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]

Past Fast-- II

(Continued from here)
The next morning, Thatha refused breakfast. I entered the kitchen to find Amma muttering to herself furiously—strangely, it reminded me of Pati in her final days. Half-deaf and increasingly disinterested in daily affairs, Pati spent the bulk of her waking hours in a peculiar state of quiet frenzy— she perpetually chanted Lord Vishnu’s name under her breath, ordering Him to show Himself. She would rant about His continuous absence and question His very existence, all in an understated yet angry manner. Amma today was just like that, except her mantra involved largely the following words—old man, senile, fool, waste—interspersed with other choice expletives.

By noon, lunch was served. And Thatha’s leaf was still friendless. Amma’s frown had grown set; she still didn’t say a word to Thatha, showing a spirit of passive resistance to open confrontation that matched Thatha’s own.

Thatha on the other hand, spent the bulk of the day writing and hanging a banner outside the house that said, in big, bold, black Kannada letters: “Indefinite Hunger Strike. We want Bus”. The first curious onlookers were children, all around my age, who stared and stared at banner that might as well have been in Greek. I took upon the task of campaign propagandist, explaining in grand detail Thatha’s motives.

By dusk, Appa was back, tired from his work in the fields and dinner was served. And refused. That finally broke Amma’s spirit: her upper-lip stiff, on the verge of tears, she told Appa of his father’s madness. Appa listened, initially with amusement, then with increasing alarm and did something I had never seen him do in my presence—put his arm around her. It was a brief, abrupt hug, but long enough for me to turn away embarrassed. And Amma, oblivious to all, let out a barely audible sob. Appa turned to me, smiled wearily and said: where’s Thatha? Mutely, I pointed towards the door and Appa went outside and I followed.
Thatha sat by the stairs outside, apparently nonplussed, staring into the distance.
“Appa” Appa addressed his Appa, “What are you doing?”
“Watching dusk give way to night; watching the sun make way for the moon”
Appa sighed, clicked his tongue, looked down, stretched his feet, and said:
“What are you doing, Appa?”
Thatha looked at Appa and smiled:
“This village needs a bus”
“So?”
“So, I am fasting to death to ensure this village gets one”
Appa sunk his head in his hands.
“And” he said, eventually looking up, “How do you think that is going to help?”
Thatha looked at Appa—his eyes excited, his voice acquiring a strength of its own, and said:
“I have written letters. One to the District Commissioner, a couple more to the Transport Office in Haladi, one to the Municipal Corporation in Bangalore, one more to the Transport Minister of the State and finally—“ he said and paused for dramatic effect, and I could sense something big was coming, “to the CM—Chief Minister!”
I tore my eyes off Thatha’s face—flush with delight—to Appa’s— unimpressed, weary eyes and a drooping jaw that let words out cautiously:
“Saying what?”
“Saying that I will go on a hunger strike—indefinitely—for a bus”
Appa’s face had at least five of Bharata’s nine emotions running through them—surprise, shock, amusement, disappointment and mirth. It was the last of those that stuck and he burst out laughing.
“You’re crazy” he said, between chuckles and continued, “Enough of this. Come, let’s eat”
Thatha laughed too, but said, in a firm yet kind way:
“No”
Appa sighed. Eventually, he said, more harsh than weary:
“Do you really think the Chief Minister of the state cares about an old man in an obscure village five-hundred kilometres from Bangalore?”
“If he has a conscience”
“Conscience?” Appa burst out, and he clutched his loin-cloth firmly to vent his rage and continued, “Who cares for us, Appa? We have no schools, no hospitals here! No electricity, no roads! One government falls, another takes its place, does anybody care? Every five years one official comes to take down our names and promises some grain. Where is that grain? Where is that rice? I walk through jungles to sell my produce, lugging them on my shoulder, my feet bare. Does anybody care? It has been twenty-five years since the British left—or so you tell me—and has it made any difference to our lives?”
And Appa stood up, furious, and made to leave, but not before he had one, final parting shot:
“Tomorrow, when you die, I will write a letter to the CM inviting him to your funeral. He will surely come!”

Thatha remained stone-faced, silent. And when the first owl-hooted, he turned to look at me staring at him—my eyes fearful—and winked and said: “Sleep-time”
That night Thatha sang Vachana Number Twelve and repeated, until sleep wrestled the last ounce of consciousness from of my eyes, the same line: “Then again, what can I do? I am but a poor man”
*****
By the third day, Thatha had become the talk of the village; Amma had become a nervous wreck; Appa was largely quiet, but obviously unhappy; I was afraid, but also proud. I had heard—from Thatha, of course—of Gandhi and his miracle fasts that moved nations. And here, in my very own house, I told myself proudly, we had his modern-day avatar!
The villagers always had tremendous respect for Thatha’s knowledge, but they also thought he lacked basic common sense. He had invoked in them not the kind of passionate introspection and subsequent action that Gandhi did, nor a thirst for blood like the communists; indeed, they were untouched by neither the fear that gripped Amma or the saintly reverence that I felt. For them, it was a curious, amusing, a little sad sometimes, but exceedingly interesting act from someone’s life—looking back, I think they sort of thought they were watching a play. Gripping—the stuff of legend, even—but somebody else’s problem.

As for buses, the villagers couldn’t care less. Thatha’s speeches on bus-stands and petrol and lives changing inspired at best, fantastic flights of imagination; at worst, they were dismissed like his views on untouchability.

*****
Every meal, Amma placed an empty leaf and filled it with rice and saaru. Every meal, I ate twice.

One day, Appa procured, from God-knows-where, at God-knows-how-much, some payasa. Its aroma filled a house unaccustomed to its presence. Amma smiled for the first time in days; Appa seemed to relax a little too. I was delirious with joy. Thatha, however, slept through lunch-time.

*****
Appa was born in the ‘40s and grew up, largely, on his own. Thatha, a freedom-fighter and a staunch Gandhian, lived away and would send money at irregular intervals; at even more irregular intervals, he would make an appearance in the village—gaunt, unshaven, rag-clad, his eyes sleep-deprived, he looked like he was seventy-five. Appa and Pati would nurse him back to health and within days, he would go away. He only came back for his son, Pati would tell me much later, and would always bring books—story books, comics, children’s novels and suchlike. That was Appa’s only education.

Appa did like his books, but he loved his village more. The blue skies, the tiled roofs, the dew-drenched grass, the eucalyptus trees, the tadpoles in the puddles, the great, golden fields, the green-blue, algae-ridden tank by the temple and the crocodiles within, the vast hills in the distance, their tips swallowed by the clouds—he so intensely cared for these that despite Thatha begging him to do so later on, he refused to shift to Haladi. Instead, he asked Thatha to move back with him.

Thatha did and never quite settled down, but never complained either.

*****
On the seventh day, Appa had all but given up when Amma announced, much to his shock, that she was going on an indefinite counter-fast. To her credit, we had exhausted all other possible options—they had pleaded and begged, appealed to his human side, asked him to live for me—his only grandson whose free education in the city ran on his goodwill; they yelled at him, called him names, even chose to completely ignore him for a couple of days, hoping silence would help him come around. Many years later, Amma admitted to me that they had even tried force-feeding him—the very thought brought tears to her eyes.

Appa was livid. In his own quiet manner, he threw a few of his prized possessions, my books and some clothes, into a bag, caught me by the hand, and staged a walk-out. “I don’t want to live in this mad-house” he thundered. Amma wailed; Thatha, who could barely walk now, sprang out of his bed and put his hand on Appa’s shoulder and said: “Stop”. Appa looked at him—frail, wiry thin, unshaven, sunken sleepy eyes, only his giant ears stood out, its size accentuated by the shrunken dimensions of all else. Appa dropped his bag, let go off my hand and looked down at the floor, rooted, unmoving. Amma, taking that as a sign that the coast was clear, proceeded to, in her own efficient nature, unpack Appa’s bag and replace my books; Thatha went back to lying down on his charpoy in the veranda, his eyes fixed on the spectacular sky, unblinking.

Much like Thatha’s eyes, Appa stood, motionless—the sky changed colours, the sounds of the day gave way to those of dusk, but like the sun standing still watching the world go around, he remained, immobile.

