The Battle of the Monster Ant and a Black Widow Spider

(Dedicated to Vishnu Sharma, and his distant grandsons 
                        like Aesop, Le Fontaine & Borges)

When the monster ant challenged a black widow spider,
in a forbidden corner of a hunter’s lodge...
Though ants of the size of a rice grain are common,
imagine an ant larger than a popcorn. (Applause!)

Before the morbid duel of arthropods can ensue,
remember what I narrate is as true as sky is blue.

For half-a-billion years, spider-webs enraptured
ants mid-flight. The spiders feasted
on the juices of the proletariat ants
but it seemed tonight, the fable

could turn. Anxious house-flies implanted
cameras on their backs to telecast
the apocalyptic event. Rows and rows
of rice-size ants gathered on floor
to watch the duel ‘live’ on the ceiling-sky.

Ants used spherical lenses made of bubbles
to magnify this distant fantasy!
The death-match was to be fought
without any referee mediating;
Fangs and formic acid of the ant

against the sticky web and the guile
of the spider. The webmaster said,
“One act of heroism, one idea, the will
or virtue or the skill of a single being,
can transform the universe.

A victory for the monster ant threatens
the hierarchy of food-chains, and when fear
from the faces of victims vanishes, a despot
dies too.” Rousing itself thus, the spider
accepted the tantrums and terms

of the duel-of-insects. “For gory, and for glory”,
said the monster ant, “shall we fight”.
‘Give it back to the webmaster tonight’,
sang the ants in unison. The war began,
when the chief camera-fly, said: “Cheese!”

Battle-ready flying monster ant shot a jet
of formic acid into the spider’s compound
eye. Though noxious fumes clouded
the spider’s collection of miniature lenses,
webmaster retaliated with its spit-like

stringy fluid. But these abdomen spurts
from the blinded weaver missed the ant.
The monster ant now aimed its acidic jet
at the spinneret from where oozes the complex
fluid that turns into web. In the mid-flight

the two jets collided, creating fishbones and drops
that exploded on hitting the floor. Then ants dispersed,
and returned with acid-proof, transparent, bullet-proof,
omniphobic umbrellas. The nervy flies struggled
to keep their high-speed cameras rolling.

Both spider and monster ant were starved
for ammunition, and this was a battle
of wits (as much as it was of fluid
mechanics). The ardent ant decided
that a few bulls-eyes at the head

were its surest bet, and attacked meticulously
till the acid ate through the spider’s thorax.
Celebrations began when the spider fell,
but in the pell-mell, the monster ant itself
got trapped in a web of its dead nemesis.

The Queen Ant, adept in blue-blood politics,
now emerged and distracted her ignoramus subjects.
High on tequila, french fries and candy, ants danced below,
while the monster ant perished after a struggle --
a martyr carcass trapped in destiny's web.

In the recording of death-rattle captured by a camera
left-on by carelessness, the dying monster ant
proclaimed: “I curse you o thankless fellow-ants,
if the spiders were brutal killers so far, in future
they will be freakier and worse!”

First published in Indian Review, 2012

When vegetables went on a strike

                          

(To Vishnu Sharma, creator of Panchatantra

& his disciples: Aesop, Fontaine and Borges) 

Using kickbacks and foxy, crowy, mousy, doggy diplomacy

the chicken, goats, lambs and meat-producing cattle union 

got a bill passed, which institutes special culinary laws

prohibiting the use of "only vegetables" in any dish. 

"The dying wish of every meaty-bone, fattened comrade

is to go glamorously on a gourmet plate.

It is said that the soul of a brother is never at ease

if its meat is not eaten, or eaten with too much peas."

"But think of a purely vegetarian platter! We'd live rather than die. 

Its insulting to be overlooked, while the lowest caste of the living get picked!

If the absence of a bloody sacrifice attracts diners to their vegi-curries,

our corporate propagandists must spread 'lack of protein' worries.” 

**

All the vegetarian cattle expressed their support for this move,

"We must be the priority, as long as the roots move less than the hoofs."

Parleys were held, dynamics of proteins was discussed in conferences,

slogans of "Meat is good, Good is meat" appeared as research inferences.

Imagine the politics of taste. Odysseus rose to praise the roasts,

and toasts were styled and rhymed like Goddess Kali's prayer,     

Buddhist non-violence was asked to abdicate power over platters

and tandoori ovens were worshipped the world over. 

Then okra, cauliflower, cabbage, gourd and pumpkin began

a nationwide campaign for the vegetarian nation.

They were soon joined in by the Culinary Institute for Cole Slaw,

Salad is Sensuous Association (SISA) and the ghost of GB Shaw.

"Nature gave humans neither claws nor canine teeth, 

and their stomach is not designed to live on just meat,

without roughage or fiber, the toilets will go out of use,

and constipated ideas cannot be rescued by any Muse.'

**

Fruits and flowers decided to stay away from these protests,

and near-extinction, carnivorous beasts tried to get some press.

Then hens and sheep met the representatives from the sea,

while the fish supported them, shrimps and crabs sought amnesty.

Then the cereals called a strike – bandh: "We too feel repressed,

always on the plate, but never as the main dish, 

we are like the MPs without the ministerial office."

Some vegan voices chimed in, but these were soon suppressed.

Then peppers, zucchini, asparagus, lettuce, shifted camps,

announced: "We no longer support the vege-tramps.

Bah! Who eats okra or beans or cabbage or gourd or pumpkin,

except the penniless pagans with non-Western idioms of sin?"

Mushrooms underwent an existential angst. "We are rooted, but color

of our skin is our undoing. We can hallucinate the best of men,

but we fail to synthesize food from sunlight. Everything decays or

is eaten, by humans or us. But we are the devourers more ubiquitous."

**

Then potatoes, yes potatoes, and tomatoes, yes them tomatoes,

organized with chillis, basil, spices, oil-producing plants and nuts,

a hyperspace of boycott, a non-alignment movement, the middle guts

of truly wise, arguing no matter who is eaten, everyone is put to knife.

The slogan "No matter who is eaten, everyone is put to knife"

soon rose as a gloat from every living thing. As the lament spread,

death became a living threat, and chicken and cattle sighed,

"We wanted a vain status – a vice! Its better to just survive."

Only a sage with divyadrishti and vivek could follow this talk.

Divyadrishti: transcelestial vision & vivek: transcelebral acumen --

acquired by study, right karma & yoga, enriched the Sage

with knowledge of those idioms and ideas that never hit the page.

The Sage addressed all living species with his trans-celestial powers,

"All die, all disappear, but we all carry the seed of immortality within,

that life-force creates more like us. Every seed is first just pollen – dust,

all creatures begin as eggs or babies. Live fully now, that is all there is."

The toady, mousy, cattle crowed in unison, "O holy person,

we know this, "No matter who is eaten, everyone is put to knife,

and know this how can we live fully now? Tell us what awaits us,

in our after-knife? What does live fully now mean? Ah is life only strife?"

**

  

Every capillary of the plants, every veins and every mane of animals dilated

each organism initiated the biochemical mechanisms for absorbing information,

the Sage composed with practiced slowness, to match the kinetics of osmosis,

and after the living world subconsciously prepared itself, the fasting Sage stated:

"All atoms and molecules, kindness and ridicule, and every emotion, insult,

ionic content, electrostatics, life functions, the chaotic loves, instinctive antics,

the nonlinear dynamics of sex, the philosophy of universal acts and results

are dictated by misunderstood religion and science. But forget what I just said.

Now listen: To live fully now is our manifest destiny, to die is to bring closure,

what value would breath, beauty, food, babies hold for us, if nobody died?

If nobody ever aged, why would we value what stages and seasons we see?

if nothing changed, our existence would be gargoyle-like wait for eternity!

