One Moment please

As he looked out across the vast expanse of greyish brown, no emotion swept over him. This was supposed to one of the most religiously sacrosanct places according to his mother, one of the most serene places according to his grandmother, one of the most awe-inspiring places according to his grandfather and one of the most romantic places according to his father but no emotion whatsoever swept him over as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and stared out. He sighed deeply and let his line of sight swing to the left and then to the right.

The breathtaking architectural wonder to his left that spanned across the breadth of the murky stretch did not speed up his cardiac muscles; neither did it induce any sense of pride or any semblance of belonging in his mind or heart. The transit system that populated the area immediately below his line of sight did not make the romantic lion purr in anticipation, neither did it make the hungry cat look longingly at the vehicles. The second architectural wonder which could be seen silhouetted against the misty sky did not make him draw in his breath sharply and release it slowly, neither did it render him motionless and speechless as his father had warned him it should. He sighed again and resigned.

Preparing to walk back , defeated and disappointed , he hopped off the low ledge , which had been his vantage point , and was about to cross the railway tracks which bordered the region when his swift movements were obstructed by a voice which caught his attention , in his stride .

“You are not from around here, are you?” inquired the soft, melodious voice.

“Actually I was born here,” he replied, a little too soon for his liking and turning around he completed, “but no, I’m not from around here.”

Considering that he had a skin-tone not unlike those of the locals and hair that was jet black, he was surprised by her question, which had turned out to be so accurate. “I am Karan. Karan Bakshi. “

“What gave it away?” he added after a slight pause.

“Well for starters the way you looked out across the river. Quite unlike a citizen. But what made it really elementary was your clothes “, she remarked smiling.

“My clothes?” he asked, puzzled, simultaneously examining his clothes desperate not to be embarrassed by a fashion faux pas.

“Well yes. You see our men don’t usually wear suits in the middle of the day in September and even if they do they don’t hang around this place”, she explained rather matter-of-factly.

“I see Miss Marple “, he retorted cheekily. “I sincerely hope that you are not the fictional character”, he added and was immediately repulsed by the cheesiness of the expunged words.

She afforded a laugh, albeit a short one, before introducing herself as Smriti Lakhotia.

As he walked onto the podium he looked down at the one pair of eyes that had always seen him ascend every podium for the past one quarter of a century and pleased to have located them, turned to face the remaining two hundred pairs and began to speak.

After nearly one half of an hour and two glasses of water, he sighed as he entered the final lap.

“Sometimes you find love in the most unexpected of places and most of the times it is always in the last place you looked”, he remarked as he stole a glance at the eyes which had not left him for the past 27 minutes. He continued,” In 2003 I came to this city in the hope of washing away the remains of this city from myself. Although I had lived in the United States for the past forty five years and had replaced the stone paved streets with concrete metalled roads, the puchka and bhel puri with burgers and French fries, the roadside addas with frequenting bars and taverns , the slow laziness and sleepiness induced by this city with the unforgiving world of boardrooms and presentations and the very essence of the old world charm with the mechanical superiority of the modern world, I just couldn’t replace my heart which I had lost to a girl in this city. So many years had passed but I couldn’t move on and I had to return to get closure, to convince myself that my heart was no longer in this city.”

He stopped and sipped some water, allowing it to percolate through his body.

With every eye and every camera following him now, he continued “Instead I realized that something that you lose is always in the last place that you check. It took me forty five years to finally get the place right but at the age of sixty five I had finally found what I had lost when I left the city. The city had not disposed of the pieces of my broken heart and for forty five years had held the pieces close to its heart, hoping that I would return to put the pieces together. It’s never too late to do something. I found my religion, I found serenity and I was left awestruck, all at once in the one single moment which changed my life. It came as late as 2003 but here I am today, happily married for twenty five years, all because I decided to give the city a chance. It is time that you do so too”

The Mayor received a standing ovation as he stepped down from the podium and walking upto the eight-five year old lady, who was the cynosure of all TV cameras and arc lights, embraced her and whispered into her ear “Let’s go”. She nodded and together they walked out as the audience continued clapping.

A twenty minute drive later they were seated ensconced in each other’s arms on one of the rickety boats that looked like it could sink any moment. Looking to his right and left, he realized what his father had found romantic and looked into his wife’s eyes adoringly. Looking back she whispered “Oh Karan!”

He whispered back, “Oh Calcutta!”

The Empty Seat

As I sped through the underpass to catch the last metro I looked at the luminescent dial of my Citizen wristwatch, noting amidst several huffs and puffs that I still had more than a minute to complete the 100 metre stretch of staircase ahead of me before the train huffed and puffed into the station. I leapt up the stairs devouring them two, sometimes three at a time and finally catapulted myself to the platform as the last metro entered the station. To my immense satisfaction, the digital watch cum alert system hanging above my sweating head read “10:10”.Few saw the smirk that lingered over my face momentarily as the victory of one battle gave way to the preparation for another – this time the objective being the capture of a seat before the multitude of obese middle-aged, experienced men grabbed onto theirs. I waited with anticipation, sweat dripping of my arched brow and my tensed sinews, body arched forward ready to pounce at the slightest sight of an empty seat, as the train shuddered to a halt. The second’s wait before the electronic doors opened and all hell broke loose was the most important – this is the time when one has to look for a relatively empty door and stand in front of it in such a manner so as to guard other potential competitors and at the same time accord the requisite bit of courtesy to the alighting passengers and at the same time , twist one’s body in such a manner so as to find the tiniest gap to squeeze oneself in without shoving others hence protecting oneself from an otherwise  expected barrage of colourful Bengali abuses . Combining the skills of many wild animals into one, I successfully maneuvered myself and managed to secure a seat for myself as the last metro chugged out of Mahanayak Uttam Kumar station. As I looked around triumphantly, the obese man on my right accorded me a slight smile before proceeding to take out his cellphone. I sighed and smiled back.