*****
A Satyagraha, the Mahatma once remarked, usually passes through five stages: indifference, ridicule, abuse, repression and respect. Going by that yardstick, Thatha’s campaign barely got underway—the village didn’t even care enough to ridicule it. Inside the house, however, the success was resounding: if the campaign survived repression, the Mahatma said, then ‘it invariably commanded respect, another name for success’. And, whether grudgingly (as was in the case of Appa and Amma) or openly (as was with me), he had earned tremendous respect within the house. The leaner he grew, the stronger became his resolve, the greater was his aura—even in moments of grave doubt, when it dawned on him that his was a cause beyond his fellow-men’s simple minds, he never went back on his word.

For Thatha himself, his Satyagraha’s success was, at best, questionable—indeed, towards the fag end, his very definition of success changed. His initial enthusiasm briskly wilted, giving way to, by the third day, deep introspection and consequently, deeper disappointment. In fact, when the house chose to win him over with its silence, Thatha himself receded into a quiet phase. When he emerged, Thatha was a different man—no less stubborn in his denial of food, but unsure of what he actually wanted to achieve.
“In the olden days” Thatha told me, “the old King would give up all and go away to the forest. Eventually, if he wasn’t eaten by animals or consumed by a forest fire, he would give up his body too, by fasting to death”. “My fast may be a public failure”, he told Amma, sipping pensively his glass of salt-water, “but privately, it has shattered the very foundation on which my life had been built—it has harboured a great phase of unlearning in my life. The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing”

******
One morning, I awoke to find Thatha and Amma bellowing at the top of their voices: another fight, I presumed and hid myself under my blanket, willing myself to go back to sleep. It proved futile: a fresh day laden with infinite possibilities, a bright new sun, clear rays streaming through every open space, light playing with spots of shadow, light dominating shadow—these proved too heady a concoction for even sleep to overcome. I sat up to stretch and Thatha hobbled in, as lean and bent as a creeper, but he was smiling.
“Fighting again?” I asked.
“No” he said and added with a wink, “practising. I think I’ll be seeing your deaf Pati again soon”

*****
“When Gandhiji fasted, a nation prayed, millions mended their ways, countries shook” Thatha said and added drily, “The only thing my fast inspired was another one”.

That night, the tenth since Thatha began his campaign, Thatha sat with us for dinner. Bursting with energy, whose source could only come from the oxygen he breathed, he laughed and joked and even sang a couple of lines from a Vachana he had recently discovered in one of his older notebooks. Appa and Amma, in uncharacteristic fashion, bowed down before him after dinner and told me to follow suit. I followed Thatha’s advice instead and stood next to him as my parents lay sprawled out in front and blessed them as he did. Thatha ruffled my hair and let me go.

As we went to bed, Thatha, like many nights during the past week, felt he was too weak to sing for me. Instead he lay down in his characteristic fashion—straight as a rod, his right hand on his stomach, his left wrapped around his head like an inverted ‘L’, his legs a little apart.

Thatha never woke up—he died a peaceful man, one whose final act was a failure, but only left him infinitely wiser.

Past Fast – I

One gay November day, Thatha decided to go on a hunger strike: Anna Satyagraha, in his words. The cause was, in hindsight, an important one. However, in our village of a hundred and seventy-two, Thatha had only one other supporter—me. I was sharp, smart and perhaps the best-educated in the village. Unfortunately for Thatha, I was eleven.
Thatha was everything the village was not—he thought ahead, sometimes years ahead; he liked to travel, to see the world; he rationalized—he argued for reason to be placed above all, even Lord Vishnu. The latter was a stand that brought him so much flak that he ended up preaching it only to me, well after the last lamps in the house were extinguished, in whispers so soft that the words wrapped around me like a cosy, comforting blanket, making my eyelashes heavy; At a time when most of the village could speak one language and read none, Thatha was trilingual— proficient in Kannada, English and Sanskrit, the latter being self-taught. Needless to say, the village thought Thatha was nuts, a view that was shared by all in the house except Amma and I; it was also a view that he didn't care much about; indeed, it was a view that he was completely oblivious to, that didn't affect him directly up until that November afternoon.
It all began a few months previously, when he received a letter from his friend—another old man with little to do—that rambled on about Basava's Vachana number twenty-three. I remember, very clearly, the scene: it was late-afternoon by the time the post-man got home, a little tired and extremely thirsty. Thatha had a look of controlled excitement on his face—he masked it well enough for a casual observer to not see any trace of contentment, but I knew better: his hands trembled, ever so slightly, as he held the letter; his eyes flickered with pride, his wrinkles a web of eager, dancing patterns. He took the letter and smelt it, an old habit that rubbed on to me so hard that I find it hard to explain to perplexed onlookers when they catch me with my nose plastered to my laptop screen when I get an email from old friends. He read out the letter—not because he wanted me to listen, but because he always read out aloud (which perhaps contributed in no small way to Pati's acute loss of hearing in the twilight of her life).
The letter was unremarkable but for the post-script tucked away in a corner, hastily scribbled but underlined thrice: "We've got our first bus that plies every second day, from our village to Haladi!" Haladi was to us what Bangalore was to the Haladi: a hallowed land of endless opportunity, of bus-stands the size of playgrounds; of schools that housed more children than a forest had trees; of railway stations where trains actually stopped and not merely flew past.
Thatha read the post-script out and paused. His eyebrows shot up. Unconsciously, he drummed his bald plate and muttered to himself, softly—'bus', 'Haladi'. He thrust the letter in my hand hurriedly almost as though it was a plate-full of meat that he had mistakenly presumed to be his lunch and began pacing around the veranda, his hands tied behind his back, pausing now and again to look at the clear, azure sky.
Thatha skipped lunch that day. He chose to eat guavas for dinner—guavas tinged with salt and khara. I asked for the same, but Amma gave me such an ugly look that I chose not to pursue it, though I shot longing glances at his plate throughout dinner. Appa noticed me and smiled wistfully when he caught my eyes, and pointed to Thatha and ran circles around his own head: screw loose. That night, Thatha sang Vachana Number Twenty-Three to put me to bed. I slept a few lines into his explanation of the depth of the song.
The next morning I awoke to a wailing cock and a spectacular sun—the rays bounced off our newly painted walls, their brilliance reflected, multiplied; the world, as I awoke, was bathed in white—not the faint, calming white of a full moon, but the coruscating one of a new dawn.
Thatha was gone, Amma told me, as she placed my milk on the floor. Gone where? I asked, still drowsy. Somewhere, she said from her kitchen, and the clattering of vessels and the gushing of water told me her mind was elsewhere.
Subsequently, Thatha went 'somewhere' quite often. It was not like he didn't disappear previously; it was just that he never did with such alarming frequency. His disappearances would last a couple of days sometimes, sometimes longer. I once asked Amma, I think after his fourth disappearance in three weeks, where Thatha went. She said she didn't know, and added, more to herself than to me: at least, it keeps him going. I didn't dare ask Thatha—don't get me wrong, I wasn't afraid, but it was disrespectful to ask and I didn't want to pry.
*****
My eyes flew open. But for a streak of pale yellow that crept through the half-open door of my bedroom, there was darkness everywhere. An owl hooted from somewhere nearby; I heard the hyenas cackle, secure in the confines of the jungle that bordered our village; insects clicked and screeched. And voices argued, in audible whispers. I snuck up to my door and peered at the figures lit by the lamp-light: in the hallway, under the shadow of my Thatha who stood in front, was Amma, her back to me, hands on hips, legs apart. Thatha was visibly tired, but was hunched in a manner that was at once defiant and apologetic. It was obvious that he had just returned.
"What if the hyenas eat you?" Amma asked, rubbing her forehead with her wrists.
"I have lived in this godforsaken village for an almost uninterrupted seventy-five years now. The hyenas and I have a very fine, working relationship"
"Why couldn't you wait till tomorrow to leave wherever you left from? What is the hurry?"
"I sleep best in my bed, ma. Ageing brings with it, amongst other ails, a fanatical rigidity in tastes"
I wondered if there was ever a time when Thatha had flexible preferences, but that train of thought was quickly put aside, for the conversation wound up and Thatha was making his way to his customary sleeping place beside me. I rushed to bed, shut my eyes as hard as I could, and pretended to sleep. For a brief few tense moments, there was darkness behind my eyes, and then it was gone, for Thatha had walked in, lamp in hand. I heard him unroll his mattress, pat the bedspread a couple of times and heard it puff as he laid it out.
In less than a minute, all the hyenas and the insects, the owls and the frogs were drowned by Thatha's snores.
*****
The next day Thatha called me over to his 'study'. The study, in essence, comprised a cane chair and a table, placed strategically in a corner of our bedroom. He partitioned it from the rest of the room with an old, off-white, plain curtain. The table was situated next to a window—one surprisingly large for our kind of houses—that when thrown open, accommodated a modest landscape: neatly partitioned fields, palm trees, languid cows and a lazy green everywhere.
"Do you see this?" he asked, pointing to a table.
On the table was a hand-drawn map, its shape unrecognizable, its names alien. I plodded through the Kannada words scattered all over the strange shell-shaped figure, looking for something familiar. Eventually I spotted one name, right at the centre, written in bold, black ink. I put my finger on the name and read out:
"Ha-la-di"
"Excellent" he said, beaming.
"This is our map. This is—", he said, tracing his finger north-ward from Haladi and stopping at a point, "where we live"
"What are these lines?" I asked. There were lines that ran from Haladi to various other points, lines drawn in blue ink.
"Excellent question, excellent question!" he said, and continued, excited, "They are bus-routes"
And Thatha explained what had possessed him all this while. Over the past few months, ever since he got that letter from his friend, he had made trips to a whole host of villages, taking buses, bullock-carts, even trekking on foot; he had been talking to Collectors and transport officials, weavers and farmers, school-teachers and village-doctors, labourers and activists.
He ran his fingers around what roughly constituted a circle around our village—the five closest villages on the map—and showed me how all of them were connected by blue-lines. Indeed, all but three villages of a total of over sixty had buses that plied through them. Ignominious company, he hissed. He went on to explain to me how buses changed lives, altered outlooks and livelihoods, about how people he had met from all walks of life told him glowing stories about shrinking distances, growing opportunities, greater happiness.
*****
The next morning, Thatha refused breakfast.
(To continue, in three days)

