Conversations-III

James Downie: I am working on a novel.

Me: Fiction? First-person?

James: Yes and yes.

Me: About?

James: About 42.

Me: Ah, the Answer to the Ultimate Question?

James: No, I am 42 now.

Anita: “Is all good writing personal?”

James Downie: “You’ve read a fair-share yourself. What do you think?”

Anita: “There is this intimacy to personal writing that no amount of third-person description can achieve”

James Downie: “That’s one reason—not, of course, the only one—why cinemas and plays are more popular than books. Okay, in a play, all conversations are manifestations of a single mind, right?

Anita: “The playwright’s?”

James Downie: “Yeah, the play—“

A: “That’s being simplistic”

J: “Maybe, but it doesn’t harm what I am saying. Okay, so where was I?”

A: “The playwright”

J: “Yeah, the playwright. But, when you watch a play, one tends to forget it. It is the characters who address each other, who address you”

Anita: “But I relate to characters in books just as strongly as I relate to actors in plays”

James Downie: “That’s not what I am driving at—there is this immediacy to a character in a play that no amount of words can achieve. Of course, an imaginative mind can overcome these hurdles … But—“

[Pause]

James Downie: “But there’s something unexplainable. And it draws from the same idea of immediacy that makes a first-person account more effective … Okay, let me put it this way: a book is more about the writer than a movie is about the director. A movie or a play has multiple voices—all speaking the same mind’s words, but adding their own highly distinctive styles. That is, in some ways, a more realistic depiction of … reality. On the other hand, the language, the style of a book is the sole prerogative of a writer. All background events are described in the same way—the words slot behind one another in a particular manner. The element of chaos—even the staged chaos of a play or a movie—that is so characteristic of reality doesn’t always come through”

“And a first person account captures reality more honestly?”

“Honesty! That’s an interesting choice of word, but that’s precisely why first-person accounts work sometimes. A first person account might be monochromatic in its style, but the character speaks to you directly through the pages; a good writer makes you forget him and remember only the character”

“And you are a good writer?”

“I’m a smart writer: I know what sells”

*****

Me: Back then, was James a good opener?

Pankaj Kishore: James had great skill and Zen-like patience. In those days, that’s what was prized above all else. He had a range of strokes for anything on the stumps—he was wristy, he would drive down the ground with aplomb, he would loft splendidly.”

[Pause]

Pankaj Kishore: But, he was a curious batsman: outside the off-stump, he would rarely touch anything.

*****

Text Message from James Downie: *Hey, What’s up?* [Sep 20^th]

Text Message from James Downie: *Up?* [Sep 22^nd]

Text Message from James Downie: *Pizza?* [Sep 27^th]

Text Message from James Downie: *Are you in Park Lane?* [Sep 30^th]

Text Message from James Downie: *What’s up?* [Oct 1^st]

Text Message from James Downie: *Taleb’s coming on TV—BBC Entertainment* [Oct 2^nd]

Text Message from James Downie: *Message if in town* [Oct 3^rd]

*****

Me: She called back?

James Downie: No

Me: Did you try tracking her down?

James Downie: I had her address—Pankaj whispered it to me over the phone that very night. But, I never went down to see her. I messaged a couple of times, tried calling more.

Me: Why didn’t you go over?

James Downie: I don’t know.

*****

Pankaj Kishore: I remember a three-day match we played, once. There was this bowler from Hindu who was serving up these innocuous, juicy half-volleys, a foot outside off-stump. Bish, James’ opening partner, was having a fine time cover-driving, picking up boundaries at will. Our man would see the ball up until the last moment, and simply let it go, with a great, grand flourish. Sometimes he would prod at those balls tentatively and get a single.

Me: That’s how most people played then, right?

Pankaj Kishore: No, no one let go off rank half-volleys even then. I was the guy who carrying the drinks—I carried a message from the captain asking him to be more aggressive. He simply pointed to the men in the slips and continued batting in his own manner. It nearly cost him his place in the side.

*****

James Downie: It was amongst the most inexplicable things ever. She simply stopped talking to me.

Me: Did you ever see her after that?

[Silence]

James Downie: You know, in Sputnik Sweetheart, the central character, this feisty, supremely intelligent woman, simply vanishes. She goes over to the other side, Murakami explains. I spent days mulling over that phrase: what could it mean? It had to be a metaphor for something. I also considered how it could purely be a means to take the story forward. The book is about loneliness—alienation— and addresses the theme in a fairly direct manner, as opposed to say, Ruskin Bond’s Scenes from a Writer’s Life. For a book to be lonely, you need characters to disappear—what better way to do so than to make them inexplicably vanish?

[Pause]

James Downie: Have you read Bond’s book?

Me: No, but I’ve heard of it.

James Downie: It’s a classic: an autobiography, the book chronicles the loneliness of a troubled childhood. But, not once does Bond state it explicitly. It has the most cheery, most compelling, most honest and the most beautiful prose I have come across.

[Pause]

James Downie: The beauty of sadness—and gloomy prose—is unparalleled.

[Longish Silence]

James Downie: Of course, I never felt miserable, or lonely. I think, after so many years of living comfortably alone, it’s hard to feel either. But, it rankled. Nostalgia was never the sweet poison that it was for her, but it would gently tug at the sleeves of my mind, like a beggar-child on a street, and things would be a little melancholy for a bit.

[Pause]

Me: Why didn’t you go after her?

James Downie: She’d made her choices clear, I figured. And what if I slipped?

*****

Me: You’d have to find a new table-tennis partner for the next month or so, I’m afraid.

James Downie: Why? Are you going somewhere?

Me: I’m getting married.

James Downie: That’s wonderful news! Where’s my invitation?

Me: Right here. My wife-to-be, Anita, specifically asked me to invite you over. It’s been a long time, she says.

[The End]

Conversations - II

2.2
[Me: What did you think of Gopal then?
James Downie: I didn’t think much of him.
Me: What do you think of him now?
James Downie: I don’t think of him too much]
Anita: “Gopal didn’t take too kindly to your joke”
James Downie: “Gopal?”
Anita: “I am not falling for that one”
“Haha .. You shouldn’t have told him it was my joke”
“I didn’t”
“Oh!”
“And he didn’t find it funny?
“No”
“Oh …”
“You’re totally judging him, now”Of course not! I am just thinking …”
[Pause]
James Downie: “I guess I know why he didn’t find it funny”
Anita: “I’m all ears”
James Downie: “A pun is all about context, you know, and timing. Punctual punning, if you please”
“Ah”
“Devoid of them, a pun might as well disintegrate: from punditry to punishment”
“Hahaha … You’ve been wanting to try those lines on someone for quite a while now; haven’t you?”
“You really don’t think I am very smart”
“I think you are smart, but not this smart”
“Actually, I think I am capable of much more. A couple of spontaneous puns and a pop-theory on punning uses up hardly a hundredth of my cranial capacity”
“Your confidence is disconcerting”
“Only disconcerting? Not disturbing or, perhaps, disgusting?”
“Insightful”
“You know, that’s why I don’t think I could ever have had a full-time office job”
“You are too cocky to take orders?”
“I’d be less harsh on myself: I’m a born leader—“
“—you’ve just equated less harsh with extremely generous”
“But I detest hierarchies”
“As in?”
“I find hierarchies revolting. I’ll illustrate: I once went to a forest guest-house near Mysore, many years ago. The caretaker was this jolly, but pointedly subservient, fifty-year old man whose name escapes me now. I was twenty-eight, almost half his age; and yet, he would follow me around like a faithful puppy, offering to carry my bag, bring food to my bed, polish my shoes; and when he spoke, he always addressed me as “Sir” and spoke softly, his back bowed, his head bobbing. It was disconcerting, but I was willing to live with it. But, one day I came back early and I chanced upon him by himself in the main longue of the guest-house: sitting cross-legged on the sofa, his arms placed magisterially on the sofa’s arms, his eyes fixed on the TV, his fingers playing carelessly with the remote … The image, somehow, left me with a feeling of deep revulsion”
“Because of what society did to him?”
“You could say that-- unless we are equals, we are always actors. Society makes sure of that”
“And you think that’s true of any hierarchy?”
“Of course—Reddy! Mukunda Reddy was his name”
“Oh”

[Pause]

“Anyway, I am a writer now, so that lets me get away from such nagging contradictions. No more feeling like I was born to enjoy being in power, but hating the very idea of power itself. In a sense, I have no leaders and no followers”
“No leaders, yes. But, followers? Aren’t fans followers too?”
“Maybe … But of a different kind. They aren’t answerable to me; On the contrary, to a large extent, I am to them. Whether consciously or not, a lot of my writing keeps the audience in mind”
“It doesn’t come across, you know. Most of what you write seems too personal—someone who cares lot about what people think of him would hesitate to put so much of himself into their novels”

[Pause]

Anita: “That sentence didn’t sound right, did it?”
James Downie: “Always on the button”
Anita: “Haha”
JD: “But, coming back to my writing—“
A: “—Pankaj was right; you really love talking about the way you write”
“Of course, I don’t. But, coming back to my writing … ”
“Haha”
“I don’t think I referred to content as much as style when I said I keep the audience in mind. What I say is for myself, how I say it is for the readers”
“Hmmm … And I think you write best when you don’t think of how you are saying what you are saying”
“Distracted?”
“Distracted!”