The obese man beside me punched in some keys on his cellphone’s keypad before assuming the stoic position perfected by the Buddha. A familiar pinging noise informed me that he had sent a text message. The man proceeded to repeat this action as the train stopped at Rabindra Sarovar and then at Kalighat and again at Jatin Das Park. Intrigued, I peered into the screen of his cellphone as the next station approached hoping to decode the cause for this man’s incessant texting. As Netaji Bhavan approached, I maintained a constant stare at his cellphone screen and as the train shuddered to a halt and the lady over the PA system announced our arrival at Netaji Bhavan station, my eyes watched as his fingers punched in “Netaji Bhavan” into his phone and then as the same few stubby fingers proceeded to type in a 10 digit cellphone number and hit “Send”. My eyes were quickly diverted as my ears picked up the sound of a sardonic cough emanating from my right side. I looked up apologetically at the man’s face, expecting an angry face and a barrage of choicest Bengali abuses but instead as I looked into his face, my eyes were greeted by a warm smile. I smiled back uncertainly.

The man continued his periodic action at every station and finally as Chandni Chowk approached I couldn’t control myself any longer.

“Newly married huh?” I asked rather bluntly.

“No. I’m just 37”, came the quick reply as if he was expecting a question sooner or later.

“Not your wife then, I presume?” I continued unabashedly.

“No. Actually the texts are for my father”, he confided.

Trying my best to suppress the waves of condescending laughter that ascended from my stomach, I looked away, laughing away internally at the 37-year old man’s lack of freedom.

My internal peals of laughter must have reverberated across to my right because the obese man continued “It’s not what you think.” Too shocked and more embarrassed to react, I continued to look away as he continued his monologue.

At some point during the conversation I must have looked up because as the train chugged into Girish Park station, I remember looking into misty eyes. Thinking back, I might have looked through and not into misty eyes.

As I put down the newspaper that had sparked my trip down the streets of Nostalgia, my thoughts circled back to the events of that day, which had started to end so much like any other day but had ended up ending quite differently. The news report was nothing new to the average Calcuttan. It was regarding an accident that had happened on the previous day at Girish Park metro station when a fat, obese man waiting to alight had been pushed and shoved by an onrushing crowd in such a manner that his feet had got stuck in the small space between the bogey and the platform and the train as it moved out of the platform, unknowingly chopped off a part of the man’s leg. I had recognized him from the file picture that accompanied the report. I had scoured through the report again and again trying to find a particular word and when I had found it I had slumped back onto the sofa distressed and shaken. One minor line in the report read “The inconsolable man’s cellphone could not be recovered as the train had crushed it after it had fallen out of his pocket onto the tracks.”

The more crushing news report came in the next day’s paper. Few across the metropolis could perhaps connect the two reports but I did and with a sinking feeling, I realized that atleast one other person will. The report was a small one. Infact if one did not look out for it, one could easily miss it out. For all practical purposes, it could be labeled as insignificant. The 10 line report spoke of the discovery of the dead body of an elderly man in a dilapidated house near Girish Park metro station. The man , the report stated , had been under medication and terminally ill, crippled by complete body paralysis with only his auditory and olfactory senses still working. The time of death had been placed somewhere between 10:30 pm and 11:00 pm on the day preceding the previous day .The report concluded by saying that death had possibly been a painful affair with the man suffering multiple cardiac arrests and multiple organ failure in a matter of minutes, with the investigating doctor suggesting that the cause of such an adverse reaction had been sudden shock.

As I put down a newspaper with a sigh for the second time in two days , I thought of the many things that the report did not specify – how it did not mention that the full body paralysis was due to a metro accident 15 years ago , that the man lived in constant fear of his son falling prey to the “Hell-train” and that his son , to pacify his father had come up with a unique way to keep his worried father informed without him having to move a muscle .It did not mention  how every day  the man received 13 texts – one for each station that his son crossed and the how 13 pinging sounds had become the sounds that dictated his life , that made him wait in anticipation , in morbid fear and on hearing which his soul lay embalmed and cooled .

I am not a doctor but I am sure that the sudden shock which caused the loss of a life was due to the one missing ping, because on that fateful day the inbox contained only 12 unopened messages.

I don’t rush to catch a metro anymore. An empty seat for me hardly justifies the emptiness that fills up another life.

The Colossal Calcuttan Carnival

The preparations start from months in advance as politicians quickly align their priorities and choose which Puja organizers to back vociferously and financially, as actors and actresses are selected to represent the Goddess and the Puja as ‘Brand’ ambassadors, as bamboo poles are planted into the concrete jungles to obstruct traffic and lines of sight, as a dash of vibrant colour is added to the otherwise dull and fast greying ‘city of palaces’.

Behind all the glitz and glamour, however, of the multi-crore yearly investments of faith and money, behind the scenes of the largest and most colourful carnival of eastern India lie the sad stories of many masons, architects, builders and others who shy away from the spotlight once their jobs are done.  The sight of barely dressed men climbing high up on bamboo scaffoldings without any protection whatsoever may be enough to send a chill down any spine anywhere in the world but here in Kolkata, we have become so accustomed to this sight multiple times a year giving realization to the popular “Bangalir Baro Mashe Tero Parbon (13 festivals in 12 months for Bengalis)” that we ignore them completely. The sight of a packed Kumartuli in the days preceding the Pujas with sculptors and artists , again barely dressed rushing against time to meet the demands of a city hungry for more ,may draw some sympathy in many parts of the world but we pass by without so much as a glance.

