Café Sunrise v2.0

There he was - Joe Ceer, sitting alone on a chair in Café Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

After every two and a half minutes (exact), Joe would turn exactly ninety degrees, anti-clockwise, and gaze through that empty glass at those before him. Ever so often, while he was staring through that glass in his hand, Joe's face would exhibit a peculiar smile, if it could be called a smile- that seemed to hint at a state of inebriation or lunacy (whichever comes first). Then, as he would turn, all expression would be drained from his face, until ninety degrees were traversed, anti-clockwise. He would then proceed to smile that peculiar smile, unless it was Alfredo Disjun that sat in his line of distorted vision; in which case, he looked nauseated.

Alfredo Disjun, with a glass of warm scotch in hand - no ice cubes, no water - looked up from his Playgirl magazine to stare back at Joe Ceer. He smiled. He gave little thought to the fact that Joe looked quite unwell at the moment. 'He must not be feeling well,' Alfredo thought to himself, and continued to stare back at Joe. A minute later, Joe turned ninety degrees to his left.

Alfredo looked around the café. There were sixteen tables in the café, and few were empty. All these tables had nice red and white chequered tablecloths, on which was placed a glass tabletop. At the centre of each table was a small white flower vase with a red rose. Four chairs, each white with a red chequered cushion on it, were around each table. Some chairs were occupied, mostly by men. But Alfredo neither noticed the tables, the glass tabletop, the red roses nor the women that sat beside some of the men. He just looked around the café and turned his attention first towards Joe Ceer, and then towards what Joe was looking at.

Near the jukebox danced the petite and curvaceous Lyzzie, long braided hair in hand, and alone. But Alfredo looked just at the jukebox, and back at Joe Ceer sitting alone on a white painted chair Café DV8, with a peculiar smile on his face, staring at Lyzzie through an empty glass. Thirty seconds later, still smiling, Joe turned another ninety degrees.

Alfredo gulped down the last of his warm scotch whiskey, and burped loud enough for Lyzzie to hear him, for she turned around and winked at Alfredo. Alfredo turned towards Hu Wan Ton, the Chinese bartender with unreadable eyes and pastel red lips and said loudly- 'Gimme another one, Chan. And a martini too.' Hu Wan Ton picked up the cheap fake crystal glass off the badly scratched bar and filled it without cleaning. He picked out an olive with his soiled fingers from a jar of olives in vinegar and mixed Alfredo a martini. Alfredo had been looking at Joe Ceer. Without a word, Hu turned back to doing nothing.

Alfredo got up, martini and whisky in hand, and gulped in some uneasiness before taking his first step towards Joe. Near the Jukebox, dancing all alone, Lyzzie frowned.

'Hey you!' said Alfredo to Joe Ceer, and stopped within three feet of Joe. Joe had just turned another ninety degrees, anti-clockwise. His face was now expressionless and he was looking at the chair in front of him, and at the whitewashed wall beyond it.

Joe raised an eyebrow, turned towards Alfredo and said Yech in disgust. He then turned back, glass in hand, to face the wall. His timing had been messed up. Afredo ignored the reaction and asked suavely 'How are you, today?'

Joe Ceer turned left again to face Alfredo, the empty glass still in front of his face. 'Disgusted.' said Joe. Alfredo, not giving up, persisted 'Disgusted by what? Maybe I can help. We can talk, no?'

'No.' said Joe, simply, and turned back.

'What do you see in that glass?' asked Alfredo, as he walked across and sat down across Joe. For the first time in over an hour, Joe turned right, and looked at the women that sat at the far end of Café Sunrise. It seemed to provide him some sort of relief, for his shoulders relaxed, and he smiled that peculiar smile again.

'Hey, I'm talking to you, man. Tell me now, what do you see in that glass.'

Joe frowned again. He shut his eyes and took a rather deep breath, slowly filling his lungs, and exhaled even more slowly. 'I see through it. There is nothing in it. It is empty,' he said slowly, with emphasis on the words 'through', 'in' and 'empty', as much for Alfredo's benefit, as his own.

'So what do you see through that glass?' said Alfredo, mockingly emphasising the word 'through'.

Joe Soothsayer cringed and closed his eyes. He sighed in resignation and took another deep breath.

Then, he put the glass down on the table and declared rather loudly, with much anger and strain in his voice: "I see you, you disgusting pig. You disgust me with your filth, and your unabashed lecherousness. You disgust me. You have no scruples. You disgust me. You have no morals. You disgust me because I see you for what you are. I see you naked. Through this glass, I see you for what you are. I see you naked.'

Alfredo looked hurt, and the light above shone down on him harder; his eyes squinched. Joe Ceer, still not having calmed down, abruptly got up to leave. The chair he sat on, clattered as it hit the floor behind him. Alfredo, stared at the glass on the table, and repeated to himself 'You see me naked.'

At a distance, Lyzzie, with her braided hair reaching down to her feet, as low as her desires, smiled as she saw Joe get up to leave. As Joe walked towards the exit, which she stood next to, a warm feeling rose within her, starting from her feet up.

Still sitting on the white painted chair, Alfredo repeated to himself 'You see me naked.' He picked up the empty glass from the table, and through it looked at Joe Ceer as he walked out of Café Sunrise. He smiled.

There he was - Alfredo Disjan, staring into an empty glass, sitting alone on a chair in Cafe Sunrise.

Cafe Sunrise - v1

There he was - Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a chair in Cafe Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

Alfredo Aberration, with a glass of warm scotch in hand - no ice cubes, no water - looked up from his Playgirl magazine to stare at Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a barstool, staring into the empty glass. Alfredo Aberration looked around him. Near the Jukebox danced the petite and curvacious Lyzzie Short, braided hair in hand, and alone. But Afredo couldn't but look back at Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a barstool in Cafe Irreal, staring into an empty glass.

Alfredo gulped down the last of his warm scotch whiskey, and burped loud enough for Lyzzie Short to hear him, for she turned around and winked at Alfredo. Alfredo Aberration turned towards Hu Kares, the chinese bartender with unreadable eyes and pastel red lips and said loudly- 'Gimme another one, Chan. And a martini too.' Hu Kares picked up the cheap fake crystal glass off the scrached bar and filled it without cleaning. He picked out an olive with his soiled fingers from a jar of olives in vinegar and mixed Alfredo Aberration a martini. Alfredo had been looking at Joe Soothsayer. Without a word, Hu turned back to nothing.

Alfredo Aberration got up, martini and whisky in hand, and gulped in some uneasiness before taking his first step towards Joe. Near the Jukebox, dancing all alone, Lyzzie Short frowned.

'Hey you!' said Alfredo Aberration to Joe Soothsayer, as he neared Joe. Joe raised an eyebrow, then said 'Yech' in disgust. Afredo ignored the reaction and asked suavely 'How are you, today?'

Joe Soothsayer, turned left to face Alfredo, the empty glass still in front of his face. 'Disgusted.' said Joe. Alfredo Aberration, not giving up, persisted 'Disgusted by what? Maybe I can help. We can talk, no?'

'No.' said Joe, simply, and turned back.

'What do you see in that glass?' asked Alfredo, as he walked across and sat down across Joe.

Joe Soothsayer cringed and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then blurted out, in a flurry: "I see you, you disgusting pig. You disgust me with your filth, with you gluttany, with your unabashed necrophilia. You disgust me because I see you for what you are. I see you naked.'

Alfredo Aberration looked hurt, and the light above shone down on him harder. His eyes squinched and he frowned. Leaving the martini on the table, he took his glass of whisky - warm and without ice and went back to the barstool he had been sitting on.

At a distance, Lyzzie Short, with her braided hair reaching down to her feet, as low as her desires, smiled as she saw Alfredo Aberration sit down on the barstool. She turned back to Joe Soothsayer, and a warm feeling rose within her, starting from her feet up.

There he was - Joe Soothsayer, staring into an empty glass, sitting alone on a barstool in Cafe Sunrise, completely naked.

END

The Journey

I entered the thin lane leading towards emancipation. I didn't know how I got there. I only knew I had to move towards the exit. And that at the other side of the exit was emancipation.

A huge mass of people, bound together by the will to reach the exit, slowly but surely made it's way down the single lane street. People at the other end of the mass would break off from the mass and scatter. At the other end, the equillibrium of the mass would be maintained by another layer of tired bodies that joined in. Without much thought, I too walked up to the mass, and like water down a drainpipe, I got sucked in.

The smell of sweat hung about the air.

Pushes from either side kept me standing, pushes from the back kept me going and the cohesiveness of the layer in front of me kept me honest. Their was no way I could disturb this equillibrium.

Around me, people walked like zombies - looking only ahead of them, lest they change direction and perhaps lose a place. The only sound was a droning buzz emanating from the mass. Words, sentences and meaning lost in the mix. Sandwitched between two walls- decorated with pan stains and by unwillingness to repaint- of two shabby and dilapidated buildings, this cohesive mass kept on.

The mass was of people of both sexes, different religions, different shapes, sizes and age groups; it kept going because everyone, together, kept it going. Equality and Democracy.

Arms by my side, my wallet having been placed in my front pocket, my hand holding my bag in front of me, I finally made it through - I reached the end of the lane, and was pulled away from the mass by the empty space before me.

I entered the exit.

I entered the thin lane leading towards emancipation. I didn't know how I got there. I only knew I had to move towards the exit. And that at the other side of the exit was emancipation.

Flight Out

Things change. We change things.Things change us.

7 minutes to go.

"Blue? Is that star blue?"

I looked up, first at her, then along her arm, up to the tip of her index finger, then at the little blue star, blinking in the sky.

"It's probably an aeroplane"

The little speck in the sky sparkled blue. It was warming up.

It was a warm summer night, and hot embers of gases sparkled like little crystals in the black velvet of the clear sky.

"Purple; it's all purple now."

"It's probably an aeroplane" I repeated.

"Then how come it isn't moving?" The twinkle in her eye was followed by a seductive little smile.

6 minutes left.

We were a mere 5 miles from town. We'd met at a pub an hour ago. A couple of drinks later, we decided to head out.

"How many drinks did you have before we met?" I teased. She laughed, turned towards me and winked. Then, she got up and ran. I ran after her.

3 minutes were left when, tired, she fell down.

An open field of dry grass and insects buzzing around isn't exactly the most romantic setting for a date... but romance wasn't what I was looking for. Ditto with her, I suppose.

3 minutes isn't much when you haven't got much. But she didn't know that.

On her back, on the grass, she saw red. She pushed me aside and pointed to the sky.

"It's RED." She screamed."I told you it in't a star."

"I know. It's time," I said, as she vanished the next second. The grass where she lay glowed red before it disintegrated. I got up, put my clothes on and started walking towards my car.

That's my quota for this month.

Inspiration

He sits inside
His own cocoon,
Surrounded by the gloom.
Pacific air
Makes him stare,
Right through the moon

Beyond, behold, lies an unseen light
Visible only to his eye.
Caressing his vision,
It envelops his canvas,
Painting his picture for him.

Doubt

Silence and darkness,
Eagerness and pain
Eyes held shut,
My search ends in vain.

