The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 5

The Day after and the Night

Find Episode 4 here : Episode 4

The following morning as the sun rose over the hill behind the heath, Champa woke up as usual. She tuned the radio into the national channel as melodious voices welcomed the day with Ramyana chaupais. The music erupted from the radio at around seven in the morning which was then followed by national news. Nothing unusual was reported at that scale. She swept the floor and woke up Devesh who was cuddled up in a bedsheet. The afterhours in the night always became chilly and the bedsheet otherwise unused until late in the night, was an item of desire in the wee hours of the morning.

Devesh got up and adjusted his lungi. Picked out a datoon from the alaa and came out in the front yard. The grass in the garden was still cool and moist from the overnight dew. He squatted on the ground chewing the datoon(traditional herbal stick used for brushing teeth in Indian villages).

Weak sunlight drizzled into the village waking up the alive one after the other. The music from Champa’s radio was a cue for Lakshman to wake up and start bathing near the village handpump. Soon Devika and Champa would be here to collect water for the daily chores at their huts.

Devika had woken up early in the morning and had gone into the woods to relieve herself in the open. She came back before daybreak and crept into the disheveled bed in the hut as Prajwal snored loudly on the khatiya. As the sunlight became intense, the flies in the village became restless. They had started interrupting Prajwal’s sleep as he cursed everyone in general and no one in particular half asleep. “Dhut… behenchod… “ The flies eventually won as he shrugged the incomplete slumber off his eyes and sat upright on the khatiya.

He could hear the music from the radio in Champa’s hut had now switched to news. He could not find Sukhinder on the adjoining khatiya where he usually was every morning. He saw a barrage of stubbed beedis on the dusty ground – a testimony to the long night.

“Devi… Hau.. Devi… Beta paani..” he cribbed from the khatiya as he folded his legs and scratched his entire body in a restless shake. Devika did not respond and he was left with no choice but to get up and fetch water himself. He got inside the hut and picked a glass from the kitchen and scraped the bottom of the ghada (traditional India earthen pot for storing water). The glass was half full. Strange. He remembered it was full the last night when he had gone to sleep. He dismissed the thought as soon as it came and got on with his day.

Titu came out of the house and walked straight up to Champa’s house. “Dadi.. ek tamatar laal laal wapas sunao” (Granny, pls recite the Tomato verse once more) he demanded as he ran into the open hut. “Devesh chacha.. abhi tak soyie rahe hain? Kal raat ko hamko mootne bhi nahi diye Pipal ka neeche…” (Is Devesh uncle sleeping still? Do you know he did not let me piss under a tree last night) Champa put the jhadoo in the corner and uncovered her saree covered face as some dust broke her into a cough.

“Bapu uthi gailon tora? Jinda chhe ki naahi?? ” (Did your father wake up? Is he alive or what?) she asked Titu as he ran into circles in the courtyard outside. “Babu to soye raha.. humma uthaibo kari par uthbe nahi chhe..” (No.. he still sleeps.. I tries to wake him up but he did not) he replied with a childish non chalance not uncommon to a twelve year old. Champa nodded plainly and continued with the household chores. Devesh was listening intently to the 12 year old and spat the tender stems of the datoon from his mouth and threw the rest on the road. He folded his lungi and squatted on the verandah outside the house and demanded tea. The daily chore before he would walk up to Lakhan’s shop to discuss the news from the radio.

*

Sukhinder wasn’t seen until the afternoon and he ran into Prajwal at Lakhan’s shop. “Kya bhaiya.. gaye nahi abhi tak shahar?” (What happened? You did not leave for the town?) he inquired. “Haan! Woh aaj man nahi tha.. kal jaibe.. bihane bihane pet kharab bhai gawa…” (Yeah.. the stomach is upset.. will leave tomorrow) Sukhinder seemed lost but answered quickly throwing furtive glances towards Giridhar’s hut.

Prajwal caught his glance mid way.. “Ka tukur tukur dekh rahe ho babu… konho dikkat?? Jaabe ka man nahi hai tora.. hum to raate ko bole the…”(What’s with the nervous glances.. any problem? You don’t want to leave… I told you last night..) he smiled as if he knew something. Lakhan came out with a bowl of steamed potatoes and started peeling them for the samosas. “Kal raate aap aaye rahe kya idhar Sukhi bhaiya? Hum to neend mein rahe magar laga kaunho aaya tha der raat mein” (Did you come here last night Sukhi bhaiya? I was asleep but it seemed someone came late in the night) Lakhan asked innocuously. Sukhi avoided the question and picked a potato from the bowl “ Behenchod.. garam hai bhosadi.. thanda paani daal na” (Fucker.. the potatoes are too hot.. put some cold water). Prajwal laughed hysterically. Lakhan looked bemused and scratched his back incessantly before getting back to peeling the potatoes.

The rest of the day was uneventful. It is during night when the evil is unmasked roaming freely on the roads. With a surprisingly quiet dusk, the sun slipped behind the clouds and let the moon initiate the business. The stained full moon crept out hurriedly and bathed the village in a glaring light. Exposing more than the sun could during the day.

Late in the night when the crickets is all you could hear, a dark silhouette walked quietly towards Giridhar’s house. Its speed was impeded by a limp leg and it stopped frequently to check if someone was following. Sukhinder had been curious all day. He creaked open the door. It was unlocked. Strange. He had left no trails last night he thought. He opened the door and walked in. He lit a match stick and there lay Giridhar’s body dead in the quiet. He limped around when he heard movement in the back. Someone else was in the room. He scanned the light and was looking straight into the scared eyes of Devika. 

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 4

The Night of the Incident – Part 2

Find Episode 3 here : Episode 3

The night Giridhar was murdered, Champa’s house was not the only house awake. Loud noises came from Prajwal’s hut. Two prominent male voices rose over the slight snoring of a fifteen year old girl.

Sukhinder and Prajwal were seated on a khatiya spread outnlavishly on the road outside the hut. Devika was asleep inside. Prajwal had threatened to leave her out in the forest if she did not sleep and that had yielded immediate results. The 15 year old had run into the hut. She was growing up and ghosts were no longer a threat to her. Sukhinder was and she complied without resistance. The dhibri flickered in the winds casting flickering shadows on the road outside. Two shadows on the road chatting the day happily. She threw one final glance to her father in dismayed pleading to carry the dhibri inside. She wasn’t scared of ghosts but she could not stand the dark in the hut. There had been scary events going on in the village for the past few days which a fifteen year old could not explain or comprehend. Her father disapproved and nothing would convince him otherwise.

It was Sukhinder’s last night in the village before he left for the city the following day. His best friend Prajwal had agreed to help him pack the tiny tin case with the four shirts and lungis before daybreak. The night would be spent in recounting old memories and endless rounds of chilam. The third chilam was lit when Giridhar left Champa’s house hurriedly.

Sukhinder was an ugly man. He was muscularly built except for the limp left leg he carried with him everywhere he went. The leg impeded his speed but the heavy torso gave him the intensity of a bull. The sun had dampened his color which some believed was very fair when he was born. His parents left for the city when he was twenty. That was close to a decade ago. He hadn’t seen them since. He spent most of his time with Prajwal and Devika. The rest of the village thought of Prajwal and Sukhinder as best friends. Prajwal hated him deep down. He hated his limp leg which was a sign of weakness he inherited from his father. He hated his dark brown eyes. How come someone with such imperfections be blessed with eyes so intense. They did not fit. God had been surprisingly generous upon him with those eyes… and the muscular torso. The limp spoils everything. The rest is all good. He thought sometimes before he shrugged the thoughts and replaced them with clandestine hatred for the dark brown eyes.

Prajwal was a weak human being. The two arms hung loosely from sagging shoulders which themselves were part of a body in its decline. The unending routine of sitting on his khatiya had made his legs weak and the stomach was bulging like it does for malnourished children. Since childhood, he was stigmatized with a stammer of a devious nature. He struggled to speak clearly in the night. His words failed him in the starry nights and he usually remained quiet after sundown. Unless Sukhinder came around. Sometimes this scared Devika. But she knew her father loved her. Just like he loved everyone in the village. The stammer was just God’s way to ensure he does not waste words. She thought. She had the brain of a five year old but the body of a twenty five year old woman. Sukhinder noticed it all. And she saw him. Just like she had seen Giridhar groping her mom when she was four. She never understood it then but was aware of the perils of the human mind now. She put these thoughts to rest as she started snoring lightly inside the hut.

“To.. k-k-kal sab kh-khatam….? Kya?” (So all over tomorrow?) stammered Prajwal through the statement as he passed the joint to Sukhinder who took it eagerly and started puffing hard. He ended with a loud cough.

“Haan.. ab bas babuji ko dhoondhna hai… gaon ke chutiyaapa ab khatam”. (Yes. Now all I need to do is to find Dad. Enough with all this shit in this village)

“Itna jaldi ka ka j-ja-jarurat tha? R-ruk ke jaate?” (What’s the hurry but?)