*****
James Downie: “You know why I talk of my writing so much?”
Anita: “Why?”
“Because it’s my job. Everyone makes conversation about their job, it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. I appear narcissistic because my job only involves myself”
“I don’t talk about my job”
“Everyone who loves their job will talk about it; I, of course, live my job”
“Breathe work every millisecond”
“Nanosecond”

[Pause]

James Downie: “And you don’t talk about your job because you don’t have one”
Anita: “Not for long, James; not for long”
“Why don’t you have a job?”
“Because I’d be a disaster at a conventional work-place”
“Self-deprecation— you’d make a great fisherwoman”
“I was not fishing for praise there; I was simply stating facts”
“Okay, why will you be a disaster? I think you possess, in healthy amounts, all the necessary attributes to make a fine consultant”
“You don’t know me too well”
James Downie: “I’d like to”
Anita: “You would?”

*****
2.3

[Me: Did you expect the call?
James Downie: I did. But, it’s somewhat like the time when people tell you it’s going to be a bright, sunny day. And it turns out to be a bright sunny day, except, it pours too. Simultaneously.
Me: Thank God for the rainbow?
James Downie: Thank God for the rainbow, however brief][Phone rings]

James Downie: “Hi! What a pleasant surprise!”
Anita: “Why?”
James Downie: “’What ‘why’?”
Anita: “Why did you write that short fiction piece?”
James Downie: “I write because I have to make a living”
Anita: “But, why a piece based on me?”
James Downie: “Did you not like it?”

[Silence]

James Downie: Oye, I’m sorry; but it was such a lovely piece, so happy, so true!”

[Silence]

James Downie: “I’m sorry”
Anita: “I don’t ever want to be reduced to a public spectacle. I like my life the way it is and I wish there was a copyright violation on persons. I should sue you”
James Downie: “But, I spoke of you in such glowing terms. I even—“
[Engaged]

*****
3.0

[Me: She called back?
James Downie: Yes
Me: And?
James Downie: She apologised; she was sweet, warm, funny. I remember thinking it was a distinctly pleasant conversation
Me: I see
[Pause]
James Downie: But now, I don’t quite know if it indeed was. Some of the pauses seemed odd; and she did seem in a hurry to finish the conversation. Maybe I am imagining it; maybe I have gone over the memory so many times and from so many angles that I’ve lost all sense of objectivity”
Me: What happened next?
James Downie: You know she told me this queerly profound thing once about nostalgia: she called it ‘sweet poison’. In fact, I wrote it down somewhere … Let me get it for you]
James Downie: “Good memories are like costly wine, they get better with time. And like wine, they leave just a little sourness in the mouth; an overdose can lead to an overwhelming sense of sadness”
Anita: “That’s quite some impromptu passage”
James Downie: “It’s not impromptu. And I didn’t write it. Some random student whose essay I’m judging”
Anita: “He must win, for that passage alone”
JD: “I want him to; but most of what he says has nothing to do with the theme of the essay. Beauty needs no context, but, unfortunately, victory does”
Anita: “That’s so true of the world at large. Everything needs a context, a space, a history, a trajectory that chalks its path into the future”

[Pause]

A: “And nostalgia is not good wine, its sweet poison”
JD: “Surely you didn’t say poison?”
A: “I most definitely did”

[Pause]

A: “I’ll explain. Nostalgia’s a very strong presence in my life, at once my greatest strength and weakness. I am overcome by nostalgia in waves, in short, strong bursts, that transport me to worlds long forgotten. This is where she is sweet—“
JD: “Who?”
A: “Nostalgia. This is where nostalgia is sweet. But, sometimes she is everywhere: in the wooden panelling on the floor; in the medals hung on the wall; in the blooming Gulmohar in summer; in the darkest depths of the nights. And every scene is a memory, and reality merges seamlessly with remembrance; certainty and chance are twined to form a strange, almost cosmic puzzle that leaves me completely drained … And these are the days I sketch; just like it is for you, intensely personal art is an escape”

[Pregnant silence]

JD: “It sounded good—and dark”
A: “But?”
JD: “But it also went over my head”
A: “Mull over it. After all, most of life leaves your cranial capacity untouched”

*****
3.1

[Me: It’s cloudy
James Downie: It’s been like that for some time here. I find, increasingly, that the weather mimics my state of mind. Grey, with occasional rays of bright, mad light … Maybe I am the weather God.
Me: Been reading the Guide lately?
James: The Guide’s the book that keeps me happy]
Pankaj Kishore: “James! A distinctly inopportune time to barge in—you are true to form, I must admit”
James: “I’m certain you’ve realised that I have not barged it; that it is pouring where I stand now, and I do not have an umbrella and am as wet as a whale”
PK: “Am I supposed to invite you in, now?”
JD: “Don’t tell me you have a woman who is not your wife in there with you and you need some privacy”
“My wife’s here; she’s up and fuming. She hates being awoken at ungodly hours”
“Exactly why I came; now move aside, I need to go in”
Meena: “James! My children are sleeping, so I need you to be soft. And get out as soon as possible”
JD: “Could you make me some tea, Meena?”
Meena: “Tell him to get lost, Pankaj”
PK: “You can tell him yourself. This is as much your house as it is mine”
M: “Get lost Downie and good night. I am going to bed. Pankaj, get rid of him fast”
[Sound of footsteps receding]
JD: “She never got over the fact that I asked you not to marry her. Dude, it’s been fifteen years”
PK: “What do you want, James?”
JD: “I want her address”
PK: “Anita’s?”
JD: “No, Surpanakha’s. I have forgotten what street Ravana’s palace is on”
PK: “Gopal is a second-cousin of sorts to my wife, James. I don’t want to have to do anything with this”

[Pause]

JD: “Okay”
PK: “Okay?”
“Thanks for helping. I knew I couldn’t count on you”
“What happened?”
“She isn’t answering her phone; it’s pouring outside”
“For how long?”
“It’s been pouring all week; she hasn’t answered her phone for almost a week now. No reply to messages, no nothing”
“I’ll see what I can do”
“No wonder you’re such a champion government official: I’ll see what I can do”

*****

[Me: Are all artists escapists?
James Downie: You mean, are all of us escape-artists?
Me: Haha!
James Downie: I think most non-artists are escapists; the world is an escape from within. Immerse yourself in reality and forget who you really are]

[Me: Are all artists escapists?
Pankaj Kishore: All artists are border-line mental cases; James is not. He crossed over a long time ago.]*****
[To continue]

Conversations

1.0

[Me: Why the Coffee House?

James Downie: Well, you should ask Pankaj that question—he loves that place. I am not too particular, distance and traffic—not time—being my only constraints. And this place is close by; also cosy, quiet-ish and serves fantastic coffee. Plus, Pankaj, being Pankaj, knows the Manager and we always get a table, even in rush hour.

Me: And what did you think of her then?

James Downie: I thought she was pretty. Yeah, very pretty, and quiet. Wonderfully-- almost mysteriously— so!]