Suddenly a din
Forces me to hear
The call of freedom,
The end of fear

Shall I tread this path?
I hesitate,
Can I break free, overcome?
Who knows to what end things will precipitate?

Ram

At times like these, little Ram loved the big city. Big buildings, big buses, big cars, big billboards, and big, rich people. He was going to be big and rich one day. Much like Amithabh Bachchan, he was going to fight his way up the ladder through this big bad world of lies and deceit. He was going to wield guns, much the way Amitabh Bachchan did, and usurp all their wealth from corporators. It was a bad world, and Ram was going to have to fight fire with fire. Even as he stepped out of the theatre, he looked back at the larger than life face of his larger than life god looking at him encouragingly from the hoarding above the theatre entrance. You'll have to work hard it seemed to tell him. You'll have to be sincere about working hard, much like I am.

Ram did work hard. Somewhere, he identified with the mega-star, who, in one of his movies, started working at a young age, as a shoeshine boy, and worked his way up. Ever since he had arrived in Delhi, Ram had been working. His village was not forgotten, but not always missed either. He still remembered his father sitting by the fire, puffing at a bidi, putting his hand on Ram's shoulder and saying to him:

"Your brother has sent for you."
"Gopal Bhaiyya?"
"No. Rakesh. Rakesh has found a job for you in Delhi. A nice family that needs a young boy to look after their house. You will be their friend and will live in the luxury that they live in. You will work in a big house."
"But Baba who will get fodder for the cows? Who will get wood for Ma?"
"That is easy work. You can make better money in the big city.
"But Baba…"
"Don't argue. You go there and work hard. If you work hard, you will do well. You work hard and make someone dependent on you, and you will do well."
"I will go and tell Ma. She will give me daal tonight!"
"No. Tomorrow morning you will leave with me and I will take you to the station. If your Ma finds out, she will not let you go. I will tell her later."

After a meal of bajra roti, little Ram helped his mother wash the tawa, put out the fire and set his fathers bed on the charpai. He himself lay on a thin chatai on the floor and dreamt of big open spaces of green grass in the city, of big cars driving through these big green open spaces and large kothi's on the fringes of these spaces. He imagined himself in these big cars, and smiled as he felt the wind pick up and ruffle his hair.

Seven months in the big city, and his dreams had changed. Cities, he now felt, were smaller and bigger at the same time. There was less space to move, fewer and smaller fields to play in, more people to walk around on the crowded streets. People talked less when there were more people to talk to. And still, this compressed village seemed go on forever.

At times Ram dreamt of his village, with vast brown fields and large old trees. Of his mother in her flower-patched blue sari, squatting in the shade outside their small house, sifting for sticks in bajra. Of his father, his thin strong face and large moustache, and the maroon turban around his head, making his face seem non-existent, except for the moustache. Of when his father, holding his dhoti in one hand and his beedi in another, telling him that he must leave for the city because Rakesh Bhaiya had called for him. Of the fifteen rupee journey he had undertaken alone, of being always conscious of the six rupees he carried with him, of the smell from the toilets on the train and the loud incessant chattering that lasted throughout the journey: discussions about the big city that
kept him awake throughout. Of Rakesh Bhaiya who came a fear-ridden ten minutes late to pick him up from the station, and how he cried as he hugged his brother.

Ram had learnt much since then. He had changed jobs twice, but the three months that he spent at the Sharma's sometimes made him wish he'd spend the rest of his life with them. He thought of Rinku growing up and making him a partner in his business. He dreamt of driving down empty roads in a big car like Babaji's. Then there were times when he saw movies of that quintessential shoeshine boy working his way to riches. Then he dreamt of going against the big bad world and making his own way up, without any help from anyone. He would practice punches on his pillow when he got up. He would carefully punch and kick walls in slow motion, imagining bad guys falling over. Then he would go and help Mummyji get Rinku and Bunty ready for school.

Ramu beta, Mummyji would tell him, you're a quick learner. Ram could now make an excellent bhurji, chai and neembu paani, and wash and iron clothes. Both Babaji and Sahib would ask for Ram-ka-neembu-paani or Ram-ki-chai, and that made him feel very proud. Words of his father resonated in his head at times like these, reminding him to work hard and make someone dependent on him.

There were times of fun, of playing games like he had never played in the village. Rinku and Bunty had toys like Ram had never seen before. And every evening, they would all play in the car parking. He always did well at pakadan-pakdai, because he was the biggest among them, but he had also learnt new games like football and cricket. He had hit sixes like Kapil Dev on television. He had gone on drives in the evening with Babaji, shouted at pedestrians and cyclists along with Rinku and Bunty from their grand car. At night, before they went to sleep, they would jump all over Rinku and Bunty's bed. After Mummyji had turned out the lights, Ram would creep back into their room and they would play hide and seek in the dark. He loved Rinku and Bunty like his own brothers, particularly Rinku. If Rinku fell down playing football in the concrete car park and hurt himself, Ram would feel guilty about not having done anything to prevent it. He would never let other, bigger kids bully Rinku and Bunty. Rinku would beg
Mummyji to let Ram go and play when there was work to be done. Yes, thought Ram, we're brothers and we'll be together for ever and ever.

But just as there were times of hope and brash dreaming, there were times of loneliness and fear too. He saw Rakesh Bhaiya only once a week, sometimes just once a month. He was working in a restaurant and didn't have time. When Ram did something wrong, like spill milk while transferring it from one container to another, or knock over something in the living room, Mummyji would scold him. At times like these, he felt insecure: afraid that he would lose them
forever, that he would be turned out into the street in the middle of the night. That fear would haunt him on and on and he would see himself walking past drunken men lurching for him on lonely streets. He would see himself going from car to car, from person to person, begging for food or money. He decided, one day, that if he were to ever be thrown out of his job, he would become a shoeshine boy like Amitabh Bachchan.

Just three days ago, Sahib had slapped him.

It had been late in the evening, and Ram was returning with tomatoes from the thelas selling provisions around the corner. Bhola, the chowkidar, was standing beside the gate, looking very pleased with himself. He was standing, leaning on the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles, looking up at the sky every time he blew a whiff of beedi-smoke, much like Amitabh Bachchan did when he waited for some goonda.

"Oye, Ramu. Come here," said Bhola frantically gesturing towards himself with his left hand. "Come here."
"Haan, Bhola bhaiyya?"
"Come here. Sit." Bhola squatted partially, and Ram, careful not to place the packet of tomatoes on the ground, squatted in front of him.
"Which village are you from?"
"Sholapur, Bhaiyya."
"Do you miss it?"
"Yes. Sometimes. I miss my Baba and Ma."
"Sholapur is near Vilasnagar?"
"I don't know, Bhaiya. I have only been to Haldipur, besides Delhi."
"I'm from Vilasnagar. I have a wife there and I have a son. I miss them. I was thinking about them. You know what I do when I miss them?"
"No Bhaiyya."
"I drink and I smoke. It makes my time pass more easily. I don't worry about them when I am smoking."
"How old are you?"
"I am ten years old," said Ram, beaming.
"Then you are seven years older than my son. I think you are old enough to start smoking, now."
"Nahi Bhaiyya. Mummyji will be angry if she finds out."
"Arre, she is not your mummy. Your Ma is in the village. Do you know what smoke tastes like?"
"No Bhaiyya. Mummyji will be angry."

Bhola took a deep puff and blew it into Ram's stunned face and half open mouth. Some of it went into his eyes and Ram dropped the packet of tomatoes onto the flow. A couple spilled out as Ram kneaded his eyes.

"It tastes like this." Laughing heartily, Bhola stood up.

Ram blinked his eyes, now red as the tomatoes he was picking up. Still blinking, tears forming on the sides, he cleaned those that had dropped to the floor with the shirt Mummyji had given to him. He lifted the packet off the ground and ran inside the building. Throughout the climb up the stairs, and the wait outside the door after he rang the bell, Ram felt a sense of guilt coming over him. What if Mummyji found out? What if Bhola told her I had smoked? What will Babaji say? What will Rakesh Bhaiyya say if Mummyji told him? What will Baba and Ma think?

"How much were they for, beta?" Mummyji asked as she bent down to take the packet from his hands.

"Three rupees, Mummyji" He mumbled, half looking away, immediately thinking about washing his face and his eyes in the bathroom down the hall.

"What is this?" She said, sniffing the air. "Have you been smoking?"

"Nahi Mummyji. I was not smoking. Bhola was smoking"

She bent down and sniffed his shirt.

"You've been smoking, Ram. Arvind!"

Hearing Sahib's name, Ram started seeing visions again, of being out on the street at night, of drunken beggars lurching at him. He tried to pull away, to remove the hand that now gripped his arm.

"Arvind. Ram has been smoking."

"What?" The voice seemed to thunder down the hallway, bounding off all walls and hitting Rams ears like an avalanche of slaps.

Sahib walked stomped down the hallway like a police inspector in an Amithabh Bachchan movie. He took Ram by the shoulder and bent down to sniff the air around Ram's head.

"Beedi," he said. "You've been smoking beedi."

The next minute, Ram found his legs give away under him, and twinkling star-like dots before his eyes as Sahibs hand made contact with his cheek.

"Today you've started smoking. Tomorrow you will teach Bunty and Rinku."

Ram's already red eyes swelled with tears.

"Nahi Sahib. I did not smoke. It was Bhola. He was smoking"

"Now you're lying too. One more lie and I will throw you out into the street."

"I told you," he said to Mummyji, "I don't want a rag picker to be in the same house with my kids. All they are, is a bad influence."

"Nahi Sahib. It was Bhola. He was smoking and he blew smoke into my face… and my mouth and…and my eyes," stammered Ram, still on the floor.

"Let's settle this, once and for all."

With that, Sahib bent down and pulled Ram up off the floor and dragged him down the stairs, to the gate, where Bhola stood, not smoking anymore.

"Sahib" said Bhola, his stance firming up, and his hand clipping his forehead above his right eyebrow.

"Bhola. Were you smoking?"
"Nahi Sahib," looking straight into Sahib's eyes.
"You don't smoke?"
"Nahi Sahib."

Sahib stepped closer to Bhola, and took a quick, deep breath, like a snort.

"You're lying. You've been smoking. I can't stop you from smoking, but if I ever catch you lying again, I'll have you thrown out, one way or another. Do you understand?"
"Ji Sahib" Bhola's gaze was focused on the ground in front of him.
"Did Ram smoke? Did you teach him?"

Ram looked up at Bhola, in appeal. Bhola, understanding the gravity of the situation, looked up at Sahib.

"Nahi Sahib. I was just joking with him. I just blew some smoke on his face."
"If I ever, ever, find you doing that to my kids, or to Ram again, I will make sure that you never work here again, or in any of the buildings nearby."
"Ji Sahib. I'm sorry. This will never happen again."

Quietly, Sahib walked Ram back to the drawing room and sat him on the
sofa, beside him.

"Ram," he said, looking straight into Ram's fear-filled eyes, "we treat you like our own son, but never forget that you are working for us. If I ever, ever, catch you doing something, anything, that is harmful for us or for our kids, that will be the end of your time with us. Won't allow anything that will harm Rinku and Bunty. Do you understand?"