“Arre ei gaon ka kissa khatam Prajwal… Ek ek kar ke sab nikal gaye na… Devesh bhi nikal jayega.. wo to amma ke bharose ruka hai.. Budhiya ka ji to mare khasam mein phansa hai abhi tak.. uske praan nikle aur launda nikal jayega shahar.. bata dete hain.. tum bhi chal lo bhaiyaa… ei gaaon mein to jaan hi rahe ho kya kya ho raha hai??” (This village is over Prajwal. Did not everyone leave one after the other? Devesh will also leave one day.. His mother repents over the lost husband. Once she dies, watch how Devesh takes his stuff and bids goodbye.. I tell you.. You come along too bhaiya  You are well aware al that goes on here) He was referring to Giridhar towards the close of the statement. He scratched his head and put down the joint on the floor and stubbed it with his legs with a unstopping stamp of the right foot. He saw Prajwal staring at the limp leg and retorted in defiant frustration. “Bhosadike nahi chalta hai baayan… bachpan se… ab kya jaan bharoge aankh se??” (What’s with the stare asshole?? You know this leg limps since childhood... Will you now bring it to life with your eyes?)Both of them started laughing.

“Baat to th-theek hai.. p-par gaon se rishta juda hai Sukhi.. ab to marenge tab hi chhootega.. Aur Girdhar bhaiya bhi yahin to hai..” (You might be right but there is an emotional attachment with this village.. It will probably end with my last breath… And Giridhar bhaiya is also here .. no??)

“Wo saala bhosadika ganjedi kisi ka saga nahi hai Prajwal… tu chutiya hai…” (That rag runt of an addict is no man’s kin Prajwal.. you are too naïve.. )

“Bh-aiyaa bh-abhi ke jaane se gaanje mein lag gaye Sukhi.. Dil se to N-n-nek hi hai… Devika se bhi bahut dil la-la-lag-agaate hain.. aur Titu to jaan hai re..” (That addiction is due to his wife’s death.. he loves Devika and Titu is pretty much his life)

“Tu andha hai harrami.. chal Devika ko le ke sheher humre saath… Woh to us din tune rok liya warna bazaar mein kaat dete tumhre bhaiyaa ko… hasiya to utha hi liya tha” (You are blind Prajwal.. come with Devika to the city.. You shouldn’t have held me that evening.. I would have quartered your brother that day.. I had the handsickle right next to me..)

A momentary silence consumed the khatiya as both Prajwal and Sukhinder took a moment to contemplate the events of that evening. An insurmountable pain agonized Prajwal as he recalled the tension- physical and emotional that evening near Lakhan’s shop; the undisputed address of all things, good, bad and evil… With a nervous shake of the head, Prajwal got up to go check Devika inside while Sukhinder stayed there out in the open. Some minutes later he could hear loud noises of music and laughter approaching in his direction. Accompanied by a kid’s failed attempt at reciting ‘Ek tamatar laal laal’ the male voice was indiscernibly that of Devesh. The only male child in the village was Titu and Sukhi hated both the child and his father. There was history of improbably animosity between the two since the events of 10 January 1988. Four years hence, Giridhar – disliked by most and demeaned by a few had found but one man with hatred amounting to physical harm. Unlike others though that man had a limp leg making escape post murder slightly messy. But not tonight for he left in two days.

Sukhinder got up with a purpose tonight. Prajwal came out of the hut without the dhibri with a datoon in his mouth. “Kahaa-an chale ?” (Where to?)he spoke as the limp walked zig-zag connecting dots on the road.

“Kuch baaki reh gaya hai” (Some unfinished business) Waved Sukhinder by the back of his hand and continued limping towards Giridhar’s hut. What Prajwal did not see was the look of disgust and self loathe that almost made Sukhi sprint.

“Bahut jaldi mein hai saala… bhosadika chutiya hi rahega.. “ (In quite a hurry.. the moron..!!) smirked Prajwal as he lay on the khatiya, completing his statement with no halts and exhaled with a deep sense of satisfaction over his plan.

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 3

The Night of the Incident – Part 1

Find Episode 2 here : Episode 2 

The dead human body does not start disintegrating quickly. It did not at least in the case of Giridhar. It was a rotten mess. Much like his life. After life had start similarities. The following day was a plethora of emotions for the village. The killer was out alive. Fear was natural. What was also natural was the chaos that would ensue when Prajwal would find the body next to Titu.

**

The previous night after Giridhar had dropped Titu on the floor and hurried out the front door, Champa had done two things. She had finished eating the four chapatis from the plate while Titu lay on the floor crying for attention. She had then got up, picked the green shiny kurta and placed it right in the back of the alaa, where from it was invisible to a passing eye. Then she had smiled and caressed Titu. “Kahaan janam liya re tu…kapoot ke ghar kahaan phool khilta hai.. sab maaya hai..” (How come you ended in that family? Flowers don’t bloom in a thorny estate… It is all God’s will though). The poor child kept his cries at an incessant high, and continued sobbing for some time while Champa made milk for him in the kitchen.

Devesh walked in later with fresh meat from the day’s hunt. He looked frenzied and confused unlike other days. He had run into Giridhar on his way into the hut and had stopped for a momentary chit chat which was rudely denied. He was the last person to see Giridhar alive. Or so the villagers were supposed to think the following day.

“Ka hua.. Ei Giridharwa bada jaldi mein laga aaj saala…”(What happened? Giridhar seemed in quite a hurry) were his first words when he was inside the kitchen. The fumes from the freshly baked chapatis had filled the entire hut but the aroma was intense. Champa ignored the question and continue teaching Titu the nursery rhymes that every one learnt in the village when they were kids..

“Ek tamatar laal laal… uske andar laal laal..

hum bhi khayen… tum bhi khao.. sab ho jaayen laal laal”

(One red tomato… all red inside…

Let us share and consume… and be all red likewise ) 

She finished the rhyme with an evil grin on her face as she looked at Titu… “Ei.. tera baap kaisan tamaatar jaisa laal ho gaya.. dekha..”(Did you see your father walk away all red??) Titu never understood the metaphor. Or the evil grin. Devesh stood unmoved. The confusion on the face was now replaced with disgust.

“Kitni baar kahe hain amma.. bacha ke saamne itna mat bola karo.. Umar hone lagi hai sasure ki.. samajhta hai.. baap ko bak dega kisi din” (How many times have I told you mother? Not to speak such foul in front of the kid.. he is getting older..this asshole..  Will go complain someday)

“Arre abhi to bacha hai.. Deva.. par humne dekha hai shaitaan kutte ki aankh mein.. “ (He is only a child Deva.. But I have seen Devil in his father’s eyes)

“Amma.. kabhi kabhi to darte hain hum tohre se.. Us din to tum bhi wahin thi na.. Babuji ka haija to uparwaale ka diya hai.. kahe bakwaas karti ho..” (Mother, you scare me sometimes.. You were there in person that night.. Father’s illness was god’s doing… Why do you speak this rubbish?)

“Chhod pagla.. tu nahi samjhega.. Girdhar par shaitan ka haath hai…” (Let it go.. you won’t get it. The devil reigns over Giridhar)

Titu stopped lapping the milk from the flat bowl and looked up in dismayed affection.. “Humra baap shaitaan hai…” (My father is a demon..)with the smile of a six year old.. unaware of what he had just said. Both wondered if it was a question… perhaps.

“Hutt pagle.. Doodh pi.. chal chhode aata hun tere babu ke paas khaana khaaye ke… Amma tum bhi na..“ (Get lost.. and drink your milk.. I will go drop you at your father’s once I finish eating.. Mother.. you are a pain..) murmured Devesh in a fumbled voice and sat down next to Titu. Champa had poured the sabji and chapatis on a steel plate and Devesh started eating hungrily. What had happened in the morning today in the adjoining forest was equally horrifying. But mentioning it to Champa would mean more explaining and he was utterly tired since the events in the forest. He finished eating quickly and got up to wash his hands in the backyard. There was no light in Giridhar’s hut in the distance but he could faintly smell the weed. “Bastard has no vigour to work for the child but smokes weed like a chimney” he thought as he came into the hut.

Champa was still adjusting the shiny green kurta. “Babuji ka kurta kahe nahi jalne di us din tum.. ab isko kya saath le ke hi jaogi?”  (Why did you not let Father’s kurta exhume that day? Will you now die with it?) His frustration was valid. He lit the incense sticks and repeated the hanuman chalisa (a prayer to Lord Hanuman) in his customary speed as Titu started to snore lightly on the floor.

Devesh woke the kid up to drop him at his father’s place when Champa held his hand. “Let him sleep here tonight.. I don’t feel very good about the night sky.. there is no light in his hut and it would be filled with the smoke of weed.” The resistance was impregnated with purpose tonight. Like never before.

He pushed her back and woke him however. Titu was stammering in his sleep and his teeth made a weird clattering noise like kids’ do when they are bordering on sleep and wakefulness. He woke up with a start like a bad dream had come to an inconclusive halt. The dream would come back he feared.