 
Pankaj Kishore: "So, what are you working on?"
James Downie: "Nothing, nothing really. I am trying to write a novel, but I can't seem to string a hundred words together"
PK: "That's odd; brevity's never a feature of your speech"
JD: "I think that's a bit rich coming from you. You who— oh well, I'll save it for another time"
"Ah, see? You have to rein in yourself to stop talking. Brevity was never really a feature of your speech"
"Come on. Someone in the media once told me you converted a whole bunch of presspersons into practicing somnambulists after a three-hour press conference [Snort]. And Dr Ray told me he prescribes you for insomnia. His prescription is, in fact, a Youtube link: the one where you talk in five instalments about earthworm regeneration and farm development"
"If I were Dr Ray, I'd prescribe your Catalysts. I couldn't get past page twelve"
"I am proud I got you to read eleven pages of fiction"
"I have no time for stories; the world is too real for stories"
"But I doubt your non-fiction credentials too. Barring the Constitution, which you mugged for your Civil Services entrance exams a decade ago, I think your reading is largely restricted to office files and newspapers"
PK: "You obviously do not know me very well"
JD: "Okay, name three books you read recently"
"Okay, wait: I read Devdutt Patnaik's compelling retelling of the Mahabharata, Jaya. I read a book on the emergency by this young chap—Giridhar Bhat— who sourced recently released white-papers and other private documents of Indira Gandhi; and, I read The Monk who sold his Ferrari"

"Oh, I am going to love dissecting this; to me you are like Abhimanyu, defenceless, open to attack from all sides. First, a minor technical point: the Mahabharata is a work of fiction"
"Correction: historical fiction. It is rooted in history"
"I won't argue— to each his own. But, I think, at best, it is fictitious history. Second, I am certain you know the epic well, so I don't really think you "read" the book. You bought it, and then you skimmed through for a couple of hours—perhaps on a flight—and then put it in your library to show off. Of course, you will not agree, so we will not debate this point either. Third, I think the same applies to the Emergency book as well, it's a well-known event, you must have read the blurb, perhaps the first chapter, then skipped to the juicy bits and let it go. In fact, this is my theory on most of the vast collection of books in your library. Fourth—or was it fifth— I pity you if you did indeed read The Monk. Such pop-philosophy does not befit a mind as sharp as yours"
Anita: "Antilibrary"
James Downie:"What?"
Anita:"Taleb—in the Black Swan—calls it an antilibrary: a library stacked with books that one hasn't read. As a constant reminder that there is so much one doesn't know"
Pankaj Kishore: "Ah, yes. He was referring to Umberto Eco's library, right? See? That's another book I have read"
James Downie: "Is it in the first chapter?"
A: "What?"
JD: "Is the idea of an antilibrary introduced in the first chapter?"
A: "Haha—I am afraid so, yes"
JD: "Yes, that's another book you have read in your own distinctive style"
Pankaj Kishore: "Ask me anything from the book"
JD: "I haven't read it myself, maybe you can ask her. She remembered the concept, so I'm guessing she has read the whole—"
[Phone rings]

PK: "Excuse me. I need to take this call"
JD: "Sure"

 
Awkward silence.


 
James Downie: "So?"
Anita: "Hmm"
"I am guessing you have, umm, read the book?"
"The book?"
"The Black Swan"
"Yes"

 
Awkward silence II.


 
James Downie: "It's quite a long phone call"
Anita: "Yes"
"You, umm, liked the book?"
"Yes. Very nice"
"You don't talk much"
"No, that depends …"
"Depends?"

 
Awkward silence III


 
Anita: "I liked your book"
James Downie: "Really? Which one?"
"The latest: Calling Courtesies"

"Thanks, that's nice to hear. Did you like something in particular?"
"I liked the style: it was sort of, like, distracted"

"Diffracted?"

"No. Distracted. It's almost as though your mind was elsewhere when you wrote the book"
"And that's a good thing?"
"It's a good thing for you"
"Go on. And try and be elaborate"
Anita: "Let me try and draw a sporting analogy, only because my fiancé is a tennis freak and I have spent a considerable period of time watching and following the sport. A lot of the sport is, at least at the highest level, played in the mind. Some players are advised to forget the scoreboard, to play the ball and not the opponent or the situation. It's a tough act, but an enormously handy attribute to possess. Others—and these are a rarer breed—need the scoreboard, only because when they are down they play better. Adversity spurs them to greater heights"
"And I belong to the latter category?"
"No, the former"
"I meant the former, sorry"
"Yes, you write best when you don't think about the fact that you are writing"
"Distracted"
"Haha, yes … Of course, all this is mere hypothesis. Only you know what is right"
JD: "Distracted"
Undefined silence.

James Downie: "And how did you come to this conclusion?"
Anita: "What?"
"How do you know what novels I write distracted?"
"Well, you can tell"
"You can?"
"Your distracted novels, like The
Advocate's Devil or And are meandering, verbose and full of loose ends. But, they are also the funniest and the most endearing; most importantly, the words flow. There is a seamless, almost unthinking connection that binds words together"
"Fantastic"
"Am I right?"
JD: "What does it matter? It's a fascinating hypothesis, whether perceptive or not is another issue"
A: "Thank you"
JD: "Fascinating"

 
Pankaj Kishore: "What did I miss?"
James Downie: "Your young friend here is entertaining me with stories of alien invasion"
"Alien invasion?"
"No, perhaps not as far-fetched, but equally captivating"
"Let me guess, you guys must have been discussing you—or your latest book. I can't imagine you finding much else captivating"
"Some, umm, people can be captivating"
Anita: "You know, I am really beginning to doubt if you guys really like each other"
James Downie: "We don't"
Text Message from Pankaj Kishore: *Dude, she's talking. She hadn't said a word all day*
James Downie: "I come to see him because I need my monthly fix of acerbic banter. Also, I need some ridiculous perspectives on life: my writing tends to get too dull, too uni-dimensional otherwise"
Pankaj Kishore: "His ridiculous perspectives—that's why I come too"
Text Message from James Downie: *I tend to have that effect on people. How serious is she about this fiancé?*
James Downie: "Perhaps the only thing we agree upon"
Pankaj Kishore: "Perhaps the only thing we agree upon"
Text Message from Pankaj Kishore: *Dude, stay away. And stop looking at her like that*
******
2.0

[Me: Did you ever consider calling him?

Anita: No.

Me: Were you surprised he called?

Anita: I was, but I shouldn't have been.

Me: And you said yes?

Anita: On a whim, yes. He's famous, writes well and seemed interesting. Plus, Lodhi Gardens is a nice place to walk in]

 Anita: "I am surprised you called"
James Downie: "I am not surprised you came"
"It's funny; you don't come across as cocky in your novels"
"I am not—I am just speaking from experience"
"That statement was cockier: if that's an English word"
"It is, I guess. Though you don't hear people going—he's the cockiest around"

"Haha"
"I am not cocky. I just don't mind calling a diamond a diamond"
"A straightforward writer—it has really got an oxymoronic ring to it"
"I can be straightforward in my private life and still write about complicated characters—just like you can have extremely gentle fast bowlers"
A: "Or hangmen with a heart of gold?"
JD: "Or hangmen with a heart of gold! "
"So …"
JD: "So?"
"So, why am I here?"
"Would you like to have a go? Since you have such fascinating theories about me"
"You find me attractive, mildly smart and sufficiently liberal, the fiancé notwithstanding"
"Like most of my critics, you seem to know me better than I do"
"Was I being too harsh there?"
"Perhaps"
A: "So, why am I here?"
"I found you interesting"

"Interesting?"
"Interesting"
A: "As in?"
JD: "Ah, you would have made a fine fisherwoman"
"What?"
"Nothing"
"Don't give me that superior smile"
"I am not smiling. My face is as stern as a headmaster's"
"The mirth in your voice is a dead giveaway"
"Like a silver-lining on the cloud"
"Beautiful"
"What is beautiful?"
A: "What you just said"
JD: "Really?"
A: "Fisherman"

 *******
2.1

[Me: Did you like the movie?