Everything reruns, in new rhythms, in new colors, before changed eyes.

The audit of a good or bad life, is neither made on earth nor in skies.

The answers are within, the force & the source is within, Tat tvam asi: Thou art that." 

All living beings heard his words, few understood, but all concurred, "Knife is good".

First published in MUSE INDIA, Issue 39, Sept-Oct 2011

The saga of why elephant was not chosen the king?

When elections begin, I am often asked to sing,
the tale of why elephant wasn't chosen the king.

After dinos left the earth, the animals gathered together,
the jungle had decided to elect their leader.
The problems were moo many, and there were moo many voices,
and when it came to the king, there were boo many choices.

This is before humans, demons and demon-cracy existed,
before royalty was thought divine, or guillotine was invented,
sharing land, food, caves, was forever a problem,
and without a king, there seemed no solution.

The monkeys shook trees, wolves howled, birds roosted,
elephants shook the earth, cows mooed, jackals boasted,
an owl chaired the session, the crows spread rumors,
and cats, rats, dogs, hare, turtles, deer, lions talked in murmurs.

Finally the session began, owl asked for nominations, stated,
"There are things I know, and things I don't,
and there are things I don't want to know,
but before we begin, I must tell you how it is fated.

The king shall rule, by his will, and by his skill,
and take what belongs to him, no less, no more,
and have our respect, for who he is, as a beast,
and treat us as equals, no less, no more".

The pigs began to grunt, and showed intention to squeal.
Owl permitted it, and a boar then stood up on two feet,
and said, "A king cannot be a king, if he is equal to the others".
Owl hooted, "As king he is equal, more equal than the brothers."

Few hands went up, monkeys rose first up,
but were deemed too naughty, too childish for responsibility,
and since insects, birds were always fleeing from calamity,
rats were too small, cats too clean, dogs always licking others,

soon most of the animals were dismissed back their place,
and only the elephant and the lion were left in the race.
(There was no divine hand in this, no lotuses or roses thrown,
and no walkouts, boycotts occurred, for such things were unknown).

The elephant raised its trunk, and announced his intent,
and began his high pitched, arrogant rant,
"For years, we vegetarians, have been kept down by some,
we are in majority, we are kept on low ground by some.

We don't get full share of meals, our water bodies are attacked,
and we are always blamed for our overgrazing in hinterlands,
Elect me, I promise a turnaround, a leash on those carnivores,
see my stature, see my snout, my size, I will reinvent jungle mores."

The deer clapped, birds seemed unruffled, cows thought it boo-ring,
Wolves gnashed their teeth, cats, dogs, jackals found this talk alarming.
So when the lion rose with a roar, they felt the tremor within, and emerged an uproar,
and then the lion coughed, stretched and unstretched, and began his eloquent address:

"Friends, the elephant is strong, it lives as a throng, keeps its tribe together,
but when it comes to governance, we lions and tigers are better.
For elephant never forgets, is ever full of regrets, and is slow in many respects,
and we all know, an ant up its nose kills it, so its afraid of even little insects.

Elephant eats too much, never shares its meal, is never satisfied,
and believes its grand, but to prove it on land, wants always to be deified.
Must I mention the white elephant projects, caste/species based promises, false teeth?
You show it a bunch of bananas, or sugarcane farm, and see him sneak and steal.

We are lions, we hunt our fill, and share our meals with jackals and vultures,
and when we kill, we cleanse the herds of their weakest members,
we take what belongs to us, we are our own masters on this earth, we're brave,
and when we are satisfied, we stay low, or we return to our quiet cave.

In intention you can never suspect us, we ensure the survival of fittest!
The balance of the world, food chains, populations depends on us.
In a jungle, the unity of your herds, your morality, begins with us,
As for a king, chose the being, who can make you way of life long lasting."

The lion sat down, and elephant held his ground, and animals began to talk,
"The elephants is tough, too big to ignore, and yet can he walk his talk?
In elephant's rule, will the rabbits and rats and deer and cows overrun the earth?
There will be too many of us, the jungle will be in throes, it will be just chaos...

The lion is bathed in blood, and has hunted our kind for so long,
and yet, when he in slumber, it seems, he can do us no wrong,
so stately in slumber, so elegant in its walk, so sleek in hunt,
and he knows how to take out the brothers, who are miscreants or defunct.

When lion stays around, young ones behave, old ones watch their own backs,
and wolves and dogs and bears and hyenas, always stay together as packs,
when lion holds his ground, we are discrete, we are God fearing, we're ourselves,
but in an elephant kingdom, we'd be overrun by their calves".

Jackals whispered, "and you know how elephants behave when they go 'mast',
a hungry lion can be satisfied, but an angry or 'mast 'elephant is quite worse",
Wolves howled in unison, "Lion! King! Lion! King!" and pigeons began cooing,
Dogs joined in, asses joined in, deer consented, hare jumped to feet, cows began mooing

The elephants held their noses up, and cried "foul play, foul play"
but on the day of that election, the lions took the day,
and to the crowd now in commotion, owl spoke to ease any tension,
"The results are clear, we need an overseer, an animal we all respect,

While elephant is huge, and has some popular views, its not a kingly thing,
And for the greatest benefit of all, for unity, and for a healthy co-living,
for the sake of progress, for making most happy and to prevent an uprising,
it becomes clear in this meeting, the elephant must not be the king".

Since that day the lions rule, and the jungle law is set,
"Your king must be the animal, you ever hold in respect.
While we live as God or natural selection devised us,
in the end, it is our leaders who define us".

"There are things that I know, and things I don't,
and there are things I don't want to know",
I repeat owl's words, as I loudly sing,
The raga of how or why elephant was not chosen the king.

BPO Idea: Sir, I'll sleep for you

"Sir, for five dollars per hour only, I'll sleep for you. I don't need to know what you do with your extra waking hours sir, and I will keep my sleep secret," says a yawning Ram to a caller from Unites States.

Ram opened his sleep BPO in the sleepy nineties. People who laughed at him back them, were caught napping when the Y2K boom came. Ram had hired a team of five hundred sleepers by then. The company has grown like Kumbhkaran by now, and is voted as the best company to work for by the entire employee world.

"It wasn't easy to find the right people for the job. Most of the sleep deprived customers demand that their consolation sleep must be peaceful and natural. No sedatives, no drugs must be used. Plus, I need to ensure that the sleep starts and ends at the designated hours. To have the sleepers report at the right time requires a team of fifty strong men, assisted by fifty women who have the best irritating high pitch voice that can be found in the whole of our state."

The software boom and doom came and went, and the whole sleep business continued to flourish. The company went public in early 2003, and the initial responses were very sluggish. Yet by the end of 2003, Ram had become one of the youngest sleeping billionaires of the world.

"The nature of my business is such that I cannot worry too much about how markets are behaving. Our product is unusual, but it is the demand of our time to have a collaboration between sleepers and non-sleepers to take the world economy forward."

Ram has set high standards in the business. He still keeps at least twelve hours of sleep for himself, making sixty dollars a day from his own naps.

"My best employees work up to one hundred and fifty hours a week. I don't allow them to go beyond the magical figure of seven hundred and fifty dollars per week. These employees wake and sleep as required and eat in intermissions that last anywhere between twenty to thirty minutes."

Ram chuckles when I ask him about his Sleep Research Institute.

"We call it the Awake Section of our company. The scientists were hired from some of the best universities of the world. Cheng-Fu is a Complexity and Synchronization PhD from MIT, and models the influence of Dollars versus Euro on sleep patterns. John is a biologist, who is interning with us, and he has taken a year off from his doctoral studies at Harvard. He has been buying our sleep for last ten years. When he was selected for internship, we agreed to give him a lifetime sleeping partner in return. Lee is a social anthropology graduate from Columbia and is here to examine sleep in his pursuit of the complete understanding of "The Sleeping Races: Historical perspective, regional influences and patterns of slumber evolution". His book with be published by my flagship company, "Neend" (Hindi word for Sleep) and the company is owned and managed by my daughter of the same name. Last year our Sleep Research Institute issued ten patents, and published hundred articles in world renowned journals in science, arts and mathematics. Neend published five best sellers, all written to ensure that half a page is enough to induce a nap."