**

As the moon started to cross in the second quarter of the night, Devesh and Titu walked humming tunes. Devesh hummed a tune he had heard recently at Lakhan’s shop on his radio on Vividh Bharti. Titu sang the recently learnt rhyme in broken verse “Ek tha tamaatar laal laal.. uska andar bhi laal laal… hum sab khaayen laal laal.. woh ho jaaye laal..” (There was a tomoto.. all red.. we ate it all.. and the tomato was all red…)Devesh did not care to correct the mistakes but lit a beedi on the way. He finished the song with a long burp and followed it with a ‘Hari om’.. It was a weird custom but everyone did it in the village. It was a noisy gratitude for a fulfilling meal to the Gods above… But tonight the Gods slept up above in their humble abode while demons walked on the streets of Badalpur.

“Chacha.. tani ta.. ruk jao.. mutna hai..” (Uncle wait a minute.. I have to take a leak) Titu complained holding his groin in one hand and tugging Devesh’s hand in the other. The undiluted presure on Devesh’s little finger hinted at the intensity of the impending interval and he stubbed his bidi under his Lakhani chappals.

While Titu relieved himself by the tree, Devesh jumped and picked him up and put him on the empty side of the road. “Pissing at the bottom of a tree in the night invites demons Titu.. you want them to come take you away?” he scolded the little kid. Titu just winked at him. Devesh could swear he saw a scorn on his face for a split second.

In the next few minutes Devesh and Titu reached Giridhar’s hut. There was a strong smell of weed. It seemed Giridhar was smoking two days worth of ganja. He left Titu at the door and walked away.

“Chal jaa.. apna babu ke paas.. aur so jaana chup chaap.. koi awaaj nahi.. babu soya hoga.. jagana mat” (Now go to your father.. And sleep quietly.. don’t wake him up and no noise..)He left with half a warning and half a suggestion.

Titu tried to push the door open but it was locked. Devesh had reached the end of the front yard and calling out for assistance seemed irrelevant. He went around and climbed into the window and quietly settled into the open floor in the hut. The room still smelled of the ganja.

From the corner of the dark room, Titu could see the burning end of a chilam. The scorn had returned on his face.

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 2

The Murder

Find Episode 1 here : Episode 1

When Giridhar came home last night, he did not lock the door behind him. It was hot and humid and he needed something to quickly overcome reality. It was a daily affair. Dinner at Lakhan’s shop followed by the daily dosage of ganja in his chilam. He quickly lit it and opened the window looking into the backyard. The moon shone brightly and you could see the heath in the distance. A vast stretch of emptiness matched only by the emptiness of Champa’s heart; he thought. A bulky man in his mid fifties, Giridhar preferred the cool breeze directly on his skin, made moist by the humid night. The lungi had been overworn and adorned his waist snugly. The bright blue chequered fabric had lost its color mingling bleakly with the color of the faded walls inside the so-called ‘haveli’. It wasn’t one though; as it lacked the grace of the kings and the simplicity of the peasants. It was a mess. A cross hybrid between an unfinished hut and aspirational bungalow. There never was enough money to build houses in the village.

Titu was nowhere to be seen. Must be in Champa’s garden picking up ‘raatrani’ in the night. Raatrani was characteristic to the village – a flower which grew only in the night in this belt but the blossomed buds imparted a thick essence of sweet candor to the village. When dark descended, the sweet aroma rose unchained across the other houses in the village from Champas’ garden. It was the only place with a garden toiled hard in the day by Champa. He thought of her bending down to clear up the excess grass and chuckled a little. The ganja was starting to infuse with the blood.

He walked out quietly in the open; one hand on his lungi and the other holding the chilam. The tobacco burnt slowly and made light cracking sounds. “Eh! Even the ganja has gotten wet bahi***od”, he spat and coughed loudly.

A body moved in the distance to the other side of the wall and he thought he saw shiny green kurta fly across the distance. “Kaun hai re.. bho**dika”(Who’s there asshole?) he shouted at the top of his voice – half in fear and the other half in a tone of self assurance that all was fine. It wasn’t.

 “Ka hua Girdhar chacha?”(What happened Giridhari Uncle?) Barked Lakhan from the other side of the wall. “Kuch nahi.. laga konho hai… chilamiya aaj gadar hai saali!!”(Nothing.. I thought I saw someone.. The weed is pretty strong tonight) Giridhar shouted back.

“So jao chacha.. ihaan kauno aata hai raat ko”(Sleep uncle.. who comes here in the night?) Lakhan subsided the persistent fear and went back to swatting flies from his hairy tummy. Soon Lakhan’s snores started beating a rhythmic tone. The unquiet alibi of a village murder. Only if they had memory… or could testify.

Meanwhile, back in his hut Giridhar had finished the chilam and thrown it in the stash of other usable items he kept in the ‘alaa’ (square hole in the wall, primarily used as an inexpensive storage place). The moon had climbed up higher in the night sky announcing the arrival of the second quarter of the night into the eight lives of Badalpur. Only seven would witness the third. His son was nowhere to be seen. He walked in fast paces to Champa’s garden where upon noticing the familiar quiet, made way into the hut. Titu sat on the floor scraping some dried leaves off the bowl asking for more. Champa sat next to him with a hand fan to disturb the file of mosquitoes settling on Titu’s forearm every three minutes.

“Titu.. let us go home” Giridhar smacked without much introduction and dragged him against his will out the hut. He cried in protest but to no avail. Champa cast a loathsome glance on the semi naked torso but could not ignore the lustful stare her glance was matched by. She hated Girdhar’s guts, especially now that her husband was gone and her son spent most of the time constructing the small tree house for Titu.

“Kya budhiya… khaaye liya gobar? Hamre ghar chalegi to shahad pilaun?”(What’s up old woman? Did you eat your dog shit..?? Come to my place.. I will offer you honey) Giridhar broke into a deathly laughter and pulled Titu by his arm. While he was exiting the house his eyes caught something shiny in the ‘alaa’ and he froze for a moment. In the filtered light of the kerosene lamp he recognized it as the green kurta Champa’s husband wore the day he died.

In the moment of dismay and chill, he left hurriedly abusing something in his Pahari language. He dropped Titu to the floor and went back into the hut and locked the door - first time in decades. He washed his face with cold water and lit another chilam. He lay on the floor in complete darkness. The only light was from the burning embers of the chilam. His brain was exercising all possible emotions as a tear rolled down his left eye. He lifted his hand to wipe the unannounced tear when it hit something muscular in the background.

He felt a strong grasp twisting his arm and two other arms strangling his throat with effortless persistence. He struggled for four minutes before he breathed a silent exhale… life exit through the throat.. a painful mixture with the ganja.. The room was absolutely quiet and no one moved for the next few hours…

The assailant got up after some time and lit the unfinished ‘chilam’. A muffled cough echoed in the room for a while before the assailant sprinked the unlit ganja on his body, filled a glass of water and dropped the earthen pot on the floor… Lakhan’s loud snores never heard the muffled cry that was the last Giridhar breathed.. nor did his droopy eyes see the silhouette covered in shiny green exit the compound…

A cloud cover passed eerily over the moon as the third quarter of the night arrived into the village… Everyone was asleep except one.. for he lay dead on the floor..!!

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 1

Pilot (or The incident)

Prajwal

Devika, Prajwal’s 12 year old daughter

Devesh

Champa – Devesh’s mother

Lakhan – tea shop owner

Sukhinder

Giridhar – Prajwal’s brother, victim.

Titu – Giridhar’s 10 year old son

Rains don’t come to these villages any more. Sweltering heat descends in the afternoon on the few tea lovers who flock the only tea shop in the middle of the village which serves savories (jalebis and samosas) as well. Padded fields on the other side of the road and a broken cycle wheel hangs from a distraught hook outside the tea shop; a reminder to the few old timers that this was a cycle repair shop. But there were no cycles here anymore after the rich flee to the cities. The wheel remained an item of utmost curiosity to the little child Titu born after the great fire. A rotund imagery devoid of poetry and prose synonymous with the very dark that engulfs the eight people who live in the village - four from the same family. A complicated hegemony of relations lying exposed as they choose to bid farewell to Sukhinder who leaves for the city today. Seven more to go – he thinks and waves at the bus as it comes to a screeching halt next to the aforementioned tea shop, creating a mirage of dust and smoke which settles snugly on the samosas.

Sukhinder lives alone in the hut adjoining Devesh’s behind the tea shop. Three houses in the village – each a landmark for the other and the tea shop. Ah! The tea shop – a giant fuck you to the huge coffee houses in the city with posh lighting and swanky floors. This is a hell hole of ever sweltering heat, drowsy flies resting calmly on the jalebis as Lakhan wipes the tea pot every afternoon at 2 pm in patient anticipation of the 6 people who drink tea everyday. His customer bucket decreases to five from today. He weeps no tear as death is a worse agonizer. There is hope still for Sukhinder to return. No one has returned yet in the past 15 years though. ‘Hope’, he thought is a treacherous emotion, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. It mixes with the pan as he cleanses it in the brown hued water from the borewell in the backyard.

