Category: Fiction

Entry to Write India 2

27 August 2017. This is post 2. And rather than a lesson, this is a piece of fiction that I am writing as an entry to Write India 2. The prompt by Ruskin Bond is, “I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop.” 


This was triggered by SN. In case you are reading this, where’s your entry, young woman? 

Here goes… 

“Life’s funny. You spend your entire life chasing something and when you actually get to it, you don’t want it. You know, you’re like that kid at a carnival who wants sugar candy trapped in the glass jar. The jar looks as intimidating as those tall buildings that you crane your neck to stare at when you are going past by them. The jar has walls as thick as the reading glasses of your school’s headmaster and it has a screw-lid that takes forever to uncork and open. And its stacked so far that you have to perk up on your toes and because you are just a kid, you can barely reach the height of the shelf and all you can do is, stare at it with greedy eyes. And when after all the effort and coercion, the old shopkeeper hands you the candy, you don’t want it! Kids are really funny!” Manas drawled over the sound of ice-cubes clinking against the whiskey glass.

Surbhi instinctively looked at Mira. 

Mira was oblivious to the conversation between Surbhi and Manas. At the other end of the room, she was busy sorting a pack of Cadbury Gems into tiny stacks — each stack made up of little marbles of same color — with as much attention a 6-year old could muster. She was born in a different era to know of the glass jars that Manas was talking about. 
Surbhi turned back her gaze towards Manas. She had nothing to add here. She was meeting Manas after almost 10 years and so much had changed, except the glass of whiskey in his hand and the long-drawn narratives. 

When Manas had called her out of the blue, she had initially said no. When he insisted, she reluctantly accepted the invitation for a lunch. After all she had to know what had made Manas walk out on her in the middle of the night without any explanation. And Manas just didn’t walk out on their marriage, he left behind a friendship of more than 15 years! 
They’ve been at it for more than 2 hours now and the conversation did not seem to be going anywhere. She was beginning to question her judgment. And since she had got Mira along, she was worried if the 6-year old should be around the obvious alcoholic – he’d been drinking before they had arrived and not for a minute had left his whiskey glass alone.

Manas did not think enough of Surbhi’s silence. He continued, “You know, they say that more than 80% of Earth’s surface has been transformed by humans? The only places untouched are the mountains. And you know the tallest mountain that we are yet to set our feet on? The Gangkhar!”

Manas was talking about Gangkhar Puensum. Standing at an Elevation of 7570 meters on the Bhutan-China border, it’s the highest peak still that is yet to be conquered. As with all mountains, the Gangkhar was shrouded in mystery, partly because the locals held a strong belief that the holy spirits of their Gods reside at the Gangkhar and the spirits wrecked havoc to any attempts to climb the mountain and disturb their sanctity.

This was the first time she was hearing the name of the place. But she could immediately see that the Gangkhar, whatever it was, was bothering Manas. She knew of his lifelong obsession with mountaineering and while in pursuit of his obsession, he’d often ignored other, far more important things, including Surbhi.

She merely said, “Interesting. Want to tell me more?”

Manas got up from his recliner, hobbled to a bookshelf that was overflowing with books and papers and other curios. He winced with pain but reached out to an upper shelf and after moving a couple of books and some papers, he pulled out a thin folder. The red cover had a photograph of a snow-clad mountain and a scroll in Japanese at the bottom. He thrust it towards Surbhi.

He said, “You see this? This is a memoir by one of the Japanese mountaineers who was part of the group that did everything they could to climb the Gangkhar. They tried for almost a decade. He says that even if political sanctions were lifted, Gangkhar would still remain unconquered. Its tougher than anything else. Everest is like a stroll in the park, in comparison. One side of Gangkhar is a sheer fall into a glacier; The other side has knife-edged ridges, a cover of unstable snow and spiky pinnacles. It’s the ultimate test of a climber’s skill and ambition.”

Even though they’ve been friends since school, lovers since their college and married for three years, she never really had any interest in his passion, except when one fine day he announced that he was going to give Everest a shot.

He continued, “The locals say that the holy spirits of their Gods live on the Gangkhar and since the Gods want to rest in peace, they’ve forbid any humans to come close. Each expedition has met with unfortunate accidents that cant be explained. And apart from this thin memoir, there are hardly any records or even maps of the place! It remains out of reach. Its the place that everyone has on their bucket list. Its something, Surbhi, that I have to conquer before anyone else does. I want to show to the world what real mountaineering is. Everest is bullshit. This is the real deal!”

He was beginning to get agitated. Surbhi instinctively glanced at Mira and to her relief she was now lying on a rug in front of the television and was watching an episode of Tom and Jerry. The pack of Gems was now missing, most probably she had eaten them all. 

When not around Manas, Surbhi was known for her fierce reporting and uncompromising journalistic ethos. She was the undisputed queen of the investigative, political reportage. She’s has had a couple of really big scoops already and the third was going to press later in the week. With the latest one about rich hiring wombs for progeny, her editor was sure that Surbhi will bring home a Pulitzer for Investigative Journalism – the only major award that had eluded her in a 15-year long career.

Career was something that Manas was not exactly proud of. He had little to show for his age except multiple stabs at various peaks – all of them unsuccessful. And like all others that had seen limited success, he made barely enough to scrape by. Since he lived in the Nehru Institute of Mountaineering campus at Uttarakhand and worked as an instructor for the Search and Rescue module, he could keep the passion going and expenses low.

“Everest is bullshit, Surbhi. Its just a huge selfie opportunity! All those 4000 people that have reached the summit in last 50 years? All of them are fucking tourists with no spine.” Manas continued his monologue.

Surbhi was used to these monologues. She knew that since veteran trekkers and mountaineers spent a lot of time by themselves when they out and about, they often have this need to keep talking when they do get company. No wonder they make such good speakers!

“You remember my greatest ambition? The lofty goal? To climb the Mount freaking Everest. I wasted 12 years of my life. Saving for it. Preparing for it. And what do I have to show for it? Couple of attempts that failed — I did not even reach Camp 3. Some broken bones, 2 missing fingers on the toe, and the damn thumb!” Manas nodded at his left hand that was pretty much useless, now that the thumb was gone. He still had a formidable grip on ropes and but that’s all that he was left to without the thumb.

Surbhi stared at the ominous looking hand. She did not understand what made people chase mountaineering when it was so fraught with danger. She also realized that with that missing thumb, Manas will probably never get another shot at any mountain, leave alone the Gangkhar or the Everest. 


“And why did I fail? Because I fought with the company that controls the rights to all the ladders and ropes and oxygen that they put on the climbing route at the Everest! They have a climbing route Surbhi. Its like a highway. All you need to do is hold the rope and walk behind the guy in front of you.”

Surbhi thought Manas was being that sour whiner that he had become in the last few months of their relationship. In fact it was his constant whining and baseless accusations against the world that had hastened their separation. She was beginning to regret her decision to come meet Manas; Thankfully, Mira was still engrossed in the cartoon.

“I hate that piece of useless rock. That’s what it is. A giant useless rock. It’s been romanticized for no reason. Ok, it was tough when Edmund and Tenzing went to the top. It was tough for the next few years or so when people found new route, new trails, new paths to the top. But now it’s like walking on crowded subway. Messner says, ‘Like in Kindergarten, they go on Everest now.’ Thing is, its been bastardized. Its become a commercial pursuit. The way you can buy a ticket to the top of Eiffel Tower, today you can buy a damn ticket to the top of the Everest and come back with all the bragging rights in the world. Its just another selfie moment. They have no respect for the pursuit. They don’t care about the ones who’ve tried in the past. You know the ones who die trying to climb the Everest? The path to the summit is littered with them. Some are used as milestones and landmarks. There is no respect in ‘doing’ the Everest. It’s a sport for the rich. You pay money and you get ropes and ladders and oxygen.”

Manas was now almost yelling. He had all the anger pent-up and no place to let go. The only two people he could call of his own were Surbhi and Mira. He wasn’t too fond of Mira — she was born to Surbhi’s second husband.

“What pride would you get if you are merely adding your name to a long list of people who have done something before you? You are a nameless, faceless statistic. You don’t move things forward like that. You have to pave new paths. Create new things. Gangkhar is what they ought to do if mountaineering is their thing,” he scorned. He continued, “Its tough and its remote and its cold. There is no highway to walk on, there are no Sherpas to walk ahead and put the ropes! There are no maps either! That’s what a real man would do. That’s what I wanted to do. Before… before… ” his voice trailed off and he stared at his hand.

Surbhi now had an inkling what went wrong with them! Unlike the rest of the world, the guy had his priorities clear but he had chosen a track that was going to be as tough as, well, climbing the mountain. The closure that Surbhi had wanted was just around the corner.

“I did not know about it when I started thinking about it. More I read about, more fascinated I got. I am so sorry I ignored you, Surbhi. I shouldn’t have left you that night. But if I didn’t, I could never have taken that shot at the Gangkhar. It was my life, Surbhi. Not you. Gangkhar.”

With that, he started crying. 

For someone like Manas, who had held his head high and resolve higher, this was a rare display of emotion. And Surbhi knew that he was accepting defeat probably for the first time. This was not the Manas that Surbhi had made friends with all those years ago. Rather than seeing a rock-solid man that she had loved once upon a time, she was now looking at a man frail with age and burden of loss on the shoulders. 
In a different time, Surbhi could’ve been angry about the way Manas left. But now, she had her daughter, her career and the question she needed an answer to, she had it. She was surprised that she had remained calm and all she felt was a bit of pity towards him. 
Surbhi leaned in closer. She said, “Manas, I am not sure what to say. I am really sorry for this. It was important to you. You did it. But now that it has happened, can you do something about it?”
He looked up. “Not really, Surbhi. But wish I could play God and do something about it, Surbhi. I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop.” He paused to empty the contents of his glass. “You know to when? To just before when Edmund and Tenzing decided that they were going to climb the Everest!” and with that, he flung the empty glass at the wall that was decorated with a giant photograph of the Mount Everest shining in its glory. 
The End.

The Girl in Yellow Boots

Background. a.k.a. Context.
I was talking to this friend and she told me about her fetish for shoes. She told me about 40 different kinds of shoes that she had. 40. Four zero. For someone like me – I refuse to wear shoes even when I am taking interviews – 40 different types of shoes sounded crazy. And that’s where an idea happened. What if I could write a fictional story, each story inspired by a pair of shoes? 


Here is the first.

Timberland Yellow Boots. Via AK.

[Start]
I saw her first at Indigo deli. Indigo is one of those upscale places where a lot of celebrities come together to break bread and sip on wines. Although, out of place, I was there to meet an old acquaintance, hoping to get a lead for a writing job. After all, that’s what I am supposed to do as a struggling writer. Suck up to people, hoping to get work that would allow me to survive in Mumbai for yet another month. I lived like that. Month on month. Hand to mouth. I lived on hope. That some day my words would make some reader cry her heart out and eventually I’d move the entire country. And may be that day, that day I’d make a living from my art. Actual living. Not tiny morsels that aren’t enough to feed that insatiable hunger that’s gnawing me since I decided to take up writing as a career.

Oh, I have drifted. I often do that. When I see words come up, I tend to get lost. I guess it’s one of the curses of being a writer. So, let me come back to her. I saw her first at Indigo. No no. It wasn’t love. I guess it was surprise and amazement. It was intrigue. It was this urge to know more about her. Be friends with her. May be spend the rest of my life with her. That’s it. Not love. Not even lust. But intrigue and a desire to be with her for as long.

She had long curly hair that fell on her face like a veil. She was chewing onto a gum furiously as she scribbled intensely with a pencil. I don’t know what made me look in her direction first. But whatever it was, I turned to her and immediately dismissed her as yet another actress. She looked like one and that anyway was Indigo’s claim to fame. That you could spot celebrities even on the dead days.

