived and how she was going to die. The moment of nothingness had nothing save her and him. It seemed the world’s busiest train station around them had frozen in a time warp. She had waited for this moment for two years. She had sniffled in her bed on countless nights. Every day, she picked up the phone to call him and disconnected before the bell rang. She had lived in perennial hope, tracking his net worth every single day, and waited patiently for the day that he was twice as rich as her. She had sold off her personal belongings, had her house revalued, all in an attempt to be less poor to the world in wealth, but richer in anticipation of this moment.

“Yes”, she whispered, and burst into tears. He got up on his feet, and hugged her.

October 23, 2003

“It seems we are being followed”, he gasped. She turned her head and saw the van that was frantically following the Porsche’s tracks.

He pressed hard on the accelerator, and swiveled the vehicle, in an attempt to confound the stalkers. In the midst of the vortex, she thought to herself ,”Its my mistake. Why is he being punished for it?”

The van rammed into them from behind. The momentum transfer was phenomenal. He almost lost control of the vehicle. The side guard hit a BMW and was on its way down the Hudson.

She looked at his face. His skin was taut with attention, eyebrows raised, mouth open and bafflement pervaded his eyes. If only she could reverse time and let him go, and take the body blow on herself. She decided she had to be decisive, like she always had been. She opened the door, and leaped out.

The horror of what happened was incomprehensible. He couldn’t believe what had happened. As he turned back to see her, he saw her lying on the road. As he roared in horror, an oncoming truck rammed the Porsche into the bridge’s walls. A free fall followed.

The van driver cried, ”What just happened?”. The man beside him replied, “Doesn’t matter, as long as our job is done”, as he dialed a number on his cellphone.

“Target eliminated”, he whispered.

“Any problem?”, a heavy voice questioned from the other side.

“There was a girl with him. She was run over. She’s dead too”

--------------------- The End ------------------------

On The Subway (Part 5)

2009-11-26T07:05:00.005+05:30

September 28, 2003

“This way, madam”, the airline official ushered her into the express check-in cabin, dragging her suitcase behind him. She wasn’t expecting to meet them here.

As she entered the room, she found two men clad in black suits, waiting for her. She heard the official close the door behind her, as he stepped out. The men got up to greet her. They took seats.

The taller one among the two men spoke first – “Your highness, I hope you do realize that your life is a matter of national concern”. She nodded her head.

“And this kind of uncooperative behavior is least appreciated by us”, the shorter man spoke, angrily.

The tall man moved his palm to silence his colleague. “Your highness, You are under mortal danger and we recommend you to be given Z-level security. Furthermore, you cannot travel outside the city till we have credible evidence against the threats you’ve received, from our intelligence”, he placed his hands on the table, trying to give it an air of finality. But you didn’t speak last if you were speaking with the princess.

She got up, took hold of her suitcase, and announced, “Thank you gentlemen for all your concern. But you would be better off focusing your energies on matters that are actually of national importance, and excuse me to live my life the way I want to”

The shorter man jumped up, shouting, “You have no damn idea what you are getting into. You’re not leaving this city”

“I’m leaving this country, and now”, her words were powerful, but poised.

“But what if you are attacked?”, the taller man was exasperated.

“The country will be better off with one less rich heiress and many more full stomachs”, she announced, tossing her will onto the table.

”Good day, gentlemen”, her voice echoed, as the officers still grappled with the storm that had just passed them.

September 27, 2001

“Why the hell is it raining at this time of the year”, her frustration was unmistakable, but undirected. As the manager opened the door, two escorts promptly took their positions on the sidelines. She stepped out, carefully avoiding a puddle and balanced herself with immaculate poise despite the high heels and the slippery turf. The escorts swung into action, opening two huge umbrellas to cover the princess from any earth bound droplet that posed the threat of so much as moistening her highness’ Egyptian silk overcoat. The manager ushered her into the hotel, the newest addition to the eponymous franchise she owned. As she glided through the entrance from the damp coldness of September rain into the air conditioned warmth of the hotel lobby, a series of blinding flash lights went off. Paparazzi surrounded her, and countless microphones and scratch pads came swiveling out of their pandora boxes. She felt sick, and exhausted from the air travel. She wanted to get it done and over with, fast.

An hour later, as she was waiting for the confirmation of her return flight, her mind wandered. She gazed out of the window and looked at the rain drops, falling into the enormous depth of the forty floors that stood beneath her feet. Then she looked up, and saw where they were coming from. And it dawned on her – the depths they had to travel were miniscule when juxtaposed to the heights they had descended. His words came back to haunt her – “You’ve become big, maybe, too big for me”

“Excuse me, Ma’m”, her train of thoughts was interrupted by the sterile voice emanating from the floating head that was peering in through the ajar door. It was the manager. “Ma’m, your flight is delayed by another hour. Would you want something?”, he politely asked. “No, I’m good”, she said, motioning the man to spare her some privacy while she had it.

“Contemplation is the poison of relationship”, he had said. She had to be decisive in her personal life, as she had been in her business. She took out her phone and dialed his number. Three attempts later, she threw the phone onto the floor, dislodging its batteries. Life had taught her to be a go-getter. If one door closes, build another. She opened her laptop, and zapped into her e-mail account.

Before she could click on the ‘Compose’ button, an unread message caught her eyes. It was from him.

---

“Take that road, the one that is ugly, dark, infested with thorny plants and manned by devil’s minions. For it is that road that will lead you to your redemption” – he read the bumper sticker for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. It was time to pull the trigger. He took out his phone and dialed her number. An ‘Out of Reach’ signal greeted his impatience. He opened his laptop and began to type frantically.

“It has been three months since we talked to each other. The fact that both of us have gigantic egos that even a blast furnace can’t melt hasn’t helped matters. I thought I could forget what you said, or that you would have the gumption to free me from my ignominy. Unfortunately, neither has transpired. As it stands, it seems unlikely that we can ever get back together. The amount of pain you have caused me far outstrips the joy that you had once given me.

I leave for New York today, to rebuild the twin towers. And I’ll not return unless I earn enough money to buy your hotel chain, the one that you inherited from your royal descent and now so proudly flaunt, two times over.

Thank you for everything, and Sorry for anything”

He re-read the document, wiped the frown off his face, and clicked on ‘Send’.

October 05, 2003

“It was a mistake we made to let each other go. I am not letting go this time”, he muttered, taking her head into his hands, and wiping her cheeks. “I’m not letting go either”, she said, her voice choked with tears.

“What are you not letting go?”, the dreary voice of her aunt awoke her. She saw her crouched over the bed, holding the breakfast tray. She realized she had been dreaming the dream that was close to coming true.

As she was nibbling on the toast, dwelling still, on the pleasant dream that had greeted her morning, the phone rang. She picked it up with the alacrity of a school girl, expecting it to be him. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number.

“Ma’m, this is the Indian Embassy. We’ve received a standing order from the Indian Intelligence to give you 24 * 7 protection. Your life is under threat…”, she disconnected the phone.

As she threw the phone onto the bedstand, her eyes fell on “The New York Times” lying there. She picked it up. The cover page carried his photograph with the headline – “New York Real Estate Magnate to be honored in Chicago today”. She ran her hands over the paper replica of his face. A tear escaped her eye.

“I can’t do this to him. I can’t put his life in danger. He deserves to enjoy every bit of the success he has earned. I can’t be selfish. But…”, her voice was choked now, the same way she had felt some minutes ago in her dream. She picked up the phone again, and dialed his number.