Two-Face (Part V)

(Continued from here. For part 1, see here)

Rama, I write, trying to gather my thoughts.
Rama, I write below and muse: such a simple name. Two syllables, so easy on the tongue, so serene, so right.
Rama, I say the name and close my eyes.
I see a waterfall. The water is pearly, silver, flowing rapid yet calm, echoing in bright sunshine, bouncing off moist brown rocks. In its distinctive serene way, the water blazes its own path—it moves unbound. The trees, the plants grow around the water; and the rocks are no match for its sheer force.
And yet, it flows only one way— downwards. For all its lack of inhibitions, its fundamental direction is externally defined.
Rama, I write again below and think: he is as complex as his name is simple.
“Rama”, said Vashishta, the children’s guide and philosopher, to me once and paused— letting the magic word hang in the still air— he continued “Every time I think I have opened a door to his mind, I find I am faced with another heavier, more safely locked door. The truth is that I do not know Rama. I doubt if anybody does”

I shut my book, unable to write anything about the man who is the reason I am in Ayodhya, but for—
Rama
Rama
Rama
*****

“Have you seen Vashishta?” Bharata asks, absently running his hand through his hair. Worry lines crease his otherwise blameless face.
“He went to see the King in his inner quarters. Come, I’ll take you there” I volunteer and hope he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t.
Bharata walks briskly taking long, purposeful strides. I struggle to keep pace with him, what will all the wine I have been consuming. In moments, we are at the King’s deserted Entertainment Chambers.

The Entertainment Chambers—once a teeming house of singers and dancers, jokers and jesters, animals and birds, circus artistes and gymnasts—now are empty, even the walls bear no memories of the fun and frolic of old, having been washed clean.
Dasharata chooses now to spend his free time by himself, watching nature play its little games.
“The other day I spent hours watching the most fascinating show” he said once to me when I asked him what he does in those chambers by himself, “The performers were numerous—thousands even. They danced tirelessly, not once complaining. They had the spotlight on them, of course. The very best kind of spotlight—a big ball of fire, thousands of miles away, lighting up everything in its wake. And that day, it being fairly early, we had golden-yellow light, spearing through the windows, through the gap between the curtains. Dark room, yellow spotlight, a thousand performers. And the patterns they produced— the most, delicate intricate patterns, swirling, swimming, curving and dancing”
“You were watching dust?” I ask, incredulous.
“I was watching the entire history of the Universe, told to me by the smallest particles seen to the human eye, in one cosmic swirl”

And so he spends his days: watching light play its games, ants march in neat files, squirrels gracefully speed over branches and trees, monkeys chatter and muse, birds twitter and swoop.

*****

As we enter, Dasharatha lies on the floor, his head resting on his arms, pontificating; Vashishta is listening with a smile, seated on his chair, his legs folded.
“Maharshi” Bharata says as he enters, and touches his own chest as a mark of respect to the great saint. Vashishta nods and smiles back. “Father” he says then, turning to look at Dasharatha and repeats the gesture again.
“Bharata! What brings you here?” asks Dasharatha gaily.
“Oy Teertha!” says Vashishta noticing my presence, and there is genuine heartiness in his voice, “Come, sit with us, discuss. Dasharatha here is telling me how he is finally getting all the time in the world to be lazy—”
He is cut short by Bharata.
“Maharshi, Father, I have not come to discuss life. I have come to tell you something important. Teertha?” he says then, turning to me, “If you’ll excuse us for just a couple of minutes”
“Of course, of course” I say smiling and make to leave when Vashishta stops me:
“Don’t go. What harm can he do, Bharata? In fact, being the wise man that he is, his views on whatever worries you might be useful”
Bharata regards me warily and I am about to offer to leave again, stressing that I do not mind, when he says:
“It’s alright. After all, you’ll be gone in a while and we care two hoots about what the outside world thinks of us”

Dasharatha, meanwhile, sits up, looking earnestly at Bharata, his back using the wall as support, legs stretched out. Orange sunlight streams from the thrown-open windows behind: with his long, white beard, his content, peaceful countenance and the illusion of a halo, he reminds me of a single-headed Brahma, the creator himself.

“It is about my brothers. I don’t like speaking ill of anyone and I do not say things unless I am certain, so please do not dismiss what I say. I have thought about this deeply, questioning the veracity repeatedly, but in the face of continuous evidence, I can’t see how I can be mistaken”
Vashista sits up straight, attentive. Dasharatha has a knowing half-smile planted on his lips.
“Father” says Bharata, turning to him, “I do not know if you have noticed enough and we have fairly different views on this issue, but I think Shatrughna might turn into a huge problem. Nowadays, he spends a considerable period of the day in the company of the—“
“Kollas” Dasharata finishes for him, still smiling.
Bharata is surprised and he doesn’t hide it.
“You know? And you haven’t done anything about it?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to him, at the very least”
“I already have” says Dasharatha, and now he is grinning.
Bharata eyes widen. He runs his hands through his hair, and asks:
“And?”
“And I think we should let him be. I have heard his side of the story—something I am certain none of you has bothered to do. In fact, I had this very discussion with Rama last evening. We agreed to disagree as I am supposing the two of us here will also end up doing. I don’t know if you have noticed, but Shatrughna is a mature adult now. He is not being forced into anything. He is making his choices independently. I have no right to stop him, nor have you or Rama or anybody else”
“But, what about—”
“—Family pride? Dharma?” he finishes the sentence again for Bharata, and smiling, he answers his own question:
“I have you all— you, Rama and Laxmana— upholding the family pride in a commendable manner. Any of you is capable of running this Kingdom, running it far more efficiently than I can do. I am an old man, far past the age for new ideas and different thinking. If Shatrughna wishes to follow his mind, then so be it. This Kingdom is in very safe hands; our legacy is very much intact. As for Kshatriya Dharma, the duty of a Warrior—I honestly think, having spent over seven decades in this world, that it is a load of hogwash. In fact, I am beginning to believe that the concept of Dharma is highly overrated and ill-specified. Of course, I will never publicly state this— you will all declare me senile, the people will panic, there will be anger, chaos—but this is what my opinion is. Dharma is being good to others. Dharma is doing what you think is right, having thought about it in as rational a manner as possible. Anything else being attributed to that term is incorrect”
“But, father” says Bharata exasperated, not knowing what else to say.
“You should have come yesterday, Bharata—your brother Rama put up a far stronger defence of Dharma than ‘But father’. Anyway, my last words on the subject—Dharma is only a tool, a guide, a pointer on how to lead one’s life. It has worked well for us in the past, helped organize a structure for our society, but that doesn’t mean it is always right. Dharma must change with the times, as any society will, while keeping some fundamental ideas the same. In the end, if the same Dharma that helps clear our path pulls us down, then we must not hesitate to discard it”
Bharata is silent and he turns to Vashishta for help, his eyes pleading.
Vashishta laughs and says:
“Your father is a great man at debates. I’d find it hard to raise counter-points. All I’d say is that the concept of Dharma maybe flawed but I am not so certain that it needs an overhaul of the proportions your father suggests. I depend on Dharma for my position, for the respect I have garnered, for the life I have lived. I cannot say much against it”