The borewell was planted seven years ago when the village had enough people to warrant a political seat. Some call it government attention but the definitions are long lost. In the first year, the water was really clean and crisp but such was no longer the case. During the fourth year, after Devesh had lost to Prajwal during an arm wrestling game for the first time in two years, the water erupted a pale yellow. The borewell was scratching earth’s surface they felt – and the earth was too eager to stay quietly in the summer heat and every now and then found a way out through the water the borewell bore. A silent act of rebellion. Devesh’s father had planted the borewell in the village seven years ago when he was still alive. He was not any more. He died of haija outside the village borders which was no more than 3 kilometers. Devesh had gone himself to ensure he stays out and dies peacefully. Wrapped in five layers of clothing he carried his father and waited for life to flicker from his eyes under the starry night. It was a good night to die. He thanked the stars when he was completely gone and buried him in the ground he had excavated in the afternoon. He felt alive albeit guilty. Late in the night he stumbled into Lakhan near the tea shop. He woke not to console him but to scratch his big belly and ask in the most innocuous of tones “Dafnaaye aaye bhaiya? Chai banau?”

Prajwal was twenty seven but looked thirty five in the lungi and baniyan he wore all day. Unlike others who had hairy faces for wont of a barber in the village, Prajwal had a cleaner countenance (cleaner of course of the hair) and donned a dirty browning moustache alone. He wiped his face clean with a knife he cut onions with. He felt Champa liked her men cleaner. Champa was Devesh’s mother and a widow. And she was fifty three. But she was the second female in the village. The first was Prajwal’s twelve year daughter, Devika, from his now dead wife. Champa had grown intuitively fond of Devika as she grew older. She sat on the floor in the open hut as she blew air into the choolha making chapatis for Devika and Devesh. He chided her affection sometimes but loved the chubby kid to hangout in the garden every evening as she played with Giridhar’s son Titu. He was growing fast but the heat made it easier to not afford new clothes. Giridhar was an old ragged man devoid of hair on his head and emotion in his heart. His wife some said never died of natural causes unless beating her every night was natural in the village. She died shortly after Titu’s birth. Giridhar was only more irritable after the incident and spent his time swatting flies outside Lakhan’s tea shop. Occasionally he spoke with his brother Prajwal about his work. They grew rice and wheat in January every month and ate it through the year.

Giridhar breathed his last a night ago when someone strangled him to death in his sleep. It was the first murder in this quiet village of nine people. It would not be two days after today that Prajwal would find his brother dead who he assumed would be asleep otherwise under the influence of hashish the grew abundantly in his backyard.

But today was a different day. Everyone except the dead Giridhar were at the bus top wishing Sukhinder farewell as he boarded the dusty bus. He sighed as the bus leapt into the oblivion the villagers called the city. Prajwal started walking towards Giridhar’s hut complaining of his sadistic pleasures only to be repulsed by a stench of the dead. For the first time someone had died in the last three years. For the first time the cause was unnatural. Prajwal stood shocked at the door as Titu played with his dead father’s beard.

(To be continued)

Lessons from Paris

While sitting atop a small hillock outside the Dali museum and gazing far out at a city that seemed to be in love with itself I knew I would one day write about the inherent narcissism of Paris. In one of those astute moments of self realization, I even knew what I would write. I had it all figured out but the charm of the city is only seconded by the volatility of its soul which vaporises the moment you leave the place.

Alright! I will be honest with you. All the fancy crap you read above is a lie. I am doing this to appease a friend who I owe the maintenance of a soiled leather jacket. Let’s call this friend Avinash and let’s call this leather firm ‘Theo&Ash’. In case you are wondering they run a wonderful organization with one objective: Selling leather jackets in one of the hottest markets- India. When I say hottest I mean literally. Let us take a moment to wish them all the best. They are doing a great job. Till date they have sold 465 leather jackets.. which is 5 more than the bosses who have fucked me (this time - not literally).

While we are establishing facts, let me clarify a few. I did travel to Paris. Theo&Ash actually exists. Check out their site hereTheo&Ash. They do repair your leather jackets without charge if you are friends with them. I do own two of such gems, one of which I did soil on a plane.. Long story.. Some other time, unless you disregard this post as an attempt to publicise leather. I love animals. I actually am one of them. I work for a corporate organization.

Paris, for those of you who don’t know (and this includes the entire illiterate population of NCR) is the capital of France. Apart from the language French, which evolved as a tongue twister for the British, the city boasts of Eiffel Tower. It is like Shard went on a full on diet and lost all carbs….and bones were all that remained. The city hosts a hell lot of tourists every year. Pretty much more than the population of Iceland. (Wait for more imaginary adventures in Iceland in the next post). We reached Paris at 5 in the morning. When I say ‘we’ it was Abhinav, Anuj and Alex (names changed of course because their real names are pathetic loser types only). Also, Alex although is a girl’s name in German, we were travelling with a full on mallu who seems like he ate a heavy Sheikh in breakfast and forgot to digest him, which seems reasonable given that he could not digest even the preface of ‘Half Girlfriend’.

While we arrived in Paris early morning at the train station, our hostel bookings were valid from 1 pm in the afternoon. So we did what any first time tourist in Paris would do. Slept for 2 hours at the train station. Did I tell you that Gare du nord has a wonderful enclosed (read heated) waiting room for people who are on budget travel. They have nothing but love for their tourists, unless you are from England in which case.. ‘Go Fuck yourself you fries eating, beer mouthed pretentious oaf’… Paris is all about humility and simplicity. 5 French aristocrats choked on their Boreaux wine after reading the previous line.

Post awakening (which is also used to describe the 24^th year of Alex’s life when he learnt how to speak to a woman. It was the same year Abhinav realized he is not one…) we went straight up to the Louvre(pronounced as loo in French)… This confused Alex because he does not like going to the loo twice in a span of 1 hour. It will take a normal human being approximately 2 days to see everything in the museum. It will take 7 lives to appreciate everything to their rightful measure.. There are more paintings than the emotional baggage Aishwarya Rai carried from her previous relationship with Vivek Oberoi… But do take a look at Mona Lisa when you are there.. See what the fuss is all about. If you are tired you can sit down and appreciate some old paintings and the way light works on them… The realization is much stronger if you have flown in from Amsterdam…

Then there is the Arch de triumph. It is pretty much like India gate, except that they charge you 15 euros which is enough to buy Old Monk to drink through 2^nd October… Then there is a Louis Vuitton store on the same lane.. Specifically placed to mock you.. If you walk in you will see some people buying stuff… for their girlfriends… 2 min silence for 0.0005% of Zimbabwe’s GDP spent on a brown bag…

Then there is the Eiffel tower which you have to go to.. otherwise no one in India will believe you went to Paris.. We went there twice because we are pukka 2 times patriotic… One should definitely visit the Notre dam.. or take a walk along the river if you are feeling slightly adventurous.. If you are feeling snobby and pretentious order 3 bottles of wine. Drink it slowly like making love to the glass…

But the best part of the stay was the 'Three Ducks Hostel'… It was started by three dicks who we will not name for the purpose of convenience.. the hostel name is a typo though… It is not a funny story… The hostel however is amazing and the bar inside is splendid…You should try the beer from the tap… If the lady at the bar is happy she might even play a song for you.. or lend you her lighter…

Don’t go on their underground trains though.. they stink.. Literally... I would call it a cement fiasco...

Take a walk in some cramped streets away from the chaos of the city and you might just realise why it is called as the most romantic city… chaos and quiet exist in harmony…....Go on find some love and if you don’t you always have “Three Ducks.”!!

नज़्म

जो दिल में दर्द है , उतारो कागज़ पर -
तो नज़्म जनमती है ……
तब तक जलती है हर रोज़ शायर के ज़हन में।

यह कैसी आग है जो न जलाती है दिन में
और न रात को रौशन ही करती है ……
बस भभकती रहती है हवा में जूझते चराग सी।

नवजात ही होती है , कमज़ोर भी
पहले पहल
तराशना पड़ता है बहुत मोहब्बत से
हर रोज़
मानी सिखाओ तो नज़्म बोलना सीखती है ……
बात करती है तुमसे, कभी  डाँट भी देती है
भड़ककर।

पलती है हर दिन -
सियाही पीती है , बड़ी होती है ……
दो चार  यारों का काफिला बनाकर -
दीवान बनाती है, नज़्म।

मगर कुछ  ऐसी अनाथ भी हो जातीँ  हैं
जनमकर ……
ना मानी समझतीं हैं प्यार के ना
बात करतीं हैं पलटकर ……

बस मरे शायर सी ही
बाँझ होतीं  है ……
उनसे  कोई नज़्म नहीं पनपती।

मेरी ऐसी ही एक नज़्म
स्टेशन के पास भूली बिसरी
आज भी ज़ुबान ढूंढती है  ……
जिसको  हाथ फेरकर  सर पे , अपनाया था तुमने ……
मानी दिए थे।  

खिड़की

वक़्त की खिड़की पर कुछ लम्हें सुखाए हैं ……
जो कल रात तुम्हारे आंसुओं में गीले हो गए थे

हवा उड़ा ना ले जाए ; बस यही दर रहता है …
की ना तुम्हारे प्यार का वज़न है उनपर....
और ना ही तुम्हारी डाँट का डर ॥  

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

सूरज अब भी आता है हर रोज़ जलाने को .....
और चाँद हर रात जल के राख हो कर जाता है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की जिन साँसों को तुम्हारी खुशबुओं की शोहबतें लगी थीं ;
उनको अब सिगरेट के धुंए की आदत हो गयी है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

शाम अब भी पूछती है तेरी बाहों का पता।.....
और सुबह तेरे माथे का किनारा मांगती है .....
शाम को मैं  टाल देता हूँ 'कल आना' बोलकर .....
पर सुबह से रात का जलता धुआं छिपता नहीं

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की मेरी सुबहें और शामें मुझ पे शक करने लगी हैं …
कल से शायद ना आएँगी ..  तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

लफ़्ज़ों के कारीगर

लफ़्ज़ों के  चार कारीगर सियाह रात में बैठे....
बुझती हुई अंगीठी में नज़्में  फूँका करते थे

बड़ी ऊँची अलावन  तपती थी.… भभक कर
उठती थी आग सर्द हवाओं में .....