As D-Day or in this case D-Days get closer, Kolkata starts to get decked up in the most beautiful lights illuminating the beauty of an otherwise sleepy city. Lights overhead, lights on trees, lights on buildings, lights on gates, writings in lights and for organizers with more at their disposal even animation in lights , Kolkata truly gets an ‘illuminating’ make-over during the days of celebration . In fact if the lights don’t blind you at night, the ‘chumkis’ on the women’s saris definitely will, as one of my friends very correctly remarked . Behind the scenes, however no one notices the extra megawatts of current that are drawn to satisfy the needs of an insatiable Kolkata crowd while thousands of villages in India survive without electricity every day.

As the fervour and spirit of celebration of the victory of ‘good over evil’ takes over the City of  Joy and thousands of otherwise sleepy and lazy Calcuttans descend on the streets to get a glimpse of the victory of ‘god over evil’, it becomes practically impossible to get anywhere on time. Traffic snarls cripple the city along the vast expanse of every road from Bosepukur to Bagbazar and drivers trying to negotiate a stretch that on any normal day would have taken 5-10 minutes realize the value of time. It becomes impossible to catch trains or aeroplanes on time unless passengers leave theirs abodes with a good 3-4 hours extra in their hands because “Maa Durga” comes to visit her abode.

As Calcuttans and a true blue fans of pandal-hopping and “Maa Durga”, we are however prepared to look beyond the mundane problems that plague the society instead to focus our attentions on the divine presence amongst us .A city which goes to sleep before the rest of India suddenly draws immense quantities of energy from the hidden reserves to stay up all night and quench the desires to witness a hundred different masterpieces in clay spread out across the city. The carnival of lights and  dash of colours, the holding of hands with your ‘special one’ and joy of finally doing the same, the essence of roadside foods and forgotten diets, the concepts of ‘theme pujos’ and ‘bonedi pujos’ paints a rather inviting portrait with the same old Kolkata as the canvas.

As Durga Puja becomes a more and more money-spinning endeavour as the years pass by and as it assumes a more and more commercial feel about it ,Calcuttans rush in like fools where angels fear to tread .Today , it is the best lights , the best pandal , the best idol of the Goddess that everyone rushes to see , yet few rush to save the girl child from female infanticide , few to prevent their abortion , few speak out against the mental and physical torture of wives and daughters , few dare to stand up against rape and sexual abuse and very few remember that Durga Puja stands for the power of womanhood .

Kolkata wakes up to Durga Puja every year and the first thing that Kolkata sees is the head-count of people in the so-called popular Pujas tabulated in specific time frames in a popular Bengali daily and the immediate instinct is to make frivolous plans to be ‘one’ in the sea of people that night . Durga Puja has assumed a different meaning altogether for Kolkata today, perhaps not in sync with the original intention of this celebration and we have perhaps forgotten that amidst all the competition and commercialization. Yet, behind all the negative things that can be said about Durga Puja, their lies a lot of hope, of true celebration of divinity, of goodness. The opportunity to rush to pandals often gives us the opportunity to get back in touch with our families and friends .The fervour and spirit with which many youngsters and their elders await the Puja season is truly a thing of beauty, and definitely the wait will remain a joy forever for a Calcuttan.

Durga Puja gives every child born and bred in the city of Joy an overflowing basket of memories to treasure for a lifetime –the wait in the preceeding weeks to the Puja, the pandal-hopping, the only times you could stay up late without your parents after your life, the sound of dhaaks wafting through the air and ringing in your ears long after Durga Puja is over, the ‘dhunnuchi naach’ , the ‘Onjoli on Oshtomi’ ,the sumptuous feast that mothers and grandmothers conjure up as if by magic on the Puja days ,the ‘adda ‘ with friends , the sight of the friends you knew but can’t recognize them beacause they’re ensconced in Indian attires , the tearful goodbyes on “Doshomi” , the bhashan dance and many more .

What Durga Puja also gives us is a message that not all of us get –the evil that lives within us must be banished before we can think of the evil without, the power of women, the ultimate victory of good over evil-but maybe in hindsight it’s not too bad a thing because as Francis Bacon once said –“Where Ignorance is Bliss ‘Tis Folly to be Wise” and believe me, “Durga Puja is Bliss”.

The Voice Below The Kolorob

Being born and brought up in the sleepy metropolis of Calcutta, I will perhaps never forget the ‘Students’ Movement’ that rocked the city in September of 2014. The movement reached its peak perhaps on the afternoon of the 20^th of September when a mass rally and walk was organized from the Rabindra Sadan to the Gandhi Statue on Mayo Road – a 2.3 km walk in torrential rain. Nearly 70,000 people of different universities, religions, castes, languages, qualifications and political alignments braved the fear of going down with pneumonia by turning up for the event. The organizers of this mass rally ended the day’s walk by initiating a 5-hour occupation of Mayo Road and JL Nehru Road which they called ‘Occupy Dharmatala’. The occupation ended when the Governor of the state, Mr. KN Tripathi , who is also the de-facto Chancellor of Jadavpur University, agreed to look into the demands of the students, the demands of removing the Vice Chancellor, pro-Vice Chancellor and Registrar from Jadavpur University.

Now, this causes one to ask the very pertinent question – What happened at Jadavpur University that prompted a reaction on such a massive scale?

To answer that question one must refer back to an on-campus-incident which took place in the last days of August 2014 in which a female student complained of molestation by a few male students near the University hostel complex. Now, irrespective of what the female student claims, the truth about this incident is still very much debatable with numerous versions of the story being circulated on campus. Some versions, infact, make it very difficult to sympathize with the female student at all. Having not talked to the ‘victim’ or the ‘accused’ personally, I will refrain from spewing out the rumours here. However, two things, most definitely cannot be denied. Firstly, despite all efforts to deem the movement following this incident as ‘apolitical’, the incident itself was politically-influenced with the girl in question and the ‘accused’ being of radically opposite political alignments, which was one of the basic reasons for the altercation between the two parties. Secondly, whether there was molestation or not, something happened in the University premises that night before and after the altercation involving the girl, which should not have happened.