“I think we are done for the day today, yes?” Dasharatha asks, looking around at our pensive faces, “Too much talking—especially on matters such as philosophy and politics—makes my head hurt”
“Just one more thing, Father” Bharata says, just as we all make to stand up and leave.
“Okay—quickly”
“Um” he says and pauses, trying to find the right words, “It is about Laxmana. Um. Well, it is actually like this. But, no—“
“To the point, Bharata”
“I think Laxmana is a little too fond of Sita” he blurts out and his ears go red. He cannot see any of us in the face.
Like an unwelcome visitor, a distinctly uncomfortable silence descends upon us momentarily. And then they catch each others’ eyes—Dasharatha and Vashishta—and they burst out laughing, their eyes watery, holding their tummies. Bharata is blushing crimson now. Surprisingly, I find myself joining in the laughter too, though I don’t know why. It is Dasharatha who gathers himself first, his eyes twinkling and still a little wet, he says:
“Maybe, just maybe, we should leave that to Rama?” and snorts.

And then they are laughing again.

*****
(In all likelihood, the last Part will be out in three days)

Errata.

In Two-Face (Part III), a line in Section II reads: " ... his arm across her shoulders, his head resting on his other arm". It should be: "his arm across her shoulders, his head resting on his other palm"
Thanks Meghaa.
In Two-Face (Part IV), I've used the words "milk cartons". A more historically appropriate word would have been "vessel" or "container".
"Carton" usually refers to a cardboard (sometimes paper) box. See here
Thanks Soumithri.

New Space!

I have, finally, a (brand new) sister-blog devoted exclusively to the little non-fiction I write. Please check out maadi.

wediscovery.blogspot.com

November, 1984

It rained that evening. A warm, welcoming rain punctuated by big, bulbous drops, uncharacteristic of the city, atypical of the month. The sky was overcast—a veil of grey, grim and continuous, hung above. K, secure under the confines of a nondescript shed by the road, carefully inspected the contents of his wallet and then proceeded to check his mobile phone and wallet. Content, he relaxed slightly: not a drop of water on them. He looked up at the sky and, at once, his eyebrows re-knit, his mouth stiffened—there wasn’t a trace of blue. It was not a good sign. He didn’t like the rain, not one bit, not in the city. It made the roads stink: the whole place smelt and felt like an open railway toilet, the drains overflowed, the water stagnated making the traffic come to a standstill, the pigeons, that dotted the evening sky flying in pretty patterned flocks, hid under buildings, afraid of the sky’s sorrow and the earth was muddy, ugly-brown.
And then he saw a sight that made him, instinctively, click his tongue, and shake his head in disapproval, from side to side, maybe a little too obviously: it was a man, not much older than he, walking leisurely, hands in his pockets, whistling an old film song, drenched like he had just swum half across the Arabian Sea and then realized he had forgotten to take off his clothes.

“Quite out of place, isn’t it? This rain?” he asked cheerfully, approaching the shed, looking at K.
K looked away and pretended like he hadn’t heard the man.
But the man seemed to be possessed by the devil, for by the time K turned around, he was standing by him, wiping his glasses with his shirt, not really noticing that a wet cloth would do little to improve the condition of the glasses. He smiled broadly, extended a soppy hand, and said:
“Murugan”
With a wary, disdainful look at the outstretched hand, K, doing some quick thinking, folded his palms and said:
“Namaste. I’m K”
“Why, why, why! Aren’t we a contradiction? A traditional greeting, but a post-modern, single initial for a name!”
Stunned by the character judgment based solely on a gesture and a sentence, K retorted:
“I’m a practical man. I don’t like wet hands and I don’t disclose personal information to complete strangers”
The stranger’s face fell and he said, his hands back in his pockets:
“I was only joking. I’m sorry. Maybe I was hasty”
“That’s okay” K replied, a little gruffly, though inside he felt triumphant for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
And they fell silent with K wondering if his life had come to this, celebrating victories in little ego battles with random men and the man, lost, staring into the rain, but his mind elsewhere, a smile from a different time planted on his lips.
“Beatuiful” he said, eventually.
“Eh?” said K.
“November rain. Correction: Warm November rain”
K did not want to concur and lie, nor did he want to disagree and debate, so he ended up making a noise that sounded like a soft fart. The man was momentarily startled, for the sound was alien in a civil conversation, but mistaking it for some digestive problem, went back to smiling dreamily and said:
“It rained like this, back in 1984, through November— warm, fat drops, echoing against the roofs of buildings and the windshields of cars”
“Yes, I quite remember—it was one of the worst months of my life—my bloody scooter wouldn’t start and I had to take the bus, which took a long, circuitous path. Always late for work—I nearly lost my job”
“I” said the man, still smiling, “on the other hand, was out of work. And in love. Ah, those were the days”
K rolled his eyes, but the man was not one to be distracted. Still staring dreamily into the distance, he continued:
“She was doing her degree in the Arts College for Girls and I would wait, for hours together, at her college gate, to get a glimpse of her. I was, after all, out of work and had all the time in the world. And when she was done with college, I would follow her, everywhere she went—up till the gate of her house, to the movie hall, to the market—like a faithful dog or, better still, Mary’s little lamb”
“Didn’t she call the police?”
“No, she didn’t. Which means” he said, cracking his knuckles, “she didn’t disapprove, but she didn’t approve either—if she did, then maybe we could have got somewhere”
“Did you even talk to her?” K asked, with a smirk on his face.
“Oh yes, many times. But usually about the weather, or polite enquiries about each others’ health or the price of onions—a sentence here, a comment there—they meant the world to me. And one day,” he said, and broke off, his voice choking as he looked at the relentless rain wistfully and continued, “And one November morning, it poured, as always; but, unlike always, I spotted her underneath a tree, just like I saw you, umbrella-less and cursing the rain. And I never carry an umbrella—never—but that morning, my grandmother—bless her beautiful soul— in typical grandmotherly fashion, gave me her incisor-less, paan-stained grin, thrust the umbrella in my hand and said, a little wisely, a little mischievously: take this, who knows, it may just come in handy! And come in handy, it did!”
“So you both walked under one umbrella, with your arm around her shoulder?” K asked haughtily, although he was curious.
“Of course not—this is 25 years ago in middle-class India: you really think people wouldn’t talk if that had happened? People would talk even now, in some localities. But, what happened is the reason why I love November rain—I gave her my umbrella and told her to use it and I followed her, keeping a polite distance. She threw back shy, grateful and sorry glances at me, at periodic intervals and I could feel myself floating, in a state of pure joy, not caring about the wild rain, or the warm gusts of wind. She made my day. And many, many days to come”
“Are you a poet?” K asked, for he was always good at these things.
“Its funny you ask, because you are nearly right—I am a painter. You should come to my exhibitions some time. But in those days, I was, would you believe it, a pickpocket. I always had good hands, you know—and its funny the things that people do when they are desperate. I always mailed the wallet and its contents back to their owners though, except for the money, of course. I had little use for anything else”
And K suddenly stiffened, checked his pockets to make sure his wallet was there, and then, walked right ahead, into the rain. Having gone a few metres, he paused, turned around and shouted, through the sheets of rain that separated them:
“The college she went to—your .. um .. muse—it was called Gandhi Arts College for Girls, right?”
“Yes” the man said, very surprised.