Ram nodded, and quietly went back to work. Mummyji patted him on the back a couple of times that night, reassuringly, but Ram felt overwhelmed with fear of being left out alone in the street in the middle of the night. He didn't sleep much, and entered a cycle of depression that seemed never to end. For the next two days, he didn't chatter incessantly in the kitchen, like he used to. He didn't eat
much food, or play, with Rinku or Bunty. Mummyji, worried about him, asked the neighbours maid, Shakuntala to take him to see 'Mukaddar ka Sikandar' after lunch.

As Ram exited the theatre, all seemed well with the world. He was ready for another beginning, for renewed friendships, for trips around the city, for whizzing around the car park with Bunty and Rinku. Ram loved the city, full of adventures and experiences, full of bad guys to beat up. So, holding onto Shankuntala's hand, he skipped around back and forth on the way home. He was particularly chirpy in the kitchen, so much so that Mummyji, smiling, told him Bas kar!

After Mummyji and Babaji had had their routine tea, and Rinku, Bunty and Ram had finished their cups of milk, Rinku and Bunty wanted to play. Ram had to clean the dishes, but on Rinku's insistence, Mummyji let them go out to play in the car park. This time, they took the cycle out, and as always, Ram, being the largest drove it because he drove it fastest. Rinku and Bunty took turns sitting in front of him, on the handlebar. Ram loved the feel of the wind in his face, and this
time, he drove it faster and faster.

Occasionally, he would drop his feet to the ground, and the ground seemed to push them back up. Rinku, sitting in front of him, his head stretched beyond the handlebar, shut his eyes and yelled 'Yay!' at the top of his voice. Ram, too, shut his eyes momentarily, before realising that he was closing in on the wall that enveloped the parking area. He swayed a little to avoid the wall, but he was going too fast and drove right into it. Rinku, at the last minute, turned his head and shut his eyes, screaming. Rinku's head rammed right into the wall, and started bleeding as he lay sprawled, the half under the cycle. He needed attention, fast. Bunty ran up to calling out to his mother. Fear gripped Ram.

Visions of Sahib's hand coming down on his cheek played over and over again in Ram's mind, the non-existent pain in his cheek making him forget the pain of the bruises on his elbow and the slight cut on his knee. Ram would be on the street that night. He would never see Rinku and Bunty again, and go home to his village a failure. Who would hire him, after what he did to Rinku? Sahib's warning to Bhola repeated itself, until Ram could not think of it anymore. Rinku was wailing, and Ram couldn't see him in such pain. He wished he could do something at that moment to transfer all that pain to himself. Something, some
hurt, not only to make himself suffer for causing such pain to Rinku. Something, anything, to take his mind off the rest of his doomed life of failure. Without a word, Ram walked up to the wall and banged his own head hard against it.

Pitaji goes the Penguin

An article in an English daily, recently, mentioned that a move had been on in the late 80's and early 90's to phase out English and push Hindi through. People spoke vociferously against western influences and argued that as long as the Indians continued with the usage of the 'colonial tongue', they would remain colonised. The phrase employed was: 'Angrez chale gaye, angrezi chhod gaye'.

Government offices (and the like) were French in their dislike for English, and sometimes one took to rehearsing before asking questions in chaste Hindi, careful to replace the erring English word with its closest Hindi translation. You spoke, and then you looked apprehensively at the babu or his peon, checking whether you had used the right word. Depending of the situation, sometimes there would be a tinge of uneasiness when you spoke, and a slight accent that would serve as a hint that you would rather converse in English.

Today, Hindi is treated in much the same manner in western and southern India. Queries in colloquial Hindi are sometimes ignored, sometimes chastised. In the North, particularly in the Hindi belt: Hindi is a compulsory subject for those enrolled in Delhi University for those on whom the language was forced until the Xth. Insecure statements in the text attempt to sell the language by emphasising, ironically, that it is the national language and hence requires proselytisation. These are people who would like to see the language dominate the country; their thinking is rooted in the past and they still harbouring the useless pride that seeks to ignore the global implications of English: Liberalisation may not have impacted the paan stains corridors of low-end power that is derived from the authority to shift files from one table to another, but it has opened up opportunities for those comfortable with the language. Whether the competitive advantage of outsourcing will hold for more than six to eight years is another story, but it does exist now, and the Indians relative comfort with the English has implications that stretch from Economics to Politics.

The domination that English enjoys is unparalleled: no race or religion has enjoyed such popularity or acceptance. While it would be obvious to credit the dominance of first the British, then the Americans and their businesses, and now Microsoft and its MS Word software, its popularity may also be attributed to the one thing that makes it different from most other languages - its ability to grow and adapt. Also, English is probably the most common 'second language' in the world, something that makes it the largest market (in terms of language) for writers.

Contemporary writers in India have often complained about all the attention that Indian writing in English commands, and one is reminded of Rushdie's selections for The Vintage Book of Indian Writing: 1947-1997 that was the cause for much criticism because it included but one translated story - the incisive Toba Tek Singh by Manto. While a large number of people speak and read English, and the spread of the language is gathering momentum, what with cricketers' renditions of the language becoming progressively fluent, publishing in local languages would mean tapping a much larger market. In a much needed, but unexpected move, Penguin India launched four Hindi titles on the 16th of April, 2005:

1. Hamara Hissa, an anthology of contemporary Hindi stories edited by Arun Prakash
2. Jannat Aur Anya Kahanian (Paradise and Other Stories), by Khushwant Singh
3. Ladies' Coupé by Anita Nair
4. Shakuntala: Smriti Jaal (Shakuntala, the Play of Memory) by Namita Gokhale

Penguin will move next to Marathi and Malayalam, with more languages being added subsequently. On the anvil are an anthology of stories in Marathi, translations of selected stories by Ruskin Bond, Arundhati Roy's new book of essays, `An Ordinary Person's Guide to Empire', and Shobhaa Dé's latest book `Spouse: The Truth About Marriage'.

The Penguin Group suffered a 69 million dollar drop in profits last year, and this is obviously to increase scale and reduce risks by catering to a reader base and exploiting their incontestable reach and marketing strength. A first ever for Penguin, lessons learnt in the Indian market will probably impact strategy in other markets where Penguin plans to go local.

Smart move? Only time will tell whether potential eyeballs will shell out upto Rs.200 per copy. One doesn't know how authors who write in local languages must be feeling, though. With 25 titles per language per year, some of them have gained from a publisher as big as Penguin 'going local', and others, with the loss of a whipping boy, have been robbed of headlines. In true capitalistic spirit, the open market shall now deliver judgement.

Media brouhaha: What do you believe?

Believe only your eyes and ears, they say. But you don't listen to them, do you? You believe what you read.

Free press is the foundation of a true democracy. An American president once said that given a choice between a free government and captive press, and a captive government and free press, he'd choose the latter. While the freedom of the worlds governments is the stuff that sustains conspiracy theorists, does free press really exist?

Are concepts such as fact and truth for real, given the human tendency to believe what they read? Newspaper reports and columns, and of late, words spoken to the insatiable television media are what is quoted in debates, in flight, on trains, over lunch, in the office, in bed (yes); quote, quote, quote, because what is reported is the truth: the undeniable fact. And what is important, is winning the argument, just as winning a battle is another step towards winning the war.

To the irrepressible George Orwell, a deliberate distortion of facts during the Spanish Civil War was even more terrible than the roar of bombs. He wrote extensively on the need for objective presentation of the truth, and frequently questioned the accuracy of reports. Would history be any different had it been written by the vanquished, or if the other side had won? Should facts be reported selectively, should incriminating reports be buried by saleable publications? What would really have Orwell spinning in the casket is the fact that is his startling freedom-of-press introduction to the political, anti-totalitarian Animal Farm is no longer published.

Wake up, ladies and gentlemen. It's all a show. As a frequent member-of-the-audience at an award-winning, verbal duel on a very popular Indian television channel, I was shocked to find members of opposing political parties, representing completely different ideologies, exchanging pleasantries during advertising breaks, right after they'd ripped each other apart when being filmed. It's all a show. 3,2,1, and they're at each others' throats again.

What's more, it's all for sale. It is not unknown that a certain Indian media behemoth chooses not to publish content that criticises those whom its pages promote. A positive image means a longer, stronger business relationship and a larger set of clients. Rates that it supposedly charges for edvertorials were published by a competing publication, and this went uncontested.

Given the constraints of sustenance and greed that bind mainstream media, the online space was thought to be the little Gaulish village still holding out against the all-conquering Romans, a final frontier often protected by anonymity and relative insignificance. But the evil eye scours all terrain, and the unabashed targeting by Mediaah! was not taken lightly. A legal notice may have forced Mediaah! shut shop, but Indian bloggers online are now speaking out against this attack on "free speech", signing a petition in hope that something will give. Will the publication concede before the negative publicity erodes what little is left of its brand equity, online? Orwell might have advised that the quickest way to end a war is to lose it, but one does not give an inch when a mile is at risk.

A line divides criticism and slander. Mediaah!, perhaps, crossed this line. Content on the site was often far from objective, often saucy and gossipy. There were speculations and at some point, it seemed to be a personal diatribe against the big guys. There were others, but they weren't targeted as consistently and unabashedly as the newsworthier biggies, often in bad taste. How would people who support Mediaah! react if they'd been targeted similarly. While I certainly don't defend the plaintiff, I don't think Mediaah! my saviour to support.

There is another, often ignored, perhaps Gandhian, side of Objectivism: don't attack anyone, because that would endanger your own existence, hence freedom. John Galt had walked away: withdrawn support, not burnt the factories.

Performing Prose

Charles Dickens was the pop star of the mid 1800’s. Much like the Beatles a century or so later, he attracted large crowds of screaming fans, waiting to hear him. No, he didn’t bob his head and dish out soulful lyrics like members of, debatably, the first ever boy band. Women swooned and crowds chanted as an animated Dickens read word after word of prose from his novels, the most popular being ‘A Christmas Carol’.

Book readings weren’t unheard of, but Dickens was a performer. He employed all techniques that public speakers and theatre artists use to keep crowds interested. His “prompt copy”, carefully created with his own cuts and transitions, is preserved at the New York Public Library. The dog-eared book had notes next to the paragraphs: tones were described as ‘Surprise’, ‘Weird’, ‘Anger’ and more. Dickens was a diligent worker, practicing his performances so thoroughly that he often could recite page after page without reading from the prompter. After two hundred practice readings, he knew most of his work by heart, though he would sometimes slip up and have to quickly search for where he’d left off.

Book readings have since become a regular occurrence, but none has reached the superstar status that Dickens managed. There are no crowds thronging for a space to sit or even stand in the aisles when a contemporary author reads out, the occasional Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac notwithstanding. Today, like book-signings, it’s more of a marketing ploy. Not many authors enjoy reading out their prose, and as Sean Connery claimed in ‘Finding Forrester’, some do it just to get laid.

Another question comes begging: should prose be read out? Poetry, we know, is a medium of expression created for recitation. But what of prose? Does it have the same impact, or does it bore the audience because of the sheer length and distributed impact of the expression? The impact of the prose is best felt in reading, when the reader is involved in the process of delivery, turning page after page, moving from word to word. Passive listening hardly provides such pain or pleasure. Dickens’ way, however, was one theatrical in nature – animate word after word, change the tone to retain interest and enthral the audience. Each reading of the same novel had a different set of cuts being performed. That he did roughly 470 readings is in itself a proof of his popularity.