On The Subway (Part 4)

2009-11-03T06:28:00.002+05:30

October 23, 2003

“We’ve been through so much. When I look back, everything seems incredible”, she said, as the car hit the turf of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“And still, you have not let me free from your grasp”, he chuckled.

“Shut up”, her face turned into a frown, and then an innocent smile.

A few minutes of silence followed. She was still looking out of the window. The Statue of Liberty was visible in the distance. She turned back and looked at him. Her thoughts went back to the time when she had first met him – a simple man clad in white shirt and black trousers had accidentally walked into his office. She mistook him for one of the waiters from her hotel downstairs, only to realize that he had come to interview for the position of her personal secretary – a job he never got.

As she looked at him now, he realized how ambition had fueled and propelled him into becoming the man he was. He had struggled in his life, fought hard against the odds. He had left his country – the very country he had never vowed to leave, to achieve his goal. She knew he would return some day – but not before doing what he had come to do. And she felt proud sitting beside the most celebrated realtor in Manhattan, who still retained the boyish charm of waiting for her by a city street.

“I’ve seen too much in my life. The spate of betrayals has shattered me from inside. I can’t bring myself to trust anyone. But I want to trust him. He has been through his share of challenges. And he is a broken man too. And still, he stands strong”, she thought to herself.

He adjusted the rear view mirror. A blue van was visible in the distance. As he turned the silverware, his eyes fell on her somber face. He could read her mind.

“Sometimes, two broken pieces can fit together to form a complete whole”, he smiled.

The van inched closer.

September 27, 2003

“Madam, your tickets for New York have been booked”, the secretary’s voice echoed from the speaker phone.

“Thanks Margaret”, she disconnected the line.

“I’ll finally meet him, after two years”, she couldn’t stifle her smile as the thought possessed her.

She opened her drawer. A dark red book lay unobstrusively in the corner. Red had always been her color, even for diaries. The cover of the diary bore the emblem of the chain of hotels she owned, the flagship of which was housed in the 13 floors beneath her feet. She took it out and opened it to the page titled September 27, 2001.

“He’s leaving today – leaving this city, this country, this place. I could have never imagined my words could have hurt him so deeply. I never knew my intemperance could bruise his ego so badly that he would not think twice before abandoning the road we had set foot together on. But I had never meant to hurt him. I never could, and I never will. Maybe this is all for the good, maybe he deserves something else. Or maybe I needed this. But somehow, it seems wrong. I’m sad and I don’t know how the future will unfold. Will it ever be what it was like?”

“Yes, it will be now”, she exclaimed as she closed the diary and replaced it.

The phone beeped again. She pressed the speaker button. Margaret’s voice reverberated ,”Ma’am, Its them again. Should I put you through?”

She paused for a second. “Yes”, the time lagged affirmative came in a heavy voice.

After a while, the phone buzzed, “Madam, the matter is really serious now. This is the second warning…”

On The Subway (Part 3)

2009-10-23T23:18:00.000+05:30

October 23, 2003

“Does this look ok?”, she asked. He didn’t hear her. His mind was preoccupied with something else. “I said”, she raised her pitch, “Does this look OK?”. But he was lost. As he turned, a projectile sandle met his forehead. . The train of thoughts which was about to change tracks had met with an accident.

“You never pay attention to what I say”, she complained.

“Who are you, by the way?”, he chuckled.

Another projectile sandle approached him. This time he was attentive enough to dodge it over his head.

“You look great. Can we go now?”, he said.

“You are good for nothing”, she said and went in to change. Five minutes later, she was back in a new dress. Before she could open her mouth, a voice reached her ears.

“You look phenomenal, out of this world. Can we go now?”, it was him, standing on the window sill, muttering those words with his back turned towards her.

She stamped her feet and went in again.

“How do I make her understand that she looks phenomenal in everything? How do I tell her that a diamond – whether engraved in a ring, shielded in a museum, pendant on a necklace, or unpolished at a jeweller’s store – was still a diamond – precious, beyond measure”, he heard her footsteps again.

“You look mindblowing. Can we go now?”, he pleaded, as he turned around and caught glimpse of a man in a dense turban, with thick moustaches and a flowing beard. His drink almost fell out of his hands.

“Does this look OK?”, he heard the childlike voice from behind the hairy tangle.

“Oh my God”, he burst into laughter, beating his fists onto the wall. Then he fell over, rolling on the floor, a fresh burst of giggle deluding him everytime he looked up at her in the disguise. The moustache, beard and turban clad princess began to laugh too.

Sanity returned by the time they took their seats in the car. As he was turning the keys, he said, his voice gruff, “You know what?”

“What?”, she questioned, her eyes turned towards him.

“You are the only girl who has ever made me laugh”, he pressed the accelerator and they were on the road.

September 30, 2003

1 PM – his watch read. Funnily enough, it had been reading the same for the last eleven times he had seen it in the last sixty seconds. “Where is she?”, he thought to himself.

As he was about to turn his wrist for the twelfth time, the sight of a black limousine caught his glance. He followed its track as the vehicle slowed down and parked itself in front of him. The door opened, and there she was.

“Hi”, he muttered, not knowing what else to say, and lent his right hand forward to shake, not knowing what else to do.

“What a fool? I’m meeting him after so long and he can’t even hug me”, she thought to herself as they shook hands.

“So, where do you want to go?”, he queried.

“Should we eat something first?”, she asked, knowing that he wouldn’t have had breakfast. He had only woken up by her call an hour ago and knowing him, she knew he would rather go hungry than be late.

“Ok, let us go to this Italian restaurant – The Tavern”, he motioned towards the north with his hands.

“No Italian, Only Indian – South Indian”, she argued.

“You’ve come all the way to New York to eat Indian food?”, he was baffled.

“No, I’ve come all the way to New York to meet an Indian man”, she smiled.

On The Subway (Part 2)

2009-10-19T09:48:00.003+05:30

October 19, 2003

“It is in moments such as these”, he whispered, “that I feel the loneliest”. As he stood with his hands stretched on the terrace hedge, the expanse of Manhattan was lit before him. The glittering lights of the concrete jungle were mesmerizing.

“How can you feel alone in the most happening city of the world – the city where even loneliness doesn’t feel alone?”, she questioned, taking a sip from the glass.

“It’s not the din outside that defines internal peace”, he turned his back to the city of dreams, “A good package can’t make a gift out of garbage”

“Why do you feel alone, when you have me?”, she put her hands into his.

His eyes welled. “All this time, you have always lived with the belief that I was there for you. And you never take credit for being there, for me”, he said.

“Ssshhh”, she whispered. He went quiet, as he always did.

October 05, 2003

“Sir, your phone is ringing”, the housekeeper shouted at the top of his voice. He woke up with a start, and heard the familiar ringtone.

“Hello”, he mumbled, his throat still dry.

“I need to talk to you”, her voice was unmistakable.

“Then what are you doing right now?”, he managed to force in his banal sense of humor even while in sleep.

“Shut up. When are you coming here?”, she demanded.

“Will be there next week”, he answered, as the line got disconnected.

He stood up and went up to the window. It was raining outside. The spattering of water on the window sill was the only sound audible. He closed his eyes to think about her. Dating a princess was not easy. And her behaving like she wasn’t one, didn’t help.

“Sometimes, I fondly recollect the days when I possessed something called ego”, he thought to himself.

On The Subway (Part 1)

2009-10-13T07:44:00.001+05:30

October 12, 2003

“Okay, so the first place we go is…”, he stuttered in the middle of the sentence.

“The Tavern”, she completed the blank, as always.