ये काम अब धीमा पड़ गया है …… आजकल
मंदी है नज़्मों  के  व्यापार में ....

एक अमावस है जो आती नहीं
    की रात सियाह हो
    अंगीठी फिर से जले…

कोई नज़्म फिर से रौशन हो…।

अमावस पर कविता

रौशनी मद्धिम है आज फिर शहर में,
हवा दीवारों से चोटें खा के चीखती है अँधेरे में।
शायद चाँद ने वापस धोखा किया है ……  अमावस ही है। ।


कुछ बिका नहीं आज बाज़ारों में,
रोशिनी की ही कीमत लगाई है लंगड़े बनिए ने।
व्यापारी सारे भारी ही लौटे हैं घरों में आज। ।

कुछ चौदह दिनों में ही रोशिनी यूं खर्ची है निगोड़े चाँद ने,
गोरी का आँगन अंधेर लगता है आज।
इतनी बेफिक्री से तो अनाज ना खर्चा हमने भूखे बच्चों पर.....

(अधूरी)

नौ ....

नौ बरसों से जूझ रही है नज़्म,
अकेली, अँधेरी रात में  … चुपचाप
जैसे सगरेट लड़ा करती है तेज़ हवाओं से ॥

दसवें बरस जब निखरेगी तो…
गीत बनेगी गोरी का ....
फिर लाल पहन कर आएगी

और उसके ही पाँव में ये पाजेब सजेगी।

Looking at the Bigger picture

P.S.: For the sake of complexity, big and bigger are used interchangeable in the post. If you do not understand this stop reading Right now. You are missing the big picture here....

The domain of consultancy and analytics can be a torment, especially for the semantically unaligned. The evolution of language has found new paradigms and undesirable effect on individuals who for example ‘Have to touch-base’ with someone they don’t want to ‘touch’ in the first place. And this is just ‘scratching the back’ I must tell you. Or ‘the tip of the iceberg’ on a cold windy night when all you want is to cuddle in a blanket and listen to Himesh sing ‘Tera Tera suroor’ amidst heavy thump and infinite jazz. Not the general ‘Jazz by the way/bay’ but the jazz which manifests itself in an all time favorite wedding song.. ‘Jheemi Jheemi Jheemi.. aaja..aaja…aaja.’… You get my point??

Of course you don’t. Because you are not looking at the bigger picture. Which brings me to the daddy of all corporate terminologies: ‘Looking at the bigger picture’

This is how a typical conversation with your superiors in the corporate world would go:

Mathematical Geek/Genius

MG: Boss. The R sq of the equation which models the rate at which ice cream melts in a room and Katrina Kaif’s presence in the same room along with a poster of Tushaar Kapoor in the other room is ~70%

Boss: That is not enough. Did you also look at the possibility of an added variability of ‘Malaika Arora’s Z-balm’??

MG:  But Boss, would not the Variable inflation factor be more than 4? They both ARE highly correlated..

Boss: Of course it will…

MG(cutting short): ..which beats the point of using Malaika in the equation then Sir… Katrina alone suffices for both.

Boss: See.. there you are missing the whole point. You are not looking at the bigger picture.

MG: I beg your pardon Sir.. but I am. I am probably looking at the biggest picture possible.. I have a 10X10 poster of Katrina doing a ‘Chikni Chameli’ in my apartment…

Boss: So you will not account for the variability and add Malaika in the equation…

MG: Mathematically?? No sir…

Boss: But you do realize that your client is Arbaaz Khan.. What will he use Katrina for anyway?? You see…  you have to think about all these parameters before coming to me with such presumptuous solutions. You need to parameterize the entire variable space and identify existing patterns which help Arbaaz run his ice cream factory next to Salman’s school of Chastisement and Virtue…

MG: No wonder Arbaaz is moving to producing of ice creams now….

So how exactly do you look at the bigger picture? Fear not my fellow corporates. After mining through loads and loads of data.. about the perimeter of Sonakshi’s forehead that forced me to use Big data paradigms, I have devised a 3 point plan which harnesses existing data patterns to enable your mathematical mind to harvest business acumen and not fail to spot, identify and even understand ‘THE BIG PICTURE’.

1    Never look at the Big picture directly: You can’t look at the big picture directly. No Sir!! That is not acceptable. The route to the big picture lies in magazines that teach you about the ‘5 most important foods that cut fat’, ‘7 things to ensure you are the most macho in a band of jazz players’ or ‘ 5 things you should never do while eating breakfast on the moon with a dolphin’s infant child, playing football in low gravity eco-space with a chimpanzee at the same time’.

Wait for a leeway into the knowledge space provided by hard working big picture enthusiasts. Read. Rehearse and then look away… you will gain visibility.

2       Understand the consumer: Now that you are done with your fancy analysis with shiny pies and cool bars, without getting fat or hungover…. You are on to the tricky part. What you need to understand that the output of any mathematical equation in the corporate world is composed on two components: the mathematical equation and the ‘big picture deviation’ (also called as error rate by sports enthusiasts). Getting the first part of the equation is easy. To get the remaining of the component you need to understand who your consumer is.

You need to gauge the frequency of your consumer’s bowels, find his favorite brand of constipation pills, his most preferred strip club and 5 strands of hair from his unborn child. Seems difficult? Wait till you get to the last part.

3    If a big picture does not exist, paint one: This involves breaking into your customer’s office, picking a brush and painting huge potraits from the stories ‘P.S.: I love you’ with the skill of a five year old and the adventure of Salman Khan’s virtue… Untainted..that is… Once you are done, they will be printing about this in the magazines all over.. then you move to Step 1.

P.S.: If you are unable to comprehend the intent of the article and got lost at R sq… you definitely did not get the big picture. Wait for my post on ‘How to look at the literature about ‘Looking at the Big picture’ ’. I am co-writing it with Chetan Bhagat. He is paying for the ink I spend. Also involved is a corporate firm predicting number of words I would write without making any sense… the current count is 884. 

Their Story - At the bar and after

"Can i just see you once tonight?" she inquired.

"Yes you can." he said. "You can see me tonight.
I will come alone in the glassy night.
Will usher a storm of broken twigs
and bring with it the strength of light.
You will be dazzled like sparrows are when they look straight into the sun ...alright
but you will see me Yes... You will see me tonight"

“You seem somberly poetic. What’s the matter ?” she retorted with an uneven baritone.

“Prose my dear, is such waste of words. Deemed to fail where sounds coerce,

Despite they stem from roots all same… words are words; (there’s) music in verse”

“So what makes the sky so blue and the blade’s green does color impart?

What evil does your head conjure? And what motions will your soul start?

..See I can play too…!!”. The heartless wench stood glorious. The sun shining in her pride.

“You complete me now.. I wish I could say..

Yet cautious is the path to love.. and beset with misgivings unknown to fools,

Though carries close two broken hearts;

Yet many a time it leads away”

“Ok! I know you like words. But this is really disturbing. So, let me be shameless and complete your verse.

You might like words and love you would

A grimly room with whiskey’s cup..

But I do swear to all my gods..

You sleep alone if you don’t ‘Shut the fuck up!!”

And he did.

***********

“The world, you see, is not trying to be saved. It wants to burn. Burn with rage and a mutiny so horrid with violence that all the water from the glaciers up north or all the tears from the widows of men won’t heal it. And believe you me, that day is not far.” She said as she downed the fourth shot of vodka.

He was taking it slow tonight.

“You seem overly poetic in prose tonight.”

“Well what would make you say so?”

“The fact that you took our moot point of global warming on our 43^rd date quite far. A possibility of a fire riot is kind of far fetched.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Hmmm… so I guess the vodka is working. I feel free.” She sounded exalted.

“No.. honey.. what you feel is precisely a chemical condition where your heart betrays your mind… your brain does not like it one bit and triggers a biological reaction making your muscles weak there by restraining the heart’s wishes.. spiraling you in a maze of inner conflict and disillusioned self loathing which stems from your hatred for humanity in the first place… an argument which you would dismiss without considering one bit….” he stopped for a sip of his own drink.