An Indian author, Amit Chaudhury, will soon be walking the path that Dickens treads so successfully. Only, he’s jazzing things up: readings of the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize winners poetry and prose will be accompanied by jazz, blues and Hindustani Classical music. The author of A Strange and Sublime Address, Freedom Song and Afternoon Raag, Chaudhury is a classical singer himself. He says and I quote: “As the years go by, more of the performer in me is coming to the forefront”; after all, there’s no business like show business.

Release

The city looms large and monstrous before me. With hundreds and thousands of windows for eyes, buildings stretch upwards towards the clouds in the sky, grasping unsuccessfully for a place among the stars. Frustrated, they vent their anger on people that walk the streets and those that reside within them, denying them sunlight and wind, and occasionally water in their taps. The 12-storied one before me, with anger in its bricks, eyed me suspiciously. I'd been thinking of killing past lovers, of plunging knives into their backs and twisting them around, boring into bone. Afraid that the building might have read my murderous thoughts, letter by letter, I shifted uncomfortably on the ledge, from side to side, from foot to foot, turning my eye upwards to search for eagles and other high achievers. It didn't work.

Angered by my insolence, the red-bricked building lets out a loud yell that reminds me of a fire alarm. Its eyes are ablaze, flickering with fury, and smoke is coming out of its ears: something that reminds me of my childhood when I used to watch the same in cartoons on television. I quite liked those, and on remembering how cats chased mice, I began feeling as if I, myself, was being chased. Down below, someone with a really long nose was pointing an even longer finger in my direction. What was this? Someone with obviously nothing better to do runs into the building on whose rooftop I stand and I can almost sense his footsteps as he pounds the steps, jumping two at a time, on his way up. The building in front of me is now furious and swaying from side to side. Just as the door to the rooftop behind me opens, the building leans over and with one of its red bricks, nudges me over the edge to the cold and icy footpath below.

The city looks at me strangely today. Maybe this has something to do with what I was thinking about, and maybe that I was thinking of sharp objects on soft skin was obvious from my face. I hate it when that happens, when I am not able to hide my thoughts behind a rigid and plastic exterior. Maybe I should try plastic surgery and get myself an expressionless mask to hide behind. The drainpipe next to the ledge is cold because it's cold and expressionless. Below, there are people walking the streets like they have somewhere to go, and crossing after crossing is opening up and swallowing them into its mechanics. And they keep walking into it, chit-chatting as they step over into the maze of pipes, cables and sewers. There is someone in the room in the red-bricked building across. It's not a room, no. It's a bathroom and she is bathing. Nice, nice body, she has: a figure 8 and she is soaping herself all over, all along the lines that form the 8. There's probably some music playing somewhere, because she is bobbing her head back and forth, soapy golden locks unlocking as they lunge back and forth. The bathtub is filling up with the water from the shower, and spilling on to the floor, and onto the ledge that I stand upon. I want a better view, so I shift a little to the left, but there's soapy water on the ledge, and I slip and fall over, into the waiting mouth full of pipeworks below.

This city doesn't seem to like me anymore. Maybe it has read my murderous thoughts; maybe it plans to push me over the edge. A crowd has gathered below, and they seem to be chanting lyrics from U2's latest album. Maybe they're expecting the band to be on the rooftop with me. I look behind and there's Bono with his sunglasses on, but he swishes his index finger about furiously. But just for the crowd, to not disappoint them, I decide to sing a song. . I don't like disappointing people. One of my many flaws. Placing my hands on my chest and I'm bellow like an opera singer in heat:

I was born a man free
Restrained by my own binds
Until you chose to release me
And came together two hearts and minds.

And now that you're gone
Leaving me on an edge
All because of you
I'm thinking of jumping off this ledge

All because of you
All because of you

As I begin the chorus, they dissipate. Across, on the flagpole protruding from the red brick building, sits a flagpole sitter who was until now debating anarchy and democracy. My singing drowned out his concept of I and individuality, and he jumped off, backed by popular vote, onto the cold and icy footpath. He just misses a couple walking hand in hand. It is Valentine's Day and there's a cupid on the card that the girl is holding: a cupid that reads my vengeful thoughts and decides to do something about it. He takes aim and an arrow pierces across the card, tearing their love into two, straight for my heart. I ask the arrow, as it nears me, to stop and listen for a bit. I don't have the time for love, anymore, I tell it. Even if I do, I don't have the time for heartbreak, I plead. The arrowhead blinks, and the feathers in its tail curl up to scratch its smooth chin. There's always time for love, reasons the arrow, and not giving a damn for my views on the subject, plunges through my ribs, into my heart. With the impact, I topple over, falling backwards, staring open mouthed at the wonderful rosy sky.

The city goes about its business in a businesslike manner. People walk the streets, whether in love or in vain. Tall Roarkian structures stand with characteristic aloofness as I contemplate jumping off to put an end to all my suffering. But murder isn't easy. Below, armies of office goers march with evenly paced steps and stony expressions on their faces. I take a deep breath, and inhale the sweet smoke as it travels across my tongue, down my throat and into my lungs. My lips scald with the heat of burning paper and I pull the bud away Bah, who gives a fuck?, I mutter, and turn around, stepping off the ledge, throwing what's left of my joint onto the ice covered rooftop.


Honest to God, Mum. I wasn't on anything while writing this! - Nikhil Pahwa

Booked?

No Indian writers, or even writers of Indian Origin, have been short-listed for the first ever Man Booker International Award. The list includes Nobel laureates G.G. Marquez, Gunther Grass, Naguib Mahfouz, Margaret Atwood, writers Philip Roth, Doris Lessing, Milan Kundera, Kenzaburo Oe, among others. Absent are Salman Rushdie, V.S. Naipaul, the much celebrated Vikram Seth, and of course, Amitav Ghosh.

One is reminded of 2001, when Amitav Ghosh refused the Commonwealth's Best Book Award for his novel, The Glass Palace. This mirrored a trend prevalent in India, where several artists and sportspersons have refused national awards, making more news than they would have had they accepted the award quietly. Ghosh's reason, however, wasn't of the 'I should have been awarded sooner' type. Politely, but pointedly, Ghosh refused the award, questioning the relevance of "Commonwealth Literature". For the uninitiated, the Commonwealth of Nations is an association comprising of the United Kingdom and many former British colonies that are now sovereign states with a common allegiance to the British Crown. The name itself reeks of colonialism and the 'Raj'.

One wonders whether Ghosh would have, in the same spirit, refused the Booker prize which, unlike the Man Booker International Award, is also awarded only to a novel written by a citizen of the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland. In the past the Booker has been won by Rushdie, Naipaul, and more recently, by Arundhati Roy for The God of Small Things. Rohinton Mistry and Vikram Seth, both have won the Commonwealth's Best Book Award in the past.

One also wonders why the Republic of India is a part of the Commonwealth, many lives having been lost in the fight for independence. Especially since the British monarch is Head of the Commonwealth of Nations, and the membership of the Commonwealth is purely voluntary. It's been 55 years since independence, and should India still wear a tag as colonial as 'Commonwealth'? We think not.

The Man Booker International Award recognises the authors' entire body of work, a lifetime achievement award of sorts. So what does that say about Indian Authors? Just that we'll have to wait till next year, when the jury probably changes. And maybe, just maybe, if an Indian wins, he might resist the temptation of saying 'I should have been awarded sooner'.

- Nikhil Pahwa

'So far as I can determine, The Glass Palace is eligible for the Commonwealth Prize partly because it was written in English and partly because I happen to belong to a region that was once conquered and ruled by Imperial Britain. Of the many reasons why a book's merits may be recognized these seem to me to be the least persuasive. That the past engenders the present is of course undeniable; it is equally undeniable that the reasons why I write in English are ultimately rooted in my country's history. Yet, the ways in which we remember the past are not determined solely by the brute facts of time: they are also open to choice, reflection and judgment. The issue of how the past is to be remembered lies at the heart of The Glass Palace and I feel that I would be betraying the spirit of my book if I were to allow it to be incorporated within that particular memorialization of Empire that passes under the rubric of "the Commonwealth". I therefore ask that I be permitted to withdraw The Glass Palace from your competition.'
- excerpted from Amitav Ghosh's Letter to the Administrators of the Commonwealth Prize, March 18th, 2001.

Retribution

The bar was crowded that evening. It was cold outside and the place was just warming up to the expectations of the evening: Already, the air was a potpourri of perfumes and alcohols. And sweat, as bodies on the dance floor gyrated and occasionally collided, somewhat in tune with the variations in the sound that filled every inch of the space. The bar was crowded with people, words, ideas, hopes and opportunities, and desires sifted through masses.

A strange chill entered half open doors of the bar and made its way under chairs, over tables, up walls and around bodies, seeking its target. Silvery steel tables went cold and chairs contemplated frost. Those it touched, those who could feel, got the jitters: their muscles went taut for a moment and shivers fled up their spine. A pretty young thing in a velvety, black dress jumped up and spilled some burgundy just where skin ended and dress began. The dress wasn't expensive, but it was velvet and she liked black. Refusing enthusiastic offers of help, she excused herself and made her way across the blinking floor, her shapely silhouette carefully avoiding traps, and ignoring loaded glances, whether furtive or steady.

As the end of the long stretch that was the bar neared, she got the strange feeling that she was being watched. Sure, she had felt this way often, but this was different: it gave her the creeps. Bravely, and urged on by the sheer habit of seeming aloof, she turned the corner towards the restroom and straight into Damon Shores.

Damon Shores. He had been feeling a little strange since the sun went down. It was as if he was hearing things, hearing drums beating softly to strange tunes that he couldn't recognise. He heard them while he spoke, heard them while he talked. He heard them even with the music on. He felt like killing Jones. If nothing else, that would at least get one trouble off his mind. Grip his neck with both hands and choke him to death.

Having sold his last car for the day, Damon had walked around the canary yellow Cadillac he had bought for a steal that morning. Damned Jones missed the fender he thought, as he noticed horizontal red lines across the length of the fender. Damon's blood boiled and his face reddened as he noticed that the Volvo's on either side of the Cadillac too had red on their fenders: three cars with three horizontal lines on three fenders. He yelled out to Jones who scurried across the used car lot, heart in mouth. Jones would pay for this. Just as his arm drew back, in preparation of a slap to the back of Jones' head, Damon thought he noticed something move on the other side of the Volvo. Jones in tow, he moved across the back of the Cadillac and stepped away slightly from the steel gray Volvo. Next to the back door of the Volvo squatted a strange, thin and dark creature in tattered clothes and a patchy green cloth around its forehead. But this was New Orleans and this was not an unfamiliar sight. Nonetheless, Damon's arteries were already under functioning under severe pressure, and he erupted.

"Yousonuvabitch FREAKS," went the war cry as Damon let loose a flurry of kicks and blows. Doc Robbins had told him that exercise would do him good, and Damon latched on to the opportunity with both hands and legs. He effortlessly picked up the bruised figure and threw him out the car-lot, while others such creatures standing across the street watched quietly.