There is a huge team of support staff that manages cleanliness, food, health and sound respectively.

"I personally slept through auditions of over five hundred lullaby singers, before hiring our current team of twenty. We have an American Idol finalist and an Indian idol winners in our team, and their salaries match the record deals most companies condescendingly offered to them.

The sound team has worked very hard to ensure that lullabies reach the person in question. We eventually helped Apple to develop I-headphones, which are a rage in world market now. Also our sound engineers have developed a device to convert the snores of our on-duty sleepers into a hum that is mixed with harmonies from the classics written by Mozart (in his sleep), and recycled into the sleeping quarters.

Doctors conduct routine check-up to monitor all ailments that keep sleep away. Our doctors are resident experts on insomnia and earn extra bucks in consultancy.

Since we are a socially conscious company, we have ensured that our employees are between age of twenty one and sixty-one. For just two dollar per hour surcharge, we can match sleeping partners by age or sex, if the need be. "

When I ask him about food that is offered to his employees, he insists that all the food is home-cooked, low on oil and fat, and induces good sleep as it is "very very very tasty".

"We cannot compromise on two things: sleep and food. I think the modern age has turned eating into an act similar to filling in gas or petrol. We seek the old ideal in sleeping and eating. This is our contribution to the mankind. Our company has been recognized by the WHO, the UNESCO, the Indian Government as well as the World Yawn Sleep Yawn Sleep Council for our attempts at keeping the world average of sleep at levels comparable to the happiest times in the world history. The fact that there was hardly a time like that ever, means my small but dedicated team has kept the average going. We are of course helped by scores of people around the world who take sleeping as seriously as we do. The only difference being that we are paid to sleep."

After finishing the interview, I am offered the most exotic, yet simple diet of home-cooked Indian food. A huge glass of buttermilk, lassi, is placed before me as an appetizer. I eat with relish and after the sumptuous meal, I am offered a very relaxing massage. Thereafter, I am lulled into repose by a melodious, sensuous voice that fills my ear with darkness and peace. When I wake up ten hours later, ginger tea is served to get me going. I leave with five books from Neend publishers, twenty CDs with lullabies in every major language, and a Gift card worth three hundred hours of sleep . I came in with a smirk, for the idea of Sleep BPO seems so ridiculous at first. My interview opened my eyes to the wonderful world of Sleep Studies, Sleep Sociology as well as economic benefits of sleep.

Yawn!

I leave Ram's headquarters on a tip-toe.

Too hot to handle (Short Story)

What she lacked in looks, she supplied with her taste. Bold like a mushroom growing on a garden track, she called for attention at places where none of her kind could venture. Spilling skin like cracked shells of peanut, she sashayed through the malls, the local trains and poorest sections of the city. Her boots cover more legs than her skirts. Her shirts tested the bulging ability of eyes that followed her like dogs wagging tongues and tails. She was protected by her own wantonness. Her beauty was not of a well-designed nose or a nicely chiseled body. It was something else, indefinite like her promises, unexplained like her smile.

When I first failed her, I was twenty year old confused intellectual. Raised to conservatism, that valued books over looks, veil over skin, meekness over boldness. She was like a thorn on a stem, and I, who valued no roses, was disturbed by the red drop that came out of my flesh. She made the room around her shrink, such that bodies whispered around her, dancing to her voice, steps around her fell into a rhythm where she was the centerpiece, the piano in the sonata of sensations that unfolded in the drumbeat hearts of the dancers who were numbed by their free fall around her perfume that was an aphrodisiac. I was a twenty year old confused self, who felt that the sensations grip me like a vice, and in stead of feeling exhilarated, I felt choked. The commotion in my mind cursed her as a witch, for wasn't it her witchcraft that was rapturing the crowd with a touch, without a lick, without a whisper?

Five years later, I was in a strange city, traveling in my designer suit, packaged to please the buyers and sellers, as I represented my company that overpaid me for my craft. My craft was in my words that pleased the men like a balm on their tired backs, and touched the women like wind on their necks. My craft was in talking through wit and nuance, unfolding in them a curiosity for what our company was to offer, and leading them into a decisive yes, mainly by intonation of my voice, the demeanour of my hands and body, always inviting and promising control, release and future. I was the cupid sales director as my co-workers called me, and my University of Chicago MBA found me inside doors that businessmen dare not enter.

In an evening party, dressed in a dazzling evening gown, she sauntered down the stairs,. I watched her drift into the consciousness of the crowd, with a smile in their eyes, hum of approval on their lips. As an aftertaste, she had fashioned into a respectability that glided with her; her husband, proud and powerful, carried her like a trophy, displaying his joy like a guild of gold. Years ago, she was a sonata, and now her personality oozed as if a melody from the flute of Himalayan tribals, so unadulterated in its rendering, flowing like a hill stream, surging force at a pace that makes your heartbeat hear itself trickle into peaceful delight.

This was the second time I failed her, for what I just said is what I understood after the night was over. Her entry into the room trembled like a memory that is not easy to shake off, and roused my five years of want into a pledge of making her some kind of offer. I was still in the spell that a twenty year old boy made appear even more surreal. Her picture to me was of the vice I wanted in my veins and all my recent successes made me even more tempted and assured and hungry. I approached her with a pride in my shoes, flash in my tie-pin, and gurgled my words before saying, "Hello." Her recognizing me made me hope. I splurged compliments, laden with metaphor and meaning. Her cheeks reddened, a color that encouraged me further, and then suddenly, her words, "Are you in your senses? Go home. You are drunk!" fell like a hammer on a glass-box, shattering the protected toy house shrine I had built for her.

It was only a chance that I went alone to the symphony. In ten years after that party, I had evolved from a world of pleasure to that of luxury. My pride has become a fine representation of my class, my words were now folded and pocketed like an advice from an expert and my social position made me watchful of my every sigh or smile at a body or a voice. My personal space was shared with a pretty wife and two kids. The two year old and five year old hunted from my back, told me their own stories so rich in dialogue, so flourishing in detail and yet words that came out like blossoms in the wild, standing up for their own pleasure and perhaps my own. It was only a chance that my wife was not accompanying me. And she, she of my youthful fancy and failings, was present, draped in a black, lace shawl. I saw her first, in a row behind me, as I sat down, to hear Pavarotti slam his youthful voice out of his decaying body, till music of eternity silenced every breath and movement.

Yet here I was sitting rather unsymmetrically, with a hand over my face, and my face eyeing her changed self. The music had faded into a drab hum, only her profile was ebbing and echoing. Like painting made softer over time, like childhood memories made more delightful by the effect of nostalgia, like a completed poem or picture or symphony, she sat there, ever so beautiful in her own distinguished way. The face lacked what it lacked fifteen years ago, the forms were still common, and yet like always, she carried an attraction for me, and maybe it was always so, maybe it was always for me that she carried an attraction so vigorous, and violent, that I was ready to risk my smile and sigh for her.

We talked of her deceased husband and my lovely wife in the intermission. The third time I failed her, was perhaps my last, was that day as she offered to meet me for dinner and tell me her story. I cited a promise I hadn't made to the kids to keep me away. A curiousity flashed like a momentary flinch at her brow, and a smile rushed to conceal it. She bid me farewell, leaving me gaping after her. She left with words, "A dinner with your wife and kids would have served for a lovely introduction."