K reached home late that evening. He rang the bell twice, for he was dripping wet and his mind was occupied. He heard his wife’s footsteps and then a series of clicks, as latch after latch opened; finally, she swung open the door, smiled, a tad surprised, and showed him the front of her palm as if to say: wait, and turned around to go back inside.
“What’s this sudden thirst for adventure today?” she hollered, as he heard drawers roll open.
“Oh nothing—I just wanted to get back in time for the match” he yelled back.
She brought back a towel and wiped dry his hands, his face, his hair.
“Did you miss me?” he asked her.
She was a little taken aback: it was a question he hadn’t asked for years, decades even.
“A little longer and I would have run away with my pickpocket!” she said mischievously—quoting from memory, for it was a little dialogue that they used to play often during the early days of their marriage.
“Pickpocket?” he said, in mock-anger, and then swooped down to peck her on her cheek, sending it a shade darker than brick-red, and whispered in her ear:
“Maybe we should change that dialogue—he’s a painter now”

Smooth Kill-- 3

Continued from here

Krishna stands up and gives me a hand. I get up: my head is a little dizzy, my vision is strangely blurred. I put an arm around him, leaning on his shoulder, and he guides me back towards the house. As we walk back, memories flood my mind, in a sequence of pictures. It starts off with a dream—there is a woman who used to visit me often in my dreams, her face is veiled, but she wears clothes of the royalty, she is always crying and very silent. I ask her questions, she gives no answers, only continuing to cry more. As I grow older, the dreams are less frequent, maybe she doesn’t miss me anymore, maybe she is married and has children, maybe five other children.

Suddenly, we are at the Court, the atmosphere is tense; my eyes are red, red with rage and red with a haughtiness that I will regret for the rest of my life. Draupadi, a woman I respect as much as I respect Bhima as an archer, is crying; her hair is messy, her clothes even messier; she is appealing to the elders, to anyone, to restore sanity. My eyes are, however, on Yudhistra: he rarely flies into a rage and as I look at him, it is evident that this is one of those rare occasions. I am, honestly, terrified for I don’t know what to expect. He looks at me, with a loathing so deep, that it sends a chill down my spine, but I stare back, trying to be brave. And then I see his eyes trace the length of my body, down to my feet, and suddenly, he is calm, as calm as the mountains, as composed as a river in summer. Confused, my eyes follow his and I find myself staring at my own feet and I cannot understand. But now, I realize: they are not my feet he sees, but his mother’s. Our mother’s.
And then I hear a voice in my head and that fills me with pride and gives me strength. It is a voice from very long ago, the voice of my best friend—it is authoritative, filled with a conviction that no one around him seems to share: Can’t you see, can’t you see this man is not a suta? Can’t you see he has the gait of a lion? Can a deer ever hope to have such a walk?

“Lie down Radheya” Krishna is saying, abruptly bringing me to the present.
I look around. I am in my bedroom, by my bed, neatly made. I don’t know how I got there, but I manage a weak smile. I need sleep, need to forget. Things, though much clearer now, are jumbled. The pieces are all there, but the whole picture is too hard for my mind to grasp.
“Thanks Krishna” I say, tucking into my bed.
“Can’t say it’s my pleasure, but you’re welcome, I guess” he replies wryly.

In moments, I am asleep.

*****

I walk back from Radheya’s place much later than I initially intend to. My charioteer is sleeping; a couple of the horses are grazing, another is sleeping, the last one is staring at the sky and, in my opinion, contemplating existential questions. I tap my charioteer on the shoulder and he wakes up, a touch embarrassed. I smile easily and say:
“I suggest you continue your siesta on the chariot”
He gives me a quizzical look. I smile again and say:
“Go sleep on the chariot. I’ll do the riding” and take the whip and slap the ground exactly in the manner he does. The horses all come trundling back, each at its own pace.
“Its ok” he says, “I have finished sleeping”
“Oh, don’t think I am doing this for you” I say, “There is a war on our hands and I need practice”
“Oh” he says, comprehending.

As I tie up the horses and take my seat, my mind goes back to the events of the day: he is a fool, that Radheya—a very likeable one at that. He had and still has the power, if he ever changes his mind, to stop all that bloodshed and yet he doesn’t. Generations to come might see that as a selfless decision, but it is, in fact, very selfish. One cannot put loyalty and friendship over the lives of so many great warriors and thousands of nameless, brave soldiers.
Steering my horses down a steep incline, I ask my charioteer:
“Am I good?”
“Yes sir. I have never seen someone ride so easily” he says, and I see his voice has acquired a fresh tinge of deep reverence.
Unsurprisingly, of all my achievements, it is this one that impresses him the most.

No sooner do we travel a few hundred metres than we bump into Vrishala, the wife of Radheya, sitting contently on Radheya’s favourite chariot, evidently making her way home. I stop and get off and greet her. She falls at my feet. I bless her, a little embarrassed— my show at the court, earlier today, has obviously reached public ears. I ask:
“Where have you been? I am just returning from a visit to your house”
“Oh” she says, her face falling, ruing a missed opportunity, she asks, “Did Radheya look after you well? Did he give you something to eat? Did he quench your thirst?”
“Yes, yes” I lie automatically, “He is a great host”
She looks greatly relieved.
“I had actually gone to the temple” she explains, “Faith acquires a whole new meaning in these troubled times—I hear war is now inevitable?”
“Yes” I say, trying to put on my gravest expression, “Are you praying for Radheya?”
“Oh, I am not worried for him. Everyone knows he is invincible. And he has promised Duryodhana he will win it for him and Radheya never makes promises he can’t keep. My sons, however, are a little too eager. And like every mother, I am worried for them. Radheya, I know, will take care of them too. But, I still worry a lot”
“Yes, I know” I say in a voice that is not mine: her unshakeable faith in her husband’s abilities throws me off guard.
“But, Krishna” she says, suddenly, “I will have them all, won’t I? Even after the war?”
It is a question that leaves with little room: lie or stay silent. I choose neither.
“It has got really dark and I need to get going. You keep up the good work, Vrishala”

And I hop onto my chariot and crack my whip: the horses jump to life and we are away, in a swirl of dust, flying past mansions and houses, long-shut offices and markets that are closing down, empty parks and vacant streets; but nothing can distract me from the one thought that constantly plays in my mind, like a temple priest’s chant, except it is much darker: I am a murderer-- a clever, cunning, shameless murderer.

Smooth Kill-- 2

Continued from here
When I awake, I am disoriented. I wonder why Krishna is sprawled out on my sofa, apparently sleeping. And then it all comes back: the princess, the story, the vision, the happiness. But, the happiness was only momentary for now I am gripped with a deadly fear, a fear for my friend, a fear for my loyalty to the one man I love more than life itself.
Still feeling dizzy, I haul myself up. I need water, I decide. My feet take me into the passageway that leads to the entrance, away from the kitchen where there is water. I am intrigued, a little concerned even, but too dazed to disobey. In the silence, my footsteps echo. The only witnesses to my unsteady walk are the Seven Great Portraits that adorn the walls of the access, each diagonally opposite to the other, forming a perfectly chaotic zigzag pattern; painted by Sudeepa, known for his life-like portraits of people from all walks of life, these paintings, like most things in my life, are gifts from my best friend. I can almost sense their eyes—the cobbler, the eunuch, the archer, the writer, the court poet, the princess and Sudeepa himself, in an astonishingly accurate self-portrait— follow me as I make my way out.
When I am outside, relief swoops over me. For some reason, the passageway was uneasy and claustrophobic. It is a cloudy night: the moon peeps between two huge masses of grey; the stars are few and twinkle listlessly. The air is fresh though; and the night is alive with the call of the night-birds, the hoots of the owls and the gush of the wind through the swaying trees.
I suddenly realize where I am heading and pat my unconscious self on the back: our house-hold well, fifty feet deep, hitting sweet ground- water at a mere fifteen, is barely metres away. And as I draw water from the well, a picture comes to my mind. And, all of a sudden, two erstwhile minor details achieve a significance that only hindsight can bestow.

I am twenty-one; a proud but penniless archer, roaming the streets of Hastinapura, the greatest city in the world. I enter, quite inadvertently, a theatre. There is some sort of a tournament taking place for archers, big and small, have gathered, bows and quivers in tow, clad in shiny armours. All eyes are focused on one young lad, no older than seventeen. The very sight of him fills me with a deep sense of loathing, it is inexplicable. Maybe it is the manner in which he wields his bow—there is a certain practiced nonchalance that any experienced eye will tell you is put on, an act; he is fairly good because his tricks are very imaginative, but I cannot understand the need to be so theatrical. He is a star, no doubt—the crowd, seven thousand in all, commoners and aristocrats alike, seem to love him. And he seems very conscious of that fact, cockiness etched in every nerve of his body, every move he makes.