She considered a bit. She dismissed. Then began:

“Funny thing.. coming from an alcoholic himself…. And back in our days people just called it ‘sloshed’…. And you being pedantic about your girlfriend drinking at an open bar about an event which supports kids from child abuse by alcoholic parents is a testimony to how full of shit you are…”

“You took it too far. The evening is over. I love you too much to pay heed to your rationality” he got up from the table in a hurry.

“Oh! Now you speak sense!!… What happens when the vacation is over? With me sulking over  you and you away rattling your time in a cold country, oceans apart… which by the way drinks booze like kids drink milk”

“Statistically speaking … not all kids love milk.. actually well below 45% kids in the united king…..”

“Oh! You can shove your stats and stats-fucking-company up your torrid tight ass”

He did. He loved her way too much to be rational with her. Rationality kills fantasy. Fiction dare not reside where reason lays its ass.

“Let me walk you home. You are drunk”

“You bet your ass I am. And you will be a gentleman and not take advantage of me”

“Do I bet my ‘torrid-tight-ass’ ?’ he smiled with a wink. She kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you” she said.

“I know you do.” He put his arm around her shoulder and carried her purse.

“Might I say that the purse looks astounding on you” her words lacked the cynicism of an avid drinker.

“No madam.. You look astounding on me.. the purse is just a collateral ornament”

She walked erratically. Joining imaginary dots on the road. He followed like a dog smitten with a bone.

She was drunk for the first time. He was not. It was a first too.

“So …wh…at happens…. when you go…………. away?” she asked in broken verse.

“We deal with it”

“How?”

“Like lovers do. Being honest and truthful” he spoke with an air of disillusionment.

“Fuck you” she swore at length.

“I know”

“That is not something to know. That is something to work on”

“I am on it. Your apartment is here”

“Come on in. Nehal would love to meet you.” She lingered.

“Really? It is 2 am. She would be fast asleep”

“You seem to know her sleep times quite well.. mister.. should I be suspicious?” she slapped him on the cheek and fell over in the exercise.

“Not after you know that statistically speaking, more than 80% of the human population sleeps by 2 am. It is called as routine” he held her hand and pulled her from the floor.

“Alright! She might be asleep. But come in for my sake… also.. did I not ask you to shove things up your torrid-tight-ass”

“What sake? You are drunk. You should sleep. Like the remaining 20% who are about to go to sleep in the next 30 mins.”

“That should be enough…” she whistled through the cold air.

A drunk eye winked. A hug was bought in compensation for a slap. A kiss was procured by promises made old by enthused clocks. An arm was held at an arm’s length. Words were spoken in soft hush of the night only to be engulfed by the dark. Ears failed. The eye would not see.

Motion ceased for an hour. Not all love stories deserved this.

“My flight leaves in 3 hours. I really need to go..” he talked to her hair.

No response came. The words reached her ears but did not register in her brain. Brain and heart had not made out since the 7^th shot.

Someone somewhere played a song. He laughed at the words…

John Denver adjusted his throat before he began singing from an old stereo…

’All my bags are packed.. I am ready to go..

……..’

She woke up after 5 mins. Alone.

“Don’t..” she said, incapacitated by the slumber. Half asleep, half mourning the last 15 mins lost in oblivion. She slept on the floor that night.

He did not sleep at all….

(..to be continued)

Train of thoughts - (Night at the bar)

Sat by the fire. His face red. Not the heat. Long sprint maybe. Ordered a glass of scotch. Momentous celebration. Peace was over. War needs celebration. Too many critics anyway. Evil smirk. Strong taste. Probably 18 years. Maybe more. Lady behind the bar table looks voluptuous. Nice breasts must say. Bet good money on it.

No money to buy dinner. Only 7 coins. Can squeeze in another scotch. Maybe a cheap one. Or a cheaper one and a pint. Pint tastes shitty after scotch. Maybe a cheaper scotch. Whiskey maybe. And a lime. Yes. Fresh juice too.

Gazed at the bar for long. Lights seemed dimmer than when he came in. Window seemed brighter. Must be day. How long has he been drinking? Maybe long. The voluptuous bar tender is gone. Wanted to do unspeakable things to her. Sshh!

Let’s sleep some. Too much memory mars the intellect. Must start afresh. General needs strong arms. Must relax tonight. Won’t touch myself tonight. Save strength. Hic!

Must be daybreak now. Mrs. Clarke comes in with fresh milk. Must get some for family. Let the wife rot. She has her own cow. Kids have been starving for long now. But not long anymore. War is upon us. We will fight for our general. He will get us food and drinks. Maybe a whiskey with lime too. Long live the general. He has good heart. All good things must be respected. Like the voluptuous lady from the previous night.

‘Time to clean the bar! Old man’. Voluptuous lady is back. Pinch. Not dreaming, nay. Must touch her once. Looks dirty. Some one doing dirty things to her in the night. Must be a whore. Should not touch. Auspicious day. Let me piss in the back. No one comes around. Otherwise auspicious day. Must get milk too.

--intermediate end for feedback---

Their Story - Trip to Mumbra (Build up ... )

"No baby... nothing will change.. I promise.. well except the calling rates... and the time zones.. wait I guess a lot will change" Prashant stammered through the last part of the sentencce as he gave Karuna the news over the phone. He was slated to leave for a different country in 2 days but that is a different story altogether which we will get to some other time...
****

"Tell me a story...a funny one" demanded Karuna from under the sheet. Prashant sat on the sofa flipping through old books. He looked through his glasses and eyed her request in faked attention.

"Well I am out of jokes... why don't you tell me a scary story rather..??" Prahsant got up to get a glass of water..

"Ok.. I think I am pregnant..."

"What the f**.. Are you kidding me? What ? How? When? We have not even had...." Prahant mumbled through the questions.

"Well.. that's the scary part... now isn't it?" KAruna winked from under the sheet...

Prashant woke up with a start. He was sleeping on the floor. He made a phone call to Mumbra. Karuna answered in a sleepy tone... "Someone better be dead.. I am telling you..."
"Well my dreams almost were.. How are you? " Prashant gulped some water as he closed the door to the balcony and came out in the open.
"I am good... I think i am..pr.." The line went dead..and Prashant too...
"Mother of god.. I hate fuckinng prepay connection.." Prashant cursed looking at a telecom tower out there in the far.
He waited a while before the phone rang. He fumbled and answered the call.

"Hey.. the line went dead.. you were saying something.. Something about you being..something?? What were you saying?" He shot the questions and prayed to all his gods.

"Ah! I don't remember... Must have been the fact that i am prominently tired today.."
"Excellent!! A very poor choice of adverb... though" he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead as he slapped a mosquito dead on his heels cursing silently.
"What? It's 3 in the morning. I don't need a grammar lesson from you..."
"No! I absolutely understand.. You are prominently tired and i must say I am promisingly relieved.." He muttered in a taunting tone. Thereafter the happy and relieved couple chatted sometime about life in general and how the significant half was significantly incomplete without the other half. The conversation concluded to a complete halt almost 27 minutes later and Prashant decided to go back to sleep. It was a shame the night was wasted three quarters already. The night was getting only cooler as he walked into the hall to get some more water. He ran into Shujit who was munching on the overnight food on the bean bag.

"What the hell are you doing at this time of the night?" He asked Prashant and offered him a chapati wrapped over 'aloo capsicum dry'.
"I have a girlfriend. I am entitled to sleepless nights. What are you doing stockinng up on food at this time of the night?"
"You know dude..!! It is that time of the year again...when i get all disciplined about my eating." Shujit gobbled the final chunk in his hungry mouth which eventually made way to his empty stomach.
"Very well..!! I honor your restraint.. Enjoy your dinner cum lunch. I will go get some sleep."

Prashant walked into the room where Vishal was spread with his hands and legs pointing to the vertices of a rectangle which was his bed. Vishal was Prashant's roommate. No, they were not gay. No further questions. Period ... (Fuck...Damn)  - Only the smarties got the last one..
The lights were switched off in D118 for the day.

****

I love the city Mumbra. Well.. Prashant loves it. The last time he was int he city with Karuna they went around the same places they had been the last time around. It was fun. He was poor. She was a student. They got through that. Money was only an enabler. The ultimate challenge was being able to make the journey. There were great Samaritans who lent money. Prashant was trying to write something for quite sometime. It was a letter. Apparently it was supposed to be a love letter but all he could write in the last 5 hours was this:

'....And the light streaked across the sky when the time came....the dogs stopped barking for they felt the ever hurting charisma of fear and looked silently 
in the sky as a thunderous bolt struck the shiny moon and it was shattered to pieces followed by a waltz of ever soothing violin... thus began the century of 
Irony and has been dark in the nights since then... the sun rises in solid fear and rushes across the horizon quickly, only to be lost in a never ending abyss 
of darkness... the same villain who engulfed the last pieces of the moon'

He could explain. The metaphors in the message sheathed the vulgarity of the message. He wasn't vulgar. His thoughts were. Ahh!! The irony.. he laughed as he wiped a tear.