Janki and Mansoor (Chapter 3)

(Suryakant Tripathi)

I was telling you about Janki and Mansoor story. They call it my greatest hit. As if a case is a song. Maybe it is.

Ever heard the songs in local dialect that are popular among truck drivers from Uttar Pradesh? Each word is laden with so many bastard connotations that it is highly unlikely that you would have heard them. Unlikely, if you are the suave, city bred person you portray yourself to be. The tunes are worth a hum. Singing is bearable. But lyrics. Ah! Those lyrics! In the early nineties, when Gurgaon was an actual village, I used to be posted at the Border. By border I mean, Delhi Gurgaon border. Liquor used to be cheap at the border. Allowing people to go about their business has always been my policy, especially if I profit from it. I think I am a regular capitalist. In any case, those dhaba owners cut the chicken as easily as they cut the cop from a post of value, so better let them fry what they wish, and why not chomp on a free leg piece if I can.

Why am I telling you about the UP truck driver's favorites? Patience, you! Every story has its side-stories, without which an Indian story is going to be incomplete. Advice: Next time, pay attention. You must go and ransack a truck driver's collection of music. You will then understand why Altaf Raja, Ataullah Khan, Ila Arun and all the remixes as well as Himesh sell.

My first conversation with Mr. Agrawal was about a song we overheard from a truck. The saali (sister-in-law) sings to her jeeja (brother-in-law), "You have tasted my sister's, when will you taste mine", and after a pause comes the word "kheer" (rice & milk pudding). The chorus had a highly sensual sighing as the backdrop, the voice was nasal, and music was bummer, but lyrics made up for other shortcomings. Mr. Agrawal announced, "Saali! What a song!" I was in my uniform, and I guess Mr. Agrawal just had to know anyone in police and power to keep his books right. I smiled, and he beamed back, "Sit, sit. I'm Agrawal contractor. This truck is carrying cement to my site. Hey Raju! Get order from Sahib."

I was quite hungry and I was powerless in this situation. I'll tell you why I cut the chase and accepted the dinner. I could have said, "I have eaten." He would have said, "How can I ask you to sit and watch me eat alone. At least try the kheer." Now he hasn't asked me to pay for it, he just wants to order it. If I order it, and I need to pay for it, I don't want it, for I can't spend on food at restaurants, my meager salary cannot allow it. If I order it, and he wants to pay for it, he will have won half battle already for if I have eaten already, I can argue only so much about it. A newly made acquaintance has right to pay for the other, so I cannot call it bribery. It is a complex problem, so why go and scratch my head. "Get me a plate of Tandoori chicken, special onion salad, kadai paneer, raita and butter naan."

Agrawal was going to make it big was apparent to me in the very first meeting. The cement truck was loaded with ten extra sacks; he was saving not only on the taxes, but had obtained these for half price from the seller, who had no account of their existence in his purchase and selling history. My dinner was a long time investment Agrawal was making, and we both understood the concept of profit sharing. This was a couple of years before Manmohan Singh ushered his salvos against the license raj, and back then, it was people like Agrawal who greased the slow moving gears and motors of bureaucracy and could get any job done.

Agrawal was a stocky man of forty-five or so. He maintained a thick mustache and wore a red tilak on his forehead. Every sinner has his favorite God, the one he wishes to bribe with prayers, apologies, compensation and regular attention. Agrawal was a very religious man, and hence he worked with the blessings of late Chandraswamy as well as other political sadhus. After the dinner, Agrawal mentioned that he was holding a Satyanarayan Pooja at his house, and as a Brahmin, I could grace the occasion with my presence. You may say that I was walking into a trap by agreeing to the invitation, and I knew it quite well that Agrawal was setting me up. But I couldn't prove it, could I? If he gave 10,000 rupees to every Brahmin he fed on a Pooja, a religious rite, he gave maybe ten times the normal "gift" but that was religiously correct or acceptable. As it turned out, the seven Brahmins included a Junior Engineer in Delhi Housing Board Colony, two clerks from the office of Town Planning, one from Vigilance office, two clerks from the office of District Commissioner and me. We all agreed that Agrawal was a wise man with great future.

(To be continued.....)

Other chapters found here

Janki and Mansoor (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2

Janki

When I think of myself, of Janki twenty years back, I see myself as this other person. What a year was it! Two murders that changed my life forever. When I told you the story, I kept myself detached from it. Even as I told you the gist of what happened, the scenes, the events played before my eyes. I saw myself in Janki, and yet all those scenes appeared fictional. Unlike what writers proclaim in novels, the past does not show itself in crisp digital technicolor quality. Memory puts a lot of dust and smoke on our past. If you send me back in time, I will neither recognize myself, nor Mr Agrawal and least of all Mansoor bhaisahib.

I was thirty five back then, my sons were thirteen and sixteen years old. Rajesh was quite fat back then, and his younger brother, Rakesh, was exceptionally thin. Now both my sons are married, have the typical Agrawal pouch and have their own sons in the image of Mr. Agrawal. Are they really like their grandfather? Can a fifty-five year old widow see clearly? If a widow had no photograph of her deceased husband for twenty years, would she remember his face? The smell shows up at awkward places; even in places like toilets, which is no place to remember them who you revere so. Yet toilets seem to be the only places where you can sit, relax and think these days. Ever since the Industrial Revolution (a manufacturing sector boom) started in 2009, India has turned into a high speed, fast paced nation. It is hard to even think of India of 1992, when cable TV was just coming in, software sector did not exist, economic liberization was considered a bane, Ram mandir issue was daily news, and I was a dumb housewife who knew nothing about business, politics and marketing.

A death alters everything. A husband's death is typically a wife's death too. No wonder they used to burn the wife alive as Sati during the nineteenth century. I could not let his dream die, and so I had to live. Yet it is one thing to dream, yet another to have your wife realize it. To tell you what happened in last twenty years, requires me to talk about things in a greater detail. Don't blame me for inconsistencies in my story; if I were good in memorizing stuff, I would have scored a distinction in my twelfth exams. I married a month after I turned eighteen. So I never got the college education, factually which holds the same value these days that fifth grade graduation had in my time. Most people think I am a graduate; Mr Agrawal had bought a BA (Bachelor of Arts) Hindi Honors degree for me from Dehradoon. Mr. Agrawal was very enterprising in that way.

When Mansoor bhaisahib was in jail on corruption charges, I was the one who bailed him out. When my first son was born, we were tenants in his house. Our financial situation was awful back then. Rakesh was ten months old when my breasts refused to comply with his hunger. We had barely enough to eat. Mansoor Bhaisahib had waived off rent for two months (secretly of course) to let me have extra money for buying milk for my son. When Rajesh broke his leg few years later, it was Mansoor Bhaisahib who took him to the hospital, and paid for the cost of X-ray, plastering and medicines. It was his love for my sons, and the love of his wife for them, that I never forgot. The God was so moved by their affection for my sons, that he gave them gift of child after ten years of barren marriage. Mansoor Bhaisahib was always helpful to us, and always said that Rakesh and Rajesh brought him good luck. As if! He was like a Mama to them and always had good advice and gifts for them. Mr. Agrawal could afford to forget, a mother is different.

Things are not easy to explain when there is so much to explain. Mr. Agrawal was one of the millions who had to leave Pakistan during partition. He was only a year old when his family left Pakistan, and you cannot really expect a baby to know of a homeland, let alone have an attachment to it. But he inherited a hate for Muslims, for his father lost two of four sisters and Mr. Agrawal lost his mother to the lust of Muslim pigs. The fact that another Muslim family had hidden other sisters, fed Mr. Agrawal as a baby was somehow washed out of the memory that bore scars of hate since then. Yet whenever he spoke to Mansoor, Mr. Agrawal maintained a demeanor that never reflected what he really felt. Things were simple till we had lived in Mansoor's house on rent. Things were fine before the Housing Board building collapsed. Things were alright till Suryakanth Tripathi came into the picture.