When they cheer him for the umpteenth time, for performing a trick I can blindfolded, I refuse to lurk in the shadows. I string my bow and there is a resounding twang and the cheering crowd is taken aback; and suddenly, heads turn, all eyes are focused on someone else. It is my moment of reckoning, I immediately realize: my one shot at greatness. I walk silently and the theatre has gone so quiet that I can hear my own footsteps. And then I hear murmurs, soft and quiet, politely inquisitive. I refuse to be distracted, not looking once in the direction of the audience. I simply take my bow and string it once more, this time it seems ever louder, for I am in the centre and that leads to multiple echoes and the crowd go dead quiet, all expectant, excited. As I shut my eyes to say prayers to my teacher and the Sun, my chosen God, there is a commotion in the inner stands—the queen, Kunti, faints. I pause and look at the white-bearded grand old man, sitting in the main gallery, who seems to be running the show: he simply smiles, nods and signals—the show must go on.

With a smile at the pompous, young archer and a bow to the aristocratic elders, I begin my exhibition. Initially, I simply repeat what their star archer had just displayed, doing each of his tricks with consummate ease: that gives me confidence. And then, I move onto my bag of tricks— skills that the archers of Hastinapura haven’t been taught, skills that they haven’t seen even, skills that even Bhagavan Bhargava, my teacher, found hard to teach, skills that I, however, have mastered so well that I barely notice I am performing them. What greets me initially is silence and that worries me, but stealing a glance at the crowd I realize that it is one of amazement, of incredulity. And then gradually, some men find their voices, others begin clapping and before long, the crowd are on their feet, roaring and hooting; some old men even have tears running down their eyes.

And with every trick I perform, the clouds grow darker, the air is thick with moisture, the pungent scent of rain prevails. And yet, much to my surprise (and that of most present), I alone am bathed in a fantastic, unearthly bright orange-yellow glow, almost as though the Sun, refusing to be outdone, has put its spotlight on me. On one end, there is the original star, Arjuna, son of Indra, the God of Rain, black-grey clouds looming large over his head. On the other, there is Radheya, the new super-star, unaffected by the threat of rain, for, unknown to him, his father is keeping an eye on him too.

I gulp my fill of water—three fourths of a bucket—and splash the remaining on my face in the hope that I would regain my composure and think calmly. My mind, failing to come to terms with the situation, is blank. My wretched body however can’t take it —my hands and legs behave as though I am on a chariot travelling on a pot-holed road. I cannot stop shivering. I rush inside, past the passageway and the prying eyes, past Krishna, still blissfully asleep, past the dining hall, the reflection of the lamp-lights dancing on the newly purchased silver cutlery and into my bedroom, where lay my bow and quiver. I pick them up, still shaking, and run outside.

Outside, the wind has picked up; the night, however, has gone chillingly quite: the owls don’t hoot, the insects seem to have been struck dumb. With one hand I draw my first arrow, my shaking other hand holding the bow unsteadily. The arrow’s tip catches the moonlight and twinkles briefly. I pull the string and let it go, at an angle to the wind, into the darkness. After the first fraction of a second, I cannot see it, yet I know exactly where it lands, my trained ears keeping track of its pathway. I draw my next arrow and repeat the action. I do this several times and gradually, my body gets into the groove, my hands and head grow steadier and steadier until they are as still as a statue; my mind is calmer, though it consciously avoids any thought but that pertaining to the act of taking aim and tracing the path the arrow takes. And then, in the near-silence (the only sound being that of the wind, racing through the dancing trees) I hear Krishna call out my name.
I do not turn around. Still continuing to shoot arrows into the darkness, I ask
“My mother—Does she know who I actually am?”
“Yes”, he says. He is now standing by me.
“Who is she?”
I know who she is, but I still can’t bring myself to acknowledging it. I need someone else to tell me.
“Kunti” he says flatly.
For a second, I turn my head slightly, still continuing to fire arrows, to look at him. He has an odd expression on his face, I cannot quite place it.
And strangely, maybe out of inactivity, my legs collapse and I am on my knees. I still do not stop taking aim though. And then the tears begin to flow; they are tears of anger. Anger at fate, for I have always managed to be on her wrong side, at the receiving end; anger at my father, the Sun—could he not once have told me? Anger at my mother, Kunti, for being cowardly and stupid; anger at Krishna for I know that this is also part of some grand plan of his; anger, most of all, at myself, for being so unlike a warrior, for letting my emotions get the better of me.
Krishna is still looking at me, with the same odd expression.
“It’s the act of taking aim in the darkness”, I say to him, a little too loudly, “all that concentration is causing my eyes to become watery”
I know they are stupid words, but they sting him like nothing I have said before. He seems to be in terrible misery, so much so that he is forced to look away.
“I understand”, he says simply; his voice is strained.
And then I can take it no more. I drop my bow and lie down on the ground, facing up, on the spiky lawn, carefully trimmed under the supervision of my wife. The sky has just two colours and shades of them both: black and white. The sky is a black blanket; the stars, mostly hidden by monstrous clouds, flash like white diamonds; the clouds are graying in the centre, and white at the edges, much like my now foster-father, Athiratha’s hair; the moon, shaped like a strained bow-string, is off-white, with patches of light grey.
“Radheya”, Krishna says softly “I offer you the Earth. If you join us, there will be no war. And you know Yudhishtra, if I tell him of your story, he will gladly renounce his throne for his brother. And Duryodhana will be equally pleased. You will be the Lord of the World”
For a second, I picture myself as King of Hastinapura, seated on the jeweled throne, surrounded by my brothers and friends. The next instant, I realize the King’s face is not mine, but that of another man: a far nobler, a far more powerful, a far more generous and importantly, a far better administrator than I can ever dream of being. It is the face of my best friend.
My decision is made.
“No. I will not come over your to your side. And Yudhishtra will not get to know. My name is Radheya and my mother is Radha”
“So you will put your friend over your brothers? Loyalty over blood?” he asks.
“I am simply putting my word over everything else. And I have promised my friend to fight the war and fight my very best and let him have his throne”
“Your friend is not a nice man, Radheya”
Those words cause me to flare up, like it is I who am being insulted, like I am being called a suta.
“One more word, Krishna, one more word about him and this discussion is over. I cannot harm you, but I can threaten to not listen. On the day of the tournament, when the whole world looked down upon me for being a suta, who came to my rescue? Who made me King of Anga? Who made me what I am today? Who saw my soul, who saw me for I what I truly was, a kshatriya, a warrior, a hero? I owe my life to him”
Krishna is silent, his face inscrutable. I look at his face, glowing serenely in the faint moonlight and my rage dissipates as quickly as it rose. One cannot be angry with him. I say:
“You know Krishna, if you weren’t on the other side, we could have been friends. The best of friends even”
He picks up my bow and examines it carefully, his long fingers gracefully stringing it tenderly; he even smells the wood lovingly. He then looks at me and smiles and says:
“I think we are”

To be continued.

Smooth Kill-- 1

[A little history: Krishna goes to Duryodhana's court as peacemaker. It fails miserably-- Duryodhana not only rejects the peace offer, but even tries to capture Krishna. Krishna then changes into his Vishwaroopa-- his original form, a sort of grander version of the usual Vishnu-- and with a few choice words, breaks free and leaves. Mission unaccomplished]

It is twilight, my favourite part of the day. On another day, I would be outside, dressed in plain robes, walking on the streets, watching children play marbles, their mothers keeping a worried eye on the road, wary of rogue chariots that speed without a care in the world; On another day, I would be at the market, listening to sellers complain and buyers haggle, striking hard bargains, yet finding time to crib about the new neighbor, the rise in prices and how fast their children grow up; On another day, I would be at the park, home of the very old and the very young, the children playing their games, the geriatric talking of the good old days. But today is not just another day: the proceedings in the Court have rendered my mind near-numb. The only sensation that persists is this continuous pain in my forehead, like the buzz of the amphitheatre crowd that persists in the ear even after they have been rendered deaf by all the shouting and the cheering.