Since my long-lost friend, who could get me a job that promised another month in Mumbai, was yet to come, I had nothing to do but watch people. Yet another hobby that I had to develop to help me write better. So, I was looking at everyone that I could see from my vantage point, in the other corner. There was this young couple who were apparently arguing over something. May be they were having a crisis in their relationship. There was this mother-daughter duo engrossed in their food. Another couple – they were relatively older – was together on a table but looked bored of each other’s company. Guess they were married for some time and they had nothing left to talk about. The man was lost in his phone and the woman was leafing through the menu. Damn such relationships where togetherness loses its meaning and people merely go through the motions. Thankfully, on the table next to me was a group of old ladies, none of them less than 60, who apparently were celebrating life like they were sixteen. On another table was this man who sat by himself, engrossed in a book. And then there was me. An out-of-job writer. And of course her.

While I was busy casting all these people in stereotypes, for some reason, my gaze continued to shift back to her. As if I was watching a ping-pong match. I would look at a table, think about the occupants and then go back to her and think about her. Even when I was busy lamenting about the couple that lacked a spark in their lives, somewhere at the back of my head was thinking about her.

I tried hard to avoid her but I could not. She was like this magnetic force that continued to pull me. I don’t know why. May be it was her beautiful hair. May be it was the way she curled her lips while she concentrated on her work. Or was it way she held onto the pencil? I don’t know. I would never know.

To make matters worse, I think I was the only one who was interested in her. No one else gave her a second look. And all this was new to me. I have always been unfazed by the presence of even the most intimidating women. And here was this woman who captivated my attention like no other. She, on the other hand, in all probability, was oblivious to my presence and was ignorant of the effect that she had on me.

I knew I had to talk to her. Somehow. I had to come up with a reason, a pretext. I had to find one. I had to speak to her. May be she was a writer as well. How else do you explain a girl, a pencil and a cafe in one sentence. Suddenly, as if on the cue, she dropped it.

I traced the pencil as it fell on the wooden flooring that lined the restaurant’s floor. For a fall from a three-feet or so high table, it took forever for the pencil to hit the floor. May be it was one of those incidents where time slows down and things get etched in your memory forever.

The pencil landed near her feet and that’s when I noticed her mustard-sauce colored yellow boots first. I had her in my field of vision for this long and I never noticed the shoes that she was wearing. I was stumped yet again. I just couldn’t comprehend that a strikingly good looking girl, dressed impeccably in a red dress could wear such ugly yellow boots. To me, a girl wearing yellow boots means a tough woman, who is headstrong, bold, prefers outdoor, loves to travel and is more alpha that the alphaest of men.

I know that I couldn’t paint a more cliched picture of a girl in yellow boots. And yet, she, the girl in yellow boots and a red dress, looked like a polar opposite. She was this a fragile little thing that for sure would shatter into million tiny pieces if I even touched her. Her countenance and her boots, together, were like this study in contrasts. I had all the more reason to find a pretext to talk to her. She was away from me, or I could have helped her pick that pencil off the floor. I could have sent a note or something with the waiter but that’s probably the oldest way to get rejected the fastest. I could walk up to her and ask for her permission to join her but I did not have the balls. There had to be a way. Do I drop a dish or something and create a ruckus to catch her attention? But what woman wants to talk to a sloppy man?

It took me forever to come up with an elaborate plot to get her attention and go talk to her. In my head, I repeated my opening lines that I’d use to talk to her. I perfected my approach and fixed my hair. I pumped myself with fake confidence and I was finally ready to go talk to her and ask her about her boots. That was going to be my opening line after all.

With an elaborate gesture and a swoosh, I got up from my place and let my gaze travel over other patrons – the man lost in his novel, the old ladies making merry, the boring couple munching onto their salads in uncomfortable silence – to the corner where she was seated. To my shock, it was empty. She was gone. I checked again, I checked all the corners and all the tables. She was gone. I did a desperate dance in the deli but she was gone. I rushed out but she was no where to be seen. I asked the doorman about her and he merely shrugged at my enthusiasm about a nameless patron. I spoke to the parked taxis and rickshaws but she was gone. She was gone.

Before it could sink in that she was gone, my friend walked in. While he briefed me on the job, my gaze continued to go back to that corner that she was sitting at. The corner now housed a group of chatty young women, all of them pretty and interesting. But the one I wanted, the one in yellow boots, the study in contrasts, was gone.

***

It’s been three year now. I haven’t bumped into her again. Even if I have, I wouldn’t have noticed because, to be honest, I don’t remember how she looked like. I just miss that red dress and those yellow boots.

I do visit Indigo deli more often than I ought to, hoping to spot those yellow boots, hoping to find out more about her. Over the years, in these three years, I have perfected my approach, my opening lines. I know what to ask her and what to talk to her about. I just need one more encounter with her. Damn I deserve that one more encounter. One more chance. And I will not be slow this time about.

Even though three years is a long long time for memories to fade away and people to move on and things to change, I can’t get that evening, those boots out of my head. I remember that tumble and that roll of the pencil as it fell down, as if it had happened yesterday.

Of course, some things did change. That job that I was expecting to get that day, eventually came my way. The thing that I wrote for that job, did make people shed tears and did move the collective conscious of the country. One thing led to another and I have now become what I desired the most. A successful writer. Who makes a real living. Who is vaguely recognizable. Who has a few fans. And I am in a relationship that I dreaded the most. I am with a charming woman and most evening, she and I hardly have anything to talk about. I don’t know who’s fault is it. But I am the man who is perpetually lost in his phone and she is the woman who keeps fiddling with the menu cards when we go out.

Though, the only thing that hasn’t changed is that whenever I am at Indigo, my eyes automatically go over to that corer where I saw her the first time. Hoping to see a flash of pale yellow near the foot of the table. Hoping to find her there. In that red dress, chewing onto a gum furiously, scribbling in her notepad, wearing those ugly yellow boots.

Even today, my woman and I are at Indigo. She was busy talking to someone on her phone and I was pushing my salad around with one hand and twiddling my phone with the other. Suddenly, someone tapped lightly on my shoulder and said, “Excuse me! Aren’t you the same guy who wrote that book about that film actress?”

I looked up to her and nodded absentmindedly. My book about a film actress and a nameless stalker had done wonders. I assumed that she was talking about the same book. Before I could add anything, she pushed a copy of my book and a pencil in my face. She said, “It’s a brilliant book. I loved it! Could I have your autograph please?”

While I did not want to be rude to the woman, I really wanted to be left alone. To drown in my disappointment and sorrow of not seeing the girl in yellow boots at Indigo yet again.

But I managed a feeble smile and took the book from her. Just then, she dropped the pencil.

I saw the pencil fall to the wooden floor. The time seemed to slow down. Yet again. After all these years. The pencil rolled and tumbled as it raced to the floor. The slow and agonizing fall eventually came to an end as the pencil came to a rest on the floor next to the mustard-sauce colored yellow boots that she was wearing.
[End]

P.S.: The other pieces of theGirlIn series are here. 


P.P.S.: If I sound like the protagonist in the story and I come across as a vain writer please note I am not trying to be one. 

The Bus Stop

It was 9 AM when I first noticed her. Though I hadn’t noticed her earlier but I am sure she’s been on the bus stop for more than an hour at least. She couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16. And she was dressed better than most girls that took their buses from this bus stop. She had a small and yet eye catching yellow backpack clasped in her arms. She held it tightly against her chest as if her dear life was caged in it. She was staring intently at something on the other side of the road and was otherwise motionless. If she wasn’t waving her hands to ward off the flies, I would have passed her off as a mannequin that some cloth merchant had left behind.

Surprising bit was that that while she was on the bus stop, some 30 buses would have passed by and she did not take any of those. In fact I realized that she wasn’t even looking at the bus numbers or making any effort to ask the conductor about whatever destination those buses went to.

She definitely did not belong to the scenery. I have been running the tea shop by this bus stop for almost five years now and I know a local when I see them. I thought that she’s from a well to do family and maybe she has had an argument with her parents and is hiding from them or something. The newspaper was full of reports like that. May be her family has put a large award for information on her whereabouts. This is the kind of luck that I desperately need. I have to pay that damn loan back that I took to start this tea shop. A large chunk of that loan was spent on bribing Pandey, the local constable and his bosses.

Just when I was going to speak to her, I was interrupted by Pandey. He never pays for his tea and I don’t like him a bit.

I generally setup my shop by the bus stop by 630 AM. Today was no different. In fact, today I found Shukla Ji waiting for me. He runs the chemist shop in one of the by-lanes and he has been a customer since the first day of my shop. And since then, he has always been my first customer of the day. He says that my tea is like amrrut – the magic potion. He says my tea can infuse life into even a dead man. I think he merely exaggerates. He is a good guy and he keeps recommending me to all his customers and friends. Everything is good about him except his useless conversations. He apparently knows about everything the world has to offer and every day, he chooses a new thing to talk about. Today morning, while he kept me busy with his inane talks about women, their ailments, their whims, I took my time to clean up the place, boil water, brew the tea leaves, pound ginger, cardamom and lemon into a paste and make the first cup. Shukla Ji sipped onto the clay pot with great satisfaction and continued his monologue about women and their shopping habits. At times I have this dying urge of poisoning the tea with a rat-kill and put an end to Shukla Ji’s stupid monologues but I refrain myself because I had to run the tea shop and ShuklaJi meant 7 to 8 cups a day and numerous referrals.

Just like that it was 9, ShuklaJi was long gone and it was time for Mrs. Verma to make her appearance. She is the principal of the government school for girls. Though she lives at a walking distance from the school and my teashop, and she can have her tea at home, she still likes to come over, sit here and indulge in gossip about other regulars. I don’t mind. 3 cups a day. Mrs. Verma was about 45, looked 40 and considered herself 35. And like all women her age, she was particular and liked doing things her way. Like, she carried her tea cup with her every time she came to my shop. It said “World’s Greatest Friend”. The cup was too big to serve tea in and I suspect its was a gift from someone. But I am not sure of the greatest friend bit.

I have told her on numerous occasions earlier that since I sit on a bus stop, a cleaner mug makes no difference to hygiene and danger of diarrhea. Anyways I saw her coming and as she was approaching, my gaze automatically went towards her usual place on the bus stop. And I saw the girl with the yellow backpack again. I had almost forgotten about her. She was sitting on Mrs. Verma’s place. Of course the bus stop is a public installation and no one can claim any personal rights to a specific bench. But once get used to things, we start getting personal with those things. Now look at me for example. Anyone can setup a tea or a cigarette shop here and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I could theoretically talk to Constable Pandey but I know him. He will take sides with anyone who greases his palms.

Before I could think of a list of deadly misfortunes that may befall Pandey for not helping me, Mrs. Verma reached the bus stop with her large bag and her coffee mug and she headed towards her regular seat. Knowing Mrs. Verma, I was expecting fireworks. I had mentally taken a note to help the girl if Mrs. Verma got nasty. It’s a free country after all and anyone can sit anywhere they want to, as long as they are not doing anything illegal. Mrs. Verma can anyway be unnecessarily harsh. And the lonely girl needs a guardian angel before I can inform her parents and claim my reward.