To be continued...

Previous chapters found here

You killed Alex (A short story)

"You killed him. You killed Alex. O my Alex! You killed him."

Randhir drove into his parking lot at around 9:30 pm. The Georgia sun had retired half an hour ago. The night was beginning to make its routine stop over the surfaces in Atlanta and dim out objects in the eyes of people. Purvi set next to Randhir, and was involved in a heated discussion about feminism with him. The definition of duties of Purvi as a wife became a debate on what should be expected of a modern Indian working woman in a household. A trifle personal matter exploded into a textbook conflict. Questions of women empowerment and centuries of inequality formed crux of Purvi's argument. Randhir was irritated with the whole issue, brought in without much context. He was a bad cook and he was irresponsible when it came to financial matters. He considered the latter to be a bigger problem, and was ready to accept his failings there. But all his bickering was about his not cutting the onions right.

He had tried. The size did not match Purvi's precise requirements. He was similarly incapable of making round chappattis. This, she said, was representative of how useless the mankind was, how deficient their aesthetic sense was. When he mumbled that half a mm smaller onion doesn't cook any better, and circular roti tastes no better than a rectangular one, she cited it to say it showed how unwilling men were to change, to adjustment and to the idea that the women should get their due. Purvi was now expounding theories of how men would become unnecessary in the age of test-tube babies. This was her way of doing her bit for women empowerment: harassing her husband about issues that she hardly cared about. She was a housewife herself, and did not want a regular job, "for the sake of our kids" she would say, and add that they would have kids only after eight years of marriage. Randhir never pointed these things out, and was usually happy with his wife's cooking, cleaning and ability to dress up for every evening, every encounter. "Her tongue is a small price to pay for all the goodies", he consoled himself. For now, her words were rolling in an accelerated pace, while the car was lulling into a patient park.

"You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him."

Randhir was driving a Ford Mustang. The car was only few months old. Purvi was 2003 model, he used to say to her, while the car was 2007 model. The older the model, more it costs to maintain it, he would think, and check himself before reaching the conclusion that the old model should be discarded. Their marriage was in the fourth year of blissful confrontation. Purvi loved conflict, the sound of it. She would say it releases the poisons with. She had tried arguing with Randhir about why Indian villagers must never wear jeans, and preserve ethnicity. Randhir advised her to try wearing sarees. She complained that sarees were unsuitable for city bred woman, especially if they lived in the US. When he smiled, she complained, "You always divert from the real issue". For her villagers were responsible for the culture and traditions of Indians, and by moving across Atlantic, she was obligated to wear American brands. "To fit in," she would say.

Once she tried advocating the imposition of communist dictatorship in India; Randhir reminded her how much she hated her patriarch grandfather. She emoted, "You are plain inconsistent and inconsiderate. When the national issues were at stake, personal experiences and beliefs were to be kept aside. But you always want to insult or attack my family to win in an argument." In moments like these, he never understood what his fault was. He just frowned, pursed his lips, and closed his eyes and waited for her radio transmission to end on its own. She thought this was cute and loved him for it. Of late, all her arguments were about women empowerment. The election of female President in India had supplied her with a range of arguments that she could have never thought of herself. She was testing these on Randhir. Randhir was thankful for the Mustang, that drove like a charm, and kept his spirits up. The fruitless debate was reaching its crescendo, when Randhir drove into the parking lot.

"You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him."

Randhir parked. Purvi was pouring the grand finale of her rhetoric.

"You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him."

The words came later. First came a woman, in white T-shirt, running towards the car. She appeared from nowhere, till the trees behind her came into sight. She ran out from this shady grove next to the apartment, and emerged out of dark like scary strangers manage to do in horror movies. Two large dogs, one black and another white one, followed her.

"You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him." The words made sense much later. First came this woman, white as her T-shirt, and she immediately bent down and started checking under the tires of Randhir's car.

Randhir was too shocked and his hand remained half-suspended in the act of turning key of the car into silence of night. "You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him." The words, when they finally spoke to him, came in a plaintive, almost tearful voice of the white woman. Purvi had stepped out from the car, and when both the dogs tried to measure her height with their front paws, Randhir asked her to return to the car, and sit still. "You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him." The woman went on. "Help me guys. O my God. Oh my God."

Randhir asked Purvi if she had seen anyone. "I was too busy attacking my poor hubby, sorry Randheer, my baby, I can't even let you drive in peace," said Purvi, "I will keep my mouth shut from now on."

"That would be nice. But damn it. I didn't see anyone." Insurance costs, court cases and maybe extradition to India loomed in his unexpressed thoughts. The real import of these would hit him later. Right now, his head was blank, and his eyes followed every movement of the white woman.

"You killed him. You killed Alex. Oh my Alex! You killed him. My puppy, my baby, oh my God, where are you Alex. Talk to mummy, Alex."

"Puppy," Randhir repeated, in irritation. "She said Puppy! All this is about a dog, damn it. But I saw no dog." He was happy for an instant, and then he remembered it wasn't India. Here dogs had rights. Plus he needed to clean his Mustang of stains, and a dent would be disastrous.

"I am sorry, it is all my fault, " said Purvi. Meanwhile the white woman had gone around the car three or four times, calling for Alex, bending down, checking under tires, getting up, howling and crying and then bending down. Her other two dogs saw how agitated she was and ran around her.

Suddenly Randhir saw his neighbor Philosopher. Purvi had named him Philosopher because he had a ponytail and he wore thick glasses. Randhir cringed at the thought of this guy being a Philosopher. He had not mentioned to Purvi that this Philosopher spent his time to make a living out of online poker. Randhir thought of this Philosopher as a failure, a lost cause and ignored him. But today Philosopher came out of the dark like a flashlight that rescues a man from a deer-trap dug in a forest. "Are you looking for this little monster?" He shouted, his teeth appeared when the smoke of his cigarette dissolved away. Alex, a puppy no bigger than a rabbit, came wagging its tail was rolling at his feet. The puppy and the woman hurried into each others arms. Then the white woman picked him up, and hugged him like a baby. all this while, she was crying with a nervous joy, "O my baby. Mummy got so scared baby."

Randhir mustered the courage to get out of the car now. Purvi got down as well.

"I am sorry," said the white woman raising her tear drenched face to look at them. She was crouching on the ground, her three "sons" with her, and Alex got more kisses in few minutes than Randhir managed in an entire week.

Randhir just opened his eyes, wide, raised his eyebrows, shook his head sideways and walked on.

"Bitch," Purvi said, as she caught up with him. "She needs a man in her life."

"God save the mankind," thought Randhir, and he put his arm around Purvi's waist. She snuggled close to him and started walking in his rhythm, her head on his shoulder. "What a day!" he sighed. She nodded and smiled.

Whose country is US anyway?

I usually say: US started as the country of Indians, and it will end as the country of Indians. Jokes apart, the question is a very precise question, but the answer is quite ambiguous. The reason why I bring it up is because of something I witnessed in a Subway train in New York recently.

I was sitting there reading Train to Pakistan, Khushwant Singh's classic written in 1958. The scene is a village on the Indian border. Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, who are related to each other by generations of co-existence, are responding to partition and creation of Pakistan, something they really don't understand or approve of. I am immersed in the description of one of the most poignant events in history of mankind, which I always think deserves at least as much press, media coverage, poetry, fictional and non-fictional coverage as the whole Jewish exodus. I was half-hearing the proceedings in the train, the announcements of station, laughter of people, occasionally a sentence or two of traveling conversation. I looked up when I heard an African-American woman cursing.