"That should teach you freaks," Damon shouted out to them, waving a finger threateningly. After Jones was told that he was an incompetent dimwit, and put to work, Damon strode back to his office, his arteries still under stress. A couple of hours later, the sun went down and the drums started. They started softly, strange eccentric rhythms from god-knows-where, that sucked him in and dragged him down to the verge of madness. On and on and on. Damon needed a drink. Something, anything, to drown those damn beats.

In the bar, things began to get worse. Two glasses of cheap whiskey down and several stolen glances at pretty young scantily clad things later, things still hadn't changed. Must be that damned techno music, he decided.

Damon put his glass down and told Bob to hold his drinks for a bit, while he went for a piss. In the john, empty, he filled his palms with water and splashed his face. Another palmful was pushed across his scalp, and yet another cooled his reddening ears. But those damn beats didn't stop. Damon dried his face and hair, exhaustion suddenly gripping him, and decided to go home. He walked out the john and turned the corner, straight into one of those pretty young things, this one in a rather revealing black dress. Maybe this isn't such a bad evening after all, he thought. Unfortunately, a suave 'Hello, there' for an apology met with 'Fuck off creep' as a response. Damon, used to such pleasantries, shook his head, shrugged it off and walked back to the bar, forgetting that he should be heading home.

Up on the ceiling, something searching for Damon found him, and dove straight into the drink that Bob had just poured. It swam about in circles while Damon looked across the room, at the dance floor, until it became one with the liquid. Snake-like liquid heads jumped up from the deep gold surface of the whiskey and took bites of thin air as Damon slowly brought the glass to his lips. The whiskey burnt across his tongue, down his throat, through his stomach and entered his blood stream. Damon, shaken instantly from his ogling, grabbed his burning tonsils, doubled up and fell off the barstool.

A few miles away, in a candle-lit basement of an abandoned building, on a table sat a dark woman, dressed in white with bracelets on her wrists and necklaces with amulets around her neck. In front of her was a young green tree python, and around the table figures clad in loose fitting clothes chanted and danced to beats of drums.


"Death threats shall not be entertained" - Nikhil

The Street

There were whispers on the street that evening: whispers that floated from lips on faces that betrayed a great deal of need. Whispers of need; whispers that, as the evening progressed, would become cries of anguish and hunger and later pain. Some would be silenced by relief, if they could afford it. Others would remain till sleep or death silenced them. There were whispers on the street that evening, but no one was there to hear them.

*

Bunty was excited. A nervous energy raced through his veins, energising every muscle and tissue; so much so, that he found it hard to sit still. Trumpet in hand, he paced back and forth while his new colleagues sat around the fire and downed a glass of desi before the show. This was Bunty's first day with the band and he was loving it. It was his return to showbiz, albeit small, but it still was a small step in the old direction. He had almost had enough of the respectable job that he had been coerced into by his father, and after four years off the stage, he was ready to start building contacts and performing again. It was true that he could no longer dance as he used to, and that the craze for stage shows had died down in the interim, but Bunty loved performing and he hoped Raj Singh would give him a chance. For now, Bunty had to be content with blowing the trumpet at Shirpa Nagar, Janakpuri, a small village near the border that Delhi shares with Haryana.

Bunty was playing Bholu's trumpet at the akhara situated on the banks of the river Yamuna, near his home. Bholu had been playing with the Panchhi Band since the Memsahib Artists troupe disbanded. Bunty was Memsahib's star performer, earning up to Rs.6000 a month, before his father decided that he should be doing something respectable, instead of dancing on stage in the evenings. Bunty's uncle was a head clerk at Tis Hazari courts, and on his reference, Bunty got a job with advocate Khera. Working from 9:30 in the morning to 5:00 in the evening was new to Bunty, but he got used to it. He prepared and typed legal documents for advocate Khera's signature, and delivered notices. He made new friends and learnt new tricks, but he still missed show business. He missed the cheers and the adulation. He missed the achievement of perfection as step after step was executed as planned. And so, after work, he would sit at the akhara and play the trumpet or drums while Bholu and his friends got ready.

"You have some dum in those lungs, beta," said the towering figure of Raj Singh, as Bunty's lungs powered a near perfect rendition of raja ki ayegi barat rangeeli hogi raat magan main nachungi . Raj Singh was huge. Bunty, a mere 5'8" craned his neck to look the six-footer in the eye and thank him. And Raj Singh was full of gold- he had a sparkling large gold necklace around his neck and gold earring in his pierced ears. Three fingers on his large hands were encircled by a thick and broad twist of gold. If Raj Singh ever lost a tooth, he would probably replace it with a gold one. But he didn't look like a man who would lose a tooth in a fight.

Raj Singh was very much a Sanhsi, and though Bunty knew they were scum, they gave good money. Sanhsi's almost always had a well kempt handlebar mustache, and were usually tall and always powerful. Even if one was as short as Bunty, he could probably take him out with one arm tied behind his back- such was the power in their arms, and the skill of their hands. They were hardened by life and their society was governed by their own laws. Drugs, Prostitution, money laundering, alcoholism, gambling were preferred professions. Strolling down Paharganj, in central Delhi, Bunty had often seen Sanhsi's selling packets and syringes to unkempt shivering foreigners. Sanhsi's, Bunty had heard, valued each other on the basis of the number of cases filed against their name. A boy with no police case in his name was almost an outcaste, a kayar. Weddings were decided on basis of income, profession and police cases. But Sanhsi's meant good money, and Bunty was bored with his job. So when Raj Singh offered him Rs. 4000 a month for a coupe of hours of work every evening, Bunty happily acquiesced.

*

There were no Sanhsi's on the streets that evening. It was cold and whatever desi was available on the streets, was exhausted. And anyway, desi could never ease his pain. The throbbing in his head, the whistle in his ears and the sharpness of the streetlights- it was all just too intense, and he couldn't take it anymore. It was cold and he felt colder, as if his heart had stopped pumping and his blood had become as cold as the foggy night about to descend on these unforgiving streets. He clutched on to his tattered quilt, and hobbled to where he had taken his first fix. Behind him, exhausted cries of anguish flooded the streets.

*

Bunty sat on the floor in Raj Singh's brightly painted two-roomed shack with his new colleagues. They sat in a circle and at the center was a pile of fifty and hundred rupee notes amounting to almost Rs.20000 to be shared among the 12 them. And this was just tips; at the end of the month, Bunty would be getting his Rs.4000 as well. As per the custom, as a new member, Bunty would be getting two of the highest denomination notes. Forget show business, forget a respectable job, thought Bunty, as he got up to pull out a bottle of expensive scotch whiskey from Raj Singh's refrigerator in the other room. I could do this for ever.

Bunty's day at work had been satisfactory. The Sanhsi's were a spirited lot and had danced the entire three kilometer distance that the wedding procession traversed through dilapidated and unpainted shack-like houses. So much money and such simple means of living, thought Bunty. It was as if the entire village had attended. There were at least a thousand in the procession, and many more when they reached the girls house. And they danced, danced to his tune. He hadn't skipped a beat, except while playing Meri pyaari behenia banegi dulhania, when a 9 year old boy with gold on his fingers danced up to him and stuffed a hundred rupee note in his pocket. That's more than I earn in a day with advocate Khera!.

Bunty opened the refrigerator. A refrigerator in this small little house seemed out of place, but so did a color television. There was only alcohol in the fridge- bottles of beer, whisky and rum. And a couple of bottles of desi. Only alcohol, he thought, as he pulled out a bottle of scotch, he saw a pile of polyethene packets kept behind the whiskey. Some packets were brown, others white. And there were some syringes. Bunty picked up a packet and took a short sniff. There was no smell. The thought of stealing this an selling it in Paharganj did cross his mind, but sensibly, he decided not to. One wouldn't want to risk stealing from a Sanhsi. The consequences could be deadly, literally. He was just about to place it back when he felt a shooting pain in his back. Again and again, as a crude knife, a Rampuri went in and out of his back at a speed only a desperate madman could achieve. As Bunty fell on the floor, the half dead man tied his Rampuri to his tattered quilt, grabbed all the packets from the fridge that he could hold on to with both hands, and ran.

There were fewer cries of anguish on the streets, the next day, as the Sanhsi's got back to work again.

*

The Sanhsi's are a community, it is believed, originally from Rajasthan, India. Newspaper reports and personal accounts suggest that they still sell narcotics in the sleaze infested Paharganj areas, among others, in Delhi. They make a lot of money, but still live within their means in small shack-like houses. They are a benevolent lot, but quick to anger, and quick to kill. In Hindi, the word 'Sanhsi' literally means brave. Bands, like stage shows, have seen a steady decline in business. Stage shows are more or less extinct. Only Ramlila's, during the festive season between Dussehra and Diwali see any kind of business. An Akhara is a traditional gym in India, where men learn how to wrestle. A Rampuri is a thick steel knife, commonly available in India for as little as Rs.40 (less than a dollar). Desi is short for Desi Daaru, or locally brewed contraband liquor. The word 'Kayar' means coward.


Nikhil Pahwa knows no sanhsis.

The Future

Standing by the window, I see
the urgency in your eyes
as you pick up little
pieces of plastic
and try to put them together
unsuccessfully

Plastic crayons
on the red carpet
ache for the touch of paper
and your interest
eyeing you
beseechingly


Up in the sky,
amoral saleable vultures ply
seeking agony, rapture, fame and lies
waiting, baiting
unsuspecting victims
hungrily

Out in the street
damp yellow warnings from the sky
threaten a global downpour
plagued not
little puppets walk, talk, bicker; blinded
democratically


Then I see jubilation
as building blocks combine
To form dimples on your cheeks
I wonder, not aloud
"What's in store for you?"

Insane

Soft, long fingers of a gentle breeze caress my hair; its moist lips plant teasing kisses across my face. And I feel very high.

Standing atop a thirteen story high building, I size up an arrowhead of pigeons fast approaching me, contemplating a Keanu-Reeves-look-ma-I-can-fly jump straight into them. But I wouldn't make a difference, would I, if I did that? If I bent my knees and pushed myself off the ledge, straight at them, it wouldn't affect anyone, would it?

For just a brief but seemingly inordinately long moment, some primordial instinct would make me spread my arms and flap them around before I plunge straight down and stain a sidewalk for a couple of hours or so, barely missing a lower-middle class matric-pass government office clerk carrying a white plastic bag with his lunch in it. He would turn around and stare at my smashed remains for a moment.

Maybe he would walk away, maybe he would be the first of a crowd of people who wonder what happened and why I had jumped. They would formulate theories in their empty little heads and hypothesise among each other, the reasons for why I jumped. They would have something to talk about when they meet a friend in the bus, or with people at work. But their lives would not change, and my flight to freedom would only be my escape.

But their lives would not change, and my flight to freedom would only be my escape.