Mrs. Verma stopped right in front of the girl and stared down hard at her. Mrs. Verma has a huge imposing personality. A little on the heavy side, she always wears faded pastel sarees that are ironed, creased and starched as sharp as knives. To add to the dramatic appearance, she has this huge pair of reading glasses that keeps dangling from her neck. I have never seen her using them. I think they are useless and they are merely in place to add to her strict image. She says that little harshness goes a long way towards fixing attitudes. She always asserts her opinions on things that she has no clue about. I mean who dares calls my cups dirty? The entire world drinks from them and so far nothing has happened to no one.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Verma was still staring down at the girl and she kept the stern gaze for what seemed like the longest minute ever. Anyone else would have seen the signs and would have fled. But not this little one. She kept on staring past Mrs. Verma. I think this was the first time when someone had refused to acknowledge Mrs. Verma’s presence and authority. Mrs. Verma stood there with puzzled expression. She didn’t know how to react. She shuffled on her feet for a few seconds and with uncertain moves and disorderly steps walked towards me. She averted my gaze and she feigned a search for something in her bag. Talking to no one in particular, she said “look at kids these days. They don’t respect their elders at all. Look at the pride on her face. I wonder which school she goes to.” When she looked up after the rant, she caught ShuklaJi staring at her. He had come just a couple of minutes back and hearing the rant, his face developed an expression of a man possessed. ShuklaJi ensures that he is here at 9 everyday without fail. I suspect that ShuklaJi has a soft corner for Mrs. Verma. Rather than talking to Mrs. Verma, I have often found him talking to her bosom, her bag, her saree and even her mug. And I reckon even Mrs. Verma likes the attention. May be this is why despite all the trouble and my dirty mugs, she comes over to my shop for the tea.

“Madam, who said what to you? Just tell me and I shall take care of the bastard”, Pandey spoke as he walked towards the shop. He had apparently heard Mrs. Verma’s anguish and unlike us, could infer what she was saying.

“Nothing Pandey Ji. Just some kid who needs to be disciplined”, replied Mrs. Verma, eying the girl.

Shukla Ji was feeling left out. He looked at me briefly and loped a question in the air. “Arey, wasn’t this girl sitting on the bench when I left after my morning walk?”

I replied, “I think she was but I am not sure. But she has been here for more than an hour for sure and she hasn’t made any effort to stop any bus. I wonder what’s wrong with her.” Though I stated mere facts, I was hoping to add some fuel to fire and get people talking. My experience has taught me more people indulge into conversations, more time they spend at the tea stop and more tea they consume. And nothing like a mystery or a controversy to get their opinions and hunger for tea flowing.

At this, Mrs. Verma who considers herself an authority on young women added “What are you saying? I am sure the girl is a chain snatcher and is waiting for the right target to come along. I know such girls. Like Hawks, they can sit for hours and wait for their prey and when they spot someone, they are as quick as lightening and before you realize they are gone. Look at her long legs. She must be a good runner. And since she is thin, she must be really hard to catch hold of. Pandey Ji, I think you should round her for interrogation. In fact do you remember when I had to call for you when one of my teachers lost her purse in the school? Dint we find it in a girl’s school bag? Didn’t that girl confess about her crime and how she wanted money to buy expensive clothes so that she may please her boyfriend? Boyfriend at the age of 15. When I was growing up, girls were married for two years by the time they were 15. Girls back then were so obedient and they respected their parents and in-laws. Now, we have a totally different generation. Talk harshly to a girl and she would have a meter long tear running down her cheek. I am telling you, we are giving so much freedom to these girls. It will not help our society. Our culture is getting lost. I mean look at me. Despite the fact that I am a teacher and I need to keep my mind open, I still adhere to things that my parents taught me. And those values that I learnt back then are still helping me instill discipline in my students. PandeyJi, you at once should go and check with that girl and search her yellow bag. How dare a criminal like that is roaming free on our streets?”

Mrs. Verma was breathless by this time and had to actually sit down and fan her face with the edge of her saree. Before Pandey made his unlikely move, I had to do something about the situation. Mrs. Verma was just being vicious and I had anyways told myself that I would help the girl. I was beginning to like the girl. And if Pandey identified the missing girl, I would lose the opportunity to claim the missing person’s award. I retorted, “Verma Madam, how can you say something like that? Look at the poor girl. She seems to be from a good family. I think she needs help. Does she look like a chain snatcher to you? Look at her clothes? She is dressed better than most of your girls. She is wearing such nice blue shoes. Look at the watch on her wrist. She can’t possibly be a chain snatcher. The bag would not have anything but her books.” I eyed towards Pandey for support. I knew that he is the laziest policeman ever and even if the girl had crook stamped across her face, Pandey would not bother moving his butt.

Constable Pandey wanted to speak up and before he could do so, ShuklaJi jumped in. “How can you talk like that to Mrs. Verma? She is the most educated person amongst us.” Shukhlaji paused for a second, looked into the eyes of Mrs. Verma and continued talking. “She has a point. If she wasn’t a chain snatcher, why would she be sitting here? If she is lost, can’t she ask people for help? If she was from a respectable family, she would never run away from home and bring disgrace to her family. But what would you know? Only Mrs. Verma can appreciate these things. We should listen to Mrs. Verma. We should check with the girl. If PandeyJi is reluctant to go, I volunteer to go and speak to her.” Dropping his tone a bit, addressing Mrs. Verma’s dangling reading glasses, he said. “I have even heard that there are girls her age into flesh trade. They look for gullible and unsuspecting people and trap them. These girls would come to you, cook a story and tell you that they’ve lost their way and they need help. What can an honest and kind man do in such a situation? And moment you offer help, they cling onto you and dont let go. I have a friend who got trapped like that. I am …”

Pandey cut ShuklaJi short and said, “Your friend? If my memory serves me right, dint you yourself come to the police station a few weeks back and filed a report against a girl who had stolen some money from your shop? And you dint have any witness to support your claim?”

“Uh  … yes yes it was me but how are these things related? It was a case of shoplifting and this is a prostitute we are talking about here”. ShuklaJi tried to dodge the volley.

“Prostitute?” I asked with disbelief. “ShuklaJi! Sir, if we can’t help the poor girl, let’s not throw baseless allegations at her.”, I said.

“I think in your report you said that this girl asked you for help and you gave her some money and when you refused to give her more, she snatched money from you and ran away”, continued Pandey.

“Arey nahi nahi sir. That was something else. Anyways I took my report back after I spoke to the Station In-charge. Didn’t I? And we have a bigger trouble here. We need to know who is this girl and where is she from. We need to know if she can cause any harm to Mrs. Verma and her girls.” ShuklaJi tried making peace with Pandey.

It was now Constable Pandey’s turn to put forth his opinion. He said, “We are just making a mole of a mountain. I am saying its nothing. This is just a case of the girl bunking her college. She does not where to go and hence she is just whiling away time at the bus stop. It’s so cold outside. Who would not like to soak up some sun? I think we should leave her alone. Why waste our time and effort on talking to these girls? Anyways once they are old enough to get married, they would be sent to their in-laws house and all they would do the entire day is cook and clean.”

I was aghast. I was amidst a bunch of people who were supposedly educated and yet they spoke of women as if they were mere objects. Especially in the age when women were launching rockets in space and running big businesses. I did not know how to react to these comments by Pandey, Shukla and Madam. I sincerely wish I could do something for the little girl and help her. I could think of only one way. I handed a cup of tea to Pandey and told him, “PandeyJi, I know it’s inconvenient to you but could you please check with her? This is the least we can do for her and if she is lost, we can help her find her way to home”.

Pandey looked at me with irritation and said, “Ok ok, I will do it.”

And moment he turned towards the girl, he stopped in his tracks. So did we.

There was no one on the bus stop. Not even her yellow backpack.

Chapter 3. The Letter.

This is part 3 in a series. You may want to read part 1 and part 2 first.  

“So who do you think wants to kill you”?, asked Prakash, to no one in particular. He always let his questions hang in the air like that. One of his theories was to ask questions to no one in particular and let the audience answer. And more often than not, whoever responded first, in all likelihood happened to have a solid motive for the crime.

The scene in Nidhi’s bedroom was morbid. She sat curled up like a fetus on the sill of giant french windows. The sill has been designed to hold a small platform that someone could sit on. It looked like the comfort place for Nidhi. It was padded with a rich cushion and there was a small coffee table next to it. Nidhi was holding onto her knees in front of her chest and was rocking back and forth slowly. If this was not for real, it could pass off as a scene from one of her numerous rom-com movies. Nidhi was the undisputed queen of Indian romantic movies of this decade and along with Kabeer Khan, had inspired millions of love stories.

She was wearing a light pink linen tank top and white hot pants and despite her distraught shape, a generous amount of her flawless skin was on display. Despite his known aversion to the members of opposite gender, even Prakash could not stop admiring Nidhi’s well sculpted body. Prakash concluded that Nidhi must be the kinds to go to the gym religiously. Prakash also noticed that the windows behind Nidhi overlooked the garden and the swimming pool. Thanks to the Ashoka trees, from Nidhi’s vantage point, you could not see anything outside the house. And vice versa.

In the room, in presence, in various states of distraught was Nidhi’s entourage. Next to the french windows, on a writing table sat yet another strikingly good looking woman, of about 25 or so. Her hips were casually resting against the table and her arms were folded in front of her chest. She was wearing a pair of skin tight denims and a bright tee shirt. Prakash guessed that she must be Payal, Nidhi’s manager and close friend. Prakash quipped to himself, “Even this Payal could be an actress”. On the bed, sat the famous Neelima Kapoor, Nidhi Kapoor’s mother. Prakash did not have any difficulty identifying her. He had seen his share of films when he was young. Though Neelima was old now, one could see that she would have been a splendid beauty in her heydays. Next to the bed, on a chair, sat Naveen Kapoor. He still had a look of hostility in his eyes and body language. He was talking softly to Neelima and Prakash could not hear their conversation, even though he was in the same room as them. Two servants, apparently a middle aged couple were busy tending to all those present in the room. The lady was standing next to Nidhi and the man was standing against a wall, close to Naveen.

Unlike the rest of the house, Nidhi’s room was rather spartan. Apart from rich embroidered curtains, thick rugs and cushions in all shapes and sizes, a very few items of vanity were at show. Unlike the reception hall and her study, the bedroom did not have a single picture of Nidhi or her movie posters. Prakash found it rather strange. Prakash also noticed that the room did not have a single book. It did have a large Sony television and a few bollywood and hollywood DVD stacked neatly in the cabinet, just the way books and vinyl records were stacked in the office. He also saw a Harman Kardon music dock on the writing table where Payal was standing, connected to a mobile phone. There was no music playing though. There was some sort of a walk in closet on the far side of the room and Prakash could not see it from where he was standing but could make out that it was a dressing room, closet and storage, all rolled into one. There was another door next to the closet. It apparently led to the bath.

Prakash waited for Nidhi to answer but she continued to rock back and forth slowly on her hips. When no one else volunteered an answer, Prakash started to move towards Nidhi but Naveen interrupted, “This is not the right time to ask her such questions. Cant you see she is already troubled. If not for the shoot yesterday, God knows what would have happened. You must leave us alone now. I’d have a word with Commissioner Sharma.”

Prakash shot an angry glance at Naveen. Prakash’s eyes were hard and cold like a stone. Even though he was a small man, his eyes could easily send shivers down the spine of even hardened criminals. But Naveen did not flinch. He instead got up from the chair, walked between Prakash and Nidhi and folded his arms over his chest. Prakash realized that Naveen was either overprotective of Nidhi or was trying to shield her for some reason. Prakash said, “I am merely trying to help your family here, not that I want to. I don’t really care about these mutts but the letter is a serious matter. I am sure you must be used to getting death threats all the time but do any of you realize that this time it is for real?”

Prakash took back a step. He was about to go out of the room. He paused and said, “Tambe, give me that letter.” Without waiting for an answer, he literally snatched the letter from Tambe and placed it on the empty chair that was previously occupied by Naveen. He continued, “This letter was in the typewriter in the room downstairs. If after reading this, you change your mind, you may talk to Mr. Sharma and come see me at the station.”
 