The mass movement hence began originally on 3^rd September 2014, demanding proper investigation into the incident by the University authorities. In the meantime, the Vice-Chancellor Dr. Abhijit Chakraborty formed an investigation committee which he maintains, was in accordance with Supreme Court specifications. The composition of this committee was however, rejected by the student unions on campus as they feared that the committee will be biased in its investigation. Now as already mentioned, the situation to begin with was influenced by politics and Dr. Chakraborty had his political inclination which perhaps was the obvious thorn on the path to an unbiased investigation. Now, I was all for an investigation into the incident, which would have implicated the guilty and if not anything else, removed the untrue versions of the incident from fogging the campus. What I fail to agree with is the manner in which the student unions demanded the same from the VC.

With the second point in mind, it hence, becomes imperative to make the campus safer for the thousands of students and professors who study and work here respectively and the Vice Chancellor wanted to do exactly this through installation of CCTV cameras throughout the campus, by improving lighting in the campus, by evicting outsiders from the campus, by introducing a system of entry into the campus based on Identity Cards and by preventing anyone from remaining on campus post 8pm. These proposals were all forward-looking and progressive , in my opinion, paving the way towards making Jadavpur University a ‘disciplined’ and ‘professional’ institution for all-round excellence. However , the student unions objected to the VC’s ideas citing reasons such as ‘loss of freedom’ ,’introduction of elitism’, ‘detachment from the outside world’, ‘inconveniencing students who forget to carry ID cards’ etc. All these reasons seemed ludicrous to me. In reality, not all the students but a good number of them do smoke on campus (despite signs prohibiting smoking on campus), do drink on campus, do immerse themselves into a state of oblivion through the taking of drugs and smoking of weed and cannabis and do engage in sexual activities in darkened jheel-paar (lakeside) or on the vast expanse of the football field. It is these people , with intoxicants and power in their hands, whose daily lives will be interrupted due to the VC’s propose rules and it is for the sake of a few that Jadavpur University will perhaps forgo the opportunity to progress yet again.

Anyway, thus with an iron-clad intention of opposing the VC’s ideas and forming a new investigating committee the student unions protested outside Aurobindo Bhavan , the seat of power at Jadavpur University, from 2pm on the 16^th of September 2014. The mode of protest quickly turned into Jadavpur’s favourite , a ‘Gherao’- where the students block all exits and entrances thus trapping the authorities inside the building , not letting them leave till they agree to their demands. I cannot adequately put into words my immense dislike for ‘Gheraoing’. Being a student of a Christian Missionary school, Don Bosco Park Circus, I cannot imagine a situation where I am blocking my teacher’s path because he/she has not given in to my requests. After all, he/she is a teacher, irrespective of my personal feelings towards him/her and notwithstanding his/her age, he/she is more qualified than I am and deserves that basic shred of respect from me. However, the students who gheraoed the VC obviously had no such moral restrictions and with no thought whatsoever into the inconvenience to the VC’s family that they might be causing, they continued the Gherao well past midnight.

With a family to go to and a worried family, indeed, the Vice Chancellor did what most men in his position would have done – he called the police for help. In the wee hours on 17^th September, armed police officers entered the Jadavpur University campus and escorted the trapped authorities out and then asked the students to leave. The students refused and the police launched an ambush attack on the students armed with only camera phones and Bengali expletives. More than 25 students were hospitalized following the attack and more than 30 were jailed. As despicable as this incident was , I find it hard to fault the Vice Chancellor for the attack because indeed he did call the police to ensure his own safety but there is no proof whatsoever that he forced the police to attack the students . The only incident that should be protested against here is armed police attack on the students, especially armed male police officers attacking female students while female officers stood and watched.

It is because of this dastardly act by the Kolkata Police and the RAF team at roughly 2 am on the 17^th of September that the movement picked up momentum and gathering steam snowballed into a mass movement across barriers demanding the resignation of Dr. Chakraborty. The incessant lying of the Police Commissioner Mr SK Purakayasta on national television , added fat to fire as the movement got louder and louder with the slogan “Hok kolorob” meaning “Let there be noise”. The movement , albeit a one that awoke the sleepy city and showed people that the young heart of the city still beats powerfully yet non-violently, however has meandered off from its original course of demanding an unbiased investigation into the ‘molestation’ incident and has turned into a full-blown personal vendetta against Dr. Chakraborty and the other authorities.

What the student unions do not realize and what one of my close friends (whose name I will not reveal for various reasons) is that by demanding the resignation of Dr. Chakraborty , they are only causing the empty chair to be filled in by someone with the same political inclinations again which will simply continue the vicious cycle. Instead the movement should have focused on changing the way the Vice Chancellor is selected, not by political parties (as was the case with Dr. Chakraborty) but by an independent and unbiased in-campus committee. The demand for the resignation of the Pro-VC and Registrar is baffling to say the least , simply because they have from the beginning of the movement extended their support to the students , condemning the police action (unlike the VC) and even visiting the injured students .

Also, by harping again and again on the fact that the movement is an apolitical one, the student unions have contradicted the very cornerstone of all movements “You have to be in it to change it”. The movement which has widely been hailed as a movement for Jadavpur University and against a certain political party in power in West Bengal is swaying people’s trust from the ruling party but not providing them with a political alternative in the elections. They are aiming to change the political contours of the state without being in politics themselves, a rather strange proposition.