I look up and see this azure blue sky as a ocean of opportunities, an ethereal level of consciousness with ideas swimming about frantically like little fish in the sea, waiting for a tempting thought with implementation as bait to dangle tantalisingly and hook them and reel them in. Ideas of all shapes and sizes: some are small, probably affecting a small minority of living beings with meaningless implications of redemption or happiness. Others I see as large, probably having the potential to transform the world as I see it. It can be huge. I know it is. And there is this one large crazy white idea that I have seen swimming among all these small little gray opportunities. And I know that it is for real because it is distinct. I have seen it all these years, and have meditated unsuccessfully with unflagging resolve to reach out and trap it. Perhaps I want it too badly.

I have a desire, a lifelong want, an unsatisfied need to change this world- to impact every living being that exists. My efforts, sadly, have yielded no result. I have failed. Even now, when I look down, I see cages around people as they go about their mundane lives with planned daily routines. Cages that don't allow these people to think beyond their limitations, cages that prevent them from reaching out and plucking ideas from that orchard of opportunities; doubts and inertia that bind their thoughts. And all I wanted was to destroy these cages- to grab that big idea with both hands and expand the collective consciousness of all alive and dead, to zap their cages and their binds, and free their minds. I have tried, and I have failed. And nobody knows.

Their life has not changed, and my flight to freedom is only my escape.

This ledge that I stand on has grown on me. My bare feet rest comfortably on it, but all things, good or bad, must come to an end. And so, I must take my leave of you and all others who inhabit this realm of consciousness to make my way back home, my goal remaining unattained.

My goal. When I talk to people about it, they look at me strangely, and smile. They agree with me; they nod their heads, look at each other as if they understand what I am saying. Some say that they admire what I am trying to do, before bursting into laughter. That something still plagues my mind: a doubt still persists. So before I take leave of you, I have just one question.

Quirks

Summer had ended, I realised, as I looked out of the smudged kitchen window. Up, above the monotonously brown stretch of eight storied buildings, clouds now carpeted the sky. As far as we could see, from the buildings to the rocky hills on either side, not a single ray of light came through clouds unfiltered. The city was fast becoming dull.

Anuj grinned as he looked out the window. Spatula in hand, he stirred the poha gleefully. "It's going to rain," he said. Standing by the doorway, I told him to hurry the hell up. I was hungry.

Sitting on the couch, Nidhi was flipping through some fashion magazine, looking for a design that she could borrow for her next assignment. "Fashion is all about re-creation," she had once declared.

Anuj came bouncing in with a bowl of poha and three spoons. Nidhi got up and walked towards the kitchen. Anuj deftly stepped aside to let her through. Swinging her bulging hips from side to side, it was a wonder that she didn't hit the side of the doorway on either side. Tall and lanky, Anuj placed the bowl on the table in front of me and sat down on the floor, crosslegged.

"C'mon, man. Lets go someplace. Let's go to FC Road. We'll play Battleship at the Barista. Don't worry, this time I'll play easy."

I grinned. "Why do you want to go to FC again? We go there everyday. Look at the weather outside…l take you guys to a new place today."

"Where to, Gaurav?" Nidhi stood by the refrigerator, glass of juice in hand.

"That's going to be a surprise. You just tell me whether you're coming with us or not."

Nidhi looked at Anuj and he at her. She smiled.

"Yeah. I'll go. Now you tell me- where?"

"There", I said, pointing out the window in the living room, at one of the hillocks in front of us. Tekadi, they called it. The three hillocks converged and from far, it seemed to be one single hill that surrounded the wall of buildings. It was our local Cherrapunji. If clouds were to come, riding the winds, and burst into rainfall over a part of Pune - this would be it. Little droplets would strike the buildings and the roads, the lawns and the hills. With rain, the gardens and trees would seem greener and fresher, the hills - once grey and brown with pebbles and stones - would sprout shrubs and grass, and from a distance, it would seem as if covered with moss. The roads - once a single plain stretch with an odd depression and three speed breakers - would be laden with potholes. For a few days, everyone would smile.

Nidhi came and sat down next to us, on the floor, to eat. After the snack Anuj and I listened to music as Nidhi prepared tea. We filled the thermos with boiling hot tea, which I kept along with cups, in the transparent little bag that I carried whenever I came to Nidhi's flat. I emptied out the books so they wouldn't spoil, in case the thermos leaked.

We walked down the steps, Anuj leading the way out the gate, and into the street. Anuj kept a little ahead of me, leaving Nidhi behind. Consequently, I slowed down so all three of us were almost walking alongside each other. A hundred yards after the college, we turned left. Up ahead, across the street from an abandoned incomplete building, was the way up the hill.

We braced ourselves for the climb up. Since I was familiar with the route up the hill, I thought it was best if I led the way. I climbed slowly, waiting for Nidhi to catch up. A chronic smoker she was out of shape and had to stop often to catch her breath. Anuj, a tall and lanky sailor, was quite the opposite. In spite of three packs a day, he was in great shape and raced up the hill, ahead of us. But for my constantly calling out to him, he would have been on top of the hill before Nidhi and I were halfway up. Still, we reached the top in nine and a half minutes, as opposed to my usual of around six and a quarter.

"Where is it, Gaurav? How much farther?" Nidhi was out of breath. We stood there, on top of the hill, looking down at the buildings below, and at the skies above.

From where we stood, we could see our apartments. A cool breeze sent a shiver up my spine. It was going to rain today. Above us, clouds playfully swirled. Wind blew from one direction, then another. Summer had, thankfully, ended.

"Let's move, people"

"Where are you taking us, Rana?"

"You'll see."

I took them along a winding path that led through the sparse tree cover on this part of the hill. Soon enough, we reached the road that led to the research institute atop the hill. We crossed over the road, and walked into the forest on the other side.

"Gaurav, is this place safe? I don't see any people on this road."

"Yeah, Nidhi. Don't worry. I know this place. I used to come here for walks with Tina, remember?"

"Oh! This place? She never told me where it was."

"Yeah. She never did tell me much about where all she went either"

We walked downhill now- down thin, pebbled paths that twisted through trees on either side. Under the tree cover, it was humid. I was sweating already, and was feeling rather suffocated. Anuj seemed energised by the surroundings. He would rush ahead, out of sight, and then wait for us to catch up with him every time he came across a clearing.

Soon, we reached a clearing, and a whiff of refreshingly cool air greeted us. I took them to the clearing that I had come across several times before, had gone to with Tina on a couple of occasions. Before us, lay a stretch of flat and almost clean rock. Cool breeze; cloud covered skies and a bed of rock to lie on. They lit their cigarettes, and we lay back, staring at the grey-white sky above us.

*

Later that night, we were to meet a few friends for a small get-together. Anuj had an apartment a few kilometres from FC Road, and we were all planning on getting drunk. Shawn and Ronak were to meet us at the Barista on FC Road. Puneet, a friend of mine, was coming along with us to Barista, so it was decided that Anuj and I would go on his bike, while Puneet and Nidhi would go by auto-rickshaw.

We left together, Puneet and Nidhi in an auto, and Anuj and I by bike, but Anuj soon left them behind. Going at a speed of 70kmph on a crowded main road was scary. He was passing bikes, cars, cycles and buses left, right and center. I held on tightly to the bike as he took it up on a footpath to bypass the still traffic at the traffic signal, and then sped across.

"Are you mad?" I yelled, the wind hitting my face hard.

"What?"

"I said are you mad? You just ran a red light."

"I didn't get caught, did I?"

"No, but still!"

"You just relax, dude. I know how to handle this bike."

That he certainly did. We reached FC Road in all of 8 minutes, a distance that normally takes at least 20 minutes to cover.

Shawn and Ronak were already there. We greeted each other with the usual hugs and handshakes, and waited for Puneet and Nidhi to arrive. Shawn, a friend of mine from college, was 5"7', but stockier than I was. Ronak and Shawn had been going steady for two years now, and I had met Nidhi through Ronak: they were cousins. We quickly went inside Barista, and took up our favourite table in the corner. Nidhi and Puneet arrived after Anuj and I were halfway through our first game of Battleship. She wouldn't believe that we had reached almost 15 minutes before she and Puneet did.

"Sit behind Anuj when you leave for his place." I suggested.

We sat and chatted in Barista for over an hour. Anuj and I played Battleship, and I lost 4-0. As we got up to leave, I suggested that we play Scrabble next time.

"I don't know scrabble, yaar. But, yeah, the next time we play Battleship, I'll go a little easy on you - I'll play with my left hand."

*

Shawn and I left on his bike to pick up the booze. Anuj and Nidhi were to lead Puneet and Ronak, who were going by auto-rickshaw, to Anuj's flat. It was just four kilometres, but since they would be going through lanes in a congested colony, I told Anuj to drive slowly. It was not easy finding your way if you got lost in these colonies with narrow roads and poor planning. Both Puneet and Nidhi were from Bombay and would definitely not be able to find their way to Anuj's place.

Shawn and I had just reached the liquor shop when Ronak called on Shawn's phone. They were lost, and didn't have Anuj's number. Seeing that I was pissed with Anuj for being so irresponsible and not doing as I had told him to do, Shawn took his number from me and called him up. It seemed that Anuj thought that they were right behind him, all the way, and that the auto-rickshaw driver might have taken a wrong turn.

"They're near a Siddharth General Stores" Shawn told him.

When we reached Anuj's apartment, they were all there. Anuj had found them a couple of blocks away, and led them back to his place.

*

It must have been around 2 AM when Nidhi asked for some vodka.

"We're all out of vodka," I told her. "Will rum do?"

"Is it Bacardi?"

"Old Monk. It's red rum. Tastier than Bacardi, in my opinion."

"I don't like red rum. You've got nothing else?"

"Nope. I don't think there's any liquor shop that is open at this time."

"Okay, then pour me some rum and coke, please."

Before I could get up to fill her glass, Anuj stopped me.

"C'mon Rana. I know a place where we can get vodka," said Anuj, the dependable.

*

As we left his place, his bike noisily spewing smoke behind us, I looked up to the sky, searching for the moon. A cool breeze kissed my face.

"It's raining somewhere right now, Anuj."

"How do you know?"

"The cool breeze. Whenever there's this cool a breeze blowing, it's raining somewhere."

"Okay," he said, as he sped along at 80 kilometres an hour, passing drunken men and lone cars on the way.

Ahead of us, we saw a blanket of rain pouring down, striking the street with immense force. Before I could tell him to do so, Anuj slowed down to 30 kmph. It was like driving into a waterfall, and as the cool droplets hit my face, I felt the effect of alcohol wearing off. Anuj drove slowly, the rest of the way, letting the odd car and bike pass him by.

Five minutes later, we got off the parked bike and ran towards the side of a small restaurant called "Chandni Bar".

"You get booze here till 3AM. The main restaurant shuts down, but the side entrance remains open for people like us" Anuj hollered. But the side entrance too seemed shut, and we stood outside, under the tree, shivering and waiting for the rain to stop.

"Like Nidhi, you mean. Tell me something - she could have made do with the rum, so why did you have to come out at this time?"

"You know, I didn't want to disappoint her. She wanted vodka, and I knew a place. When we're out enjoying ourselves, one shouldn't leave a friend disappointed. We're enjoying what we're drinking, and so should she."