The bus was taking longer than usual today. It was the traffic outside Sion. It was scorching when he got down at the Andheri(W) bus depot. She lived in the east. Near a fire brigade. Of course.

This was the first time he was in Mumbra with more money than he had combined in all his trips. The budget to Mumbra trips had always been 2000 rupees of which 104 were spent on his ticket to Mumbra and 600 were allocated for the Mumbra autorickshaw pension fund. Well of course money lost its value and the equivalent comparison can not now be drawn but this time he spent 1200 on the ticket alone. He had called her up twice as he stood under a tree with a bag which for the first time of all his trips to Mumbra was not the charismatic Green that belonged to Rishabh. To know more about Rishabh read : Trip to Thol She came out of the building in a while. Her pony tail swaying as she walked. 'I love you woman...' he said to himself for she was far away. He stood there motionless. She did all the moving.

"Well someone's been smoking..." her first remark was always the sharpest.
"Actually the dude who stood next to me near the pan shop smoked in my face.."
"Very well.. I guess you shook his hand too.." She smelled his hand and took his bag.
"I missed you.." he tried to break the tension
"hmm..!! I don't live in cigarettes by the way.. So stop searching me there..." She started walking towards the building and he followed like the eye follows Katrina's moves.
***

They talked at length. He lay on the bed and she lay across with the back of her head on his chest. He held her hand and played with her skin. He never left the clasp of her skin when she was around. It drove him crazy.

They did not speak for it was redundant. She could hear the heart beat. He could feel the goosebumps on her hand. A clock ticked in the background. A bus honked outside the window as it passed by. The crowd howled in the traffic. Someone was trying to sell lemons on the road. He could hear it all. She could feel it all. All this did not bother. Mumbra was complete with him so close.

She played with his hand and made shapes using his fingers as wings and her palm as the torso. It started to rain. They did not move. It was evening when the rain stopped. He had fallen asleep. His fingers still moved on her skin. I told you right... They never left contact.

She did not lay watching him as he slept. She did not sit and appreciate how peaceful it seemed. She did not stay awake savoring the moment. She just curled up and joined him in his peace. This was all that was missing. This was all that was needed. This was peaceful.

....continues in the next part...Spoiler alert : Prashant and Karuna take a trip to marine drive and don't kiss...:)

Revisiting DAIICT – Trip to Thol (Final Episode)

Some adult content where Rishabh expains pregnancy. Read at your own risk.

The morning and the ride back

What do you do after reaching a bird sanctuary before the sun wakes the birds? Well ideally you wait and chit chat. Our good friends did the same. However, the subject was not some random chick or college professor or course…… it was Mahabharata.. I know. Don’t ask.


They sat at the platform form where the skyline was visible as it turned from dark to faint grey to orange to mild red….. They saw it all. It is not that they hadn’t seen sunrises. They all had. In fact they had been awake so many times together that the charisma of the sun rising beyond the trees in DAIICT had lost its charm. But not today. No…. Today they stood.. I mean sat in full awe as it rose and they talked with the minimum knowledge of the same. Gupta started with the genealogy of the KAuravas and Pandavas. We all know that Kauravas were bad goons who did wrong to the Pandavas. Gupta decided to dig deeper. Frankly, most of us know until Dhritrashtra….. Few know of the family tree beyond him. Gupta boasted of the same as if it were his own family tree.

Prashant added what he knew. In a while the subject shifted to something else. Pregnancy. Yes trust me. In the wee hours of the night Rishabh explained them the intricacies of how to get/avoid pregnancy. Following are the excerpts:

“Dekho. The cycle starts let us say today. So if you have sex today you are fine. But seven days from now it is risky business. Maa ki… bachha ho sakta hai. “ Gupta listened with utmost attention. For some reason he was counting something.

Gupta: “Abe ye batao…for sure pregnant ho sakti hai ladki us din?”

Rishabh was like a teacher to them. He talked glibly about the biology of female anatomy and explained it completely. It involved complex discussion on the movement of semen and fertilization of the egg. The details however can be disturbing for some readers. So we will end with the final line…. ”…..aur kuch jaanana hai?”

All: “Nahi be…. Abhi ke liya itna hi kaafi hai….”

Pratik knew stuff too but was inclined on birdwatching.

“Maa ki….. ye chidiya kab uthengi… Bh****d machhar kitne hain… yahaan…”. Gupta again broke into his uncontrollable laughs. Rishabh twisted his arm and asked for a smoke. Gupta took the pack out and handed it over. The first smoke of the day and sun and friends… what else does one want?

****

The birds came in small groups and as the light dispersed the vast stretch of land shedding away the humid cold Gupta jumped off the platform and stretched. Words cannot capture the stretch because it was a characteristic stretch and wriggle. I however will give it a try in steps:

Step 1: Stand erect and spread your hands as if you are pushing the sky out of earth’s atmosphere

Step 2: Get on your toes and yawn

Step 3: Pull you hair and descend on the floor by a quiet but audible “Ahh!! Fuck Bhen*** …..”

Step 4: Exhale

I am pretty sure I am not able to capture the essence but it sure gives you a high level understanding of how Gupta does it. So where were we? Ahh!! Sunlight. Pratik came down and decided that the place was apt for a photograph. He at a precise 22.5 degrees from the angle of the camera such that the sunlight lit his pretty face and highlighted the features to… (I better stop lest my girlfriend has second thoughts… ;)) Gupta roamed around pulling grass from the land and hurling it high in the sky. I have no clue what he was trying to achieve… Rishabh was finding the perfect spot to be photographed. Prashant photographed the bastards.

Rishabh soon found the perfect place: “Yaar..!! Yahaan se kheench. Click when a fresh batch of birds flow from the horizon and are perfectly in the scape of me and the sky… Ensure that the light is on my face… Click from near the ground…The timing needs to be perfect…” on and on he went…. Prashant listened. Timing ki maa ka bh****…. Photographer samajh rakha hai kya madar****

Pratik: “Hahahaha”… Gupta: “AHHA !!! FUCK BHE*****”…

*****

The birds had been watched. The moist cold had been enjoyed. It was getting warm. Something was amiss. Yes…. Food. Rishabh, let me tell you is a meticulous man. He sets everything perfectly. He wakes up at precisely 6:47 am and takes a dump at around 7:00 am. Rumor has that he never attends a lecture without having breakfast. So the plan was laid. They would be eating at the roadside vendors outside IIM-A. The ride began soon. They bid goodbye to the sanctuary and left. Meanwhile on the way, one of the bikes ran low on fuel. Gupta was riding it. From where the bike stopped, he could see the petrol pump but it was afar. What to do? Gupta thought for a while and lit a cigarette. Prashant looked a little worried. Gupta assured him and took out his phone. Made a call… “Haan be!! Kahaan ho? Hamari gaadi ka petrol khatam ho gaya hai….. Wapas aao”. The other bike rode back and joined them.

Gupta welcomed Rishabh with “Lo sutta pio.” Rishabh denied saying “Nahi be..!! Bahut garmi hai abhi. Kya karna hai?” Prashant and Pratik went to the cigarette kiosk close by and got a bottle of 7 up.

Pratik : “Lo pio madar****on”

Gupta: “Sahi be…!! Diek pepsi ka can nahi tha kya?”

Prashant:”Gupta main gaa** maar lunga”

Gupta:”Tension mat lo be”

Rishabh:”Jaldi khatm karo … hum aage us petrol pump se petrol le aate hain iss bottle mein”

All:”Hmm”

The bike was refueled and the ride began again. This time the stop was scheduled at IIM-A and that is where the heroes stopped. The roads were awesome I remember. They ate like crazy. Poha, omlette, tea… cigarettes. That is what a young body yearns for. They paid the guy and rode back to college. The rest of the journey was uneventful except for the brief minute where they were checking licenses at the circle and our hero Prashant did not have one buy was driving the bike. Gupta subtly asked him to take a right and avoid the cop. It was awesome.

The came back to college by 10 am. Gupta got down from the bike and wriggled in 4 steps as told before. Rishabh decided that his daily bowel movements were already delayed by 3 hours and he could not hold them any longer. Pratik said it was time for his sleep and went to sleep. Just when all were dispersing…..

Prashant asked Gupta… “Kya karna hai?”
Gupta: “Aaao…galle chalte hain”


The end

Their Story : Filler

Trust me readers... there is a lot more to me than a lazy bastard.... it is called as meticulous ass warmer...
Some of you have been waiting for this... so here goes...

Content


The rains had come and gone. The soil still held the scent of the moist air. The air still had the color of the dark clouds. The clouds had lost their color. They were white in a cumulus cluster hiding the sun. The sun had lost his will to shine and hid behind the clouds to cover his laziness. The clouds had lost their color from the dark tint they had a couple of days ago when the air was wet and the soil dry anticipating a wild precipitation of heat into sudden bursts of drizzling dreams. But that was two days ago! A lot was well only two days ago.