An anorexic teenager was up against a white American, muscular and bald, and I thought he was quite intimidating to look at. In some ways he resembled Bruce Willis, so lets call him Baldy Bruce. He seemed to be an army veteran and a regular to gyms and pubs. A European guy, age around twenty, blond stubble, blond hair, white skin had walked into the train only a few minutes back. He wasn't like Borat, but looked Polish or Kazakh and lets name him Shy Borat. Shy Borat sat on my bench, and Baldy Bruce sat within us, while the girl was sitting facing us on the opposite side.

"I, no English," he responded to something the Baldy said. The Baldy said, "Then go back to your country." Our African American, say Anorexic Oprah, quipped, "How can you say that?" to Baldy Bruce in a shrill, angry tone, and "Sorry" to Shy Borat.
Baldy Bruce retorted, "I can say that because it is my country." Anorexic Oprah flared up. "How can you say that, Asshole?"

Baldy Bruce sat like a growling dog, and woofed, "We all have one - Asshole!"

Anoresix Oprah: " Thats not what I said you dumb-ass. You smart-ass, this country belongs to none. Neither to you, not to me."

BB: "It is my country. I can say that and you, you are a stupid bitch. Just shut-up!"

AO: "You dumb fuck! You have no education, you asshole." She stood up in great anger while saying this. A Chinese couple next to her looked bewildered and somehow everyone in the vicinity seemed to agree with our own Oprah. "You ignorant fool, you're dumb, look at your stupid dumb face, you fucking ignorant dumb-ass, you go and get some education. You asshole, everyone in this country has come from somewhere. I am nineteen and I know it. You dumb fuck - you look stupid, you act stupid and you are so old. I am nineteen, how old are you? We all came from somewhere, you Asshole!"

BB (with a hint of middle finger projected out of his fist): "I didn't. I was born here, and so were my parents and everyone."

The Anorexic Oprah was trembling with anger. The Baldy Bruce looked grim, his muscles and fists seem tight, and if only she wasn't a women, if only it weren't a subway (his whole being seemed to say), if only it wasn't the Subway, he would have "silenced the bitch." Oprah was just shooting abuse with increasing ferocity: "You fucking dumb fuck, you asshole, you look yourself in mirror. This country was neither mine nor yours. If at all, it belongs to Indians. You fucking retard, you asshole, you need education. Go join some college, you dumb fuck!"

Her voice softened a little, and in someone motherly tone, apologized again to the Shy Borat, who watched the proceedings with a muted awe. It seemed he didn't know what was going on, he seemed to watch their faces like a puppy, trying to comprehend why a couple is shouting at each other, and every so often pointing a finger to him.

The Chinese couple looked amused now. I was clutching my book harder than before, occasionally looking up, pretending to read the lines from the book, where as luck had it, Muslim villagers in the Indian side of border were trying to comprehend, how they turned into non-Indians -- Pakistanis -- overnight. Who caused it, who imposed it? Who was this Jinnah guy? Why were trains and trains of butchered bodies traveling back and forth across the border? Wasn't Gandhi the government now? Meanwhile, like bullets, Oprah was shooting her anger onto someone who didn't care about this tirade against him.

The tension in the room was somewhat stifling. Anorexic Oprah seemed to have realized that she was creating a big scene. We - men, we - foreigners, we - the mass, the public - sat cowardly and muted; nodding our head in agreement; blessing her without raising our hands or voice. For rest of the journey, we all kept quiet and avoided each other's gaze. I wanted to thank her, but wanted to thank her without the Baldy Bruce witnessing it. She slipped into the crowd before I could catch her.

Kalpit: A Love Story

It is a simple love story. Kalpit fell head over heels for Kavita. Or to put it without the cliché, I pushed him into a highly crowded DTC bus and he fell as he was scrambling to get in. He found his nose on her toes with florescent green nail polish on them. The world stopped for an eternity for him and unfortunately for me. For me as Kalpit was delaying my entry into the bus, while I was being squeezed by smelly, disgustingly sweaty bodies from all angles. For him as he was, according to what he told me later, "looking at the most beautiful toes, toes that were carved out of the extremely agile fingers of Kaamadev; carved to a beauty which could have driven Shakespeare to suicide - for after failing to capture their beauty in his poetry, he would have failed at paintings and sculpture too."

Kalpit said the toes with florescent nails appeared out of nowhere in his life and shattered all that had mattered to him before that instant. In one moment, his existence was transformed from a featureless, trite daily affair to the saga that will inspire poets and writers like me to write stuff that would in next century be hailed among the best novel selection of Modern library.

He swore that the toes impressed him not only with the natural beauty they possessed, for the beauty you are born with is after all just a gift, many have it but lose it to time and carelessness (like intellect, which I told him, he had lost), he said, the toes were painted with the extraordinary care, craft and creativity that Van Gogh and other impressionists never knew, that the great masters during Renaissance only aspired for. He said the brush strokes were remarkable in both form and ingenuity. They were bold expressions of an internal harmony, that must have burst from her lips as well her finger tips, and in the crescendo of her mellifluous song, each layer seemed to have fused effortlessly with the next stroke from those soft, sensuous hands.

I reminded him that he was still describing what he experienced as he looked at her toes, which meant he had no means of knowing if she even had hands to do the artwork, or better still wipe her ass.

His face changed expression momentarily, but he flushed out all the disgust over my remark and had continued his monologue. "Vivek, you must understand, that what I am telling you is important. For all you know, this might be the story you will use to compete with the romances of Jane Austen, as for all you know she might be the Elizabeth for me."

I wanted to say that if she was Elizabeth, he was no Mr. Darcy, which maybe I was, and since this led to a naughty smile on my face, he mistook it for my taking his remark seriously and continued.

"You see," he spoke in his deep nasal baritone, "You see, the choice of color itself is remarkable; green is the color of freshness, of joy. Florescence shows a brilliance, a glimmer of hope. It lends an aura to the ten different masterpieces, so similar from distance, but each different, complex, intricate in design. Ten masterpieces created by an artist blissfully ignorant of her talents! It will be a shame that these would be lost forever as there is nothing and noone to capture their beauty."

My mind was now wandering on endless tangents. Ideas propped up like blisters on a burnt hand. I wondered if one could tear off nails and preserve them forever, or if Michael Angelo had ever painted his nails too. If so, with what color and using what pattern. If he did, was he approached by gay men?

But I simply said to him, "Green is a mundane color my friend, as much the color of weed as of greed."

He just shook his head and remarked that I was obsessed with an inartistic view of the world, and pronounced that I needed a girl in my life. "A girl in your life gives you colored glasses, everything turns into shades of red, violet, pink and blue, and in the celebration of colors, you rejoice like a drunken bumble bee does in a garden in full bloom."

I chuckled at the thought, remarked he missed out on the green glasses, and observed that a girl in life is a grief, and once she leaves you, takes off with your colored glasses, life becomes black and white again. The world become the colorless fall forest where an owl hoots on every branch.

After spending that extra few seconds of eternity at her feet, Kalpit rose, fumbled with his sorry, heard Kavita murmur “its ok” as she writhed her way away from us and got down at the next stop. I think I forgot to mention that Kavita is not her real name. It has not been changed to hide her identity as the smart Alecs would guess. It is just this that we do not know her name. I came up with Kavita because Kalpit’s name begins with K and he shares Ekta Kapoor’s obsession with the words starting with K.

In Bollywood, flashback is always poor on color, it is mostly black and white, sometimes it also has a shade of green or fuzziness about it. In Kalpitwood, the flashback lived a charmed life, and by aging with time in the ferment of his endless obsession, became the memories he lived by.

A few days later we were standing under a tree, sipping tea from the glasses placed in our hands by the seemingly young boy. He was about twelve year old, sat in front of a kerosene stove, with kettle over it, a bucket by the side for washing the glasses, and a box that had tea, sugar and bunch of cookies and pastries that smelt as bad as they tasted. We stood facing the road, and as we chattered we noticed Kavita passed us on a Kinetic Honda, and as she passed she sent out a smile.