Slouched in my arm-chair, overcome by fatigue, I shut my eyes. When I open them, after what seems like a few seconds, I see a familiar figure leaning against the wall, studying intently the uninspiring ceiling. I shut my eyes and open them again. He is still there, but now he is smiling at me. Still half-convinced I am hallucinating, I make to stand up, but he waves his hand, signaling me to remain seated as he flops into the chair opposite mine in a carefree manner that can only be his own. I manage a weak smile and say:
“Krishna”
He looks faintly bemused, a half-smile on his lips. Many find the smile irritating, mistaking it for a smirk, a sign of contempt. I like it; it is so typical of his joie de verve, always ready, at the slightest instance, to give way to full-blown laughter, like a full cloud waiting to burst.
“You look much older than I remember” he says, still smiling.
“Oh, I’ve aged a lot in this past one day: some people have this effect on me” I reply, returning the smile. And instantly, he laughs, the cloud bursts and I feel lighter, the tiredness of the day, and the wretched madness of the court a thing of the distant past now.
“Oh, I sort of lost control there” he said, not in the least distressed about it.
“I think it had the desired effect”
“I think I could have achieved that without resorting to such pyrotechnics”
Trust Krishna to say something like that: in a flash of majestic brilliance, of tremendous rage yet supreme calm, this man, earlier in the day, showed the world its past, its present, its future—Him. And he calls it pyrotechnics.
“So we are at war, Krishna” I say, trying to state it simply, without emotion.
“Yes, we are” he says, his voice echoing the gravity of the situation, yet steadfast.
And he looks at me, and I into those beautiful, almost feminine eyes and we burst out laughing.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask, once the laughter had subsided.
“Oh, nothing. Thank you for offering”
“But you must take something” I insist, “After all—“
“No one goes away from the Great Radheya empty- handed?” he finishes the sentence for me.
“No—I just thought you might have had a long day yourself, though you-- “ I pause, and look at him mock-appraisingly, “ don’t really look it!”
He chuckles and says
“That’s not true. I am not growing any younger. I think I am starting to grey. And when I don’t shave, I acquire a definite salt-and-pepper stubble. But, enough of small talk, Radheya” he says, and I notice the change in tone. It is darker, mirroring the events outside, for the happy hours of twilight have given way to a cloudy, black night. Even inside, the oil lamps flicker with less intensity, the air is still. I stiffen: I don’t like what I am seeing.
“Radheya” he says, “I have a proposition”
“I am all ears” I say cheerily, trying to lighten up the mood. But it comes off sounding strangely hollow, out of place, and I shift in my chair.
“Come over to our side. Fight with us”
I stay silent, disbelieving. Maybe I heard wrong.
“Radheya?” he asks, raising one eye-brow.
“I am waiting for the punch-line” I reply truthfully.
“There is no punch-line, Radheya. I want you to fight with us. I will be honest, I like you. You are flawed, like all of us are. But, unlike most of us, you also are extremely good”
“Krishna” I whisper, “You are afraid of me? You see me as a threat to victory?”
He smiles sadly and says:
“Oh, don’t give yourself so much importance”
I smile back and say:
“You know this is useless then, Krishna. You know there is no point. Duryodhana is my best friend, my Lord, my life. You, of all the people, must know all of this”
“But you are fighting on the losing side. And I respect and love you too much to see you do that. Don’t you see: we have Arjuna—“
“Arjuna, as you well know, is fallible and pompous”
“Bheema, Satyaki—“
“Krishna, Krishna” I say, smirking, “The truth is that they have you, not you have them”
“Yes” he says, grimly, stating the obvious, “We have me”
“Krishna” I say and for some reason, my voice quivers, “Do not fear for me. I know I will die. And I am glad I will. I sometimes welcome the thought of death”
For a moment, Krishna remains lost in thought: I study his face. It is true, he is growing older. But age has only enhanced his grandeur: his wisdom, earlier well hidden under a mask of youthful mischievousness, is now, with the passage of time, allowed to take centre-stage; his eyes that once set young hearts a-flutter, now evoke reverence, from young and old. Krishna is still handsome, still perfect, in a strangely asexual way.
He is wrestling with something inside him and though very unnatural, there is still a particular symmetry to the creased lines on his face and when they re-align themselves, as they have now, they are still perfect. He is calm once again and asks in a voice that is robbed of emotion, so detached that it is painful:
“So, there is nothing that I say that will make you change your mind?”
“Krishna”, I say, growing slightly irritated, “You know my answer. You knew it even before you came here. You even know what is to come. Sometimes” I say and pause, wondering if I am crossing the line, but then throwing caution to the winds, I continue, “Sometimes, I think living your life is a little boring—especially since you know everything”
Krishna laughs, slightly taken aback and then says:
“You have been to the theatre six times in the last seven weeks to watch a play you’ve seen being performed since you were five. What excites you, still?”
I nod, comprehending, but unconvinced.
“I am sorry” I say, as sincerely as I can, “but even if my mother asks me to fight against Duryodhana, I will not”
“Your mother?” he whispers, “why would you even listen to that heartless princess who left you to the mercy of the Ganga?”
Krishna’s face is strained, his voice unsure. I haven’t seen him like this before: ever. And as I stare at him, I forget, momentarily, all else. It is hard to see this man in pain, I desperately want to look away, but I can’t and so, I stare transfixed, numb. And yet, in the inner recesses of my mind, a word tosses around—one precious, golden word—like a baby in a basket, being tossed around by the waves of the Ganga. Princess. Princess, I mutter to myself and shudder, feeling something very hot traversing the length of my body. Princess, I say again, and now, my hands are shaking, my side-burns growing moist.
“Krishna” I say softly, trying my best to stay calm, “Do you know?”
Of course he does: he is the actor, the master of the script. And I have never seen him so pained. His face betrays fear, shame, pity and immense love: it is such a potent mixture, that it drains the blood off my face. He cannot see me in the eye and though I long to see elsewhere, my curiosity overpowers everything else.
“Who?” I plough on, and my voice is choked.
“She was a vivacious, brilliant girl” he says, wistfully, as though longing for an innocence that was long gone, and continues, “and the apple of her father’s eye; it was said, and it would seem remarkable now, that she could talk for hours and hours and never tire. You changed her life forever: her resplendent youth, the fountain of her happiness, went dry, and she transformed from a vibrant, colourful girl into a stoic and determined single mother of—“
“Who?” I interrupt. I want to know now, more than anything else.
Krishna is trying to prolong it: for some reason, he does not want to say. He stands up and walks around, running his fingers along the walls, until his path is blocked by a cupboard leaning against the wall. He studies the imported vase carefully, placed on top of the cupboard, given by my father-in-law as a parting gift to his dear Vrishala. He then proceeds to pick the now-wilting flowers and smells them. And suddenly, he places them back and I can see he has changed again: this is not the Krishna of a moment before— he is suddenly more determined, a little angry and his eyes are chillingly ruthless.
“As I was saying, this sixteen-year old princess—she was only sixteen when she had you—transformed into a stoic, monochromatic mother of five great children”

I dig my hands into the cushion. I can feel pins and needles all over my body. Maybe he is lying, maybe he is playing one of his tricks. It can’t be true. There are many mothers of five—many princesses who have five children. It can, of course be, anybody’s guess as to who she is. And yet, in the back of my head, I calculate furiously: she was sixteen when she had me, how old is Kun— I stop myself, I suddenly do not want to think, to know. Desperately, I ask:
“And my father—who is he?”
“He’s gone now. But, you’ll see him tomorrow. So will the rest of us”
“No riddles, Krishna” I plead, “Just tell me who”
“It’s funny how” says Krishna, sounding half-surprised at the discovery, “your father and your maternal grandfather share the same name—Surya”
In the split second after my knees give away and before I fall over, I have a vision. Standing by Krishna, but more brilliant than anything I have set my eyes on, there is a man, bathed in an ethereal orange light, looking at me with infinite love and tremendous pity; and I trace the path of a single tear that runs down his face, down his shining armour, glistening blindingly golden; and we hit the ground together, the tear and I, and I am overcome with joy. Bliss. And black thereafter.
To be continued

Rediscover

The darkness flew past us. People sat apart, mostly silently, some sleeping, their heads resting serenely against the glass; others stared into the nothingness, unmindful of the gentle swaying and the muffled pounding of the rail on tracks. I was listening to myself condemn Free Thinking. I had several such recordings on my Ipod on subjects diverse—this was the most recent and therefore, by default, my current favorite. The metro stopped briefly and the doors opened to nobody. That was expected—it was 10 45 and this was the last metro.