"Hmm... I agree with you there. But...but tell me something - why do you drive so fast? Why do you pull off all those unnecessary stunts? It's risky, taking the bike up on a footpath and then crossing a red light."

Anuj smiled. I guessed he'd been asked this before.

"I don't like people ahead of me. It's always been like this, with me. If you're walking in front of me, I will need to walk faster and overtake you. If you're driving ahead of me, I will have to overtake you. I take everything as a race, and I need to win every race."

"So why did you let people pass you by earlier."

"It was raining, and I don't take any risks in the rain. I may be faster, and want to win, but I'm not stupid". He grinned, and said "C'mon, lets go. It's probably going to rain all night."

*

When we returned, Nidhi was asleep.

Amma

Arre Shiv. What is this? Your there is too much chilli in this daal. It is too thick. Go, add some water and a little curd, and then bring it. Yesterday, you didn't put enough. Today you have put too much. Can't you do anything right?"

Amma sat on a cane chair in her room, reclining on a cushion designed specifically to support her 84-year-old back. Her back had been giving her trouble for over six years now, ever since she had slipped in the bathroom. Oh, what a terrible fall that had been, and how bravely she had gotten through it all!

The floor had been wet and Amma had slipped as she strode towards the washbasin. As she hit the ground, she thought she heard the sound similar to that of a twig snapping. Then everything went black for a few seconds. The muscles on the periphery of her stout frame hurt. Her lower back hurt; her upper back hurt. Amma was not used to lying on wet floors, and the cold wetness of the floor seeping through the back of her blouse and petticoat gave her goose pimples. Amma called for help.

She had lain there, on the floor, for a full three minutes before anyone had heard her brave and loud cries for help. Ramu, who had been the cook then, had knocked on the door, but Amma, with only a petticoat and a blouse on, sprawled on her back, had refused to let the help help her. Though heavy, Amma was brave. With one hand on the toilet bowl, Amma had first pulled herself onto her knees, stifling several cries of pain. She had slowly stood up, supporting her paining back with her left hand, and then draped herself in the Japanese nightgown that her son, Shekhar had got for her from Singapore. The doctors later told Amma that she shouldn't have taken this risk, and but x-ray's revealed no damage to her spine. Amma smiled. As always, she had done the right thing.

Still, she remained in pain for the next week and Arindam, her grandson, sat with her for two hours every evening to keep her company. They even had dinner together, before he left for work. Ramu, however, lasted only for two more months.

*

Amma loved Maa ki daal, a preparation of pulses that she had mastered over the years. While her husband, a deputy collector in the Rajasthan government, was alive, guests used to drop in for lunch or dinner everyday. Guests would comprise of several prominent businessmen and jewellers and they would often bring gifts for Amma. Her husband loved the daal and had it every day. Inspite of other dishes being prepared, Maa ki daal just had to be on Rajsingh sahib's dining table. And without fail, Rajsingh sahib, her husband, would praise "Gayatri's daal". Even guests were never short of praise, and it gladdened Amma's heart when her preparation was appreciated. And so, she always took special care when guiding the cook about the quantity of Yellow Gram, Black Lentil, Rajma, curd and a pinch of chilli powder that went into the preparation. "Don't cook it for too long, lest it lose colour," Amma would tell the cook of the season.

Yes, Amma loved Maa ki daal. She also liked its taste.

But things had changed. Amma now resided with her son, Shekhar, and grandson, Arindam. Shekhar worked as a marketing manager in a large bank. He was travelling often, all over India. Often, he went outside India, usually to Indonesia and Bangkok, and brought back gifts for her and her son. Arindam, 26, was working in a big multi national corporation. He was in charge of a team of trained professionals handling technical support for several companies around the world. He was in important man in an important position. Amma was in charge of the home; Shekhar had separated from his wife, Saloni, a few years ago. Amma had never liked Saloni; she was never a good cook, and what sort of a mother goes to work in an office full of men, when she has a husband and a child to tend to?

Arindam used to visit his mother once every week, on Sundays. Amma had heard, from her friends, that Saloni had remarried, but she never asked Shekhar or Arindam about Saloni. Amma had no interest in that woman. She had tried to separate her grandson from his father. No, Saloni was of no interest to Amma. Besides, neither Shekhar nor Arindam spoke to Amma about her.

*

Shiv was the third cook that year. Amma never liked the cooks - they would either finish their work too fast and then sit idle, listening to music from that infernal radio set Shekhar had placed in the kitchen, or they worked too slow and she had to keep telling them to hurry up. None of them were specialists- they were just boys who cooked for a living. Teach them driving, and because it paid more, they would leave cooking. As such, they never enjoyed what they did. It was all about the money.

Amma disapproved of this philosophy; She had told her grandson "Arindam, beta, you must do whatever you enjoy. If you don't like it, don't do it. Live is too short to be wasted on something you don't like doing. Money is secondary - you must be satisfied with your job." Arindam took her advice and joined that big multinational firm. He must have loved his work, why else would he work late at night? But these so called cooks never learnt. They just didn't understand the nuances of cooking, and neither did they seem to want to.

Amma took it upon herself to teach them how to cook, but they never stayed long enough - three months, and they would leave. One of them, Surender, had even argued with her before walking out; said that she would drive him mad if he stayed any longer. These young boys had no concept of loyalty. Shanti, Amma's neighbour, had told her that Surender took up a job as a cook in Kailash colony, for Rs.1800, an increment of Rs.300 a month.

"So it was pre-planned", Amma thought. "He just wanted more money."

Shiv had been working in Amma's house for three months now. Amma found his cooking adequate, but he still had not mastered the art of preparing Maa ki daal. But for her back, she would have been in the kitchen, guiding him. He was a quiet fellow, but slow. He wasn't too intelligent either - sometimes, he would put too much black lentil, and the pulse would become too thick. On other occasions, he would put too little curd, and the pulse would have no texture. Cooking, according to Amma, was an exact science. One needed to be accurate, like in chemistry.

So, while Shiv went back to add water to the pulse with too much chilli, Amma rested her back on the imported cushion with the 'Made in India' sticker that Arindam had noticed and thought of times gone by, when Shri Kishanchandra, the owner of Kishanchandra Jewellers had requested that a little Ma ki daal be packed so that his wife might also taste it.

"She will call you, Bhabhiji. Please be so kind as to tell her how to make it so tasty." Rajsingh sahib had beamed.

"She never did call me up," thought Amma. "Did she not like it? Perhaps..."

"Mataji?"

It was Shiv. He had brought the daal, and stood at the doorway, casserole in hand.

"Perhaps Kishanchandraji dropped the container and spilled the contents. That is why even he never mentioned it"

"Mataji?"

Amma looked up at Shiv, who had walked up her. His face was expressionless. He placed the casserole on the table in front of Amma. Amma took a spoon in one hand, and patted the roti in the plate with the other. She lifted the cover of the casserole slowly, as Shiv stood in front of her, awaiting further instructions.

"You idiot? Can't you do one thing right? Look at this daal. It's completely lost its colour. Who told you to cook it for so long? This daal is supposed to be deep brown, and now it is light. Maa ki daal does not deserve to be made by you. But what can I, an old woman do? I will have to eat what is given to me."

Not a word left Shiv's lips. He stood, battered ego and all, and with his head bowed.

"If my back was okay, I would have told you how to make it. And look, this roti is cold now. How can you expect me to have it cold, with my teeth? Go. I will have to eat this daal, but I want a fresh roti. The daal has completely lost colour."

*

Shiv started taking driving lessons with whatever little money he had saved up.

Nikhil recommends that Amma take a look at motivation theories, seek psychiatric help, or "get out more often". But, most importantly: give the poor cooks a break; they're just trying to make ends meet.

On the floor

"On the floor, NOW."

Three of them- Siddharth, Ketan and Saurabh, hit the ground immediately. Manish, tall and broad, bespectacled, was a little slow. He bent down and placed one knee on the floor and was about to put the other next to it before something hit him. He let out a surprised as a boot from behind hit made contact with his behind. He turned around and looked at the three who stood behind him. The others didn't dare.

"You're slow, fatty. What're you looking at? At your father? Face down, NOW."

The voice was deep, loud and angry. Almost bitter. Siddharth lay, face on the floor, eyes tightly shut, waiting for something to happen. The floor was cold and rough, and almost all he could perceive. For a while, no one said anything at all. He could hear nothing except someone slurping loudly; see nothing, for his eyes were tightly shut. He heard the door behind him open and then shut loudly, and then something that was brought down hard to the floor sent a shiver up his spine. He felt like telling Manish that he should have dropped to the floor immediately, that he shouldn't have looked back at the seniors.

You're an idiot Manish. Do as they say and you'll get away easily. Just shut up and do whatever they say. Don't think. Just do what they say.

But the words, held back by his fear of being heard, never escaped his lips. The wait was agonising

In front of them, six others sat on a bed, facing them. One of them was sitting with his feet on the bed, legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, his back resting on the wall behind him. He was loudly slurping tea. He was fair, short and didn't look like he was in the third year. Siddharth wished he hadn't mistaken him for a classmate the day before. He had seemed irritated; in fact, insulted. Above all else, Siddharth prayed that he'd forgotten about that incident.

"Hands on your head, NOW."

The voice came from in front of him. Siddharth's hands quickly left his sides and his fingers embraced just above his neck. His hair was sticky: the Brylcreem he used to style it had mixed with the sweat that now covered his scalp, forehead and arms. He heard someone chuckle, but was too afraid to look up.

'If you do what they say, you'll get away easily. Just shut up and do what they say. Just do what they say. Just do what they say.' Like a stuck record, the words repeated forever inside his head. He could feel Ketan's leg next to his. Ketan was trembling.

He felt something heavy being placed on his back.

A voice from in front of him calmly asked Siddharth 'What's on your back?"

"I don't know."

"What did you say?"

"I don't know"

A partly muted wail escaped Siddharth as something stuck him on the back of knee.

"Say 'I don't know Sir'"

"Yes sir. It's... it's probably a stick, Sir."

"Good! Very Good! And what is a stick used for?"

"For hitting, sir." His voice was low and gave away the fear that now plagued his mind.

"Very good. Now when will you be hit?"

"Sir?"

"When you be hit?"

Siddharth stayed quiet.

Whack!

"You tell me - when will you be hit?" The stick prodded Manish in the back.

"I... I don't know, sir."

Whack!

Saurabh, quiet till now, quickly yelped "When we don't do what we're told to do, sir."

"Oh. You're the smart one. Did I tell you to speak?"

Whack!

"Now, when the stick touches you, I want you to moan. Moan like a whore. Like you're being fucked."

The first to moan was Ketan, but his moan was cut short by a cry as he got whacked.

"Not good enough. I want a realistic moan. Like you're actually being fucked. I'll tell you what I'll do. I want all of you to moan, and the one that moans the loudest, goes free."

Bitter moans and hysterical laughter and filled the room. This time, Saurabh was the loudest.

The short senior, the one sipping tea, when the laughter died down, asked Saurabh: "You, thin one with specs. So you really want to go, haan? Can you do me a favour. A favour for a senior?"

"Yes, sir". He almost said 'Anything, sir'.

"Stay back with the others, please." The irony coated please brought the house down. The senior got up. Silence pervaded the room.