Kalpit claims that the smile was a smile of recognition, a smile of affection, and swore that he would wait under the tree everyday. He announced that the tea and the tree had become hallowed forever, and that the boy was the nicest shopkeeper in the whole world and would rise like Ambanis, maybe will become the biggest hotelier of India.

I think she smiled just because as soon as she came into sight, Kalpit was so struck by the moment that he spilled tea over his cream colored khakis and the pale blue shirt. He jumped in both joy and pain, as hot fluid touched his skin. He jumped about like the buffoons do in a crazy mating ritual (I just made that up, but I think he did look like a buffoon. People who watch Discovery channel can enlighten me.)

Kalpit asked the boy if he knew when the girl who just passed on her scooter drove through there, and the boy simply said, “Sahib, this street is full of people, and why must I care or count who goes by and when. If she had come to my shop, I could have known.”

Kalpit blamed lack of education for his lack of this general awareness, decided this one was no Ambani types and was now doubly wounded by her going in and out of his life. Then in his characteristic cheerfulness burst into the song, (Aap yun hi agar humse milte rahe, dekhiye ek din pyar ho jayega.. or) “If you continue to meet me like this, one day you will fall in love”. Practical matters took toll of his plan of standing waiting there.

Life has its own ways of taking care of things. A week later we were dining in Madras Café in Green Park, I was facing towards the street, while Kalpit was busy with a Masala Dosa, had his back towards the door. I saw Kavita enter the café, and with her came Ranjan. Ranjan was Kalpit’s schoolmate, and they both had shared a great friendship till that day.

Ranjan just walked up to us and introduced Kavita as Shashi, the new found love of his life, while old Kavita, new Shashi just fostered a nice smile and seemed to have no recollection of having seen us somewhere.

It was ok to forget me, I was just the narrator, and not the hero of this story, but to ignore Kalpit was unacceptable. His eyes were lowered now, I followed them and saw that the ten masterpieces were still displaying that green florescent nail polish. It had come off at places, her toes seemed no different from human toes (or monkey toes for that matter) and these lay there as also in the eyes of Kalpit remained, the vestiges of beauty they had once carried, ideals they had once inspired.

As we silently sipped our filter coffee, Kalpit remarked, “I read somewhere that you lose your head for ten seconds after every accident, and don’t you think both my meetings with her were accidental?”

I just smiled, thought how poetically an ode, Kavita had turned to the moon, Shashi, and Shashi, this moon, was now disappearing off the horizon of the imagined, Kalpit, and again I was left alone in the company of the imagined.

(Feb 28, 2005;
India Smiles Contest, Sulekha)

The conversation is a tale

The conversation is a tale

I

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"There was not a photograph of truth
in the image you saw. My lips
were whispering over his cheeks like strangers.
His arm chained my waist with ties
I never desired. We came close only for a snapshot."
Her new testament was unfolding in my hands,
her neatly written letters composed to belie
what I had seen in a folder she forgot at my house.

II


(Freemont, Sukumar and Abhiruchi)

"See this photograph, for example. She loved me.
She had doubts, (who hasn't?) was afraid of failure.
I didn't imagine that after I entertained her from such closeness,
she wishes to walk out with a straight face clean slate. Bitch!"
He announced to a correspondent, who acted on my behalf,
though never revealing that the secrets were being shared with me.

III

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"I had to see him. He showed up at my door. What could I do?"
She pursed her lips, her nose twitched, and she frowned to affect
an apology from me for doubting her. He had flown across the continent
and stayed at her house for four nights. "He was a guest. He isn't half as bad
as you make him out to be. We went for para gliding one day, and the helicopter
ride the next day. I was late for dinner that day, as he lost his sense of direction,
and instead of reaching Princeton, we found ourselves about twenty miles from Atlantic City.
So I thought, might as well see the gambling houses. Don't give me that look,
I had fun, and that is what you want me to have. Don't you sweetie?"

"Thats not the point. He never gets lost. I have known him longer than you have.
He showed up this time, he will show up again. Why shouldn't he, if he knows
how much funnn.... he has when he is here." Fun was stretched mimicking her style.
"Now that he has got a well paying job, he is trying to win you over with his money."

"He didn't pay for anything we did on this trip. I did.
I told him that he can pay when I visit him."
We both were hushed into silence that instant by a lady in next row.
The sonata allegro of Beethoven's fifth symphony was about to begin.

As the cascades of music fell, my blisters fell soothed, though I was thinking:
"The woman who never paid a penny more than required, who never bought me a gift
except on my birthday, had spent all this money, on an undesired guest. Hmmm!"

IV


(Freemont, Sukumar and Abhiruchi)

"My trip was awesome. She was pleasantly surprised.
First evening, I took her to the Comedy Club in the Village in New York City
We went for para gliding next day, and helicopter ride, the day after.
Of course, I had made advanced bookings. I was giving it my best shot.
After the chopper ride, I pretended that we were lost
and took her to Atlantic city, ha ha, by mistake.
My gamble worked, my friend.
She cooked on the last evening. Four dishes, candlelight."
My correspondent relayed these words to me, and also told me
that a return visit was planned for a fortnight later.

I cursed Beethoven heartily, and went off to an uneasy sleep.
I had bought season tickets (for two) for the symphonies that year.


V

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"Arizona is so pretty,"she announced when I picked her from the Airport.
I was angry and yet I was driving her back. She chattered,
lively as always, choosing to ignore my grumpiness, telling me
of treks they both took, the dinners he bought for her.

"Lets stop for ice-cream on the way."

"I have to get back to lab, after dropping you off."
I was driving faster than usual.

Her chatter had died down

VI

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"Where have you been?" She asked me.

"I am graduating next month. I am leaving for Singapore soon after."

"Yes, I heard about that. It has been six months
since we sat down for even a coffee. If you can spare
a few minutes, give me a buzz. I'll like to see you."

"Sure," I said. "How about tomorrow?"

VII

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"I always liked you," she said. "I don't know what went wrong.
Ever since I visited Phoenix, you changed. I guess I did too.
If I ever hurt you, I did not mean to."

"I just got busy. A man must do what he must do.
I have had plethora of tasks to finish for graduating,
and I chose to focus on them. Thats all."

"I know you never liked him much. Anyway, we separated last week.
The long distance thing wasn't working out." She lied.

My correspondent had fallen in love with him.
I had found it out a week back myself, when after months of silence
she announced it in her bombshell bulletin.
My correspondent was my confidante since childhood,
and I had been hers. "Didn't I tell you once that we women always fall
for men who are already taken? I'll spare you the details, but my friend,
your long cherished enemy has been ambushed and removed by me.
As always, I have come to your rescue." I did not find it funny,
and I did not feel any relief.

An Autumn and a Spring had passed in those six months.

Meanwhile, she honestly lied as she handed out the tea.
"Doesn't the distance make a heart go fonder?" I said, with a smile.
I, a cynic saw that she was willing be convinced about my unabated affection.
Only, things had gone too far this time, and I felt no emotion, but pity for her.
In fact, I was amused. "Distance is bad, bad, bad!" she said, with a pout.
An year ago, I lived and died at the first trace of it,
now it seemed too comical, too artificial. "Is it so?" I sung song
She nodded, in her affected style, pout still suggesting, that a hug,
and an awww.. from me, could cure it all. I faltered. I rose and I walked to her.
Her open arms rose, body followed, and on my cue,
I gave her a peck on the forehead, and then pushing her gently away,
managed to say, "Thats why my dearest,
I am putting an ocean between us."


August 2005 & April 2007

Love packed in green duffel bag

When I left town, I packed your memoirs in a green duffel bag,
I intended to trash.
'Just do it' the bag said, and I agreed.