It is very easy to move in the direction of the tide but extremely difficult to walk against it. The Vice Chancellor and the University authorities may have been wrong on many counts. The Kolkata Police was definitely wrong in carrying out an armed attack against students, especially girls, in the dead of night. However, that in no way hides the fact that the initial mistakes were all committed by the students. We have committed a million mistakes and it is because of our mistakes, it is because we could not repay the trust the authorities placed on us by giving us multiple freedoms that today there must be measures taken immediately to ensure campus safety. Jadavpur University still basks in its erstwhile glory days and no matter how many students one shows me who have left other institutions to join this University, it does not change the truth. The University has the potential to become the best in the nation and beyond but the first change has to come in the change-resistant mentality of the students. The change always begins with us.

A student caught cheating in the exam, if detained in college, till 2am the next morning will become the poster boy of ‘inhumanly treatment’ but when the same is done to an elderly gentleman, it is a revolution?

The end, most definitely, does not justify the means and if the means are such then the end achieved is pointless as humanity loses for the sake of a small victory.

The Welcome

Her feet moved rapidly through the jungle of shoes and sandals, managing to just about locate the tiniest of gaps. Her aged yet still miraculously flexible body twisted and turned through the conglomerate of bodies wrapped in colourful apparels and draped in flowing garments. Her forehead was sweaty and wrinkled and her eyes kept darting back and forth from the white dial of her wristwatch which adorned her tired and perspiring hand.

His hands moved frantically about trying to locate the correct items. His eyes scanned neatly the shelf facing him first from left to right and then back again. His tongue poked its tip out of his pursed lips, as they always did when he was concentrating on something really hard. His eyebrows arched inwards over his nose, bridging the gap between themselves. His forehead was sweaty and wrinkled and his eyes kept darting back and forth from clock which hung nearby.

She edged past burly gentlemen almost double her size and burlier not-so-gentle-men triple her size, her handbag trailing behind her, her hair open and gliding in the light breeze. Five fingers clutched a cell phone while the other five, opened and spread out, frantically waved at a moving bus urging it to stop. Thankfully, the bus did and she clambered on after having executed a short sprint across the street which would have made her high school PE teacher proud.

He brushed off the sweat that lingered in irritating droplets across his forehead and carefully wiped the back of his hand on the already soaking handkerchief lying beside him. His eyes read every line over and over again. He didn’t want to miss out on anything. His hands moved about frantically at the same time, carrying out the instructions that his eyes transmitted. Suddenly, though, his hands stopped working and his pursed lips opened out wide as his eyes grew wide and big. A moment is all it took before he executed a short sprint across the room which would have made his high school PE teacher proud.

Having managed to secure a seat, she thanked her lucky stars and having sat down, punched in a few words into her cell phone and after a few more clicks put it inside her handbag. She then proceeded to scour the insides of her bag for a few coins that would suffice to pay for her journey. Having found the necessary change, she handed it over to the conductor and took the ticket. A faint buzzing noise emanating from her handbag unwrinkled her forehead and relaxed her facial muscles.

Having found what he was looking for, he carried it over to his workstation and did the needful. He then exhaled a sigh of relief. A vibration inside the pocket of his trousers prompted him to put his hand in and take out his cell phone. He opened the text message and smiled to himself. He then punched in a few words and shot off a quick reply after taking a quick look around to ensure that everything was in order. He put down his cell phone and proceeded to complete his work.

She looked out of the window and allowed the cool breeze to dry off the seat that adorned her famished face. She looked at her watch again and then rose up from her seat. She walked slowly towards the gate and politely informed the conductor to stop the bus at the next bus-stop to allow her to descend. She waited patiently for the signal light to turn green and as the bus rushed through the largely empty streets, she enjoyed the cool breeze that hit her body and for the first time that day, she felt her mind clean itself out.

Having carefully examined every inch of his work and fully satisfied with it, he then proceeded to clear his workstation to leave no traces of his presence there. He then looked at the clock and scurried to the door and unlocked it. He then deposited the keys in the bowl by the door and then deposited himself into the chair by the small table and waited as he did so, for the first time that day, he felt his mind clean itself out.

She walked down the path and turned right at the end of it. She could see her destination just a few steps up ahead and she covered the last few steps quickly and turned the knob. It turned easily as she knew it would, as the buzzing in her bag had informed so it would. He was never late.

He looked at the clock and counted down mentally, eyes transfixed on the doorknob. As he counted ‘zero’ under his breath, the doorknob turned as he knew it would, as the text had informed him it would. She was never late.

The rather regular day that she had been having till then disintegrated rapidly in front of her own eyes as they came to rest on the small table and then on the chair and its occupant. She edged forward, quite forgetting all about closing the door and let her eyes feast on the sumptuous meal that adorned the small table – everything from her favourite leavened flatbread stuffed with cauliflower with pickle on the side, to rice seasoned with tamarind with lentil soup and fried potato sticks on the side, from fermented sweet yoghurt to rice flour cakes stuffed with coconut. Stunned, she silently looked on.

He got up and walked over to the open door and shutting it properly, then walked over to her, hugged her and said in her ears very softly, “Welcome home, mother!”

The Lamp

The wind howled against the Venetian blinds and rattled the wooden planks enough to wake up probably the entire locality. Probably everyone did stir a bit in their beds, turn to the other side or pull over the displaced quilt but only two feet left the quiet comfort of the warm bed and descended the two feet to place themselves on the cold concrete floor. The height felt much more than two feet but the two feet were determined to descend.

Adorning the rest of the five feet frame above the two determined feet was a sombre sari, wrapped around very eloquently. It was of the lightest possible hue of yellow and was complimented by her white blouse and contrasted by the bright red vermilion mark on her forehead that continued for a small distance through her salt-and-pepper hair. It was about a few inches inside from this vermilion stained forehead that a memory illuminated itself in the recesses that hand long gone dark.