James Downie: I loved the pop-corn]

 Anita: "Good movie"
James Downie: "Good …ish. Yeah, goodish, I guess"
"You didn't like it?"
"I decide how much I like a movie only few days later. My favourite movies haunt me. I know I really love a movie when one fine morning, days later, I wake up thinking of a scene, or a character or a dialogue"
"I think one of the characters in Catalyst said something similar. In fact, I am almost the polar opposite. For me the viewing experience is the key: I need to be sucked into the movie, so deeply engrossed that I forget all that is around me. That's when I know I truly loved a movie"
"Cinema as only a medium of escape"
"Yes, you could say that"
[Pause]

Anita: "Your favourite movie?"
James Downie: "Stardust Memories"
"I watched it only recently and I loved it so much"
"I watched it first twenty years ago and I have watched it many times since. You know how I realised that it simply had to be my favourite?"
"You dreamt about it?"
"No, even better: I was reading the newspaper one afternoon, when I was suddenly overcome by a strange scent— a mix of water-sprinkler on drenched, trimmed lawns, French perfume and cigarettes. I immediately recognized it as from the long-shot of Isabel—Marie-Christine Barrault— striding confidently down the pathway of Stardust Hotel, her bags in tow"
"Remarkable"
"You talk of the movie sucking you in, here was a clear case of the inverse: I had internalized the movie so strongly that I could smell it"
"I can't quite believe what you are telling me"
"Oh, but you must— why, hello!"
Pankaj Kishore: "Hi!"
James Downie: "Hi"
Anita: "Hi"
Gopal: "Ani, I thought you were with your friends watching a movie!"
A: "I was—and I bumped into him on my way out, and we got talking …"
G: "And you are—"
PK: "Pardon me, gentlemen, let me do the introductions. This is James Downie, the famous writer of amongst the most brilliant prose of the past decade and more; and this is Gopal, hot-shot investment banker and—"
A: "And my fiancé"
JD: "Oh, nice to meet you"
G: "My pleasure"
[Pause]
G: "I must say, Mr Downie, I am not one for reading books. As my guru here says, the world is too—"
JD: "—real for stories. Yes, I've heard that many times"
Text Message from Pankaj Kishore: *Dude, WTF. Back off. She's getting married*
Text Message from James Downie: *Guru? You're his Guru? I'm loving this*
JD: Guys, I better get going. Inspiration has struck.
PK: Yeah, run along now. You mustn't keep her waiting.
A and G: See you!
Text Message from Anita: *Later?*
Text Message from James Downie: *Later … Quick Quiz: what happens when Gopal is on a farting spree?*
Text Message from Anita: *What?*
Text Message from JD: *Gopal Gas Tragedy*
 [To continue]

Political Science-- 3

(Its been quite a while and had actually half given up. But, the series seemed very reader-friendly, by my low standards at least. They were the only posts that people (If two-three persons can be called that) ever asked me about ... So, on popular demand ...)
7 30 AM
The Bathrooms
(The Bathrooms are like standard hostel ones, all over the country: dirty, smelly and wet. The mirrors are stained; the flushes work sometimes; the showers might shower you with slime for water, and sometimes shower the nozzle along too with the slime/water. But, like everything else in the hostel—all this is made up for by the cheer, goodwill and loudness around. The bathroom is also where the most interesting and honest conversations can take place, and is considered by many an intelligent mind as a great place to innovate, ideate and think.)
“Oh my god! The sun has surely risen from the west today”
Amit Kumar, as is his name, has a penchant for clichés. Most clichéd statements are badly timed—overused (over-timed?)— But Amit timed them as well as Ashish Nehra timed his cover-drives. He was peeing in the adjacent loo; and he was a friend. No, an enemy actually—he was from the other party. No, a friendly enemy, I guess.
I was groggy. And the familiar feeling of uneasiness was just beginning to settle in my stomach: I had come to expect it, as part of my new life now. I felt like a sailor with perennial sea-sickness. Also, quite like inflation, it was self-fulfilling—on some mornings when I didn’t feel any uneasiness, I felt odd and sort of expected it to come on. And it did.
“I have been up by 7 30 for three days now!” I said defensively.
He laughed and continued,
“Wow! That’s amazing! I’m impressed, President Sir!”
“Knock it off—can’t a man just pee in peace?”
“Pee for President! Pee for President”
“Shut up now!”
“And no, a man can’t pee in peace. Why can’t they lower these damn things? Do I have to stand on my tip-toes always?”
Amit bore the dubious distinction of being the shortest hosteler around.
I snorted. And said,
“Loo-ser”

On my way back, I met this stranger, who seemed vaguely familiar, walking up to the toilets. Instinctively, I stuck out my hand, telling him,
“Hi, I am standing for post of President from the ‘Wa—“ and caught myself mid-way: he was the sweeper.
He gave me a very perplexed smile, before proceeding, leaving me with some very fundamental existential concerns.

I opened my door to see the Alarm going crazy and Shoaib sleeping with his head below his pillow rather than the other way round.
“Shoaib!” I shouted.
“You fool” he said, his voice cracking, unused and rusty, “Don’t you know the difference between ‘snooze’ and ‘off’ on your alarm?”
“Am so sorry”, I said, rushing towards my mobile phone and turning the alarm off. And then I hit him on the back and that seemed to frustrate him even more, but he emerged from behind the pillow and stared at me through half-open eyes and asked,
“What?”
I looked straight into his eyes, assuming a very serious countenance, and said in my most solemn tone,
“This is getting to me. I don’t know what I am, I don’t know who—“ I said, pointing to myself vigorously with both my hands, “this is!”
He looked at me and then slowly, like a man under the influence of hemlock, shut his eyes and went into a content sleep.

2 PM,
The College Canteen
(The canteen is shady. The chairs are those typical red, plastic ones one sees in shady places. The lighting is poor, dark-ish—shady again. The waiters don’t hop around cheerfully, but creep up on you, the man at the counter doesn’t speak at all, only grunts and nods, like we’re discussing a top-secret smuggling deal. The staff are all Malayalis and the lucky few to be acquainted with the language can understand what they say amongst themselves: for the rest, their conversations seemed very shady. Everything tastes the same in my canteen and therefore, Special Chinese Noodles is only a wriggly version of Pure South Indian Dosa.)

We needed a break. I had shook so many hands that I felt like some holy mystic—touch my hand and see all your troubles go. I had smiled so much that my jaws were aching, and sadly, the plastic smile was still stuck on my face, like a scar that refused to go. The Don, as always, was by my side. As I was ordering at the counter, the Don nudged me and said, smiling indulgently,
“When you become president, you won’t be paying for all this!”
Behind that fixed smile, I groaned: what a great incentive to become president, I thought—save 15 bucks worth expenditure on food that tasted like it was made in my hostel toilets. Furthermore, the canteen was run by Tamils and even my excuse of a Tamil was enough to earn a free chow mein or a dosa every now and then.
As we made our way, with two plates of noodles and coke, I acknowledged innumerable students with a nod or a smile as the Don—my walking directory—whispered each of their names and their courses in my ears.
“And that’s Nikhita, English Honous—Oh, and I have some good news for you” he said.
That sentence finally broke through my fixed smile—I actually frowned, my jaw muscles cracking and vibrant, relishing the new-found freedom. The Don’s news generally meant trouble, and the good ones especially were perhaps the worst type of news. Steeling myself, I asked,
“Well, what is it?”
“We’ll be going” he said and paused, trying to force a long chain of noodles into his mouth, “We’ll be going to visit the girls’ hostels today!”
I smiled a real smile for the first time in the day. I imagined a picture of walking through scented corridors, girls everywhere. If they dressed anywhere close to as sparingly as we did in our hostels then it was going to be a wonderful evening. I asked,
“When will that be?”
“In the evening. Say, around, 5 30?”
I smiled again. I felt rejuvenated and life didn’t seem too bad really: the malayali waiters suddenly seemed very cheery and less creepy, as they took orders; the noodles tasted like they were specially got from ‘Mainland China’; all around me, the students fought, talked, shouted and enjoyed; and I was still smiling, thinking of James Bond and girls ...