At the mention of the typewriter, Nidhi turned her neck slowly at Prakash. Prakash noticed the movement and for an instant he and Nidhi were looking into each other eyes. Prakash thought that Nidhi’s eyes were her best feature and could now imagine why all her films did so well despite lack of any substance. Nidhi broke the gaze and glanced around the room, searching for the letter that Prakash was talking about. She found it on the chair and then she stared at it, wrapped inside a transparent evidence bag. She looked at the letter and then at Prakash and then at her mother, Neelima. Finally she rested her eyes on the letter.

Prakash noticed Nidhi staring at the letter, he turned around and left the room. Praveen followed him with a nonchalant walk. Renu was too dumbfounded to make anything of this. She was standing close to the door and after Prakash left the room, everyone, except the famous Nidhi Kapoor, was starting at her. She did not know how to react. She retraced her steps, turned around and stumbled out of Nidhi’s room.

Renu climbed down the stairs and ran after Prakash and Praveen. She caught up with them when they had reached the lawn and were almost out of the main entrance to the house. Renu said, “What is this? You would simply walk away? Shouldn’t you investigate further?”

Prakash looked at her, began to talk, and then stopped short in his tracks. He was staring at something behind Renu. Praveen and Renu turned around as well and they saw Nidhi Kapoor running towards them. They were stunned at Nidhi’s sudden transformation from a shock-stricken young dame to having total control of her sense.

“Wait, wait”, she was panting. She continued. “Sir, wait a minute please. I want to speak to you about this”. She was holding the letter in her left hand and was waving it frantically in the air. Behind Nidhi, Prakash and party could see Naveen Kapoor and Payal Chopra trying to catch up to Nidhi.

Prakash said, “What about it? Clearly your uncle believes that he does not need my help. Contrary to popular belief, we are really short staffed and…”

Nidhi interrupted Prakash in mid speech. She said looked him into his eyes and said, “Ok, stop it. I apologize for my uncle. He is like that only. Please. You know, my dogs and cat were very important to me. I am not worried about the attack or the letter. I have been getting such threats since I was a kid. But I really want to see the bastard punished. Please help me.”

By this time, while talking, Nidhi had come really close to Prakash without anyone realizing it. She was holding onto Prakash’s arm by now.

Prakash underwent a sudden transformation. He looked at his arm. Nidhi realized it and let go. Prakash said, “Ok, I would need to ask you a few things. You will have to lodge an official police complaint about this letter. Can we sit somewhere quiet?”

Nidhi nodded like an obedient school kid and led them to her bedroom once again. She went and sat on her window sill. Prakash asked everyone else to wait in other rooms while he interrogated Nidhi at length. Renu observed that Nidhi was composed throughout the entire interview and volunteered information at a few places even though she was not asked.

After Nidhi, Prakash spoke to Payal, Neelima and two servants. He did not interrogate Naveen. Prakash relied on his memory to notice details and interviews, Renu on the other hand took copious amount of notes of all interviews. Praveen in the meanwhile had left to work with the rest of police team that had arrived to take a stock of the crime scene.

Prakash eventually got Nidhi and Naveen in a room and said, “I’d be leaving now. My team is already here and is working in your study. They would leave in a bit. I would need those CCTV tapes as and when you can get those. Please send them over. And let me know in case you need an extra cover of security.”

Prakash and Renu walked out. As they were coming out of the house, Renu asked, “What do you make of these interviews”?

Prakash said, “Everyone seemed to cooperate. I could not read anything in any one’s body language. I don’t think someone would have had the balls to barge into the house with all the security and electronic surveillance. The animals were plain unlucky. Everyone believes that if Nidhi was not out for a shoot, she wouldn’t have been with us.”

Prakash continued, “It has to be an insider. But cleaving these animals like this, I don’t think a woman is capable of doing it. Naveen Kapoor looks like those typical rich snobs but I he is not capable of hurting anyone. He is a rather meek person and he hides behind his loud mouth. If he wasn’t related to Nidhi and Neelima, he couldn’t be anything more than a mere orderly in a large building. So I think I can rule him out but I have been wrong in the past. The servants have been with Kapoors since last 15 or so years. So I don’t know. Everyone seems to be above suspicion. I have asked Naveen for tapes from CCTV. Let’s see what comes out of those. What did you think?”

Renu was back to her usual self, “Hmmm, makes sense. I thought as much. I have a few observations as well. But before that, I am starving. Can we please go and grab something to eat please?”

Prakash was getting irritated. He said, “I’d be in my office. I’d drop you to some place on the way.”

Renu played along, “Of course. Now that you have The Nidhi Kapoor’s phone number, why would you talk to a mere reporter? That Payal is not bad either. No?”

Prakash shot an angry glance and did not say anything. Renu continued, “But what was in that letter that made her forget all her worries and run to you like that?”

Prakash took the letter out of his pocket, handed it over the letter to Renu and said, “Here, read it for yourself. Hand it over to Tambe once you are done.”

Dear Nidhi,

I have been trying to get in touch with you for so long. I have tried to speak to you so many times but you are always busy. Today Nidhi, the separation from you got the better of me and I had to come and meet you. I went to your film set but you had left by that time. I thought I would catch up with you here at your home. I knew you would be in your study. Didn’t you say so in your interviews?

I came here and well well well, I was surprised to see all those books. I did not know you were interested in reading. You have never mentioned that anywhere. But it was a good surprise. May be when we are together, we could take a few books with us for the holidays.

Coming back, I loved your room and just when I sat down on the couch to play some music, your dogs and cat starting growling at me. Thanks to that documentary about you on the Discovery channel, I knew about them and I had come prepared. I had a pack of biscuits laced with sedatives and it was easy to pacify the greedy animals.

I just sat there and I waited and waited and waited for you.
Since I did not have anything to do, I thought I’d play with your pets. But the silly creatures were almost asleep and were no fun. And I thought, why not just remove them from the scene altogether? I started with the cute pug. I know you call it Cho. Ever since that mobile phone company used it in their ads, every one has bought one. Did you also get it because of that ad Nidhi? Even if you did, thanks to me, its gone now. I held the pug in my arms and twisted it neck like a coil, like that wristwatch that you had to wound regularly. I did it till the neck snapped with that sweet sound of the bone breaking. Its the most comforting sound ever Nidhi, the sound that a bone makes when it breaks. Someday I would make you hear it.

Ceaser, the bulldog was next. You know I tied one of it hind legs to the writing table. I actually wanted to write this letter on its belly. I would have been the best love letter ever. I started to write but despite the drugs, the damn dog did not stop moving at all. I got so angry so angry that I just stabbed him in the belly with your pencils. And then it started to cry. Can you believe it? Cry! A dog. I just plunged a pencil in its face so that it would stop crying.

The cat, was surprisingly easy. I merely had to lift it up and slam it on the floor some three four times. You know I was surprised to know that cats don’t really bleed as much as dogs, or even us humans do.

And then I cleaned all the mess. I piled them on top of each other on the nice carpet. It made a brilliant sight. And then I started to wait again! I waited till almost the morning. I wanted to stay longer but I had to go. If I am missing from my room for too long, they will know. And I don’t want them to know about me. But of course you know who I am. Don’t you?

I will be in touch. Will meet soon. You and I are meant to be together. This word can’t keep me away from you any longer. There are so many things that I need to tell you Nidhi, so many.

Till the time we meet, you please take care. And wait for me. 

Renu got so engrossed in reading the letter that she did not realize that Prakash had left her alone in the sprawling lawns of the Kapoor’s. She looked around and found Tambe smirking at her. Tambe said, “Madam, saheb has left. I am also done talking to the guards. I am heading towards the police station. Do you want a lift?”

Renu nodded and said to herself, “something is not quite right here. I cant put a finger on it yet though”. She was now riding shotgun in an open jeep of Mumbai police and it was flying down the empty expressway.

Of punctuations and grammar. And on writing.

I have spent a large part of last few days thinking about Nidhi Kapoor and Prakash Mohile. For the uninitiated, these two are the lead protagonists in my latest attempt at writing fiction. I dont have a name for it as yet, I am open for suggestions. But its a novel length piece of crime fiction (about 80,000 words spread over 20 – 25 chapters).

But the thing about cooking fiction is that you have a vague idea of what you want to write about. You come up with a setting, you draft your characters and place your characters in the setting and try to bring that vague idea to life. You take liberal doses of inspiration from things that you have read and experienced in the past. And you mix these and some other things into a concoction. Finally you try and put this mix into words.

And this is where you fuck up. When it comes to actually putting pen to paper. Especially when you are not a native speaker of English and you are brought up in a society that discourages use of Hindi. As a result, you grow up confused and you dont have command over either language. You think in Hindi, translate it in English and then you write. As a result, the grammar and the meaning of what you want to say go for a toss. If you try thinking in English, since your vocabulary is so tiny that you cant find the right words to put your thoughts on paper. So, when you want to talk about a good looking woman, you can only use words like gorgeous, beautiful, brilliant, awesome. Since you dont know synonyms like astonishing, awe-inspiring, breathtaking, exalted, formidable, frantic, grand, imposing, impressive, magnificent, majestic, mind-blowing, moving, overwhelming, shocking, striking, stunning, stupefying, wonderful, wondrous, you get repetitive and monotonous. And despite your brilliant narrative, the text becomes boring. And then you cant pin point your mistake.

So today while I was stuck on the third chapter of the Nidhi Kapoor saga, I decided to make a list of things that I dont know and I need to work upon. Here is the list. If you can help, I am willing to pay for it…

  1. When I use quotes to denote a dialogue or a statement by a character, do I put a full stop after closing the quotes? Or before that? What if my character is asking a question? Does the question mark come after the quotes? And do I put a full stop after that? And yes, I did clear CAT with flying colors.
  2. What is a good way to break paragraphs when you are writing something? And are there any established norms for the same?
  3. The difference between choose and chose, loose and lose, anyway and anyways, even though and despite. And a million other common mistakes that non-native speakers like me make
  4. Vocabulary. I read somewhere that an average human being knows about 15000 words. The great writers however know some 100,000 66, 000 words. I am sure I dont know more than 10,000. I need to work on it. Can someone help me with some tips on these? 
  5. Formatting for readability. How do I format my text that it is readable. I know that people dont really read every word but they skim through the text. So, how do I format text so that while skimming, you focus on the essential bits, that are important to a crime fiction? Is the F pattern true for fiction as well?
  6. More people like Pressfield? I read his blog regularly and love his advice to people like me. He’s really really good. Are there more people like this? I dont want self-improvement advice. I want insights from people who have been there and who have done that.

Thats it. I just need these 6 things. I already have a brilliant support group – a set of people to whom I email everytime I write something – for feedback. Most of them are busy and cant really respond fast enough but they give me enough insights and I really value their inputs.

Thats it for the time being.

I am also looking for an editor who can work with me on correcting these grammatical errors that I make in my texts. And a researcher, who could help me plug loop holes in my text. Anyone?  

Chapter 2. Cho, Ceaser and Cookie.

This is part 2 in a series. You may want to read part 1 first.

Prakash observed that the office was not big compared to the opulence and grandeur of the living room that he had just crossed. An impressive polished teak table was placed in the middle of the room. Behind it was a window overlooking the garden, it had lilac chiffon curtains on it. A shiny iMac on the table was facing that window. There was a pen stand that had immaculately sharpened pencils, sharpened ends facing up, in it. Next to the stand were loose sheets of paper, fluttering under the constant waft of air from the aircon vent write above it. They were held back by a figurine of Sheldon Cooper, the character from the TV series Big Bang Theory. It was a picture perfect setting for a writer. The writer could walk upto the desk any minute and start scribbling out his best seller. And then Prakash saw it, the typewriter, perched up on the other end of the table. And a sheet of paper hanging out of it. The paper had something typed on it. It also seemed to have crimson spats on it. From where Prakash was, the spats looked like dried blood stains.