*****

Shujit packed his bag as he was preparing to leave for work. Prashant walked to the door as Shujit remarked about ‘what an absolute bitch’ the soil outside was.

“Damn it man! My shoes are dirty again! ” It was outstanding to see him complain about muddy issues. Prashant closed the door and wished his customary goodbye with the mandatory assurance, “Bhai main tiffin le aaunga!”

“Aur sewai bhi!” Shujit added to the already offered luxury.

As he closed the door, Prashant uttered in subdued exaggeration, “Bastard!”

Now, the readers would be wondering (along with Shujit) as to why the sudden allusion to Shujit! We did not even know him before. Is he making a guest appearance or is he here to stay?

Readers do not worry! He is not here to screw things up. He is playing his part just like Karuna is. Ahh!! Karuna! Now we had almost forgotten about her. Hadn’t we? Let me tell you something. Karuna is an author’s muse. Especially for this author, she is the ideal painting. We love to talk about paintings because we like to talk about abstract things. However, this is not the reason we like to talk about Karuna….. Her, we definitely like and most definitely love for reasons we can’t share on this blog. We normally harness the idea that most people are stupid. But Karuna is not stupid. She has a master’s degree in pharmaceutical management. She can tell you what medicines to take when you are sick and also manage your pill popping exercises. But she will not do this for you. She would grace only us with this favor because she is in love with us- the author and Prashant.

You should have seen her eyes the day she came to meet us in Bangaur. She was here for some time and we spent some time with her in the coffee shops and shopping malls. Not once did she lose sight of us and grew tense when we coughed and almost cried when we almost threw up after eating a crappy burger at ‘Pubway’ – avoid it readers. We cried with her because we did not like to see her cry and we like all people, cry when we are upset. Yes we were upset. We did not eat for 2 straight days. We only ate in the nights when she was fast asleep because she was sad and we were upset, but we were also hungry and hungry people do crazy things like eat sofas while sitting on it and trying to imagine black color in water taking it for cola. Yes, my readers you see… we did all these things because we were crazy in love. She did all this because she was crazily in love with us. All three of us were so happy the day she came to us. She thinks we love Shujit and Pratik. Poor kid… how she does not see that we think of her eyes and that tiny little freckle on her forehead when it is windy, of the moist cheek when it is gloomy, of her ability to not weep when a jackass of a doctor told her to get lost and how impotent we felt that day …. Both of us…. We wept that night for three straight hours on our bed and tried to console us but to no effect. Were gloomy the next day but we knew this will pass because we believed in GOD. I am lying. She believed in GOD and a tenet that good things happen to people who believe…. If only I could….

I know some readers are wondering what happened to Shujit…..!!

Revisiting DAIICT - Trip to Thol (Part 2)

Almost there – Before sunrise

 “Yaar Jacket le lun kya?? Thand ho jaayegi….” Rishabh was not a man to leave a place without ample preparation. He took his bright red colored jacket.

Meanwhile, Gupta came out in his long sleeved jacket that he had been wearing for the last four days. Rumor has that it belonged to Mishra but they had struck a deal which involved Mishra borrowing Gupta’s dumbbells without any queries. Anyhow, Mishra is not pivotal to the story.

Prashant came out of his room wearing a grey jacket over a dark blue Nike T-shirt. Pratik emerged from his room donning a green shirt over a black under tee. He was the most stylish of all four.

And thus, aptly prepared for the chilly wind, our heroes made way for the parking lot. Gupta stopped at a couple of stops to light cigarettes and finally reached the parking lot once Pratik lost his temper and shouted out his blasphemies aloud: “Abe Gupta Bho*** ke! Main teri g*** maar lunga… Jaldi aa “.

Boy! They had a colorful vocabulary. Gupta came smirking. He stood for a moment at the parking lot, took a final drag from the Gold Flake he was regally holding between his fingers, dropped it, stubbed it under his shoes, looked up towards the sky (and the flickering light overhead) and exhaled with a smile stating “Yeh saali!! Light be*** ki **** kabhi thik nahi hogi.”

Rishabh had already occupied the black pulsar belonging to Nigam and Pratik had undertaken Gupta’s red pulsar. The remaining two took to their seats. The red pulsar was kickstarted and the black pulsar came to life at the touch of an electric button. Both the bikes thereby made way through the narrow alley covered with trees, came out on to the college road, zoomed past the cafeteria and came to a brief stop at the main gate to make the ‘OUT’ entry.

Rishabh as usual indulged in a small and a quick banter with Surendranath sir. The small chit chat was important to smuggle booze into the college campus later in future.

Now, it is important to notice that there were 4 guys and two bikes which allocated two guys on a single bike. In a campus where seating any less than 3 people on a pulsar was regarded as a waste of real estate space, this was sheer crime. However, beating all odds of social norms, our heroes took a left turn from the college gate and jumped on the Gh-0 road gaining speed quickly towards Infocity.

Somehow, I do not remember the petrol station they stopped to get their bikes refueled, but I shall put the onus on the frequently visited Gh-0 petrol pump. The tanks were fueled for 100 bucks each (those were the good days when a mere 50 bucks gave you one full liter of petrol). A silent sign language and the index finger raised by Rishabh from the bike ahead had affirmed that 100 bucks worth petrol should suffice. No one doubted his views. Not even Monal, the DBMS professor.

And such was the night, full of a dark road lit only meagerly by the insufficient moonlight. The clouds blew over the moon hiding the white circle frequently under their cover. The trees swayed in the wind. All shops were closed until the next 20 kms. The riders rode hard. They stopped for none. They rode with peace and happiness leaving everything behind. Nothing could touch them tonight. Prashant folded his hands in the backseat as Rishabh swiftly sped towards the shop they all knew they would be stopping at. It is weird how silence played tricks on their minds. Gupta was getting numb in the backseat as Pratik rode cautiously to the rendezvous point which was still 15 kms ahead.

Keeping up with the gravity of the situation, I have however been able to penetrate within the minds of all four. The following is what they thought about until the first rendezvous point:

Pratik: Fuck it is dark!! I can barely see the road. Aur madar Gupta ki bike lights bhi kitni kam hain.. MAan kasam kahin bika na gir jaaye….

Gupta: Fuck!! Ye Pratik to bike chalana seekhk gaya hai be…Itni kam light mein bhi kya mast chala raha hai…Light se yaad aaya… Bike ki light bhi thik karaani hai…roshni kaafi kam aati hai…(and suddenly) Abe FUCK!! ROSHINI ko phone karna bhool gaya…

Rishabh: ?? ????!!!!!???-----QQWEASDSDCWSC!! (Bhai kitna kuch chalta hai iske dimaag mein….)

Prashant: Achha.. .to petrol dalwaya 100 rupaye ka… Chai naashta hoga 50 rupaye ka… Pathak ko 38 rupees dene hain…To…hisaab ho gaya… (Bhai ye kitna sochta hai hisaab ke bare mein…)



Within the next 20 minutes our heroes parked near ‘Adalaj circle’. A tea shop was open. There were a few people sitting on the ‘charpai’ placed outside the shop. Prashant went in and ordered four cups of tea and a got a couple of smokes. Happily they sat outside the shop for the next 15 minutes enjoying every sip, relishing every fag……

The tea was consumed. The smoke was recycled. They got back to the bikes. The riders were now exchanged. Prashant was riding one with Rishabh at his back while Gupta took to the other. They took a right from Adalaj circle and moved into the remote villages which would lead them to the ‘Thol lake’. They were attacked by a pack of dogs near the circle. They survived and moved on…..

Within a span of 30 minutes they were bordering on the city and village and were riding into the deep of a village. The morning was close…. The destination was closer.

Cutting through fences and crossing roads frequently, they reached a dry heath with sand all over the road. It was a difficult terrain to tread upon. Rishabh took to the task of riding. The ride continued in the dark….. The night swiftly bordering on morning, gloom quietly bordering on chirpiness…

In no time they had reached the gates of ‘Thol Bird Sanctuary’. It was an overwhelming arch that allowed for the entrance of bikes, cars and humans into the sanctuary. The bikes had to be parked on the level ground. The two bikes took to the stop and quickly became silent and dark once the ignition was turned off. Prashant was the first to get down. His getting down had a purpose:

“Abe bahut tez aa rahi hai… Bha*** raaste mein kahin karwa dete…” He started to complain.

Pratik was slightly sleepy and realized they had reached the place. “Abe!! Bas itna sa hi hai kya?? I thought it would be grand!!” he exclaimed with a yawn.

“Bhai koi karwa do … bahut zoooooor se aa rahi hai…. !! Gupta madar.. sutta kyun jalaya??” Prashant started to lose his calm. He was on the verge of relief…(if you know what I mean)

“Udhar kinaare me chal…” Rishabh pointed.

In around 15 seconds, four guys stood in a file unzipped and watered a corner of the sanctuary… Gupta still had the smoke in his mouth… Pratik still complained about the smoke. He stood dangerously close to Gupta. Rishabh swayed slightly… Prashant was too eager to dwell on any activity.. He just pissed in peace….

It was almost sunrise….