4 30 PM
The Don’s Cell
I walked into the Don’s cell, fresh from a bath and a shave. I was early, but very excited, and wanted to be on time. The Don looked at me and one look at his face, my face fell. This, I knew was news, and the worst type.
“Er … Sharan?” he said, like a father trying to tell his child that the brand new toy-car from the store they had bought had some internal defect and wouldn’t budge even if it had King Kong pulling it, “We might not be going to the hostels today”
“What?” I said crestfallen, falling into a chair. The Don paused as only Dons do—from Godfather to Sarkar—and trust me, these long periods of inertia only look good in the films. I dug my nails into the chair, frustrated, waiting. At long last, he asked in a dramatically poised tone,
“Hmmm … Have you heard of the party Insignia?”
“No” I said, wondering why the he could never answer straight and had to go about it in such a round-about manner with questions for answers and added for good measure, “Nor have I heard of Gold Flake Party or Classic Mild Party”
The Don either didn’t get the joke or chose to ignore it. He continued,
“Well, they are a fringe party. But, they made an impact last year. And they have a decent chance this year—apparently they’ll team up with NSUI if the need arises. Anyway, getting to the point—“
‘Finally’ I said, half-aloud.
“Yes, I’ve fixed up a meeting with the President. She wants to address the hostel, but firstly she wants to talk to us. I have a feeling you might just like her”
“When is she coming?”
“Any time now …”
“Cant we just get done with her and then go to the hostels?”
“Well. I am not too sure. Lets see …”
And there, I thought, there was still a ray of hope. I went back to feeling a little light, like I had air-floaters for sandals. And then there was a knock on the door and it swung open and I literally flew.

She was a vision. The first thing I noticed about her, strangely, were her fingers—they were long and slender, like those of a seasoned artist. She was beautiful—she had eyes that were focused and incisive, that made you strangely conscious of who you are and not what you are wearing; her eyebrows danced at will, like those of a child, in perfect contrast to the maturity in her eyes; her hair fell on her shoulders in a manner that was almost stately, yet attractive; she was draped in a shawl, that covered her top and fell back gracefully; I couldn’t take my eyes of her.

“Fuck you, Don” she said.
And I swear I heard Violins play in the background, as she said those words.
The Don didn’t say a word, but quietly offered her a cigarette.
“Fuck you, Don” she said again.
The Violins were getting louder.
The Don asked lazily—
“What is it?”
“They’ve taken my I-Card. Your stupid watchman took my I-Card and asked me to sign in some shit-all register”
“I can have them got back. I am sorry” the Don said in the same strange, lazy drawl.
Her eyes fell on me, and I felt my back go stiff—I nearly overbalanced and fell off my chair; her eyes flicked to the Don immediately, enquiringly.
“Oh, I forgot” the Don said apologetically, “This is Sharan. He’s our Presidential candidate”
She turned to look at me and flashed a small smile—it was a small one, and yet it was flashed. And it was, oddly, not plastic—I had seen many a fake smile in recent times, mostly by politicians-to-be to people they thought they wouldn’t ever see again but had to be nice to, just in case, and this was not that kind of a smile. Maybe I was just imagining things; maybe not. She said:
“So, what course are you in?”
“Economics”
“Ah!” she said, turning to the Don, “You didn’t pick a Science-ee?”
“No. This kid’s good. Real good. And we need someone like him to get us the Arts and Commerce votes. I am a major hit amongst the Sciences. When I was President last year—“
I was just beginning to roll my eyes and sink back into my chair, prepared for a long-drawn out speech, when she cut him short:
“Don, not now. I am not in the mood”
“Eh? What? Not now, yes, I guess, not now. Not now … no, not now …” the Don said, shaking his head. And I was glad.
There was another silence—this one not so dramatic for the Don didn’t intend it to be—and we all sat looking around; I was looking mostly at her, feasting my eyes.

“Maybe you should talk to him and see what you think of him” the Don said, looking at her.
“Huh?” she said, shaken out of her reverie.
I was nervous—what did the Don want me to do now? Talk? For a second I thought of the Don as a matchmaker, and I was the groom desperate to impress a potential bride. I smiled, thinking of the picture. The Don unfortunately took that as a sign of my willingness to ‘talk’ to her.
“Sharan” the Don said, “Tell her what you think of Hypocrisy being a benchmark for Civilization”
“Well” I said immediately, “I think they should make that road four-laned, the one near Haus Khas”
The Don looked at me, startled at first, then confused, then thoughtful and finally aghast. I didn’t care, I had had enough of impressing people …
And then I looked at her, and a smile lit up my lips: she was amused, impressed perhaps; she was smiling. And boy, could she smile!

To be continued ...
(Part 4's already done, by the way)

Political Science- II

I've tried to be as truthful to the story in my head as possible, yet keep it clean and free from anything vulgar. Its a tough act to balance and I think I have given it my best.
11 PM
‘Wave’ Lawn
(The Lawn gets its name from the political party (Wave) that uses it most for its open-air meetings. Lined by tall Ashoka trees and a fence along its sides, the lawn, though large, isn’t exactly sprawling. Adjacent to the lawn, past the trees and the fence, is another lawn—the ‘Youth’ lawn. During the months preceding and succeeding the elections, no one dares frequent both lawns. Sticking to one lawn betrays one’s loyalty to a party and crossing over to the other can get one branded a traitor. The traitors are always the first targets when there is a fight, for they are soft ones—the parties they would have crossed over into would always see them as outsiders and would never really bother to save their skins)
“Sutta?”
“Huh. No. “
“Come on, go ahead. One puff and it’ll relieve your tension”
“I said NO. Just leave me alone” The last sentence came out a little louder than I wanted it to.

I was tense. I couldn’t put things in perspective, it was impossible. The Don wanted me to kick-start my campaign with a speech, my first address to an All-Party-Meet. It was a sizeable crowd—more than a hundred people: Hostel ‘king-makers’, heavyweights in the political arena who were non-hostelites but campus-residents and day-scholars. ‘From 13 states of the country, 10 different courses’ the Don had said. I had never addressed a crowd. I tried thinking of what to say, but that was like trying to clean up my room—there was a lot of stuff and I didn’t know where to start. The Don went first and was sloth-like in his speech as usual and strangely I really wanted him to finish—the longer I waited for my turn, the more swollen my bowels would be and the greater the dizziness in my head. In the darkness, I saw only the slits of the eyes of the crowd—hundreds of them hawk-like, expectantly waiting for me to begin.

“Friends, I have now come to the end of my few words” the Don said as the crowd let out a silent sigh of relief. He finished with a “Go Wave!”
“Go Wave!” the crowd chanted.
“Louder! “, the Don said, “Go Wave!”
“Go Wave!” the crowd bellowed.
And then I felt like I was beginning to lose it. Time suddenly seemed to move protractedly: I watched one of the Don’s sidekicks, now come up to me slowly, shake my hand, and say in my ear “Make sure your speech is mind-blowing. Rocking one, it must be. And also awesome!”
I vaguely wondered if they were the only three adjectives that he knew.
Now I had this distinct feeling that I was wearing only my underclothes. Two reasons, completely unrelated, contributed to this sensation: firstly, I was shivering. And secondly, with so many eyes trained on me, I felt conscious, like an under-dressed exhibit.
“Er… Hello”, I said and waved. My ears went red with shame. It seemed like the most stupid thing to do. “Um. As the Don has said, I have filed my nomination. And-- ” I couldn’t go on, so I bought time by coughing loudly. And sneezing and signaling to someone for water. I then turned to the Don and asked,
“Can I do this in English? I mean, for public speaking, I think I’d be better in English”
“Eh? Why not?” the Don said and then turned to face the crowd and asked in Hindi, “Does everyone understand English here?”
A rumble of assent followed and the Don let me have the limelight again.
“Ok. Ya. Now, when you come right down to it, it’s preposterous to assume that the onerous task of winning this election can be achieved by such a languorous, lethargic attitude—primarily because its less than a month away. Its time we coalesced and behave like an integrated bunch; lets up the ante and basically have the tenacity to plod in times of extreme distress…”

Sometimes, I have this tendency to get into this special zone—to rise above my own mediocre self, to think fast and think like a genius. And only genius could have saved me that day. I hadn’t actually said anything too special: in fact, most of it was jargon. But, the use of the language, a stroke of genius, did the trick. I used every complicated word I could think of and spoke with fluency and rising authority. No one figured out what exactly I had said, but that hardly mattered—I was, to them, a wizard in the language of the voting majority—the chic, brand-conscious, snobbish day-scholars for whom the elections were a farce fought by rustic hostel rogues. And in me, suddenly, the party members saw someone who would cater to them.
And by the time I was done, everyone was satisfied—I finished to a resounding, standing ovation and a spontaneous “Wave” chant. The Don was crying out to anybody who’d care to listen ‘I told you! I told you that boy has talent!’
Relief. And I was sweating so much that I wondered if I was wearing too many clothes. I smiled. It was my first battle won, but, I knew, there were tons to follow. I wanted time to stop then, right at that moment, and allow me the security of feeling like a superstar-in-the-making without worrying about what was to come.