The wall on the left had a floor to ceiling high bookshelf, filled meticulously with books,
mostly on film, television, biographies and other such popular titles that people merely collect, to show off, and not read. The shelf was designed like that in libraries. Wooden shelves, spaced at regular distances, and without a glass door. On the
other side of the table, along the right hand wall was a huge bright yellow couch, enough to become a makeshift bed if required. And placed between the table and the couch was a huge gramophone and an envious collection
of vinyl records stacked as neatly and orderly as the books in the
bookshelf were. Looked like Nidhi Kapoor had a fetish for all things
retro. And she was orderly in her approach and everything was neatly stacked. Any amateur people-watcher could tell that she was at least a borderline case of obsessive compulsive disorder and Prakash was no amateur.

There was a oval rug on the floor between the door and the teak-wood desk. The rug occupied most of the empty space on the floor. Looked like an expensive piece of accessory but it had soaked in a lot of blood and had become messy. Renu, when she entered the room behind Prakash and Praveen in a hurry, had stepped on this rug. Renu was wearing her regular Kolhapuri chappals and if she wasnt numb with what she saw, she wouldve felt thick sticky liquid on her feet. Since she had stepped back to hold on to the frame of the door, she had left a distinct U shaped mark of her Kolhapuri chappal on the rug and at the entrance of the door. The red U mark pointing towards the story unfolding in front of her.

When Renu came in, on the rug, she saw lifeless bodies of two dogs and a cat. And not just lifeless but the murderer had used these poor animals as a canvas to show off his or her creativity on. A pug, that probably suffered the least when it was killed, had its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The eyes were still open and were staring at the entrance. The brown skin had turned dark with all the blood that had dried. The jaw was open and the tongue was cut by its own teeth, probably, the pug was trying to breathe once its neck broke. The other dog, a bull dog, had suffered the worst fate. It had  multiple stab wounds on its body and one of the pencils from the desk was stuck into its face, right below one of the eyes. It was lying on its back and and a huge blot of blood clot was visible on its entire belly. One of the legs was amputated and the bone was sticking out of it. The cat had deep cut on its shoulders. The white fur had turned red and the head was split open to reveal pinkish mass beneath the white and grey lumps of hair.

Dead bodies of all these animals, or whatever remained of them, were stacked close to each other and they looked like a heap of flesh and bones, gathered carelessly in the middle of big puddles of blood on the rug. And Renu was probably so disturbed because she loved pets. She herself had a cat at home. The cat at home, she called it Felix, was her only companion in fact. There was no dearth of suitors, she was young, very attractive and on the fast track to being successful. But for some reason she kept everyone at bay. She did have a few people that she would get sloshed with and then get one of them back home for the night. She probably wanted a similar arrangement with Inspector Prakash, get him drunk and invite over to her apartment. But right now, she could not think of anything else. Her gaze was fixed onto the heap of dead bodies and she seemed to have lost her speech. Tambe, when he saw her slump had rushed to help her but Prakash had stopped him from going.

“Hmmm… When did you discover this?”, Prakash asked no one in particular, but everyone knew that the question was addressed to Naveen Kapoor. Prakash was as composed as if he was in the familiar garden where he went for his morning yoga sessions.

Naveen was clearly uncomfortable in the room, made more uncomfortable by Prakash’s indifference and Renu’s trauma, he said, “I dont know Inspector. We found these today morning when Nidhi came into her office. Poor girl is still in shock. Cho, Ceaser and Cookie meant the world to her. She would take care of them as if they were her children”.

Tambe stared long and hard at Naveen on the children remark. Prakash looked at Tambe and then turned back to Naveen and continued, “No one at the house saw or heard anything? The security guards? If someone had to kill these animals, they had to get access to the house. And dont dogs and cat make a lot of noise? There is no way someone maimed these animals and no one heard a thing”. More than anything else, Prakash was talking to himself. Tambe knew it instantly, he and Prakash had been together since Tambe moved to Mumbai, from Satara, another district in Maharashtra. Tambe was a beat constable there and he had been promoted 4 years back.

Naveen said, “These were very friendly dogs. They did not bark even if you took their food away. They have been, had been, with us since Nidhi was in school and she had trained them well. Of course Nidhi’s father, late Nishant Kapoor, was a famous actor in his days. He always had money and time for these things. And the guards, they are not allowed in the house. Their only job is to remain outside the gates and control the maddening crowds that throng our home incessantly”.

“Mr. Kapoor, I asked if someone saw or heard something. I am not interested in the life and times of Kapoors”, Prakash said curtly. He apparently had no time for vain indulgences of Kapoor. 

“Are there more dogs, cats or other pets in the house? Did you interrogate the guards?”, Prakash was getting impatient and wanted to get over with the case as soon as possible.Even thought this looked like a petty crime where a few pets have been butchered but the way they were executed methodically, in cold blood, was making Prakash skeptic.

“No. No. I havent had time to ask anyone. Nidhi discovered this… mess and she’s gone in shock. She is upstairs in her bedroom with her mother and her assistant Payal. I have been tending to her. It was only when Payal reminded me to call the police, I spoke to Raj Saab”, replied Naveen.

Rajkiran Sharma was the commissioner of police and he had instructed his office to give this case to Prakash Mohile’s station. Everyone knew that Prakash was a no – nonsense officer and was least likely to get influenced by the high profile nature of the case. He is also known to keep his distance from the media. So the unnecessary leaks could be kept in tab.

“Hmm.. ok. I would want to talk to every member of the house, including the servants. I want to spend some time here by myself. Please wait for me outside till then”, Prakash said, while walking towards the table. He continued, “Tambe, take Renu Maam out of the room and get someone to get her some water”. Both statements were more of orders, rather than requests. Tambe was used to these but Naveen Kapoor wasn’t. He started to revolt but decided against it. He did not want to be in the room with dead bodies anyway. Naveen started to go out of the room, paused momentarily when he saw Renu on the door. Renu was still staring at the
mangled bodies and seemed to be shivering.

Naveen said, “You know Inspector, this is exactly how I found
Nidhi, right here on this door”. And with this, without waiting for an
answer, Naveen side-stepped Renu and walked out.

Moment
he was out of sight, Tambe muttered, “Sir, something’s wrong. Naveen is not
as worried as he wants to appear. But who would kill these poor
animals. They had a far far better life than most of us anyway. They
live in air conditioned rooms with enough food to feed five families,
and access to doctors that take more money per visit that we spend on
medicines in our entire lives”.

“And this is why someone killed them Tambe. Lets
stop chitchatting and go through the crime scene. But
first take care of Renu maam please”, instructed Prakash.

Tambe headed towards the door to tend to Renu who looked visibly shaken. Before Tambe could help Renu, she realized what was happening around her. She got up by herself and walked out. Tambe followed her out. Prakash silently saw them depart and turned towards the table again.

Prakash liked to work like that on most of his cases. He’d take one long, hard, unbiased look at the crime scene to acquaint himself with it. Then he would talk to everyone who could have had anything to do with the victim or the crime scene. Finally he would just let everything simmer in his head and wait for dots to connect. Every new evidence added another layer of connection between the dots and he kept on breaking and making these connections. And finally he would get the answers. Answers to even seemingly impossible cases. His repertoire of successful cases included confiscation of a large stash of illicit drugs and the famous hit and run by son of a leading industrialist. In both these cases, they did not have a single clue. Only a crime scene and tyre marks on a dusty road and a grainy footage from a cctv in the other. And yet Prakash was able to close those cases.

He was always called in when there were cases that seemed too complex for the police force to handle. Of course nothing in his countenance gave that away. He was rather small, compared to other police officers. He would be about 5 feet 8, very fit and was almost bald. He kept his head shaved and no one could tell that he was 34. He came to Mumbai with his mother and sister when he was ten and the city was still called Bombay. His mother was a successful theater actress in Pune, some 160 KMs from Mumbai. His father, a school teacher and their’s was a love marriage. But right after Prakash was born, the daily grind of the household got to the nerves of his parents and they had started quarreling occasionally at first and then almost everyday. His mother harbored the desire to be a film star and father liked the small town life on the outskirts of sleepy Pune. Differences became so much that Prakash’s mother decided to move to Mumbai with the kids in tow. But reality hit harder and sooner than she had expected. Her only appearances on screen were a few sightings in the background scenery and a couple of side roles as character actress. She, like others, turned to alcohol, in attempt to find solutions and success. Even that dint help. And when Prakash was all of fifteen, his mother committed suicide, depressed about girls half her age getting meatier roles than her. Even in her death, she did not get any mention in the newspapers. By this time, Prakash’s father had moved away from Pune and a young Prakash could not trace him. Prakash came back to Bombay and put all his energy and time into his and his sister’s education.

In Nidhi Kapoor’s office, despite all the other overpowering odors of excreta, animals, burnt flesh and air conditioning, there was a distinct whiff of some variety of lavender perfume in the room. Prakash made a mental note about the perfume and started to examine the room carefully. The first thing that he went to was the typewriter. On it was a sheet of paper that had some sort of typed letter on it. He carefully clicked the picture of the type writer and the sheet of paper hanging from it, with his phone and tore the sheet away. Prakash had a blatant disregard for protocol and yet he was careful enough with anything that he could use as evidence at a later date. Most other officers would wait for police photographer to arrive and take pictures of the venue before they start with the investigation. Not, Prakash. He liked to take action and swift action at that. He knew his technology and knew that pictures from an iPhone are as good as the one from official police cameras. And no one used the pictures anyway, except the newspaper hounds, when the pictures were leaked.

He started reading the letter, written in chaste English. It was apparently addressed to the deceased animals. Tambe was back by then and he saw Prakash reading the letter in rapt attention. Tambe guessed that the letter must contain something important, or else Prakash wasnt the kinds to put too much attention into reading. He dint even read the newspaper or the official reports.

“Whoever wrote this, definitely has a knack for writing good prose. Too bad, the letter is at the crime site, or the writer could have written a few films for Kapoor clan”, said Prakash and handed over the letter to Tambe, who carefully sealed it in an evidence bag. Tambe really wanted to read the letter but he wasnt good with English and more importantly he knew that while Prakash goes through a crime scene, Prakash wants everyone on their toes.

Nothing else seemed out of place in the room. The window behind the table was shut tight. The lawn beyond the window had a small swimming pool in it. The water in the pool was clean and calm and the umbrella next to the lounge chair was folded. The entire periphery of the house was covered with high walls, barb-wired at the top. Tall Ashoka trees had been planted along the wall, to afford privacy.

Prakash thought out loud, “So whoever did this, had a lot of time to go about carving these animals. There is precision of a careful planner. Apart from the foot mark left by Renu, there is no other trace left by the killer. The killer has to be somebody who knows this house and this room well. Animals are never friendly to strangers and there are no signs of any struggle. There is no way all three could be killed at one time. We can atleast get an autopsy done to estimate the time of killing of these”. Tambe was trying to think hard as well.

“Look Tambe!…”, Prakash suddenly exclaimed with excitement.

Prakash had reached the other end of the room where the large gramophone was placed next to that yellow couch.. Prakash suddenly bent over the gramophone and had pulled something out from the pie of vinyl records.

“What is it sir? A vinyl record? I have seen many of those a Lamington Road market.”, Tambe was trying to think hard and figure out the reason for Prakash’s excitiment. May be the record had some finger prints or some blood spats or something that they had missed all this while.

“An original record for Pyasa, the Guru Dutt movie. I have always wanted to own one of these. It would fit in well with my collection of…”, and Prakash paused in the middle of the sentence.