The name brought a smile to his face. As they climbed their way into open air, the bright sunshine hit them in the eye. He placed his hand on her forehead to shield them from the sun. Apparently, no chivalry was too much chivalry for him.

They began to walk on the kerb. She noticed the troves of men and women walking beside them, past them, with them. She loved New York for this. You never felt alone in this city. A strange pulsating spirit seemed to run through the veins of this city at any given moment. Walking, which she had hated as a chore back home, had come alive as a pleasure in this city of walkers. And walking beside him was a pleasure greater still.

She tightened her grip on his arms as they were about to cross the street. She knew it was not necessary. New York was no Delhi – When the white man on the pedestal lit up, pedestrians could walk with all the élan in the world. And the country’s notoriously large lawsuit claims had infused a perpetual fear of any walking object, in the minds of automobile drivers.

But this gesture was a signal – she needed him, and she wanted him to know it. And he did.

October 12, 2003

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please”, the announcement echoed in his ears as he saw the door-halves approaching each other in perfect unison and meeting with an ever so gentle thud. The train began to move.

As he pressed his face against his palms, he could feel the moisture that had welled up in his eyes. He wiped it with his shirt sleeve and began to look around sheepishly. The compartment was unusually empty for this hour of the day. “Loneliness stalks you everywhere”, he thought to himself.

The sound of sniffles interrupted his train of thought. He lifted his head to decipher the source of the sound. It was originating from a lady at the other end of the compartment. A man seated beside her was mumbling something to himself, apparently in great anger. He strained his ears to listen to what he was saying.

“One man’s agony is another man’s pleasure” – he had learnt one of the fundamental dictums of human psychology, during his graduation class on Human Behavior. The realization that he wasn’t the only soul bereft of joy on this planet was sadistic, but pacifying. The propensity of New Yorkers to wash their dirty linen in public provided ample opportunities for this decadent activity.

“Nothing remains the same. Everything changes. Nothing’s forever”, the words came out intermittently between the sniffles.

“True”, he thought to himself, as he ran his fingers into his pockets and felt the cold metal inside.

The girl in the rain (Part 6)

2009-10-02T06:33:00.003+05:30

Scene 16

“You don’t understand. I’m not used to this”, her voice was getting ballistic now.

“I don’t understand what you want me to understand. How does it really matter?”, even he was beginning to lose his temper now.

“Does nothing get into your head? I have been shouting my head off for the last half an hour. My friends dislike me”, she was exasperated.

“Wait a second. How can your friends dislike you? Isn’t there an apparent contradiction in what you are saying? The people you are talking about are just jealous of your success. And frankly, my dear, you shouldn’t give a damn”, he twisted the last line into his baritone voice, and smiled.

“Everything is a joke for you. You have never understood me. And never will”, her voice was calmer now.

This sounded the alarm bells. He was more somber now,” I’m sorry. We are different people. We think about things differently. But our friendship has been so tightly knit for 15 years, because of that, not despite that. I know you are perturbed because some people are not happy that you achieved something they did not. But that doesn’t take away from your achievement. You are the one who achieved it. They may or may not like it. But why do you care about them? Just remember the reaction your parents gave when you told the news to them. Or your brother. Or your sister. Isn’t that worth so much more than what the others feel?”

A long silence followed. “Those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter”, he lowered his voice as the waiter placed the bill on the table.

“But how can you not care about people’s opinion?”, she pleaded.

“I do care. But the one person whose opinion I care about is sitting right across this table, spoiling a nice hot cup of coffee by not drinking it”, he smiled.

Her mind returned to the present time. So much had transpired since this meeting. She remembered the fortuitous phone call that she had received the next night. The words from the call still rang loud in her mind - “Hello? It seems your friend has met with an accident…”

Scene 17

“Mummy, where is Dad?”, cried the little girl from the doorstep.

“He’s gone out for some work”, a feminine voice reverberated from inside the house.

The girl looked down on the floor, and her doll lying on it, split into two. The sight drove her to tears. She picked up the pieces, embraced it to her chest and began to weep. The sound of her sniffles was interrupted by the screeching sound of friction. She lifted her head and saw the boy. Her crying rose by another decibel level at the sight of the culprit who had led to the massacre of her beloved toy. She had tripped over the steps while running to escape from the interfering fool’s intrusion, and fallen over the doll, splitting it into two. As the scene played back in her mind, she was repulsed even more by the ignominious creature and the hideous sound his shoes were making against the ground, as he inched closer.

“Oh. I’m so sorry”, he uttered, peering over her shoulder, catching a glance of the broken toy.

“Get lost”, she shouted, throwing her doll back onto the floor, and ran back inside to seek medical attention for her bruised elbow.

Having cried her heart out after the burning sensation of the antiseptic had played its part, the little girl’s concern for her treasured toy returned. As her mother was placing the first aid box back, she ran towards the doorstep. She couldn’t believe what she saw. The doll was in one piece. It was a miracle. She picked it up, and embraced it, an innocent smile adorning her face. As she turned to go back, her eyes fell on the boy who was sitting at the neighboring house’s doorstep, rubbing his fingers against each other in an attempt to take the adhesive off.

Scene 18

“What did you say?”, I urged, despite her having spoken the words with crystal clarity.

“It means you should not care about the approval or disapproval of others. If you always carry the fear of disapproval from the other person in your mind, you would never be able to be yourself, whether the other person is a man or a woman. Why do you care what I think about you? In all likelihood, we are never going to meet again in life. So, for these few hours of interaction, why be what you are not? Why just not be what you are?”, she asserted, weighing each word.

As the strange girl took another sip off the glass, I was finding it hard to digest the beamers she had hurled at me. Word after word had hit me. After two minutes of embarrassing silence, I finally found some sanity returning to my sense of speech.

“May be you are right. But all this is so logical. Why has no one told this to me earlier? Or why hasn’t it occurred to me by myself”, I expressed my bewilderment.

“Its uncommon to be common, difficult to be simple. And sometimes, we need someone to walk into our lives, and shrug us off from our slumber, to flesh out what matters for us and what does not”, her voice went into a low pitch.

I was again at a loss of words. A long lull followed. The blaring of a car’s horn came to my rescue. Some sound is better than no sound. I turned my head and saw my friend Nitin waving at me from his car. Whatever was blocking the roads had apparently been taken care off. I was a little disappointed at a sight at which I should have been pleasantly relieved. Nonetheless, it was time for me to go.

“My friend is here. I should leave now”, I loathingly asserted, getting back on my feet.

“Great. Nice meeting you, Hiten. All the best”, she had finally managed to remember the name.

I walked up to the car. As Nitin took hold of my bag and went back to place it in the car’s rear, I turned my head to catch a final glance of the great teacher who had shaken me from within. She had taught me something so simple, yet so profound. I found her wiping her tears again. I shouted ,”Can we drop you somewhere?”

“No, thanks for the offer. The rain has stopped. And your friend's arrival shows the routes are open again. I can walk now”, she said, evidently making tremendous effort to stall her tears to raise her voice.

“Where exactly are you going?”, I queried.

“To meet a friend. He died today after three years of coma”, she turned her back towards me and began to walk.

Thanks for bearing with me for almost a month, and having reached this far. In case you hate the story, or like it, appreciate it or want to trash it, compliment it or criticize it, please leave your comments. The author would be highly obliged. :)

The girl in the rain (Part 5)

2009-09-26T13:28:00.005+05:30

Scene 13

“Yes, Mummy. I did it”, she exclaimed. “I’m proud of you gudiya. You’ve achieved what you truly deserved”, her mother shared every bit of the adrenalin rush. Fifteen minutes of happy conversation followed.