7AM
Room 84
I woke up feeling very light. Then I had this sensation that something was wrong, that I shouldn’t be feeling so light. And it hit me, my stomach panicked, and I hugged my pillow tight, turned over and willed myself to sleep.

8 25AM
The Mess
(The Mess is a mess. The food is nothing short of a mess; the conversation is cheery, loud and dirty; the tables are messy, especially towards the end of a meal; the floor is messy too for onions and cucumbers, besides cheese and lemon, are often used as friendly missiles)Breakfast done, I was contemplating on whether to go back to my bed and sleep or sleep in class. As I made my way out, thoroughly undecided, I bumped into the tall, well-built figure of Andy (N.D, Nitin Dhar, actually), another contender for the President’s post. Leader of the Youth party, he was my only competition_ and a very strong one at that_ for the rest were independents. I hastily said sorry, wished him a fine morning and was about to proceed, when he caught me by my arm and said,
“Aur, Future President Saab, How are you?” I didn’t like the tone of his voice at all.
“I am good” I said, trying to get away. But, he tightened the grip on my arm.
“I heard you give very good speeches in English. Hah!” he said, cocking his head to one side, and continued, “You must remember that I am from English (Hons)”
I couldn’t quite think of anything to say.
“The entire Science community is with me. The societies will come around. And I am tall, and see my body?” he said, flexing his muscles and continued, “the girls will also be with me. Tumhare Paas kya hain?” he concluded, laughing at his own little finishing joke.
It was ridiculous, yet scary. Contempt etched in every twitch in his face, he let go of my hand and walked past. I decided to bunk class and shave-off my two-week old beard: I had to look decent for the girls.

6PM
Room Number 84
I woke up to see the room lit by beautiful golden light that angled in from the half-open meshed window that faced west. The rays were delicate, soft as the setting sun and minute dust particles swirled and danced in the light. I changed and decided to go to the market. At the hostel gate, I met the Don, who frowned. I wondered if it had something to do with my wearing bathroom slippers. I said,
“Good evening Sir!”
“Evening. Well, where are you going?”
“To the market”
“All alone?”
“Yes. Shoaib’s gone to a movie”
“Just wait here, don’t go anywhere” he said and sped away into the hostel.

In a flash he was back, flanked by two burly looking juniors, both of whom I sort of knew.
“I’ve just briefed them” the Don said, pointing to the juniors, “The two of them will go along with you. No, they won’t intrude. Just pretend they don’t even exist. They’ll just make sure you are safe—it’s just a precaution, nothing to worry about”
“They are like my bodyguards or something? I mean, who’s going to come after me? Osama Bin Laden?”
He took my hand, gave it a squeeze and said, “Not Osama. But anyone who thinks you are too stiff competition for him. Listen, you are now a Presidential Candidate at the college level elections. I am just trying to be on the safer side. Go now”
As I watched him turn around and leave, I had this passing feeling that I was not there at all—rather it was all happening in a movie and I was only someone in the audience. I just couldn’t believe all this was happening in my life—it was mine, for God’s sake. I was now beginning to lose my hold on something that was almost exclusively mine. That thought went down as well as medicine for stomach-ache.

12 AM
The Don’s Cell
I knocked and entered.
“Come, have a seat” The Don said.
I walked and sat beside the Don. I smiled apprehensively at the three men seated in front of me. They all returned my smile, but smiles didn’t seem to come naturally to them. The man in the middle looked like a first-rate politician: he wore a white kurta; his hair was oiled and neatly parted. His moustache was thick and he had an air of irritating superiority about him. Beside him sat his two henchmen: both sporting unruly stubbles, smoking lazily as they stared around uninterestedly. One wore an ugly blue shirt with gaudy fluorescent stripes; the other a blue, artificially faded, torn jeans with patches of pink on the pockets that would have even given Govinda-of-the-90s a run for his money. It was fashion that was beyond me.
“We are getting him to stand for President” said the Don to the man in the middle, gesturing towards me.
“Oh” he said, looking at me with amusement and continued, “If it’s your choice, Don saab, then it has to be good”
I wondered what that meant. Didn’t I look like a potential candidate? Did looking like one mean looking like him? But, the Don didn’t look like him!
“ Angrezi bahut tez bolta hain” said the Don. I panicked. Was the Don defending me? What was I doing in the company of these rogues? What have I gotten into?
“Hmm” the politician said and turned to face me. He then said—
“Acha, you are my brother. We are friends now. We have spent seven minutes in each other’s company, and as per our forefathers, that is long enough to make us good friends. Now listen bhai, any problem, any panga, any person who’s a pain in the ass, come to me. I’ll make sure they’ll go back to drinking their mother’s milk in a couple of days’ time. And if you want some money, to throw a party for friends—after all parties get you a lot of votes—just ask me: I’ve given the Don some money, if you want more, ask me. Here, wait…” he said, and turned to the ugly-shirt man, and said, “Just give him my card—the one with my latest number”
The card was duly passed on. I pocketed it with just a passing glance at the name: Ram Prasad Dahiya from the NSUI party. The politician then carried on,
“And make sure you have alcohol in your parties: loads and loads of alcohol. Money is not an issue. I’ve also allotted a good hefty sum for canvassing. Posters, sim-cards—all don’t come freely, you know” he said and paused to take a long drag at the cigarette his henchman offered him.
Then he sat up straight, his eyes fixed on me, and said in a soft tone-- polite yet menacing.
And one humble request from this small man—please get all your friends to vote for my party, NSUI, in the University elections. Our agenda is simple…”
I lost track of what he was saying after that. So, that was his game after all, I mused: he wanted me to campaign for him in the university elections. In return, he’d give me enough money to garner my votes, to strengthen my hold on the college. His other promise was what intrigued me: he would get rid of my enemies—what did that mean? Could he get rid of anybody? I had no enemies, no one I hated. Correction: I had one enemy, one man who made everyone’s life a living hell in the college—the principal. Would he be able to make the principal go back to drinking his dead mother’s milk?

The meeting ended on a comical note. The Don got me to touch the politician’s feet; a gesture that seemed to have touched the latter’s heart. He hugged me and said, “Ab, tu mera bhai se beta ban gaya!” For the second time that day, I was at a complete loss for words.

After the group had left, I was still bursting with questions. Things were still murky, I wasn’t quite sure of what I was getting into. The more I thought, the more the uncomfortable sensation of absolute helplessness came upon me. The Don, I think, had sensed my questions, read my thoughts simply by the manner in which I looked at him. He gazed fixedly at the ground, eyes weary, and said to me “You have a long day ahead tomorrow. Go, go to sleep. We can talk later”
Little did I realize, as I turned to leave, how much truth his words had.
To continue ...

Political Science

Disclaimer: The protagonist and I have as much in common as a military-tank and Santa Claus. God promise.
The Don’s Cell
10 PM(The Don’s Cell was once used by the Hostel staff and Teachers for their meetings. Now, thanks largely to the Don’s work, it is the party-room that doubles up as a Students General Body Meeting Room during the election-month)“The elections are coming” the Don announced, stating the obvious with a comical sense of occasion, and continued, “And we have gathered here in the Cell to discuss strategy!”
“And we”, I whispered to Shoaib, “are here to feast and drink!”
“Friends, it’s been a tough year, last time around. We’ve had our share of troubles. But, the past year, as a member of the Union in power, we’ve learnt a lot. I, personally, have grown over the year…”
“Oh yes, he’s grown. Horizontally, width-wise. He’s got a beer-belly that was surely not there when he became President” Shoaib said into my ear.
I snorted and whispered back, “Why can’t he cut the crap? I want my wine”
Shekhar ‘Don’ Deep must have heard my last comment. At once, he glanced at me—a single swift glance—and only his eyes went icy cold as he let his gaze stay on me for a moment. He didn’t stop talking. No one else, not even Shoaib who was seated right next to me noticed anything, and yet I got the message: shut up. The Don was a jackass in most ways, yet he had his moments.