Tambe was thrown offguard for a minute when he heard the mention of Pyasa. He knew Prakash liked Guru Dutt but he could not make the connection between the crime scene and Prakash’s evident excitement. Before he could say something, Prakassh had paused in mid sentence and had started to walk towards the book shelf on the other end of the room, his eyes fixed at a spot on the top shelf. Tambe, being an experienced policeman realized what was important and his gaze followed Prakash’s. Prakash was staring at a point on the top corner of the book shelf.

Prakash side stepped the rug in the middle of the room and crossed the entrance to the room and reached the bookshelf. He said, “Looks like someone has borrowed a book from this shelf. And a fat book. There is no way the book shelf would have an empty spot like this when every inch of available space on the shelf is crammed with books. And I can bet no one here touches any books. These are meant for display only!”.

Tambe replied, “How do you know sir that these are for display. And may be a book is missing. Or someone took it on loan. What does a missing book has to do with our case sir?”. Tambe was amongst a handful of colleagues who could afford to question Prakash’s judgement.

Prakash answered, “Look at the shelf. All books are lined neatly as if they were lined with a ruler. There is a thin layer of dust on the shelf. Probably the cleaner did not get time today. The spot on the top shelf however, is clean. Very clean. So clean that its out of place. Its as if there was a book there and someone dragged it out of there to make space. Also people who read a lot, read more than one book at a time. And they always leave the books they are reading at strange places. My sister does that. The house is full of books and bookmarks”. Prakash paused to examine the titles on the shelf.

“And look at the gramophone there”, Prakash pointed and said, “someone plays it regularly. There is not a speck of dust on it. The vinyls are stacked neatly as well but some of them are not in their jackets, like this Pyasa record, and some have been left right next to the player. Its odd that a room kept as meticulously as this would have an empty space in the bookshelf”.

“You are right sir. And who wants to read only biographies and film books. Where are the magazines? And our staple evening newspaper, Maha Sakaal?”, quipped Tambe. He continued, “Sir, which paper does Renu madam write for?”

Prakash replied carelessly, “I dont know that. Raj Saab hasnt told me that. Its some secret assignment for some international newspaper or magazine. All I know is that I am supposed to keep her in tow for a month. And that means we have to tolerate her for 15 more days”.

Tambe began to laugh. He was the kinds that had infectious laughter. When he laughed, you could see all his teeth. And laugher sounded more like a roar.

“Whats so funny that you are laughing? And we are done here. I have seen what is there to be seen. We wont find anything of interest here. Ask someone to seal this room”, Prakash instructed.

Tambe nodded and flipped out his walkie talkie to call for this colleagues.

“And lets go and talk to Nidhi Kapoor. You always wanted to meet her. Right? Here is your chance. But before you talk to her, there is something very important that I want to do. That letter that I gave you Tambe, I have to ask her something about it”. Prakash said and he headed out of the room. He also threw the vinyl that he was so excited about, at Tambe, who caught it deftly. Tambe left the record on the yellow couch and rushed behind Prakash.

Renu was standing outside the room, facing the door, still looking at the mangled bodies on the rug. She was using the wall to support her back and her entire demeanor seemed resigned, but in control. She tried to collect herself when she saw Prakash come out. Prakash looked at her, paused and said, “Oh yes, you! I had almost forgotten about you. Are you alright? I want you to come with me when I talk to Nidhi Kapoor. Can you do it?”

Prakash rarely waited for answers. That was his way of working. His orders often came in guise of requests, and requests in guise of questions. This sounded like a question and Renu knew immediately that this was a request.

She said, “Yes I think I am ok now. I would come along. I need to catch whoever did this. Bloody butcher needs to be punished”. This was the first time Renu had shown any kind of serious emotion. So far, in her two weeks with Prakash and Praveen, she hardly let her true emotions surface. She started following Prakash with hurried steps. Prakash was anyway always in hurry and now had Tambe and Renu in tow.

And they left the room, the way they found it. Only thing they had taken from the room was the letter from the typerwriter. And the only thing they had left behind was a pointed U mark from Renu’s Kolhapuri chappal on the expensive rug.

2700 Words – Of no consequence

Note: Starting August 2013, I am going to work full time to extend this “chapter” into a full length fictional story. I call it the Nidhi Kapoor Story. Do check out the website and the Facebook page.


As part of 1000WADv2, I am trying my hand at crime fiction. I wrote some 2700 words and I dint even touch the C of crime. Damn. Read on anyway and please share your feedback. Comment or email.

It began like any other day in the office for Prakash Mohile. As the chief inspector with the crime prevention bureau of Mumbai Police, his job was a tough one. For a city that more than two crore people call home, Mumbai had a very small police force of just about 41000 employees, divided into 89 stations. And with all the VIPs, film stars and industrialists that demanded constant protection from threats legit and otherwise, the force was always understaffed and overworked.

Amongst all the odd jobs that Prakash was responsible for, he was also in charge of protection net for those famous film stars. On the outside he came across as a no nonsense policeman with an impeccable service record and a clean image. He was even friendly with a few reporters on the crime beat with major newspapers. Like most mornings, today he was leafing through case files from the previous evening, hearing out the mercy pleas of kin of miscellaneous men arrested yesterday and barking instructions at his juniors. All at the same time. And not for a minute he stopped staring at Renu Sharma, the photo journalist with a nameless international publication. Renu was doing a photo essay on Mumbai police and though Mohile did not appreciate anyone interfering with the way he worked, Renu had been put in the station by the city Mayor and Mohile could not do a thing about it. Of course it helped that Renu was good looking, intelligent to talk to and obviously interested in more than merely professional relationship with Mohile.

Most cases today were as drab as they were on any other day. Same set of extortion calls, thefts, road accidents, celebrity altercations, union troubles. By the time officers spend five or so years in the police service, they become indifferent to all the miseries around them. Not Prakash. He had been in service for more than 10 years, or 10 years, 4 months and 3 days, as he liked to remind his staff every day. Every day while allocating casing to his subordinates, he would ponder on the meaning of life and unnecessary grief caused by these crimes. No surprises that he was most sympathetic to the issues of poor and helpless. And most indifferent to miseries of the rich. And as a result, he would allocate the cases of the fanciest film star to the worst of his team.

And it came as a surprise to everyone today when he kept a very high profile case for himself. Even Renu took note of it, now that she has been shadowing Prakash for well over a week now and was aware of his decisions. No body had the balls to question him, he was very clear in his head when he decided something. But then Renu did not subscribe to either fear or respect for Prakash. She was anyway known to be a loud mouth.

“So, Inspector Saab, finally you found a case worthy of your time? You are also going to chase lime light now with this stupid case of what looks like a petty theft at Nidhi Kapoor’s house?”, taunted Renu, while stuffing her things in her bag. She knew that once Prakash does the allocation, he wants every officer on the field.

Prakash just looked up at Renu, gave her his trademark smirk and went back to his files. That smirk, had as infamous reputation as any goon could have. Prakash used when he knew he was right and the other person dead wrong. For different people it meant different things. For suspects and criminals, it meant that Prakash has called their bluff and they were now in the bad books of Prakash. Forever. For his subordinates, it meant that they hadn’t done their homework and were caught with their hands in the cookie jar. For people who did not know Prakash, it just came across as a silly smile of a tall, lanky balding old man. For Renu, however, it merely meant that Prakash was amused at the apparently smart comment by her.

Renu knew of the smirk. She could not tolerate her being dismissed like that. She egged on, “I know you like Nidhi Kapoor. Weren’t you a part of her security detail when the premier of her last film was screened for the CM? There were quite a few pictures of you, her and the CM in all the newspapers. You do seem to have a soft corner for her”.

“Stop wasting your time. If you want to come along, you better hurry up”. Prakash said, while rushing out of the station. Renu had to almost run to reach the gates of the police station and grab a seat in Prakash’s jeep. That’s another thing. Prakash drove his jeep by himself. The driver was merely a watchdog and usher for the jeep; Prakash would park the jeep wherever he felt like, irrespective of the time of the day or the traffic in the city.

On the way, while they were crossing the Juhu Beach, Renu said, “Prakash Sir, we must come here sometime in the evening. I’ve heard the Pao Bhaji is to die for”. The constables and the driver giggled softly at the overt display of affection. Prakash stared hard at them. His stare was enough to put the fear of God in anyone’s head. All three of them shut their mouths in less than a second. Renu was quite amused with the scene and started looking at people milling around on the beach. She wondered why would someone come to a beach at 11 in the morning? Dint they have better things to do? Were they jobless. And then her thoughts drifted towards Prakash and the last week that she had spent with him. She knew she was craving for Prakash and despite him knowing it, he remains illusive. 

The jeep came to a halt all of a sudden and Renu was almost thrown out of the jeep, if only Prakash hadn’t caught her. She did not know how to react. She was still shocked from the sudden break and yet she could feel the strong grip of Prakash on her arms. “Next time, you better sit in the back. These jeeps are not your luxury cars that you girls now a days are used to”, said Prakash while getting down from the jeep. The constables had alighted by then and were already walking towards the front door of Nidhi Kapoor’s house.

The access to house wasn’t easy really. It was a Sunday and on each Sunday, precisely at noon, she would step outside on the balcony of her mansion and wave at her fans for exactly 2 minutes. And for some reason, the number of fans eager to get a glimpse of her, in flesh and blood, only went up every week. Today as well, the road opposite her house was jammed with bumper to bumper traffic and huge crowd that had gathered for the weekly sighting of Nidhi Kapoor. Renu had done a story on this phenomenon few weeks back and had captured pictures of residences of Kapoors, Khans and other acting clans. But for some reason, Renu felt that today there was this unrest in the crowd and rather than a bobbling mass of energy that these crowds normally are, today it was cold and distant. By this time Prakash had stopped the jeep in the middle of road and was scampering towards Nidhi Kapoor’s house with his team. Renu ignored her thoughts and tried to keep pace with Prakash and his team.

Prakash was trying to wade through the crowd towards Nidhi Kapoor’s house and when he heard his head constable and closet confidant in his team, Praveen Tambe, mutter, “I wish even I had these many people standing outside my house for my darshan. These film stars must be bribing God to give them such wonderful lives”. Prakash turned to him and said, “Wait till we get back to station. I would hang you upside down, naked, in front of the station. Then you’d definitely get some audience”. Praveen blushed for a moment and he stopped in his tracks for a minute. Only to be pushed around by crowd around him. Prakash said,”Move it bhai, we dont have all day. This case was sent to us by the commissioner’s office”. And he rushed towards the gate, with Tambe, Nidhi and another constable in the tow.

The guards on duty today were more alert than ever. Normally they would be sprawled on their chairs, under an umbrella and would be sipping on to their teas. Today they were alert and had made a security ring outside the main door. They even had their guns, which normally were out of sight, in full display. When they saw these four run toward the house, they got tense for a minute. But when they recognized Prakash and Praveen and heaved a sigh of relief. They tried to stop Renu but Praveen signaled that she was with them. The door opened just enough to let them through and then it closed behind them, faster and tighter than ever.

And suddenly, from the commotion on the street outside, they were in an expansive and yet well-maintained lawn. It was quiet and serene inside. It was as if they were teleported to a different place, a different time. Prakash looked up at the noise reduction barriers installed on top of the wall that made the periphery of the large house. Praveen followed Prakash’s gaze and understood what Prakash was thinking. In the lawn, a  middle aged man was was pacing frantically around the chairs placed bang in the middle of the lawn. When he saw Prakash and his entourage, he ran towards them.

“Hello Inspector… Mohile”, said Naveen Kapoor, eyeing Prakash’s name badge. Naveen Kapoor continued, “I am Naveen Kapoor. Nidhi’s uncle and her manager. I spoke to Commissioner Sharma in the morning only. Thank you so much for coming at this short notice. Sharma saab could not come? I was expecting him, you know.”