It was 1987.The day was sunny and glorious. The numerous Gods in the Hindu Pantheon of ‘Swarg’ seemed to be smiling down upon the Khetarpal Parade Ground in Poona. The passing out parade of the latest batch of the NDA had just ended and the almost atrociously well-coordinated display of drills and marching had left the audience entranced and mesmerized. A haze of activity followed during which she was led by uniformed personnel from one location to another and after about three quarters of an hour when the coveted name was called she walked up to a uniformed personnel and pinned a star to the uniform . A hand, more muscular than she recalled, wrapped itself lovingly around her diminutive frame and a soft voice whispered into her ear,” Maa aap toh super hain hi aur aaj mere pass star hain toh maa-beta ban gaya dekhiye superstar”. He always had a thing for cheesy lines from his favouite films. She had smiled back at his boyish face as each other’s pride reflected themselves in each other’s eyes.

A single tear trickled down from the same eyes now glassy in remembrance. The hands however were busy at work as if mocking her sentimental eyes. The fingers fumbled in the dark for the cabinet door and having located it swung it open mildly. They then proceeded to locate the usual small square box. She didn’t need her eyes. Her fingers were too accustomed to the job. Having obtained the desirable, her legs carried her out of the room and through the long open verandah and down the old rickety staircase. The wind was chilly and the atmosphere better suited a couple wanting to cuddle but the flimsy sari seemed to be enough for her. As she descended the last stair another memory flooded back to torment her emotional eyes.

It was 2000.The day was sunny and glorious. Outside it seemed nothing could go wrong. Inside the old dilapidated North Calcuttan mansion all she remembered are stony faces, distraught faces, faces sapped of all emotion, trembling hands, hands enclosed in other hands, tear-soaked eyes, glassy eyes, eyes that were scared to look into other eyes, legs that had given in under the sudden weight that had descended upon the stooping shoulders and utter silence broken by the occasional sob or howl that contradicted the universe outside. It was all a haze, all uncertain and unclear. Everything happened at breakneck speed and before she knew it her world had come crashing down although her dilapidated house still stood tall as if mocking the frailty of her world. One moment she was reliving the best memory of her life, looking into her son’s eyes with pride and seeing the same reflected there and the next moment she was staring at her son’s closed eyes begging them to open, begging them to reflect. Her fingers clutched his uniform, brushed against the ice cold metal stars and ran over the fatal wound that had been so wonderfully cleaned, betraying the impact it had had. She did not want to let go but the respect accorded to the General only extended to a quarter of an hour with his mother before he was saluted out of the world. She had looked back at his still boyish face one last time. This time there was no smile. There was no reflection. There was no soft voice murmuring a cheesy line.

Her ever-efficient legs carried her to the giant doors which she swung open and stepped outside. Her fingers worked of their own accord and after sometime she managed to complete her task and walked back inside closing the doors behind her without drawing anyone’s attention.

Across the street the long haired man dressed in rags put down the bottle he was about to open and stepped out from the shadows. He crossed the narrow lane and walked upto the giant doors and sat down. The lamp that the lady had so efficiently lit gave him the warmth he needed.

“I’ll never get to open that bottle what with this lady lighting up the whole place every night“, he thought to himself.

He looked at the lamp and then at the marble plaque above it. It had only one name, the name of a man although the only person he had ever seen leave or enter the mansion was the lady.

“General Alok Kumar Agarwal”, the man read aloud.

The bottled rolled away into the gutters.

The Magic Trick

Mr. Gonzales looked back one last time.

He had been running for quite some time now it seemed to him and as he turned his gaze to the scene unfolding behind him one final time, he noticed the usual suspects in hot pursuit – some way back but definitely making ground too rapidly for Mr. Gonzales’s liking was that burly guy he knew from his trip to Greece two months back. He had travelled to Greece before but last time around this guy had made sure that his business did not proceed according to script. Now he had the upper hand finally. Also chasing him was a tall lanky dude of about 21. Mr. Gonzales knew this lad only too well, having spent a year in London with him when both of them were learning the trade. The third and final pursuer was an older man, slowed down comparatively by his years but as wily as a fox. Mr. Gonzales knew him too, having worked with him for 4 years during his time in Milan.

Having made himself well aware of his tail , Mr. Gonzales now continued running , his feet landing rapidly on the soft and lush green grass that covered another 30 yards in front of him . A buzzing sound was constantly getting louder and louder – maybe it was the blood pounding in his ears, thought Mr. Gonzales and decided to push the sound out of his mind at least for now. He had to outrun his pursuers and he focused all his energies to doing just that.

Mr. Gonzales looked up – the end of his run was in sight, he could see his destination clearly now. The clear imprint of the destination in his mind now coincided with the images being relayed from his eyes to the brain and the imprint became clearer than ever. The path to his destination was however suddenly blocked by a stocky man who had slithered in unseen from the right, taking advantage of Mr. Gonzales’s inattention to all things but the destination. As he rushed in with full force towards Mr. Gonzales it all seemed over for the running man, outdone by his own undivided focus.

Mr. Gonzales, however, was equal to the task. He deftly twisted his body to the left and feinting a movement to the left, in a fluid motion moved to his right changing his direction too rapidly for the onrushing man to adjust and the man unable to control his feet which had already anticipated a movement to the left tripped and fell, his head bouncing off the ground dangerously as he did so. Tussocks of grass flew into the air as Mr. Gonzales left the scene in his wake.