As she disconnected the call, she realized she had strolled into the balcony. She noticed the half-moon. It was close to midnight. She had called her parents and her siblings – the people who had been the pillars all her life. She looked at the dimly lit screen of her phone. Speed dials 4,5,6 and 7 had all been dialed in the last hour. It was time for speed dial 3. It was time to let him know.

The phone rang for the full duration but there was no response. She knew it never took him more than a couple of rings to pick up the phone. She called again. This time, response was brisk.

“Who is it that disturbs me at this unearthly hour?”, his baritone voice beamed, still dowsed in slumber. “Get up you lazy fellow”, she shouted. “Oh, its you”, the response indicated his sleep had vanished in a fraction of a second. “What happened?”, he asked. “Remember, I had told you about the masters program I had applied to. I got through it”, she screamed at the top of her voice, for the fifth time this evening. “Oh. That is absolutely fantastic. Congratulations. Wait a second, who had told you were going to do it when you were not prepared to even see the solutions online?”, the excitement seemed to have been teleported through the phone. She stayed mum for a few seconds. “You”, she said, an air of finality riding on the word.

“I’m coming to your town next week. Can you please look up your diary and fix up an appointment for me?”, he chuckled. “I’m sorry. All slots are already taken”, she smirked, thinking – two can play this game. “Ok, then I will meet up with all my girlfriends in the city”, he announced. “You can meet your imaginary girlfriends sitting there. Why waste time coming here?”, her onslaught was relentless. The phone went quiet. She knew he could never argue with her for long. And it gave her a strange pleasure to see the national debating champion go mum when she started to speak.

“Café Coffee Day, near my university, 11 AM”, she asserted. “Done”, he smiled. “And no need to bring your ugly umbrella along. The rains here are not as erratic as they are in your city”, she whispered into the speaker.

Scene 14

“Will you play with me?”, the boy’s voice beamed from one end of the see-saw. The community park was empty save for the two of them. The little girl wanted to pay no attention to the hideous creature. She heard him climbing down and walking towards her. She tried to act preoccupied with her doll. But this wasn’t enough to curb the uncouth. “Will you play with me?”, the boy shouted as he hovered over her head. She looked up, and declared, “No”.

“But why?”, was the boy’s injunction. The girl wanted to get rid off him. “Have you seen how fat you are? We can’t play see-saw, you idiot”, she lost her temper. She wasn’t used to playing with boys. She hated their rowdiness, their brutally physical sports and the way they were mean to each other during any game. But this boy had a unique quality about his stupidity. Not only was he coaxing her to play with him, he was well beyond shame in asking her the same question repeatedly, despite the rebuke.

“Some other game, then?”, he argued. “No. I’m not playing with you. Get lost”, she screamed and ran with her doll, towards her house.

“How about a board game?”, the boy ran behind her, undeterred, unabashed.

Scene 15

“So, what do you do Hemant?”, she asked, taking a sip from the glass. The awkward silence that had been pervading, save for the drizzle trickling off the plastic shelter covering the tea-stall, was finally broken. “Its Hiten, actually”, I corrected the lady whose attention span now seemed questionably low to me. “And I’m an investment banker”, I proceeded to answer the question, which seemed to have been born out of the urge to fill the silence, rather than any genuine curiosity.

“That’s good. And sorry about the name”, she apologized. “Never mind”, I tried not to look her in the eye. My dislike for her was beginning to grow. And seeing her appraent disinclination to divulge, I was not going to ask her about her profession or her purpose of visit to the city.

“Why are you so uncomfortable with girls?”, I could scarcely believe my ears as the words pierced through them. “What did you say?”, I lifted my head up to confront, but could not look her in the eye, still. “Yes, just like the way you cannot look me in the eye right now. Just like the way you practiced saying “Tea” ten times before you said it. Just like the way you did not proffer your overcoat the second time”

“Excuse me”, I could barely feel my throat as I spoke. “You seem like a nice person. And you are not an introvert. I could make that out from the way you talked to the tea-stall owner. Then why this change of disposition for someone else, just because she is not of the same gender”

As much as the words were chipping away on my already shattered sense of self respect, I could see some degree of veracity in them.

“How can you say all of this, having known me for all of sixty minutes?”, I tried to reason. But evidently, she seemed to be beyond all reason. “Is it untrue?”, she smiled. My silence gave me away.

Here I was, sitting half-drenched on a cold damp November night, with my conduct being put to the butcher’s table. I had lived all my life with a toothpick stuck inside my throat, which flared up everytime I interacted with a girl. And this girl seemed to have caught hold of the obstruction and was moving it about, inside me. I started sweating. In another vain rush of indiscretion, I found myself uttering,” So what do I do about it?”

“Those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter”, she lowered her voice.

The girl in the rain (Part 4)

2009-09-18T23:31:00.000+05:30

Scene 10

Her mind was transported back to that fateful night, a fortnight ago. Brimming with anxiety, she was standing on the edge of the cabin, clenching her fists, as her friend Sherlyn impatiently typed one numeric after another into the blank text box on the screen. “Girls, it is getting late, I need to close the cyber café”, an elderly man’s voice beamed from behind. “Just 2 minutes, uncle. Only me and her results remain to be seen”, Sherlyn uttered in a pleading tone, with her head tilted towards the girl. “Fine. But the rest of you clear out”, the man said in an exasperated voice, eyeing the group of girls surrounding Sherlyn, and pointing his finger towards the exit. “All the best”, numerous dreary voices echoed as the door’s clamp creaked for seven times in succession.

“Let’s go for it”, Sherlyn mumbled as she entered her roll number. Her companion joined her hands in prayer for her friend, and for herself. “We’re sorry to inform but you have not been selected for admission this year” – the message flashed on the screen, as she opened her eyes in disbelief, at the fate of her college topper. Sherlyn got up and went through the door, without a word to her friend who still stood in shock.

It was only when the elderly gentlemen broke her reverie that she realized she had been standing in front of an open portal that held her destiny in the wraps of uncertainty. She fumbled inside her purse to take out her admit card, and entered the digits, not even caring to seat herself. The progress bar on the browser window seemed to move at a snail’s pace. She was getting impatient. Suddenly, she was reminded of a quote that he had told her the day she had missed her college scholarship by half a mark – “God doesn’t always give us what we want, but he always gives us what we need”. The thought calmed her mind. She was now prepared for whatever message the idiot box before her would display, which had been the same one for eight times in succession that night.

“Congratulations, You have cleared the entrance examination. Please click the link below for details on the admission process” – the screen displayed.

Scene 11

“We don’t think that way, dear. Infact, no one does. Whether your skirt is smeared with ice cream or chocolate sauce, we’ll love you all the same”, the father whispered, as he laid his hand over his daughter’s head.

Ding-dong. The bell rang. “Honey, I’m busy in the kitchen. Can you get the door?”, the mother’s voice echoed from a distance. “Sure”, the man said, and made a move towards the living room. The little girl gave up on the skirt and followed him into the hall. Arrival of guests always excited her, and it nearly always meant a chocolate or a doll. As the man opened the door, he saw an elderly gentleman smiling at him. “Hi. We’ve just moved into the neighborhood. Can you guide us as to where we can catch a bus for the town hall from?”, the man’s voice shook as he spoke. “Sure, take a right down the road and then the first left. The bus stop is right at the corner of that street”, the man said, stepping out of the doorstep, while motioning the direction with his hands. “Thank you”, the old man said.