With nothing else to do, and the Don’s lecture seeming as interminable as the Timeless Test, I gazed around. We were sitting at the Don’s feet, Shoaib and I, both complete misfits in the Don’s Cell. On the wall facing me, behind the Don, Piyush Rastogi, the latest ABVP candidate for President, rubbed shoulders with Swami Vivekananda; on my right, on the plush (by hostel standards, i.e.) chairs, lounged my seniors and some of the Don’s closest associates, some plain bored and gazing wistfully at the “No Smoking” sign on the wall; squatting right behind me were some more of the Don’s inner circle of friends, most of them my batch-mates; at the back of the room, listening with rapt attention, sat the juniors—new recruits who the Don saw a “spark” in. And behind them lay the sole reason for my being in the room: a locked cupboard that, the Don had assured me, had 3 bottles of vintage imported wine.

By the time the Don was done, Shoaib had yawned so much that he complained his jaws hurt; I had all of the Swami’s 10 commandments memorized and had stared so long at the wine-cupboard that I knew its every crack and even the number on its lock backwards. An air of relief more than anything else, like that of a man who had finally leaked after hours of torture, descended as the Don took his seat at long last. He gave his priceless key to a junior who proceeded to the cupboard. Wine glasses_ old scratched ones, that had survived many a drunken brawl_ were brought out; Liqour flowed, chips and sweets gobbled; an iPod, connected to speakers, blared the latest Punjabi track; gradually people broke into brash, impromptu jigs as the liquor got to them; and every time I wondered what I was doing there, I took a sip of the divine Wine and felt reassured; only Shoaib seemed more lost than me, sipping his Coke meditatively; and before I realized it, the Don had cornered me.
“So, liked my speech? Mind-blowing, no?” he asked
“Yes. Very inspiring” I said and gulped down some wine.
“I would like to discuss some issues with you—“
“What?” I shouted, for someone had just turned up the volume of the iPod.
“I want to discuss something. With you” he said, raising his voice and making extravagant hand gestures.
I didn’t quite hear every word, for lip-reading wasn’t my forte (not especially when I was tipsy), but I got the general gist and said,
“Ok”
“Come over here” he said taking me by the arm and guiding me to a quieter corner.
“Yes, Don saab, what can I do for you?”
And that was when Shoaib, pushed by a swinging junior, bumped into the Don and spilled all his coke on the Don’s pajamas.
“Oops”, he went, “Am sorry, sir. Real sorry. Here, let me help you” and took a great swipe at the Don’s groins. The Don yelped in pain, and screamed, “Back off, you bumbling bastard!”
“Am sorry, sir. I swear I am. God promise. Mother promise. Mother Dead promise—“
I managed to pass my hysterics as fits of severe choking cough as I watched the Don, wet pants and in pain in the wrong areas, do his best to maintain his calm and say,
“Shoaib, if you could kindly leave the two of us here alone. We have something important to discuss”
Shoaib, thoroughly embarrassed and apologizing profusely, moved away, leaving the two of us alone, far from the dancing crowd.

And that was when the gravity of the situation struck me. The Don was famed for his long monologues on meta-physical planes of alternate consciousness or even the evils of AFSPA. And in me, he had always assumed, he had found an intellectual equal—an ideal listener, who would not only listen but comment, criticize and pit his wits against. I had evaded the Don for over a year, with nothing more than pleasantries and the odd comment on Anti-incumbency or Global warming being exchanged between us. But this, I thought, was it. I shouldn’t have missed my visit to the Hanuman Mandir last Tuesday, I thought. And in my mind I saw the Great Monkey God, roaring with laughter at my predicament and chiding my careless attitude towards Him. And for the first time that night I noticed that behind Swami Vivekananda’s benevolent calm was hidden a distinct smirk: even he was laughing at me.
“ Sir, actually. Er… Yes, Sir. I am feeling very sleepy” I said.
“Sleepy?” the Don went, “At 11 in the night? Ha! You must be kidding. Come on, the night is still young and we have so much to talk about”
And so we sat, the Don and I, in one quiet corner. Shoaib was sipping his coke and laughing, not too far away. And strangely, as I stared around, I saw an alarmingly large number of eyes trained on us, and the chatter seemed to hush-up. I took a final swig, completely resigning myself to my fate. The Don began. And, thankfully, the rest of the evening was a blur—I only remembered shaking hands with the seniors and dancing energetically and Shoaib’s voice going “What did you do? What did you do?”

Room Number 84,
8 AM
(My room is an organized mess: Shoaib’s half is organized, my half is messy)“What did I do?”
“What happened? You went mad! “said Shoaib, “You were saying yes to everything. Yes, yes, Oh yes and Yes!”
“Shit, shit, shit and shit”
We were drinking coffee in our room. Room number 84 might require rechristening if all went well, I thought sadly—the President’s room, perhaps. I slurped my coffee and shook my head. It all seemed so unbelievable, happened so fast. The Don had smooth-talked me into filing my nomination for President, Students' Union. Two factors, I strongly believe, contributed to me listening to precisely one sentence of what the Don had said: One, the overwhelming sense of relief when he said, “I have an innovative election strategy that you must listen to” (that was the only sentence I heard). I had expected something on the lines of ‘Let’s have a detailed analysis of William Rogers’ Retrograde views on Women’s Emancipation in India’. Factor number two was the wine. And to make matters worse, he had finished so abruptly, in a matter of a few minutes, giving me hardly any time to warm up. We shook hands and he had said
‘Congrats young man!’.
‘Congrats? What for’ I had asked innocently.
‘I like your sense of humour’ he said laughing and walked away.
And I was smiling as I shouted after him, ‘I like you too!’
“And you kept smiling like a monk who’d attained nirvana!” Shoaib was saying, “He was done with you in less than 2 minutes. And then he moved on to announcing your candidature to everyone there. And you played your part to perfection—acknowledging your name, waving to the crowd and dancing to the seniors. That was then. Now the entire hostel and half the college knows”
“But, I haven’t still filed my nomination. What if I don’t do it at all? Wait, I have an idea. Shoaib, just hide me somewhere. Or I’ll just take the first bus out of this place and don’t return till 3 in the afternoon. Or I’ll probably call in sick. Or—“
“Shut up” Shoaib said, “Listen, I am serious now. You can’t back off. Do you understand? You just can’t. You run away now, and you’ll have no friends here—you’ll be branded a traitor. They see you now as a leader, no longer a reclusive talent. And if you disappear, then don’t expect me to cover your backside; I’ll be the first to kick you, in fact”

The Red Room
2 PM(The Chief Election Commission’s office is a forgotten, dusty old small red-room that comes alive during election-season. Two chairs, a table and the CEC-- Chief election Commissioner-- himself take up most of the room. The CEC is obese, irritable and chews so much paan that when he opens his mouth it is hard to distinguish between his discoloured teeth and his tongue. The walls were once white, now, for obvious reasons, they are red. The spider-webs at the crevices are also a deep, vivid crimson)

“Krishna Rama Govinda…”
“What are you muttering under your breath?”
“Me? Muttering? What muttering? Just let me file my nomination in peace”
A pause. And then--
“Saraswati Durga Maha Kali“
“See! There you go again”
“Shoaib, just mind your business”

My hand was shaking so badly that I could barely write. I prayed to every God I knew—we had so many, somebody had to help. I prayed that my nomination be cancelled due to some glitch in my papers, perhaps. I didn’t want to get into this. I didn’t know what I was getting into, in fact. Politics was just not my cup of tea and politics at this level was no cup of tea anyway—it was serious business. Or it seemed like at least. And it certainly was dirty and cheap and stupid. I prayed and cursed: I cursed the Don, I cursed the wine; I was not brave enough to curse God, I was in enough trouble already. And as I finished my last signature, the most cursed man in the college walked into the Red Room.
“Good morning Sir” Shoaib and I chimed.
The Principal grunted in acknowledgement.
“All done? Everything in place?” he asked the CEC.
“Yes sir” he said, pausing to suck in some juice, “Last nomination from this man here”
The Principal gave me an appraising look and said menacingly, “Dirty game this politics. And dirty people only play it”
I gulped. And now my entire body was shaking. I gave him what I thought was a smile. He didn’t return it, just looked away and started to walk out.
“Watch this” the CEC said softly to us, as the principal was leaving and spat out red liquid whose trajectory ended on the principal’s posterior. He then swore with obvious contempt, loud enough for us to hear. Shoaib was nearly howling, I merely let out a short nervous burst of laughter before resuming my prayers.