“Mr. Kapoor. Sharma saab may not have time to chase wide geese like this. He had instructed me to visit you personally and here I am. Otherwise even I have other pressing matters to worry about. Can I please meet Ms. Nidhi now?” Prakash was clearly offended by Kapoor’s demand to see the police commissioner and he cut the long monologue that Naveen had launched himself into.

“How dare you talk to…And who is she? And I clearly told Sharma saab, no photographers”. Kapoor pointed at Renu and her camera.

Prakash said, “I know what you asked him. She is with us and she will be present while I am here. I can assure you that she will not click any pictures but she will stay. If you like it, we can stay and meet Ms. Nidhi. If not, we can go back to the station and wait for Mr. Sharma to get free and come and see you”.

“I dont believe… Ok. She is in her room. Lets go there”, Naveen started to argue but then thought better of it. He rushed towards the house.

The house was an impressive structure, shaped like a Pantheon. And thus it was tough to guess the number of floors. But the elevation looked like as if it was a three story structure. Prakash, Praveen and Renu started following Naveen Kapoor. Prakash nodded at the third policeman and indicated him to guard the main entrance. The policeman went off towards the main gate to the house.

“Who else lives in this house Mr. Kapoor?”, asked Prakash.

“Here? Nidhi, her mother, her assistant, a couple of servants. That’s about it. I live in a building in the next lane. I come and go as and when Nidhi or Nilima, my sister and Nidhi’s mother need me.”, replied Kapoor.

Prakash stared at his back and continued, “What about all those guards on duty at the main gate? Where do they live?”

“Oh, those, they dont live here. We’ve hired a security agency and four guards work here on 6 hour shifts each. So total of 24 guards. There is a room for security guards towards the end of the lawn. They use that room for wash and change”, Kapoor said, pointing a finger at a small room on the far end of the house. From that room, someone with an intent and powerful set of equipment could keep an eye on the house and the entrance, without getting noticed.

Prakash whistled and said to no one in particular, “24 guards? For
one woman? And when shes not even at the home most of the times? Why are
we wasting our time here Tambe?”. Tambe knew that he was not supposed
to react. This was how Prakash worked.

Kapoor, as if he did not hear Prakash, continued. “Nidhi is the biggest superstar in the Indian film industry. Her last 3 movies have gone on to make more than 100 crores each on the box office. We have to be very cautious. Even the guards are not allowed inside the house. And the house has a biometric access system”.

Kapoor put his thumb on an electronic scan pad, entered a string of numbers of the pad and opened the door for the group. He said, “please come in”.

Renu all this while was seeping in the scenery around her. Nidhi Kapoor was obviously rich and had a fine taste. The house had been done nicely. The reception hall, or the drawing room, was rather large for Mumbai standards, with a nice chandelier hanging from the ceiling. She frowned at it. She thought chandeliers were a thing of past and nobody used them anymore. She hated it when she was proved wrong. Each wall had a certain character to it. Each wall told a different story. The one of the left was full of photos of Nidhi Kapoor, framed in wooden photoframes in all size. It was like a rectangular mesh of wood with pictures of Nidhi Kapoor stuck in the mesh. The one on right probably was where Nidhi Kapoor showcased art and pictures from famous artist friends. It also had life size posters of old movies, from the time when posters were actually sketched and coloured by hands. Renu wanted to steal that Sholay poster. She made a mental note of it.

There was a sofa set underneath the chandelier that could seat a mini procession and yet leave room for more people to sit on. The tables behind the sofa set, had curios, apparently gathered from all parts of the world. The whole place had a sense of symmetry to it. Like someone had used a ruler to put it all together with great care. While she was wondering about the meticulous brain that had designed the hall, she realized that she was left alone in the hall. She saw the back of Tambe dissappeaing behind an open door on the left. She scampered towards that door and yelled out loud, “wait for me!”.

She rushed in the room and immediately stepped onto something sticky on the floor. And she froze at her place. Her eyes opened up wide with amazement. Or was it horror. Or may be shock. She could not pinpoint what emotion was at play and had left her stunned with her jaws hanging open. She could feel all the energy drain out of her system. Her head began to throb and she could imagine a lump, size of a cricket ball, beneath her scalp, aching to burst out of her head. With great difficult, she took a step back and grabbed the door to help herself from falling like a heap of potatoes.

Renu was not weak hearted at all. She had seen her share of gory crime scenes as a criminal photo journalist and she had earned the reputation for having guts of steel. Crime scenes that made the most experienced of policemen empty their guts out on the sides, she worked those as if she was strolling in a park. But she was not really prepared for, what was unfolding in front of her eyes. In what looked like the office of the famous actress, Nidhi Kapoor.

To be continued… 

Others parts
Part 2, Part 3

The Blind Date. He and She.

He
I have never been to blind dating events. I have always hated the mere concept of dating events. For me, falling in love is more of a happy accident, than a meticulously planned affair. In fact I live for these happy accidents – all good things to have happened to me, ever, were outcomes of these happy accidents. And like a Pavlovian dog, I start dropping at even the thought of happy accidents. But this blind date, it was a turn off even before I reached there.

I had been promised a gathering of desperate women waiting to be picked by less than ordinary men like me. And since its been some time that I have had a stable relationship, I was tempted to go. Not to mention, that dude that sits in the next cubicle, who cant talk to a woman even when she’s drunk, has been to these events and even he scored. Its like a perfect place where all the social norms take a back seat and you end up a winner. Even if you are socially inept at it. How I love modern day India!

So when I got the coveted invitation, coveted because not everyone gets it, I could not decide. On one hand this was against how I thought about love. And on the other, the lure of getting home with a woman was something that I could not let go. Of course I went. There are times when heart needs to be given precedence over brain. No?

It began like any other social gathering. There were happy people all around me. Almost everyone was like fresh out of a poster from a bollywood film. Perfect teeth on perfect smiles, perfect eye glasses go along with neatly trimmed hair, sharp dresses on toned bodies. Everything looked like a conspiracy to me. I was immediately a misfit in my tattered tee shirt from People Tree (it has this amazing quote by Faiz), old denims and new shiny black leather chappals. No wonder so many heads turned and stared me down once I entered. It felt as if I am facing a firing squad and these men were trying to shoot me down with their eyes.

And amongst that bobbling sea of heads, there she was. Despite my limited interactions with the female species, I could see that she was a misfit as well. In a different way obviously. She wasn’t the prettiest of them all. Or the tallest of them all. And she wasnt dressed for the occasion. But she had something about her that made every other woman wary of her. Every woman was stealing glances at her and sizing her up. Every woman clutched to their men tighter when they glanced in her direction.

Unlike other women who were dressed in expensive evening dresses she had a merely pulled up a pair of denims, which ended slightly above her ankles – the length that I wear my denims too. She was wearing a bright yellow tee shirt that had an intriguing rendition of the Barack Obama Hope poster. The tee obviously dint suit the occasion. Her countenance told me that she has been forced to attend this do. And despite this, it looked as if the entire event, the entire gathering, all the people around her were specifically planted, so that, her status as the queen bee was reinforced to us mortals. The elegant crowd gathered in the room around her, made her all the more rich and gave her all the grandeur that she deserved.

She was like that alpha species that every male ought to consummate with and to give their genes a large chance to be able to survive and multiply. She was everything that a man, primal or modern, could have asked for in a mate. Leave aside the love, the longing and the relationships. Her purpose on earth was to give the most fertile opportunity for the alpha male to advance his genes. I hate objectifying women like that but she indeed was an object. An object of desire. An object that I could have given away an arm and leg to own. To make mine. To be with.

And yet, she was alone. As alone as I was.

She
This is like the three hundredth blind dating event that I am going to. Each of the previous events has been exciting and yet boring. I somehow always become the centre of attraction, even though I dont realy try. And yet I come to my own house and sleep by myself. Somehow I just cant seem to get a date. Except that one time when that cricketer showed interest in me and then I backed off once he and I starting talking. He was as daft as a dodo. Disasters like this aside, these dating events are so much fun. Never before I have seen such a large gathering of desperate men and women trying to woo each other. Funnily, most of the time, I see the same set of people. And you know what? Most women that frequent these do’s, they wear the same clothes over and over again. May be some superstition.

Not me. I dont think I have ever repeated my dress ever. Well, if a teeshirt thrown over a pair of denims qualifies as a dress. Oh, by the way, these tee shirts are my biggest weapon. The designs are so cool that more often than not, the teeshirt becomes the conversation starter. Like the one I was wearing on the last date. I had sketched the iconic design of Fairey for Obama. Wish design was this mainstream in India. I can bet that this design by Fairey must be responsible for a good 10% votes for Obama. Truth be told, I dont really care about Obama or America, just that design was brilliant and I had to sketch myself a teeshirt from it. Thats what I do in my free time. Paint my own teeshirts. Some are good, some bad but honestly, I do come up with a few masterpieces. And this one was definitely one of the best I’ve ever painted.

So I was wearing my favorite my teeshirt and I even had a feeling that I would be lucky and I would find that perfect guy that I’ve always wanted. I so knew who I wanted to be with, I could see him standing in front of me. He is about 5 feet 11. Not very tall and not very short. A typical Indian male with brown skin, I hate fair men. Masculine enough to be able to get spotted in a room full of men. And yet tender enough to know how to me, like a lady or like a toy, depending on the mood I am in. I’ve never wanted a macho man, riding a fast horse on a sea beach, chasing the setting sun. I really want the dude next door. And I want him to have all the imperfections that men have to have. Things that make him so dear. Just like my dad, when he would have been my age.

And I actually spotted someone like that in the crowd that day. I think he had lost his way because he did not look prepared at all for a date night. I mean what kind of man wears a denim and leather chappals to dating events? I dont think any sane woman would even look at her. Of course since I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, you can guess the level of my sanity. And he had this amazing teeshirt on, it had some quote in Hindi that I was dying to read but since he never came in the 5 KM radius of me, I could not.

The way he looked at me, I am sure he found me intriguing, if not attractive. I do get these glances all the time. For some reason, everywhere I go, everyone keeps staring at me but this guy, it was as if he was writing a thesis on me. There is nothing else that explains his constant stare. Funny thing is that for once, someone staring at me wasnt making uncomfortable. In fact it was filling me with a warmth, a sense of elation that he was staring at me. I felt complete.I knew it was him that I was supposed to be with.

And yet, he was alone. As alone as I was.

Winds were her best friends

The other day, someone Dee gave me these words and asked if I could write something. Here is what I came up with. Inspired by Murakami’s 1Q84. If you want to help me get over my writer’s block and give me something to write about, do lemme know.

Funny thing about this working women’s hostel is that no one knows how you get a place for yourself if you aren’t staying here already. Most of the occupants have been here since they can remember and no one seemed inclined to leave. Called The Windchimes, the building was an old, yet solid structure that at one point in time was a hotel for state guests of the British Empire. And as a result, all rooms were large by Mumbai standards and were very comfortable. Each room had almost the same set of furnishing. A double sized bed flush to the wall, a closet to the left of the bed, a writing table and a chair between the bed and the closet. Ofcourse each occupant had given their respective personalities to their temporary abodes, by adding knick-knacks and furnishings. So each room looked familiar and yet aloof. Apart from this, the rooms and the hostel were pretty boring, except the rooms had attached bathrooms, no windows but came with individual balconies.