“Who all do you have in your family”, the man enquired, as the little girl was now trying to wrap herself around her father’s feet. This seemed to be an act of disapproval for the guest who had brought neither chocolates nor dolls. “Just me and my grandson, who I guess is about the same age as your pretty little daughter”, the old man smiled.

“Let us go, grandpa”, a little boy’s voice beamed, as he came running down to the door. “Aah, there he is”, the old man smiled again. The little girl’s eyes fell on the boy. He was unkempt and looked as if he had given up on bathing as a yearly ritual. “Thanks again. See you around”, the old man wished in his gentle voice. “See you”, the man smiled as he began to push the door close. The little girl caught one more glance of the boy as he tugged on his grandfather’s shirt. He seemed to be the ugliest creature she had ever seen. She cringed.

Scene 12

I had been born with a disposition that made me uncomfortable with women. Irrespective of caste, color, age or situation, women always managed to make me fidgety. And a crying woman was akin to juggling balls while walking the tightrope. Here I was, in front of a woman I barely knew and I had seen her wiping her tears. I did not know how to react. “Tea” now seemed to be the most heinous three-lettered word I had ever uttered. I regretted my indiscretion.

“So, how come you are trapped in this hideous weather?”, her question broke the silence. I could not miss the silent swallowing of tears she made before uttering the sentence. But I was happy nonetheless. Some sound is better than no sound. “I’m not from this town. Came down for some office related work”, I finally found some sense returning to my statements. “Ditto. I would have carried an umbrella had I known the weather in this city changes so quickly”, she said, the tone a little more cheerful. A lean boy placed two glasses of tea on the table. The hot steam was a pleasant relief from the damp coldness surrounding us. The lady’s potential cheerfulness and the hot tea put me a little at ease. “I’m Hiten, by the way”, I uttered, lifting my glass and blowing into it. “Pleased to meet you, Hiten”, the lady smiled back at me, and copied my act. But the lifting of the glass and the blowing was the extent of it. Her name wasn’t forthcoming.

The girl in the rain (Part 3)

2009-09-13T00:12:00.002+05:30

Scene 7

Over years, she had learnt to hold back her tears. But years of practice seem to be failing her at this juncture. And she was surprised that an incident as tiny as this had managed to shake her from within. Or maybe, it was because it was coming on top of what had transpired in the past few days. She wiped her face and strolled towards the window. She could see the half moon gleaming in the distance. A sniffle found its way through her throat as she reminisced over how happy she had been the last time the moon had been that way. She crawled towards her bedstand, opened the drawer and took out the book that was lying in one of the corners. She wiped the dust off it with her hands, and gently turned over the cover page. A small note was stapled on the inside. A couple of sniffles found their way again as she went over the text – “Always believe in yourself, because I will always believe in you”. The note had a small subtext at the bottom – “From your best friend”. She threw the book onto the floor, mumbling under her breath –“But that is not enough”

Scene 8

As they approached the doorstep, he put the little girl down. Back on her feet, the little girl hurried into the house. Caught by surprise, the man bellowed,” What happened, princess? Where are you off to?” But no reply was forthcoming. The man followed her track, all the way to the wash-basin where he found the girl rubbing her skirt with water. “What happened?” he uttered, in part-surprised, part-pampering tone. “Ice-cream fell on my skirt. I don’t want to look shabby”, she cried, looking up at her father with an innocuous face. The man burst into laughter – “But why do you care? Who’s here to see your dress?” “I don’t want anyone to think I’m shabby, not even you or mama. Because I’m not shabby”, the little girl’s voice went into overdrive as she spoke the last sentence, and she started rubbing the skirt even harder.

Scene 9

“Tea?” I could barely hear my own voice as I made the offer, after the ten minute awkward silence had made me fidgety enough to trade that discomfort with the one I was experiencing now. She turned her head in my direction. The eyes were no longer prying. But I now realized that the awkward silence was a better deal than having been thought of as the guy who hits on girls on dark rainy nights. “OK”, her feeble voice broke the silence – an antithesis of what I had heard after the puddle fiasco. Some sound was better than no sound. We proceeded towards the tea-stall where the radio had been playing. I pulled out a chair, or rather a bench for her, as I motioned the sleepy stall-owner to bring a couple of teas. As I took the bench opposite hers, I noticed her wiping her face with a handkerchief. And it didn’t look like rain water.

The girl in the rain (Part 2)

2009-09-10T10:20:00.002+05:30

Scene 4

“Come out, it’s party time”, the shrill voice of Sherlyn was audible even in the midst of all the din and the concomitant banging of the door. She decided to ignore it, hoping that the absence of response would cause the noise-mongers to get back to their ways. But the bang and the appeals only got louder, and sharper, “Come out, you rural girl. Learn to live in the city.” She threw aside the book she was reading, on the bedstand, got up and unbolted the door. “Sorry, I was asleep. I’m not feeling well. You guys go ahead and enjoy”, she made a plea in the sincerest and calmest tone possible. “Don’t be a spoilsport, gal. Come out and have fun”, came a drunken voice from behind. “No, please. You guys go ahead, I’ll rather catch some sleep”, she was trying harder than ever to subdue her bubbling anger. “Leave her man, we don’t need bores like her to botch our party”, a third voice echoed. She turned to see that it was the same guy who had made a pass on her the last time such a dinful night had graced her hostel. He had seemed charming on that night, and she had even thought of finding out more about him – him, the same person who was now eyeing her with blood red eyes brimming with scorn. She could not take it anymore. “Stupid girl”, she heard the congregation of voices filter through the narrow slit, as she stepped back, and banged the door into the face of the alcohol dowsed crowd.

Scene 5

“Dad, Can I have an ice-cream?”, the little girl mumbled, sensing the opportunity the rush of affection from her father had thrown open. “Sure, why not? Lets go to the ice-cream parlor”, the man got up and flung the princess over his shoulders. “Honey, we’ll be back in ten minutes”, he called into the other room as the door closed behind him.

“Dad, Can you pick me up again?”, the little girl cried in her ever so feeble voice. The man was suddenly aware of the fact that while he had been carrying the girl on their way to the parlor, he had let her walk by his side on the return journey. “Sure”, he said, as he picked up the girl. He had taken but a couple of steps, when his daughter’s inquisition reached him – “Dad, why do I always have to ask for things I want? Can’t you know what I want, without me saying it?” The man was bamboozled by the innocent question. As he continued walking, with his daughter’s ice-cream melting and dripping all over his shirt, he took a deep breath and said,” Princess, you remember the toy I gave you on New Year?” “Yes, the fridge stickers”, the girl replied, licking the cold stick. “Yes, it had a magnet behind it which makes it stick to the metal of the refrigerator door. And if you bring two magnets together, the opposite ends also stick. You see, every relationship has two ends to it, just like a magnet. There is a giver and there is a taker. And the roles are not fixed even within the relationship. They may change with time. When the giver is perfect, he’ll know what the taker wants before the latter saying about it. That is what we call unsaid communication. But nobody is perfect. We are all givers in some sense, and we strive towards being the perfect giver”, the man babbled, little realizing what cosmic bouncers he was throwing at his daughter. But the girl was surprisingly attentive.

“Who’s the giver and who’s the taker in our relationship?” ,she retorted. The man looked at the innocent inquisition perplexing her face,”You decide”.