That was four years ago.
Your son wasn't born yet, though his father
had arrived to dazzle you with his French accent
and ability to concoct desserts
unknown to mankind.

My afterthoughts have determined that my case was lost
even before I first talked to you,
but by blaming him, my passions can slurp
my bitterness with relish.

Reminders loomed every month,
as dates associated with your birthday,
engagement, his birthday, your son's birthday,
your wedding date, anniversary of our first rendezvous,
our first kiss, that night of Kama, of passion,
our last meeting that had passed without an event,
and of details, that every holiday, every festival
had admitted in your name,
as dates, with their fangs and forks,
raked the dying embers of my lost cause.

I have a confession to make.
I am opening the bag today,
not because I wish to relive my memories.
My pursuit is unholy one,
for in those relics, I wish to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

So many words and feelings,
that sound cliched or my own,
have surfaced from her lips.
So many words, once my own,
seem to have so little effect.

A human heart stands like a mountain unfazed-
unfazed by whispering winds and wailing rain.
You were once a mountain, which I am now.
I am opening the bag today, to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

First cut, uncut. (A Short Story)

I felt like a car backing out of a driveway. I rather felt like a car that was parked in the garage of a stranger, had overstayed there and was making its escape. Her nails had clawed multi-laned freeways in my back, my teeth had plowed fresh pink wounds on her pale yellow Chinese flesh, and yet as I backed out like a car, my only though was to accelerate away. I felt like my ancestors, the notorious Japanese assaulters who had raided Mainland China and left as many corpses behind as their abacus counters could visualize.

Our escape from the Far East, from the tyranny of Japanese customs for me and from the Communist China for her had thrown us into the misty city of Amsterdam. We both had met just two months back, when she joined as waitress in the same Asian establishment that I worked for. Our Korean boss hated us both, her because his first wife who cheated on him was Chinese, and me because my grandfather's generation had bred more bastards in his country than his generation could in a lifetime. He was a bastard himself.

Xialong was a carrom-board breast; I, Hiroshi was a dwarf centerpiece in this city full of Redlight district display bodies. I am not certain what drew us together, maybe it was the sushi odor in her kisses that always made me hungry for her, maybe it was the soya sauce stains on my shirts that resonated with her memories of Nanjing. Our meeting or union was, as if, coming together of two exiles, two rejects, and of course, a limping horse and a blind mare can take the carriage only so far.

I pulled out, exhausted by the realization that I had ventured beyond the shutters that opened only for the privileged. "I wish to hold you so tight that you crumple like a paper," she said, while I made my retreat, as if on the percussion of my pounding heart.

"Seong Lee will kill me if I don't get there in six minutes," I said, waving my hand as I scurried away. Outside, the fog fell in thick plumes, while smoke from my lips dissipated like my thoughts about her.

Xialong wasn't expected till four. Right from the moment I got there, right from eight in the morning, I cursed the hackneyed slowness of the clock. I nibbled my finger flesh in joyous perplexity, from a spring of kissing blossoms, I had traveled to the monsoon shower of fleshy mangoes. Smiles flared on my lips, and in my eyes at every memory of my dark delights. "Hiroshi, don't work too hard today, for the evening may not arrive in peace," she had said in a cryptic sentence that made only half-sense to me. Her straight hair, lips that pursed every time she drifted into her fancies, the palms that were crisscrossed like canals on the map of Amsterdam, her voice that I had always thought of as funny and scratchy, all seemed as pleasant as was her nibble on my ear and breath was on my neck. Xialong did not come at four.

Xialong did not come at five, did not come at six, or seven or eight or nine or ten. My smiles scuttled away, Seong mouthed more curses than I could allow for my girlfriend. I figured that she would be introduced my girlfriend from that day, and I had responsibilities lined up for me. I was ready to break his jaws but for Hannah who cajoled my anger away. I wiped the dishes with all the temper, and cleaned the floor with more ease than I could use to sweep away my doubts regarding the absence of Xialong.

I reached her house at eleven. A bullet through her forehead was as fresh as my memory of her morning kisses. Cops came. I was arrested. Two days later a letter was found at Seong's restaurant. It read as follows:

Hiroshi,

Like a filament in a bulb, that appears brightest before like flickers and fades away, I wanted to kill myself, but only after tasting the glamor fruit of Eve's sin. My dearest friend, you supplied me with the joy that I wished to be mine before I bid goodbye to this dead world. I had deduced that my efforts to survive in Amsterdam were no different from my struggles in China. I was the undisclosed daughter of a family, who had a declared son, as their only allowed offspring.

I was a shadow being, who was declared dead at birth and raised like a parrot in a pigeon coop, a parrot who must act and behave as if it was a stuffed toy. I mean I did not exist for the world, and I lived with my family as a secret, safe as long as I wasn't found out. I had escaped in earnest, hitchhiked my way into Tibet and then Nepal, and was smuggled into Amsterdam with the contingent of Hashish by a Maoist woman, packed into sacks of that were supposed to be carrying Tea, with hidden Hashish and instead supplied me. A letter that she had given to me, provided me my first few days of residence and food, and you know my story after the time I started working, which was when I met you.

The gang who had smuggled me into Holland, now wants me to work with them. In two months, I have repulsed their attempts with a failing strength. My passport is fake, and they have announced that they will turn me in if I don't cooperate. Life holds no pleasure for me besides you. But you are too precious to be risked, and my friend, I say goodbye, wishing you well.

Let your optimism keep you afloat in tempests of all kind. My ship has designed to sink, and so it must. Remember me sometimes, and remember me well.

Love
Xialong

Seong carried this letter to the Police Station. When I came out he shook hands with me. He sounded as corrosive as always, but he made me a sign to follow him, and took me into a pub, and bought some whiskey for me. I gulped my bitterness while he asked to me in all seriousness. "Son, did you, or did you not, kill her?"

"What? Of course, No!" I was flabbergasted. "How can you ask me that question? You have seen her letter."

He lowered his voice, as he touched my hand, and said in a whisper, "Soon after you were arrested, I got a phone call from the Police Station, asking me if you were at work that day. I said you were. Then I was asked to appear at the police station the next day."

He drank his vodka glass neat, and continued, "When I went there the next day, the cops had found the revolver used for the killing, and there were no fingerprints in on the revolver. Since you were found on the spot, they had arrested you on suspicion first. There was no alibi for you, for you had left my shop precisely twenty minutes before the gunshot, and it usually takes only ten minutes to get to her house. They told me that they found your fingerprints at various places in her house, and everything pointed to the fact that you had killed her.

I told them that you had left my shop in temper, and that the reason for your anger was my complaining and cursing about Xialong's absence. Somehow it did not make sense to me that you will kill her after the tantrum you threw at the shop that day. The cops argued that maybe you over-dramatized things as it was a premeditated murder. All in all, I figured that you would be implicated for her murder. I had noticed how you both exchanged glances at work. Since I suspected you to be too much in love with Xialong to kill her, I sat down and concocted that suicide note and its story myself. I took care to post it from a post-box close to her house. It took a day for the post to arrive, and here you are, out in two days."

"Mother of hen!! If it wasn't a suicide, who killed her?"

He hushed me, and asked me to watch what I said. I understood.

For a few months, I was as morose as a car, dumped into a used car showroom, parked in a corner, unused and unclean. My attempts to find what really happened were as unsuccessful as Dr. Watson's guesses, and there wasn't a Sherlock Holmes around to deduce what happened and who did it. Then one day you arrived, or Seong, like a shrewd salesman, led you to me, and within a few hours, I was fueled and full throttle again. Xialong, like a dent in a wrecked car, remained embedded in my being somewhere. So what do you say to this story of my past? My first cut, uncut.