There was no time to stop and take a breath. A second wasted and his pursuers would surely catch up with him. Fatigue seemed to course through every muscle, every sinew in Mr. Gonzales’s body. His tired legs did not want to move anymore. Mustering every ounce of strength he had left and digging deeper than he ever had into his reserves of energy, Mr. Gonzales looked up one last time .Only one man stood between him and that image of his destination firmly embedded now into his consciousness. Mr. Gonzales knew this gentleman too. He had come across him no less than four times in the past year itself .He was one of the best exponents of the trade in England and widely regarded as one of the best the world over. Mr. Gonzales had outwitted him only once in twelve meetings so far but today, he had a feeling, was going to be his day.

Having seen Mr. Gonzales rushing towards him form a distance, Mr. Davidson had decided to try the usual with his adversary. After all the’ usual’ had allowed him huge personal satisfaction on eleven of the past twelve meetings and there was no reason to suggest failure now. As per the oft practised routine, Mr. Davidson waited till Mr. Gonzales was within 16 yards of him and began his run towards him, slightly angling his body to the right. He was determined not to let Mr. Gonzales past him today. Mr. Gonzales smiled to himself as he saw Mr. Davidson rushing towards him. He knew the routine only too well – Davidson would rush towards him with his body angled to one side slightly giving him the impression that running towards the other side would be beneficial but just when they would be within 5 yards of each other, the tall Mr. Davidson would deftly change direction and aim for the feet, timing his dive to perfection and not allowing Mr. Gonzales to go past him.

Mr. Gonzales decided to put his plan into action. He ran towards Davidson’s left giving him the impression that the routine was working to perfection. With 6 yards to go he leaned in more towards his right and swiftly transferred all his weight to the left as if to change direction. With less than half a yard left till moment of impact, he successfully moved to his left and dug his feet deep into the ground. His brain registered nothing more as Davidson’s huge body overpowered him and he was slammed onto the ground with a force that seemed to shake the whole world around him. His eyes closed momentarily – more from the shock of fall than fatigue.

Mr. Davidson raised his head from the ground and turned his head around to look. He sighed in anguish as he realized what had happened. He had succeeded in not letting Mr. Gonzales go past him yet again.

The chipped football however lay still in one corner of his goal.

The Last Hug

It was the perfect life.

A life he could not have possibly envisioned for himself. A life he that he always yearned for – it was like the miniature couple dancing inside the glass encasement – observable but untouchable.

He had however touched it, he thought to himself as he curled up and pressed the soft body against his. He tightened the embrace and allowed her head to rest gracefully on his chest and a smile adorned his otherwise forlorn face as her hand slowly wrapped itself across his stomach.

He could not believe he was actually being loved. He fell asleep content.

Smiling.

Happy.

Broken pieces of the blue vase lay strewn across the hardwood floor. Broken pieces of two hearts mingled invisibly with those pieces. Two feet, usually dainty and soft stormed about today, carefully avoiding the shards of glass but vengefully stomping on the shards of the hearts. Truth be told, the feet had no idea what they were stepping on, it was the mouth doing the damage. After a few minutes, the two feet walked away and out through the front door. The glass pieces exhaled a sigh of relief but another pair of feet, not too far away, could no longer carry the weight of their master and he collapsed onto the divan. His sigh was one of despair.

He tried sleeping with the side pillows but there was always something missing in them. They were just not her. He went up to the terrace, went out running, read a few books, saw a few movies but sleep was playing hard to get. Twenty four gradually turned to forty eight and forty eight to seventy two. He picked up the phone but he knew her and he knew that anything he said would probably make it worse. He threw the phone onto the bed. It lay there still and unmoving yet when he threw himself onto the very same bed, he writhed about restlessly unable to welcome sleep.

Seventy two turned to ninety six and then, an old friend returned. She kissed him but it wasn’t the warm, wet kisses that he had come to cherish – it was a cold, dry kiss that seemed to freeze his insides. She hugged him tight but it wasn’t the warm, comforting embrace that he yearned for, it was instead a grip that’s sent a chill of despair down his spine. She caressed his hair and playfully seduced his eyelids into closing. His insides protested vociferously although his neighbours didn’t even hear a whisper. In the arms of his old friend, he fell asleep finally. Her name was ‘Loneliness’.

Ninety six had turned into one sixty eight.

The front door opened and the dainty feet stepped back into the house once again. Her voice called out repeatedly one name yet there was no answer. He’s sleeping, she thought. Nonetheless she had to see him with her own eyes to make sure. She went into their bedroom and saw him curled up on the floor, with his head resting against the bed. She inched closer and caught a glimpse of his face. There was no smile.

She touched his shoulder gently and in the moment that it took for his body to fall like a log of wood onto the hardwood floor with a thudding sound, she knew something was terribly wrong.

The doctor said that death had come peacefully-a massive heart attack in his sleep had deprived her of his life.

Neither she nor the doctor could see the other lady in the room, laughing uncontrollably. Finally, she had her old friend all to herself. She bent down and hugged him tight. Today he was as cold as she had been all his life. The last time he had found a way out – he had escaped but this time there was no escaping.

The Indian Prizes List (IPL)

Cricket season is here and as the IPL takes over the TV screens and the stadium greens in a few days’ time, I think the time is right to discuss the true importance of the Indian Premier League, tongue firmly in cheek of course. Now for those uninitiated in the ways of the land that is India under the rule of the king that is BC CI (interpret what you may), the IPL was conceived in 2008 amidst great fanfare and hope following India’s unprecedented triumph in the 2007 T20 World Cup. The baby grew rapidly and exponentially to devour most other prime time TV programmes and surreptitiously empty the coffers of the producers of the same. In its own way the IPL revolutionized the Indian cricketing industry as well as the Indian television industry but unfortunately, unlike its lower TRP grabbing TV counterparts, could not win any awards. In all fairness to the IPL, I will now proceed to suggest some awards which should be bestowed on the prodigal son of the Indian king without any further delay.