Scene 6

The rain had reduced to a drizzle by now but the wind had got gustier and colder. November wasn’t the month you typically expected rains in this part of the world, and when they happened, they wreaked havoc. I turned my wrist and found the minute’s hand trying to play catch-me-if-you-can with its shorter, slower counterpart. It was quarter to nine, and I was hungry. In a vain sense of hope, I strained my neck again, for any signs of an approaching car. But a vain attempt it was to be. As I was turning back, I noticed a moving object, barely visible through the corner of my eye. My neck stopped in its stride and took reverse gear to discover the girl shivering. “Please, take my coat. You are cold”, I earnestly appealed as I motioned to let loose the sole raiment sheathing me from the chill outside. A pair of prying eyes turned towards me. The people of this city were more hostile than what I had imagined before I had arrived here a couple of days ago. I was unnerved, and I couldn’t believe what I heard myself saying,” I meant you must be feeling cold. Not that you are a cold person. You seem like a cool person. I only meant to say that you might be feeling cold, as you were shivering. Not that you are a cold person…” The eyes got even more prying, as I secretly pleaded to be buried a couple of miles below the concrete my feet were grounded on.

“All passages leading to Cantt Road have been blocked due to the crashing of electric poles in the area. Residents moving towards Cantt Road are advised to curb their movements. Residents of Cantt Road are well advised to stay put in their homes till …”, the crackling voice from the radio sitting on the tea-stall behind me, turned to be the saving grace. The announcement had apparently caught the lady’s attention. I was liberated from the prying eyes and the consequent ignominy my following jabber had engendered. As I strained my ears to listen to the remainder of the announcement, I saw her face turning pale. It took me another moment to realize – We were on Cantt Road.

The girl in the rain (Part 1)

2009-09-07T02:18:00.008+05:30

Prologue

Raindrops pelted hard on the roof. As people scampered for shelter in the fading twilight, I could see a dim silhouette running towards me. Like the train approaching a station, the figure that had seemed to be crawling from a distance, now appeared to be sprinting as it came closer to me. As the hooded figure’s feet splashed into the puddle a couple of feet away from me, the water defied gravity and covered me from head to toe. I was flabbergasted. The figure lifted its hood and a feeble ultrasonic feminine voice reached my ears – “Oops, I’m so sorry.”

Scene 1

“How many times will I have to tell you? 10 rupees means 10 rupees. I won’t give you a paisa more.”, the words were loud enough for all rickshaw-pullers in the city to hear. “OK, behenji, Give me 5 rupees, but please stop shouting”, the rickshaw-puller was reduced to exasperation. “No, Why should I give you 5 rupees. Your labour is worth 10 rupees, you deserve to take 10 rupees”, the voice was calmer and reassuring now. “OK. OK. Give me whatever you want, just let me go”, the man was at the verge of breaking down as he left. She flung her bag over her shoulder, blew on the two hairs that had dared to cover her eyes, and started walking briskly. Only if drums could have played in the background. “Stupid people. Nobody understands the value of money these days”, she mumbled under her breath.

A loud din greeted her as she entered the hostel. Another of those weekend parties was on, the ones that started early and lasted late. She liked them, save for the booze and the after effects it brought on, especially on members of the opposite gender, who seemed to become overtly friendly after downing a few gulps of amber liquids. But today, she was not in the mood. She had work to attend to, and fast. A battle-hardened warrior, she was not one to be swayed by such nuisances. She walked up to her room and bolted the door from inside.

Scene 2

“Dad, I want to be a teacher”, cried the little girl as she climbed up the sofa to be by her father’s comforting side. “Sure, but can you teach?”, he casually commented as he turned the daily’s page over from business news to sports news. “I can take attendance”, was the innocent comment as the kid finally managed to climb her Everest. He put aside the newspaper, took the girl into his hands and kissed her on the forehead, “You will become a great teacher someday”.

“Yes, I will”, whispered the girl.

Scene 3

“Its OK”, was what came out from my mouth, when my mind was uttering, "Stupid girl, you’ve botched my week’s work-wear. Who’ll pay the extra laundry bill?” As the rain pelted even harder, she took shelter by my side. Her hood was no longer covering her head. I turned my head in her direction, not to look at her, but to catch sight of the car’s noise I could hear approaching. I was waiting for my friend Nitin to pick me up. I was disappointed to find it was only a taxi. As my gaze turned, I avoided looking at her but could not. Either she had a malfunctioning raincoat or it was some new vogue that my old fashioned eyes had failed to catch. Her hair was drenched with water and it was dripping onto the rest of her dress. As a gust of wind blew over our heads, she started to shiver. Not that I was any particularly chivalrous, but I offered her my overcoat. “I’m alright”, she politely refused. I wore it back. The wind blew again.

A Film To Remember

2009-05-18T22:52:00.001+05:30

“I'll always remember. It was late afternoon.

It lasted forever. And ended too soon.”

These lyrics from Mandy Moore’s “Cry”, which incidentally also happen to be one of the soundtracks of the subject of this post, aptly sum up my experience of watching, what I now consider as, one of the best romantic movies ever made.

It was a late Sunday afternoon when I, urged by the desire to ward off boredom and more strongly, that of freeing up space on my packed-to-the brim hard disk, decided to watch “A Walk to Remember” – a movie about which I had heard good reviews from a lot of my friends but could never bring myself to plunging into the torturous experience of a romantic flick. And so I double-clicked the icon, opened a Firefox window and typed www.cricinfo.com

The media player window remained minimized for about 15 minutes or so. It was then that I heard the dialogue – “So would it kill you to try?” , “Yep, and I'm too young to die.” And my attention shifted momentarily to the canniness of the rhyme. I hypothesized – this one might have good dialogues at least. And though I'm too young to die, I took the risk of giving it a try. To provide crutches to my poor comprehension of spoken American English, I downloaded the subtitles and decided to give the movie some respect. Full Screen view it was.

And one and a half hours later, I was left dumbstruck. Here was a movie that had hit me in some measure – the first one to do so after “The Dark Knight”.

With no big stars, no state-of-the-art special effects, no riveting thrills, no high-adrenalin action and absolutely no panache at all, the movie captures you with its sheer simplicity and neatness of emotion. Poignant themes of sacrifice, optimism, believing in your dreams and Faith, built on heart-warming and truly credible performances make it one of the smoothest watches ever. You feel as if you are one of the students of the California high school, watching the story unroll before your eyes from a stone’s throw distance. It’s the after-taste that differentiates a good meal and a good film from a great one. And true to its greatness, the film’s end leaves you longing but not unsatisfied.

Most romantic movie fans would consider “A Walk to Remember” as a romantic film. And with all due respect to them, I consider it more a film about Faith than anything else. For me, these two dialogues that underline the movie, say it all:

Landon (to Reverend Sullivan): “I'm just asking you for the same thing that you teach us every day in Church. And that's faith.”

Landon: I'm sorry she never got her miracle.
Reverend Sullivan: She did. It was you.

Though “Titanic” still remains as my gold standard in romantic films (most of which I hate), “A Walk to Remember” shall henceforth hold a special place of its own.

Though I’m inclined to, I wouldn’t blabber anymore and play the spoilsport for those who might not have seen the film. But if you haven’t, you should. And don’t open Cricinfo along with it. Have Faith in the movie. :)

The Souvenir (Part 3)

2009-05-02T00:16:00.002+05:30

Mortal fear paralyzed his senses. The morning meant to be the onset of a new life had rapidly metamorphosed into a drive down the alley of death. “Can’t you do anything?”, Jake screamed, as the speeding cab whizzed past screaming pedestrians. “I’m trying”, cried the driver, as he noticed a mound in the distance and steered the car towards it, “Hold on tight We’ll collide against the mound to stop”. Jake tightened the grip on his seatbelt and closed his eyes. There was a loud bang. He felt his lungs deflating and his interiors almost finding a way out through the skin pores, with the sudden disappearance of momentum. Jake opened his eyes and noticed that the cab was on an incline. An electric pole on the top of the mound had helped stop the cab in its tracks.