To continue...

Rediscover

Somewhere a cock crowed listlessly, age robbing the sheen of its vigour; the early birds twittered noisy-melodiously; the leaves wept silently, their dewy-tears sparkling as they caught the morning’s first rays; a door clicked softly, almost apologetically—as though it really didn’t want to butt into the canvas that nature so effortlessly fashioned. A pair of alert eyes scanned the surroundings stealthily while the hand that held the door now prodded a pair of glasses that refused to sit straight on a very long Pinocchio-nose. The other hand, however, lay still; too still. Suspiciously still, as though it were bound by an invisible cast. Gradually, one hand, eyes, the nose, and the man, Prof. PK, relaxed as the glasses sank back to the original crooked stance, relieved. He coaxed the creaky gate to open silently, and almost skipped across to the road, when a familiar voice boomed from the neighbouring window,
“Professor!”
Abruptly, the professor turned around, his eyes squinted at the window and stiffened, his legs went stiff, his face cold and stiff, his glasses crooked, yet, yes, stiff, his right hand clenched and stiff, and his left invisible-cast-held-hand open and loose. And something round and red as a cherry dropped from the now-loose arm-pit, and bounced once, twice—
“Professor!” the neighbour roared again, oblivious of the stiffening and the bouncing, “Where are you going? And that too, morning-morning?”
And out of the blue, Pinocchio-nose sported a hundred guilty wrinkles, and the professor’s ears drooped causing his glasses to sway dangerously, and he went—
“Ah? Um. Morning-morning? Ah!”
And that was precisely when he lost it. Before he could realize it, his invisible-cast-held-now-loose hand rose slowly and raised the little finger at the window.
“I have to pee”
“What?”
“A few relatives are occupying the guest bedroom and my wife’s currently using our toilet. And it is urgent. So, if you’d look the other way…”
And only the trickle of urine on dew-drenched grass punctuated a shocked silence.

*****

The clock in his office chimed four times; the fan above twirled noisily; stray papers sprayed all around his table, enthused by the fan, bound by paperweights, flapped like leashed dogs; And he strained his ears for that elusive noise—the sound of footsteps and the clutter of tea-cup and tray—his impatience growing every time his rickety chair creaked to and fro. He stood up, frustrated, unable to concentrate, and virtually jogged out of his room, when he saw the familiar rotund figure of the clerk, bouncing up towards him, tea-tray supported by raised hands, circles of sweat around his arm-pits.
“What took you so long?” the professor asked, annoyed.
“Eh?” the clerk asked, uncomprehending, for as far as he knew, he was well on time, a couple of minutes before time, in fact.
“Has Yuvraj come on to bowl?”
“Eh?” the clerk groped, very perplexed. The second last thing one would expect to be questioned about when on the verge of being on the receiving end of an uncalled for reprimand is a question about cricket. The last thing, however, would be Yuvraj Singh’s bowling.
“I said-- Has Yuvraj come on to BOWL?”,
“No, sir” he stammered.
“Is he stretching, at least trying to grab the captain’s attention?” the professor seemed agitated.
“I didn’t observe, sir” he said, then gradually finding his feet, “He should come on in a few overs, once the powerplays are over”
“Oh” the professor said, wiping his crooked glasses with a hand-kerchief, “Anyway, place the tray here. And make sure you call me as soon as he comes on to bowl”
“Yes sir, I will surely do”
An elephant’s demure amble replaced the springy bouncing as the clerk made his way back. ‘Yuvraj Singh’s bowling’ he thought, and snorted, ‘Even his father won’t get half as worked up as the professor over that'

*****

“Amma!” she hissed, skipping into the kitchen, and whispered excitedly, “Come with me! You have to see this!”
“What is it?” she asked, wiping the sweat off her brow.
“Shhh! don’t be so loud! Just come”
And so they tip-toed to the dining room and peered into the adjacent living room from behind the door.
‘One, two, three…’ the Professor was muttering to himself, trotting almost comically on the carpet, counting his steps, his face screwed up, immersed in concentration, oblivious to the pair of curious eyes that were trained on him. He raised his right arm in an extravagant yet fluent swing, continuing to jog, when his wife realized she could no longer bear it--
“What are you doing?”
“Ah? Er. Um” he mumbled, guilt-wrinkles adorning Pinocchio-nose once again.
And his mind went into auto-pilot.
“I am planning to take classes. Er. Some form of dance. Just practicing”, he barely whispered the last two words and slumped onto the sofa, perspiring profusely, much more from effort than fear. He closed his eyes. And relaxed. The world went strangely silent. An orange glow lit up behind his shut eyelids and he felt happiness and contentment overwhelm him. His wife looked at the smile on his face and saw her questions vanish, her anger die down. It was a small smile, yet it said so much each time that it surprised her: regularly adorning his face for the past month-and a half, it seemed to say different things at different times—today it was deeply satisfying, that of a successful artiste whose thirst has been quenched; last week, it had been fiery and passionate; the week before, an enthusiastic one. And yet, at some level, they all seemed to say the same thing, for essentially it was the same smile—one of a man who had rediscovered a small lost flame, who had found joy doing a little something that was more than just little for him.

*****

“We simply call him— the Magician” said the wicket-keeper, nodding his head seriously, a faint trace of pride in his voice.
“What rubbish!” the batsman said, taking his guard.
“Oh, if you don’t want to believe, don’t believe! But, I am telling you, he is unplayable. He’s been with us for almost two months and there hasn’t been one batsman who has come close to mastering him. He can spin it like anything. Even you won’t be able to touch his bowling”
The last sentence hurt the batsman, but he bit back a retort. He simply smirked, looking at the bowler. It was hard to believe anyone who looked like that could bowl, let alone spin the ball. With an air of supreme confidence he took his stance, taking one sweeping look at the field. He decided to hit it hard and straight, a thousand feet in the air, a thousand feet past the fence.
“Left Arm Over” announced the umpire.
“He practices his magic at the crack of dawn, and he watches others and learns. Magic, Magic” the keeper whispered, loud enough for the batsman to hear.
The bowler trotted to the crease gracefully and raised his bowling-arm in one quick, efficient motion, his bowling style reminiscent of a famous Indian middle-order batsman. One last look at the boundary, and the batsman was on his way, a couple of steps down the track, bat raised, eyes trained on the flighted, lip-smackingly teasing ball. And he paused for he was there, but the ball wasn’t, and he knew it was all over, yet he swung his bat wildly in the direction of the tossed, magically withheld ball. And he walked from half-way down the track, where he was embarrassingly stranded, straight ahead to the pavilion, refusing to look around, to see the jubilant keeper gather the ball, the bails lifted off the stumps in one sweeping flourish.

And the fielders went “Magic, Magic” as they jumped like maniacs; the small crowd, who had come to see the Magician perform his tricks, roared; the batsman shook his head in disbelief, the umpires exchanged glances, as though emphasizing the inevitability of it all; and the Magician celebrated in style, exchanging hi-fis with his teammates (who half-hoped touching his hand would rub off some of the magic onto them) as crooked glasses, perched comfortably on a long nose that sported wrinkles of joy, glinted in the rays of the evening-Sun and a familiar, content smile that had followed the Magician around in recent times like a faithful pet, lit up his face.