These balconies, alcoves couldn’t be larger than 3 feet in width and yet they were considered luxury at a place like Mumbai where every inch of space is reclaimed and becomes fodder for life. But then, these balconies, these expensive alcoves were mostly wasted at Windchimes. Most of these were used to merely dry clothes and condiments. Except the corner one on the 4th floor, facing the intersection. The one with white chiffon curtains, slightly larger than required, that fluttered with the winds as if a large bird was trapped in the room and is trying to fly away with the entire house. This was ofcourse Dee’s room. She was a writer of some sort and had been here since last three years. And if word on the street is to be believed, she would have spent most part of those three years sitting on the balcony amidst those flowing curtains and staring at the distant sea. She was like a permanent fixture on the balcony, always hunched on a chair, eyes fixed at some remote point on the horizon.

Dee’s room, her balcony, looked down on the intersection of Henry Road and Boman Behram Marg. Though this was stone’s throw away from the Gateway of India and the famous Taj Mahal hotel, this was not a very busy intersection. Most of the traffic consisted of two wheelers and pedestrians. Diagonally across Dee’s room, there was my kiosk, a hole in the wall actually, that sold tea in the morning to health conscious people going for their morning walks, snacks in the afternoon to children when they left from the Holy Name High School next to Windchimes and cigarettes in the evening to young men who would gather outside Windchimes, hoping to catch sight of their favorite one staying at Windchimes. Of course most women did not use the balconies and hence the “sightings” were pretty rare. Except for my be Dee. She was on her gallery all the time and yet nobody looked in her direction. Not that she was not attractive, in fact she presented a very imposing sight with the long chiffon curtains behind her and stark contrast of her long black shiny hair all over her face but guess she was too easily available and hence most men were probably not interested in the game!

Not just men but Dee somehow dint really have any great friends at Windchimes. She generally kept to herself and most of her interactions with other occupants were on a strict need basis. The house had a common mess and that fixed time at which they served meals. This made it necessary for every occupant to come down, have their meals together and engage in idle banter. Even on these occasions Dee kept to herself and barely spoke. When she did, it wasn’t really a social comment or a dope of gossip but a functional comment, like, “could you please pass on ketchup” or something to that effect. She was not unfriendly and in fact was a very pleasant company. When you spoke to her, she heard it all with rapt attention and made you feel like the most important person in the world. She would nod at the right places, laugh at every point where you expected laughter and removed all traces of happiness from her face when you expected someone to be sympathetic to what you were saying. She was great like that. Just that she was incapable of making any small talk.

She, unlike other people, did not have the innate need to make friends. It’s as if winds were her best friends. She could sit for hours on her balcony and revel in the company of cool winds that came from the ocean. For her it was like a process of purification where apparently the winds carried love letters from her lover who’s gone to the sea and she’s longing for him to come back. Just like Mercedes, the beloved of Edmond (Dantes). If not for the long lost lover then maybe all she wanted from life was to grow wings somehow and then fly away. Fly to that unknown Promised Land that every one of us keeps chasing throughout our lives. And since she trusted the wind as if it was an extension of her body that she could control, she could very well go on that voyage that only a few lucky ones of us get to even think about. All it would take for her is a leap out of her window, along with those oversized curtains, her long hair, and her best friends, the wind!

And this is exactly why I think I am extremely lucky to have ended up with her. She had always mesmerized me. The sight of her on her balcony was like a fairy perched up high on the roof, waiting to come down and take me her arms and make me forget all the hardships I have endured over the years. Ofcourse, there was no way for me to break ice with her. She rarely gave any attention to men and I could count on my fingers, all the times she stepped out. But since I had the advantage of owning the store bang opposite her balcony, I had a rings side view of her life. And all the men gathered at my shop anyways dint show any interest in her, may be that helped because God knows there are far more eligible men for someone like her. So every time she stepped out, I secretly hoped that she would come to me and order some tea or something. Tea, for us Indians has always been a social engagement and an ice breaker. The first we did speak, she was being dragged, I could see against her wishes, by some other girl from the hostel because the other girl had to meet a guy!

Of course, now, it all looks like a dream. Call it luck, call it fate, call it destiny, somehow we have ended up together and I couldn’t have been happier. Dee is every bit of fairy that I had imagined her to be. Probably better. As I write these lines, Dee is still hunched onto a barstool on a make shift restaurant at this otherwise secluded beach, her elbows resting on the table, one hand cupping her face, other holding onto mine with a fierce grip. At times I wonder how her frail and tiny body could have such a firm grip, like she’d not get me go, ever. Like that line from that famous John Denver song where they are talking about holding each other and never let go. I look at her hands and her serene face that is betraying her by showing off just a hint of a smile. I know she is happy. I know I am happy. I know we are happy together. We have come a long way from that intersection of Henry Road and Boman Behram Marg.

And the best part, she is doing what she loves doing the most – staring at the ocean, letting the winds play with her hair that have grown even longer since she moved out of Windchimes. Just that, this time, her secret is shared by two people. I, and the winds, that were her best friends. Indeed.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Ofcourse you wouldve read/heard about Lisbeth. The “original” girl with the dragon tattoo.

If you havent, you ought to buy Stieg‘s masterpiece and read it.

Anyways, so, today something crazy happened. I was on my way back from some place when I saw this girl passing by. She was in a dark grey business suit (unlikely for women to be dressed in business suits in India) and like everyone she seemed to be in a hurry to reach somewhere. Very petite and long flowing hair, falling till the small of her back. Someone you cant ignore while she’s in front of you. Even though she was part of a sea of people rushing to catch a train from probably the busiest train station in Mumbai, my gaze somehow landed on her. Before anything else, I realized that she was clearly a misfit in the seemingly coherent scenery. And yet, some part of me told me that she fit in there as smugly as if all the maddening crowd of people around her was strategically put in place by some old and cunning warlord. And not to flank her with all those objects, but to accentuate her presence.

Very small compared to men and women of all sizes rushing through the station, impeccably dressed in a sharp suit compared to the crumpled and unkempt attires around her, very calm and serene compared to all the madness around her. It was as if she was from a different time and place and she had been teleported just an instant ago. She was so comfortable as if she was in a board room or on a film set. I have this suspicion that if she was put in the outer space, she would be as comfortable. She walked with such ease, such control and so much self-assurance as if she owned the entire place.

Not that I ogle at women on stations but she was hard to miss. She wasn’t good looking by any metric, she wasnt even the rustic kinds that I think makes Indian women so desirable. But she couldn’t be ignored. She was like this electro-charged magnetic orb that was pulling all the attention to her. For the time while she was in front of me, I could not see anything else. It was blinding and illuminating at the same time. It was something that, at that instant, I wished that would not end.

And while I finally walked past her (it wouldn’t have taken not more than three seconds since I first spotted, her to the time I crossed her) I could see peeking from under her shirt, wrapped around her neck, the unmistakable dragon tattoo. The kinds that you can’t forget easily.

You have to see it to believe it. The tattoo. And the girl with the dragon tattoo.

Untitled 2012 Nov 16

Yet another untitled. Last time I spoke about restlessness. This time I shall talk about suffocation. And before you get confused about negativity of these posts and depressive language, please know that these are parts of a larger text that I am hoping to write before the end of this year (another month or so to go). And no, these dont reflect the state of my mind. 


This time let me talk about suffocation. 

Suffocation. Most of us know it as a state when we cant breathe. We are left gasping for breath and we cant seem to get enough oxygen in our lungs. We try harder to breathe and that whiff of air remains elusive. The line between life and death seems to blurring with each moment. You love life and hence you try harder. And the sheer effort of trying harder makes it all the more difficult and further blurs the thin thread. Tough to visualize? Ok, lets make it easier.

Do you know how to swim? In the relative safety of a swimming pool? Where you have life guards, floats and predictable shores? Think of the time when you were learning the art and science of swimming. The first few days. When the entire effort was focussed on just one thing – staying above the water level. Because once you went down under, you could not breathe and it was not a good situation to be in. You could hold you breath for a few seconds but after that you were left gasping for breath. While trying to breathe, water would rush into your mouth and lungs umpteen times. Most times, you would have coughed it out, lungs cant hold water, you see. Once in a while someone would have helped you clear your lungs. But suffocation, by water, was not a pleasant memory.

The ones who dont know swimming, imagine a huge polythene bag. Imagine wearing it like a cap, from top of your head and pull it all the way down to your neck. And tie it from the back. And make it taut. So much that you can see the outline of your face on the polythene. The eye pits, the nostrils and the open gaping mouth shouldn’t just be evident, but be prominent, just like a student of art draws the outline of a human face. Now when the apparatus for experiment is in place, try breathing in. Every breath you take, will not bring that surge of air that you expect and are used to. But it will pull the thin and yet impervious polythene further in, will make it tighter and make it difficult to survive. And this will effect you on two dimensions. One, you arent breathing and you arent sending oxygen to your brain. And the lack of oxygen takes you a step closer to being a vegetable. Second, the head thinks that its breathing. I mean all its life, the head has told the lungs that the body needs oxygen and the lungs complied by getting air, filtering the oxygen and pumping it along with blood to million little arteries in your body. This, however, is amongst those few times when lungs refused to comply. And it leaves your head confused. Its like that double whammy.

Suffocation is thus a very very potent force. It brings you this close to the edge that you dont know that there’s a way back. It brings out the will to survive, or it makes people let go, depending on how you are, who you are and what you are. Its like a test. A test that tells you what are you made up of, deep down inside. Everything else is a sham. The psychometric tests, written assessments, simulators, social pressure, relationships, emotions, all are good tools to evaluate an individual but nothing comes close to the test of suffocation.

Now the reason of the post. Do you have it in you to subject yourself to this test? And share results?

Untitled 2012 Nov 08

Some kind of unnamed, unknown restlessness has set in. Its just beneath the surface, ready to explode. The kinds that makes you scream out loud. Where you yell so loud that your lungs are about to explode and you are left gasping for air. And yet, all that the world around you seems to hear, is pin drop silence. The silence of lambs that are about to be slaughtered. And you are left wondering. Like that kid in a war zone who can see and touch that long shiny metal object but cant comprehend its purpose, its impact or the destruction that the mere trigger could unleash. That kind of restlessness.

Now in my experience, that restlessness is typically is a good thing. It breaks the monotony of life. It afterall is a harbinger to drastic changes. You may or may not have asked for those changes. But like most things in life, change happens and you can merely react to it. Most of us succumb to these changes. Some live with it. And a handful emerge out on top. I typically have been the kinds to try and survive. And while I am at the survival game, I hope like hell that another change would happen, ofcourse without my control, and hope that the next one would be easy on me. At least easier than the one I am suffering under the weight of at the time being.

There have been times when I have actually tried to scratch the surface and see what the restlessness is all about. For someone like me, it has to be either about growing old, money or a relationship. I am not a narcissist but I am very sure that I hate the process of growing up. Its the inevitable end that all of us drifting towards, one second at a time. Wish I could stop it altogether. Slowing it, delaying it will be of no use. Its a just a game of numbers and units. Then I am not rich by any yardstick that I may evaluate myself on. And it sucks to know that there is so much money to be made in the world and I am poor. Money to me, let me explain, is not really an end. But is a means to be able to do things that I ought to be doing. And finally, the relationships. For me, more have gone sour than they have worked out. And hence the restlessness.

But the funny bit is that this time, the unnamed, unknown restlessness that has set in, has nothing to do with any of the three I just spoke about. It is something else. Something that I cant comprehend right now. I would love to know about it ofcourse. Men fear the unknown more than they fear the known. With known dangers, however mortal they are, the entire gamut of outcomes is on the table for everyone to see. And on one extreme of the possible outcomes is a fleeting chance, a flickering hope, of getting away with without a scratch. However, with the unknown, there is no list of outcomes and thus there is no hope. And once there is no hope, there is nothing left to fight for. And most men give up, without even trying to fight. Their will leaves them alone, probably when they need it the most. Me for example.