He was about to breath the customary sigh of relief, when he heard another, louder bang, interspersed with the sound of glass cracking. He tried to get out of the cab but the doors were jammed from the impact. The flurry of sounds did not stop. He heard loud screams and saw a bunch of harried looking boys and girls rushing out of the building on the other side of the mound. As the mob passed by his cab in their sprint towards the gate, he heard the hysterical voice of Marie, his sister’s friend – “Where the hell is the ambulance? The pole fell straight on her head. Julia’s head was smashed…”

April 10, 11 AM, Luxor (Egypt):

“Stop doing that, will you?”, cried Cheryl for what seemed to her as the thousandth time this morning, “I’ll take it away if you don’t behave yourself”. The threat seemed to have an immediate effect. The irritating sound of glass rubbing against glass finally gave way to the humming of the jeep engine, which had hitherto been suppressed in the background. “In 5 minutes, we’ll be on the hot air balloon”, Mark’s words broke the monotone. “And enjoying an incredible view of the Egyptian desert”, Cheryl completed her husbands’ sentence. No reaction was, however, forthcoming from their son Mike.

“Incredible India and now Exotic Egypt – this world tour has had the perfect start”, smirked Mark, as the jeep finally arrived at its destination. Blue skies meeting the limitless expanse of the golden desert – it was a breathtaking sight. Mark strolled towards the booking counter as Cheryl took out her compactor to adjust her make up.

“Trying to look good for the mummies?”, remarked Mark as he returned 5 minutes later and still found her wife busy with the compactor, forcing an abashed look from Cheryl. “Tough luck, the next balloon is sold out. We need to wait half an hour for the one after that”, he continued. The dejected look on Cheryl’s face following this announcement was enough to undo all the makeup had managed to achieve in the last 300 seconds. Mike was nonchalant as usual, now making shapes in the sand with the glass souvenir. “Enough of it, give it to me”, shouted Cheryl as she snatched it from Mike’s hands. “You’re being paranoid. Let him play”, remarked Mark. “I didn’t bring him all the way to Egypt to irritate me. Throw this thing away”, Cheryl’s decibel level rose. “But I love this souvenir”, Mark protested. “Then you figure out what to do with it”, Cheryl said, thrusting the trinket into her husband’s hands.

Mark turned and started walking towards the counter, thinking to himself the painful repercussions his second marriage had brought about on his child. But his current concern was the souvenir in his hand. As he lifted his head, he noticed the queue of people getting onto the balloon, and struck upon an arrangement. He went up to the elderly gentleman standing at the rear end of the queue. “Sir, I have a family situation. Can you hold onto this thing for me? I’ll collect it from you at the end of the balloon flight. If you remember, we’re put up in the same hotel”, Mark pleaded. ‘With pleasure, young man”, the gentleman took off the burden from Mark’s hands and stepped onto the gangway.

Dr. Davon was impressed by the sheer beauty of the object in his hand. Even as the balloon took flight, he couldn’t take his eyes off it, ignoring the spectacular view of the desert below. “Sir, you’re missing the view”, hissed a young man standing beside him. “Very well”, whispered Dr. Davon. But as he took his eyes off the souvenir, his hands trembled, and the object of his attention slipped out for a free descent.

“Why don’t you…”, Mark could not finish his statement, as he fell the plugs pulled out from the sockets of his brain. And in a moment’s flash, he collapsed.

April 10, 1:30 PM, Agra (India):

“Good men, all of them were”, recounted Kabir, as he reflected on his last 3 customers, “They even tipped me generously”. “Must have been firangis”, Gogi’s shrill voice broke Kabir’s reverie, and it was then that he realized he had been thinking his thoughts aloud. He felt obligated to reply, “No, all of them were Indian people – a Sardarji, a South Indian gentleman and an elderly lady”.

April 10, 11:30 AM, Luxor (Egypt):

“Sir, accident here. Air balloon take off site. 34 year old man, hit on the head, object fell off an overhead balloon”, mumbled Officer Kayan in broken English. “What object?”, echoed the voice from the other side. “Some glass object. Looks like a crystal ball.”.

April 10, 8:00 AM, London (UK):

“Sir, there has been an accident here at Gottenham Music School. 20 year old girl, head smashed by an electric pole”, spoke Officer Jones into the microphone. “What was the reason?”, echoed the voice from the other side. “A speeding car rammed into the pole. Brakes had been apparently stuck by a glass souvenir, has a cupid inside”.

April 10, 2:30 AM, Connecticut (USA):

“Sir, there has been a murder in Block 29. 30 year old lady shot at by her husband. A RXC095 military rifle seems to have been the weapon. Murderer absconding.”, hollered Officer Harding on the walkie. “Any other circumstantial evidence?”, echoed the voice from the other side. “A semi circular glass souvenir, has a dancing couple inside”. “Alright, report back at the station”, was the command. Officer Harding made a move towards the door. His eyes fell upon a poster that hung on the side wall.

“Omens don’t make your destiny. You do” – it said.

Please do leave your comments/criticism/suggestions :)

The Souvenir (Part 2)

2009-04-14T22:45:00.001+05:30

As the darkness before his eyes cleared, Simon felt a numbing pain in his head. He could barely lift his blood soaked left eyelid. With half-blinded vision, all he managed to see were two pairs of legs scuttling away towards the entrance followed by a bang of the closing door. As he lifted his right hand to sense the source of the unbearable pain in his head, he felt the soft tissue soaked in gore. He pressed against the wound in a battle against gravity and lifted himself to his feet. At that moment, he still found comfort in knowing that his wife and unborn child were safe. He moved to his left to light the chandelier that illuminated the living room below and saw the light filter through the glass onto the still body of his wife, blood oozing from the passage the bullet had made through her forehead.

April 10, 7:30 AM, London (UK):

“I’m telling you, she’s going to love it”, hollered Patricia as her inattentive brother continued to act aloof, looking through the window onto the street below. “It’s just the perfect gift – the symbol of eternal love to mark the start of your love life”, she continued, her voice now more of a sing-song. “You got to get up and go. Proclaim your love to her, you snooty fool”, her voice ebbing back to its normal high pitch.

“I’ll look like an idiot.”, Jake finally responded. “No, you will not. You have been infatuated with her since high school. And believe me, she knows it too. I know her, she’s my best friend. She just can’t understand why you are being such a sissy about proposing to her”, Patricia’s voice was now shriller than ever, and the house’s glass panes stood in mortal danger. “Ok, I’ll do it. But I won’t carry this nonsense object with me”, Jake got up on his feet. “Just take it along, she’ll like it even if you don’t”, Patricia thrust the object-in-question into her brother’s reluctant hands, and pushed him out of the door.

Walking on the kerb, Jake thought to himself, ”Wow. This is it. I’m going to proclaim my love to my childhood crush.” “Taxi”, he shouted and bam, a cab parked itself right in front of him. Today was his lucky day, or so he thought. “Piccadilly”, Jake uttered as he got into the car.