The Nobel Peace Prize: The IPL should have received this award ages ago when it got Andrew Symonds and Harbhajan Singh to play on the same team after the much publicized Monkeygate incident. The IPL unites nationalities, races, colours, castes and religions like no other .Where else can you see Sourav Ganguly captain Shoaib Akhtar?

The Nobel Prize for Economics: If anyone doubts the IPL’s merit in receiving this prestigious award, I suggest you simply go live in Kolkata for one season, watch them finish the wooden spooners in the IPL, yet walk away with the maximum monetary profit at the end of the season. The elephant in the room i.e. the BC CI coffers which are bursting at the seams 6 seasons is further testimony to award the brainchild of the mahout. At least then “he” can maybe realize that the elephant is visible to the general public.

The Nobel Prize for Physics:  Frankly speaking in a country where IIT aspirants overpopulate the plains and the hills, the Ghats and the plateaus, the numerous sixes hit and the projectile motion hence executed teach more than the HC Vermas and Bhatnagars. The change in momentum of a ball when it is expertly cover driven undoubtedly attracts a student more than a mundane Physics book. In short the IPL has done more for Newton and his Laws in 6 seasons than a thousand books could in the many years preceeding the birth of this Physics genius, fondly called IPL. If indeed the IPL wins this award Chris Gayle should go up on stage to receive it as he is undoubtedly the greatest contributor to the IPL’s cause in this category.

The Nobel Prize for Chemistry: The enviable ‘chemistry’ that Bollywood and the IPL shares should be the focus of this award. Indeed the IPL serves as the ‘catalyst’ for many a film promotion, as the strong ‘bond’ between superstar owners and superstar cricketers (their actions and reactions often ending in jhappis and pappis) and as a ‘litmus’ test for the young guns hoping for an Indian Blue. The arguments for IPL winning this award can go on and on but I think I have made my point to the Committee to at least consider my case.

The Nobel Prize for Medicine: The Rahul Sharma-Wayne Parnell performance enhancing drugs bust up can serve as a starting point for an investigation into the seedy backrooms of science where apparently astonishing progress is being made in development of such drugs for use in the IPL. Indeed , maybe more path breaking than any American research .

The Academy Awards: The Academy Awards, fondly known as the Oscars, should definitely honour the IPL in most of its’ categories:

Ø The Academy Award for Best Director: There are many contenders for this award including the poker-faced Srinivasan who has apparently very effectively ‘directed’ the IPL from inside and of course the very popular Dawood Ibrahim who had ‘directed’ the IPL from outside.

Ø The Academy Award for Best Script: There cannot be a more dramatic script than S SreeSanth’s every ball, which according to media reports, was ‘scripted’. An original script, finally!

Ø The Academy Award for Best Dialogue: If anyone has actually watched the IPL on TV , they will agree that Ravi Shashtri should be the unanimous choice for this award courtesy his gems during commentary.

Ø The Academy Award for Best Original Score: The IPL song which now lords over discotheques, DJ nights , rave parties , cricket matches , birthday celebrations and basically any and every occasion that is worth mentioning in an Indian life without having to use any actual words is undoubtedly the No.1 contender for this award. I also see no reason why it shouldn’t be conferred with a Grammy Award immediately.

If more extensive research is conducted into the realms of the IPL, I am sure we will find it worth much more. Truly, the IPL has been wronged and severely so. To the people in power, please take note and do the needful. The IPL needs to be paid its due.

The Cost Of Life

He stood in front of the mirror one last time and looked at himself.

The Luigi Borrelli shirt @ $450. Check.

The Charvet silk tie @ $185. Check.

The Gucci ostrich skin belt @ $325. Check

The Giorgio Armani suit @ $1600. Check.

The John Lobb leather Oxfords @ $655. Check

He sighed and put his hand into his pocket. This is how he wanted to go. This is how he had always envisioned going. His last picture in the tabloids would be his most expensive one.

Beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead as he groped in his pocket for that last finishing touch. He hadn't sweated since the first time he had walked into a boardroom 23 years ago. But today about to negotiate the final deal of his life he was sweating again.

His fingers finally found what they were searching for.

He pulled out a crumpled photograph that had more creases than his tormented and ageing soul. He stared into the photograph and gently ran his palm over it.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the buzzing in his ears, the pounding of blood against his temple, the thudding of his heart against his rib cage and the cascade of tears that was fast rushing from the depths of his body to his eyes.

The noise was unbearable.

Thinking of the only person he had ever loved truly, he tightened his clutch and crumpled the photograph further. It didn't matter now for the image was now firmly imprinted.

Just then through the myriad cacophony of sounds came a new one. Someone was pounding on his door.

The door opened and in walked a man clad in the Royal Blue of the British Police.

“Sir, it’s time.”

He looked at him and let out a sigh. Then he looked at the mirror one last time and walked out into the light.

Sixty miles away and sixteen hours later in Kent, a housewife stepped out onto her front porch and picked up The Daily Telegraph. She knew what the front page would carry yet she opened it out wide and looked at the picture of her impeccably dressed husband staring back at her. His eyes stared at her for perhaps the first time in along time. After all there wasn't a cellphone in sight.

She walked back into the house and her eyes’ attention was caught by the framed picture in the hallway – a picture of her husband carrying their 6-year old daughter in his arms. A single tear rolled down her cheek and yet the emotion in her eyes that reflected from the laminated picture was that of pride.

 In the 16 years that she had known her husband, all that he had cared about was money and had spent his entire life cooped up in his cellphone trying to make more and more.

Yet today the headlines screamed “Stockbroker hanged for brutally murdering daughter’s rapists”

Finally he had cared about something other than money.

Finally the emotion induced was pride. Priceless.