"Now moan again. Only, this time, we'll do it a little differently."

Siddharth heard a fidgeting sound before Manish let out a loud yell of pain. He thought he heard Ketan say Shit. What were they doing now?

Siddharth lay on the floor, now shivering. He feared the worst.

I shouldn't have joined this college. I'm going to get the worst. I shouldn't have embarrassed him. I shouldn't have joined engineering, shouldn't have given entrance exams.

He suddenly regretted having been born. His hands, still behind his head, clasped each other tightly as Siddharth prayed to god for reprieve.

Then, he felt the stick on his lower back, moving down his pants.

*

Aquinas in Summa Theologie believes that experiences cannot entirely be explained without recourse to a being who is ultimately responsible for them; that nothing can be the cause of itself and there is a being, a "God" who is the cause of existence, and of experiences.

When people feel helpless, they seek refuge in an imaginary being who will do the needful. If this God has the power to create a situation, then surely he must have the power to undo it, to change things and make them better. They go to churches, temples and mosques in thousands to pray. To believe that there is someone taking care of them gives them hope that things will improve, so they seek a saviour.

Fear, hope and greed drive people to this almightly, this puppetmaster, who supposedly watches over each and every one all the time. Is he, then, responsible, due to action or inaction, for all the pain and suffering as well as all the happiness and joy?

There are those who believe that god exists because one cannot prove that he does not. Ad Ignoratium.

There are those who believe that god does not exist because one cannot prove that he does. Ad Ignoratium again.

I cannot believe that god exists because I cannot prove that he does. I cannot believe that he does not exist, because I cannot prove that he doesn't.

I, sitting on the fence between the believers and non-believers, am agnostic.

The Only Freedom

Outside the peephole, Dioh was setting again. It would be dark soon. Jovah stood at the sill, his index finger slowly encircling the periphery of the circular peephole. Outside, the wind was picking up once again and a storm was on the rise. Dust, pebbles, rocks... men: nothing would be left unstirred in a couple of minutes. To remain outside would be to die, and yet some people were thinking of using this phenomenon for transportation. Jovah? No, he wasn't thinking about the wind; he was thinking about the clanging noise in his head.

"Now, what?"

"I don't know. We wait for the others."

"When will they come? They should have been here an hour ago."

"Natan. The Dioh is going down. They're probably just following the storm, just behind it. So it will take at least three and a half hours till the storm leaves this place; before the Dioh rises again. They will be here."

"And what about the gor?"

"Let it... him, sleep. He needs the rest. He has a whole new life before him."

Natan sat on a chair, his arms folded so he could rest his head on them, on the table. He was tall, taller than Jovah, but Jovah was sturdier.

"Do you think he'll be happy?"

"He'll be free"

"But, will he be happy... to be free?"

Jovah turned around and looked at Natan. His eyebrows came together and creases fromed on his forehead. He was, at once, surprised, angry and bewildered.

"Wouldn't you?"

"I suppose I wou..."

"Or would you prefer clames around your ankles, your entire life? Or would be not possible for you to go without your daily faire of whipping? Of course he'll be happy. Any man would. To be enslaved, to be bound by another's will. Could you live like that?"

"Any man would, but he's noman. These gors have lived like this for centuries. Maybe it is in their best interest to be slavs."

"So you expect it to be a part of their fucking DNA? There are no born slavs. My God, man. You're talking like the ancient Portuguese. You, of all people. Back then you would have been a slav."

"Hey, calm down, man. I'm not the fucking rovary, you are. You want to change the world. I just take you where you want to go. You want to free gors and yet you know so little about them?"

"I may not know much about gors, but I want to help them. At least I'm doing something. And as a nav who has seen the worlds, you don't feel that there are things that should be changed?"

"Sure they must. But these gors... they wouldn't know what to do. Without us... them... the factories, they wouldn't be able to live. The factories get them food. If they were freed they wouldn't have food, plana or shelter. They would die."

"They were brought here, it is chronicled. They can be taken back."

"What? And remove an entire race of twosones from their planet? That wouldn't be right."

"And this was?"

"Two wrongs!"

Jovah turned back to the peephole. The winds had picked up and Jovah could see silhouettes of boulders rolling across the jagged surface as dust tore through the air, spraying on anything in its way like a constant stream of bullets. Light from Jovah, the night star after which he had been named, struggled to penetrate this dust storm. Everything outside looked deep reddish-brown.

Transportation, Ha! Thought Jovah. He turned back to Natan.

"They need our help. They have to be given rights. The Concilarry could give them an uninhabited planet, or they could be made a part of society."

"A part of society? Do you think that the universe would walk shoulder to shoulder with a race that they stepped on?"

"Isn't it time the universe stepped off them, then?"

An eerie silence pervaded the room. Jovah looked out the peephole, searching for light, perhaps for inspiration; any sign of the fact that what he had done was right. Natan say with his head still resting on his arms, thinking of something to say.

Thud.

Jovah turned around to face the door that lead to the room inside; the room where the gor lay.

Natan smiled sardonically. "The stun has worn has probably worn off. Go tell him that he's free. Go go. You've been waiting for this all your life!"

The mock emphasis had little effect on Jovah. For a moment, he hesitated; wondering if he should leave the door locked and wait for the others.

No, he thought. Too many people might frighten the gor. This, he had to all by himself. He walked away from the sill, taking ill spaced, uneasy steps towards the door. Almost theatrically, he leant forward towards the knob from a little too far away, and turned it.

"Careful" warned Natan. "He's got a sharp thumb. And now he's probably free to use it."

*

Jovah entered the room to find the bed of grass before him, empty. The room was flooded with light, but not a soul was in sight. He walked up to the bed and gave it a little shove with his feet, his stun in right hand. He turned around and sat down on the bed, resting his back on the wall.

"Come down," he said gently, looking up at the corner of the ceiling, to the little creature that crouched at the corner just above the door, shivering. The gors feared the stun. They had been brought to up to fear it.

"Boss," the gor acknowledged a command. He nimbly walked down the wall and crouched into the corner.

Jovah looked at him, smiled and waved. A sign of affection might help ease the gors fears, thought Jovah. The gor looked puzzled. It did not understand this command.

"What is your name?"

"Coris, boss. Number 7M32413"

"A 7M, eh? How old are you, Coris? A hundred odd years?"

The gor looked at once uncertain and afraid. He eyed the stun. A long, thick finger, where the thumb should have been twitched fleetingly, but he pulled it back. Natan had said that the nail at the end of it was poisonous, and that the gors, centuries ago, had used it as an only weapon against the forces of the then CAP. Needless to say, it had been a one sided fight, and the gors surrendered meekly.

"Boss" mumbled the gor, his eyes on the floor.

"Coris, call me Jovah. That is my name."

"Yes, boss, Jovah boss."

"No, no boss... Jovah. Just Jovah. Do you know why we brought you here Coris?"

"No b... Jovah b..."

"To free you. You are free."

"Free, b... Jovah?"

"Yes. You are free. Free to do what you want."

"What I want, Jovah?"

"Yes." Jovah smiled. "What do you want to do Coris?"

"What do I want to do?"

Coris frowned, bewildered, and as he did, his upper lip touched his nose. He looked worried.

"What do you want to do, Coris? You are free."

"Free, boss?"

"You can go anywhere you like. Do anything you want. My friends will be arriving soon, and we can take send you off this planet. Where would you like to go, Coris?"

"What do I say? To... home, boss. Back."

"Home? To your planet?"

"Home, boss, to work. I have to work, boss."

Jovah stood up, shocked. His right hand left his stun and clasped his forehead.

"Go back? Are you mad?" Coris slunk deeper into his corner, his thumb-finger twitching incessantly. "Why would you want to go back? Back, to the chain and the clames and the whipping? You are free, gor. You should be happy, not scared. You should be jumping for joy, not slinking into a corner. I am not going to harm you, nobody is. You have the chance that no other gor has had for centuries. You are FREE, for God's sake."

Coris sat in the corner, with his hand at the back of his neck. As Jovah took a step towards him, he scampered up towards the opposite corner of the ceiling.

"Come down, Coris"

"Boss" said Coris, and obeyed.

"Coris. You are free to do what you like. You don't have to do what I tell you to do. You have a choice."

"Do you understand choice, Coris?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good. Now, you have a choice, Coris. What do you want to do?"

Coris stood up, and bowed. His hands met behind his back and he said, mechanically: "I will do what you tell me to do, boss."

It was almost as if the statement had been fed to him as a staple diet. The way he said it, it seemed his only choice. Your wish is my command: the effect of an indoctrination of servitude; generation after generation, century after century. A being without choice. A race that no longer knew freedom.

"Coris. You shall never go back again. You are free, and others will be freed as well. You will never go to those mines, to that factory. You will never be told what to do. You are free to do what you want."

"What do I do, boss?"

"What you want to do."

A blank look came over Coris' face. He looked up at the ceiling, as Jovah stood, watching him. He did know what he wanted to do, he did not know what to choose, or even how to choose. He looked Jovah in the eye, now free of all burden of choice:

"I will do what you tell me to do, boss."

Jovah felt helpless. Had he done the right thing? Had he done the wrong thing? Should this gor have been freed? Will he survive all by himself? Or, for his own sake, should he be sent back to the factory?

He wished the others were around to confirm that what he had done was right. He felt alone, and suddenly longed for the company. Maybe someone else should talk to Coris. Maybe Coris should be sent back. Maybe...

"Coris. You can do whatever you want to do. I am going out, now, and I will leave you here to think about what you want to do. We want to take you off this planet, to take you to see the universe, to see the press so that we can fight for your rights. We want to free your people, so that you can live in freedom, like we do. I want you to think about this... it is your choice. The fate of your people lies in your hands."

Coris climbed up to the ceiling, and slunk into the corner, his hand at the back of his neck.

*

Jovah opened the door and left the room. The storm was raging outside in full fury. Natan still sat, resting his head on the table.

"So, how's he taking it?"

"Not too well, I'm afraid. But I don't blame him. He doesn't know what it's like to be free."

"He's not free yet, is he? He's in your custody."

"He can leave if he wants to."

"Before the others come"

"No. They would want to talk to him too. He wants to go back."

"Of course he would. He has nothing to do here. That's what they'd done, you know. Work them till they die or kill themselves, and the gors will never have time to plot freedom. So, all their lives, they've not had time to think."

"Kill themselves? They do that?"

"When they're old, or they're injured, they're given the command to kill themselves. The new guards do it just for fun. Then they get sick of it after a while, and make the gors do other things, like fight each other or hump, even though they cant. And the gors: they do it too. They have to. It's in their system"

"But wouldn't that be a loss? A waste? Killing a productive worker?"

"Oh, they reproduce like mad. A gor lays an egg a week, and you have a new worker ready every week. High birth rate and a high death rate. It all balances out. Sometimes the gors, they do it themselves. Some of them get so tired sometimes that they just decide to end it. They get depressed and don't know if they can go on like this, or if they're starving and haven't been given anything to eat for three or four days. They just stick their thumb into the back of their neck, and that's that. That's the one freedom they have."

Thud! came the sound from inside the room. Something had hit the floor.