As the cab swerved its way through the buzz of the daily commuters on the streets of London, Jake picked up her sister’s forced offering and began to carefully analyze the details, the civil engineer that he was. As he turned the trinket around, he leaped from his seat, as if pulled by an invisible hook, the trinket tumbling off his hands onto the front part of the cab. “Sorry sir, Didn’t see the bump coming”, exclaimed the abashed driver. “Never mind, my showpiece fell off. Can you look for it?”, Jake responded in an uncharacteristically calm tone. Nothing could have spoiled his mood on this bright sunny morning. “Sir, do you mind if we look upon reaching your destination?”, the driver said. “Ya, no problem”, Jake pushed himself back and crossed his arms below his head, as the cab hit the deserted Circus street and caught speed.

After another half hour of smooth driving, Jake finally saw the brick-red building in the distance, and its unmistakable stone engraving – “Gottenham Music School”. “Can you park the car by the gate, Mr.? My love interest is supposed to finish her violin lesson in another 5 minutes.”, uttered Jack, now giddy with excitement. But the cab driver didn’t slow down. “Excuse me, Mr. I said – Stop right here”, Jake demanded. “I’m sorry Sir, I can’t. The brakes are stuck”, exclaimed the panting driver.

(To be continued…)

The Souvenir (Part 1)

2009-04-13T23:36:00.002+05:30

April 10, 1 PM, Agra (India):

“God, I hate these dusty April winds”, cried the vendor for the umpteenth time in the day, as he passed the cursory sweep of his long tailed bushy haired broom over the trinkets. “You whine more than you sell”, beamed the voice of the neighborhood fruit vendor. “At this rate, you’ll go hoarse before your cart empties itself off its worthless contents”, the sarcastic overtone continued. The vendor was unfazed, years of proximity with Gogi, the fruit vendor had taught him two lessons – his words were as bitter as his fruits were sweet. But the proud owner of “Agra Souvenir Shop” was not pleased with the way destiny had panned out for him over the past few weeks.

“Kabir bhai, chai?”, bellowed the orphaned tea-boy as he wheezed past the sniffing Gogi’s cart with so much as a hateful sideways glance, and handed over a tumbler of hot tea to the souvenir cart owner. As the noon sun began to shower all its mercy (or the lack of it) on the hapless cart owners, Kabir pulled open his tattered umbrella. The shade offered him two comforts – escape from the solar munificence and escape from the neighborhood banter. As he sipped the ember liquid, he began recounting his poor fortune over the past few weeks. All he had sold in this period were 3 reincarnations of the Taj Mahal, the glorious monument besides which he parked his cart, cast in marble and encapsulated in glass. The piece was beautiful, nevertheless, it wasn’t his big-ticket product. He clearly remembered the 3 customers due to the few and far in between sales.

April 10, 2 AM, Connecticut (USA):

“Simon, Simon, wake up. Someone’s in the living room”, whispered Celia into her husband’s ears. Simon woke up with a start. “What? What happened?”, he cried. “Sshhh, I think there’s someone in our living room. I heard voices downstairs”. Simon strained his ear for the semblance of a sound but there was none to catch. “Go to sleep Ceiliaaaaaaaaaaawn… You are hallucinat…”, he was caught in the middle of his drowsy sentence by a loud sound of glass breaking on the ground floor. “Quick, Celia, climb out of the house through the fire escape. I’ll handle these cons”. “But…”, Celia cried. “Just go, I’ll be safe. You have to save yourself and my baby”, he placed his hand on his pregnant wife’s lips. Celia climbed out of the window onto the terrace as Simon jumped from his bed, caught hold of his grandfather’s musket that had been hanging over the bed since some decades and set off to duel the intruders. He stepped onto the staircase, pointed the muzzle into the obscure darkness of the living room below and shouted,” Who’s there? Freeze or I’ll fire.” Two silhouettes emerged from the dark abyss below, holding their hands up in the air. One of them cried,” Please don’t fire. We’re just thieves. We surrender.” Simon turned his gaze towards the other silhouette. It had only one arm. “Poor little thing, handicapped and thieving”, he thought to himself. Or was it one arm up in the air while the arm was groping in the dark for something. Before Simon could comprehend, he saw a semicircular object approaching him with lightning speed. “Boom”, went the gunshot. There was a momentary silence followed by a hollow thud on the floor.

(To be continued…)

Salary Slip

2009-03-18T03:02:00.002+05:30

Here comes another recessionary post from the stable of my indiscriminate wanderings. There is a two-fold reason why I choose to call this a “recessionary” post. For starters, it comes at a time when fortunes of many a worlds are being torn down and those of some other worlds being rewritten., a time that most of us will look back at with nauseous nostalgia and sigh "Those were the times". Secondly, this marks a significant departure from the normal verbosity and lack of philosophical connotations that are usually associated with my blog posts, yielding themselves into a torturous experience for many a reader. It is a recession of thoughts in that sense.

There was a moment, or rather there were moments, of truth that occurred to me today during my visit to my ever so efficient ‘sarkari’ bank. I’ve always been an advocate of the fact that everyone must have some form of ‘sarkari’ interaction in his life – either through a bank account in a nationalized bank, or a visit to pay the electricity bill, or if you are real connoisseur, a visit to the post office. Not only does it help relive the experience that an average Indian like me should go through but it also serves as an occasion to meet and interact with the real India.

As I stepped through the hallowed portals of my bank today, long queues in front of every counter greeted me. I promptly joined one of the queues that seemed to be the shortest, and began to wait for my turn with what could be termed as the exact opposite of bated breath. Right before me in the line was a young man, about my age, may be slightly older. He looked like a student, and a studious one at that, what with his thick spectacles and an overloaded backpack. He seemed to be in deep contemplation, probably worrying about the upcoming exam that he needed to prepare for, or the gift he needed to buy for his girlfriend or may be thinking about the butt kicking he was likely to face on an upcoming birthday, or so was the deduction of my tunnel vision. As the line crawled forward, I saw the guy opening his backpack and taking out a plethora of documents. I was doomed. It seemed he was going to be an unfavorable outlier when it comes to servicing time. Nevertheless, my enthusiasm was not daunted, what with all the experience my curious affairs with the red tape, in my presidential capacity at IIT Roorkee, had left me with.

Finally, it was his turn. A mention here for the ever-so-intriguing nature of Indian queues. Unlike their western counterparts, they seem not only to grow lengthwise but also breadthwise. The inherent curiosity of peeping over a fellow citizen’s service coupled with the reconciliatory element of witnessing the activity from close quarters, rather than sitting in the oblivious black holes at the rear end of the queues, have proven to be the major causes for this phenomenon. And I was not an exception to the norm. I took a position to the right of the guy, who was now seated and all his papyrus paraphernalia was now out in the open, sitting on the counter.

And there I saw the familiar McDonalds’ “M” on one of the documents. It was a salary slip. My eyeballs scanned the document in quick succession, and paused at the figure in bold: Basic Salary: Rs. 4678.

My mind wandered back to the experiences of a couple of weeks ago, when the final placements of our seniors were in progress. Having been involved in the process at close quarters, I knew the undercurrent of pessimistic sentiment that had been and has been riding our minds over the past few months. At prestigious institutions like the IITs and IIMs, we are breaking sweat over our salaries slipping from a gazillion rupees to a gazillion minus thousand rupees. We consider our careers ruined, our fates sealed and dejectedly term ourselves as the “Children of Recession”. And here was a truism, wherein an individual was making ends meet at a fraction of the moolah some of us spend on a wild evening at Purple Haze.

Maybe if we could have brakes or even a neutral gear in our lives, we could have paused to see the blacks and whites. What was more poignant – the guy’s salary slip or the slip in our salaries? Fodder for thought, maybe.