Children laughed in my ear—my recordings were not mere commentaries, drab and monotonic. A lot of work went into them. There was, firstly, an idea, which was the basis of the whole initiative—usually a twisted take on something common, sometimes pointedly hilarious and often implausible, other times serious and even highly debatable; then there was the background score comprising of variants of a basic tune and other sounds. The tune was “composed” by yours truly, aided by a music-maker software and an able, finished musician-friend of mine; and the other sounds— children laughing, or the buzz of the marketplace, or the sound of gunshots—were all painstakingly chosen to add dramatic effect. In most cases, the end product was nothing like I had envisioned it in the beginning: reality, I had long before discovered, is harsh. But, I kept at it—the joy was in the process and though disappointing, I was quite fond of my recordings.

My compartment was near-empty: a group of tired-looking men in suits and red ties sat on one end and, involuntarily, a frown crossed my face. A little away, a family of three, carrying baggage that could have been a lifetime’s worth, huddled together—the kid sleeping on the mother’s lap, who seemed wary. I couldn’t get my eyes of her silver bangles for some reason. There were others—an old, bearded foreigner, who seemed so completely at home that a surge of strong jealousy arose in me; a few seats away sat a tall man, with a pointed nose and a flat head, who reminded me of a grown-up Suppandi; and diagonally across, sat this man in reading glasses, notebook and pen on his lap, staring curiously at me. I stared back for a moment—he didn’t look away, but a slow smile spread across his face, extending from his lip to his nose to his eyes, like a ripple on the water surface. I liked the smile, but I didn’t want to smile back. So I looked away.

Empty stations and billboards and neon lights whizzed past us. I was listening, distractedly, to me lecture on “Everything but 42” (a pathetic attempt at dark humour).
I looked around: a couple of unrecognizable faces, who I hadn’t noticed enter, sat apart, one listening to the FM on his phone; Suppandi-head had disappeared; the woman with the silver bangles looked more relaxed; out of the corner of my eye, I looked at the man with the reading glasses—he was apparently poring over his notebook—I could see, even from where I sat, that the page was blank; he noticed me looking at him and immediately threw a quick smile and asked:
“What are you listening to?”
“Um .. Nothing” I said, unplugging my earphones and immediately switching playlists.
I don’t talk much to strangers. I don’t talk much to anyone anyway. I like my silences.
He walked across, sat by my side and said, gesturing towards my Ipod:
“Can I listen?”
I didn’t refuse. It didn’t seem right to do so.
He let me hold the Ipod, sensing my insecurity, and simply plugged the earphones in his ear.
“Whose voice is this?”
“John Lennon”
“John Lennon definitely wasn’t around when Twenty20 began” he said laughing.
“I know” I said, wondering if he was in the habit of making random statements.
“So?” he asked, one eyebrow a couple of notches above the other.
“So?” I muttered, wondering what was happening.
“So, whose commentaries are these?”
And that was when it dawned. I was aghast. My playlists hadn’t switched; I had just moved onto the next recording. That was not Lennon he was listening to sing, but “Dislike”, my theory on dislikes and why it is necessary for all of us to have strong ones (Twent20 figured prominently on my list of strong dislikes)
“That is .. my friend” I said.
“He’s good” he said and went back to listening intently.

I sat there, looking at him, trying hard not to look as though I was trying to gauge his reaction though that was exactly what I was trying to do. I had never shown my recordings to anyone—like most things in my life, it was intensely personal and completely worthless, embarrassing even. Yet, here I was, sitting by this random stranger, studying expectantly every expression on his face. I could hear my voice crackle through the earphones. And despite the screeching and the chugging and the relentless stream of instructions of the monotonic voices from above (Any unattended baggage can be a bomb; Please do not forget to take your belongings; Don’t talk to strangers), I could hear every word of what he was listening to.
He had an intelligent, expressive face—much like an academician or an artist: most of the time, as he listened, it was engrossed and serious, eyebrows knit, foreheads creased; but every now and then, the lines smoothened and he let out a chuckle or smiled knowingly; he caught on, very early, to the cold, biting sarcasm, characteristic of well-hidden anger, let loose in the privacy of these recordings, and I could see he quite liked it; and when it finished, four stops and seven minutes later, he was smiling and I was flush with inexplicable excitement.

“You are a smart fellow” he said and added, eyes twinkling, “And you’ve got a nice deep voice”
“Thanks” I said, a little embarrassed by the praise and at being seen through so easily.
He looked up to check where we were and continued:
“And the music? You composed it too?”
“Well, sort of. With a little help” I said.
He was clearly impressed.
“Young man, two things .. lighten up a little” he said, and added with a wink, “And lie more convincingly”
The metro was slowing down now, breaks screeching, and he got up. I got up too, out of politeness and also because I knew no one would take my seat.
“I am a writer” he said, moving towards the door, “And I thrive on such chance encounters: you’ve opened up quite a few avenues for me”
“Pleased to be of service” I said, smiling broadly. It had been ages since I had flashed a smile like that at a friend, let alone a man I had known for barely fifteen minutes, and added, “Maybe you should write a story about me sometime”
“Maybe I will” he said.

The doors opened to nobody, the robotic voices had a fresh set of instructions ready; he stepped out gracefully, hands wrapped around the blank notebook and turned around and waved.
“What’s your name?” I shouted and waved back, suddenly remembering to ask; the doors would shut any moment now.
“Gaurav” he said, “better known, in the literary world, as ARG”
The doors shut; the name registered though.

The metro gathered speed; the station lights had their moments, before darkness engulfed us again; And for some reason, I felt extremely light.

And I was riding from darkness to light.

Her First Rally

The men stared at her pointedly: men in the metro stare at any female who wears jeans. It also helps if she's fair, has straight hair and chews her pen. She lent back against the door and sighed as she looked at the route-map that she knew like the insides of her house: another five stops after this one. She chewed her pen even more and nervously fidgeted around. Trying hard not to dwell on the number of people she would be addressing, she concentrated on her speech, on the basic framework, on the quote of VD Savarkar she had picked up from the Party' s students' manual.

"This station is Rajiv Chowk. Change here for the Blue Line"

The doors opened to a sea of desperate buzzing men, almost like a swarm of thirsty bees and they swept into the compartment, taking with them the few who had to get out.

Please stay clear of the doors.

The men against the tide panicked, pushed and squeezed their way through the now-closing doors in a manner that would have made Darwin proud.

Rana slouched in the driver's seat, legs sticking out of the car window, a burnt cigarette in his mouth, a half-smirk lining his unshaven, gaunt face. He coughed and spat, the cigarette flew out too. It provoked nervous laughter from the rest—he silenced it with some well-chosen words, soft and menacing. They sat there, the four of them, three behind, one by his side—staring at their watches, keeping an eye on those exiting the metro station and entering the car-park. Rana didn't like the air in the car, it was just too edgy—it was a simple job and yet, these stupid bacchas were afraid. First-timers were fun to boss around, but the onus of the entire thing fell squarely on Rana's shoulders, something that usually wouldn't have bothered him too much: if only these stupid kids stopped shifting so much in their seats.

"Open the windows. Now. I need fresh air" he said, and much to his consternation, there was more shuffling; and to drown it, he put the radio on and hummed along with one of the latest Punjabi Hits.


Another four stops to go, she thought. The tension, which had up to now been languishing unnoticed in the insides of her stomach, now crept up, above her chests and to her throat, where it settled, forming a big lump. Another strand went down from her stomach, paralyzing her legs, giving her pins and needles. To distract herself from her state, she stared back at a man who had been shamelessly staring at her ever since she got in: he looked away, embarrassed. And it hit her again: she was the face of the party; this was her first rally; hundreds, maybe thousands of people standing under the mellow sun, waiting for her, chanting her name. Her name.
The tension had finally got to her head.

"Let's go over this one more time, mother-fuckers" Rana said, stretching and cracking his knuckles.
They immediately all stiffened up, sitting upright, overtly attentive. It irritated him.
"She is tall, fair, wears black shades and an orange salwar. She boarded the 10 28 metro, which means she will be here in exactly .. " he paused, to look at his watch and continued, ".. 5 mins. I am guessing she will walk past us to her car, which I am unable to trace, but is somewhere here. Just stay calm and when she does walk by, get out and form a circle around her. I want no touching, understand: one hand on her and I'll fuck your sisters. Just surround her and shut up. No talking. I do all the talking. Who does all the talking?"
No answer. He looked around. The guy in the back seemed to almost cry softly.
"Bosudi-wale, do you want to go back to drinking your mothers' milk?" he bellowed.
If that had meant to be a war-cry to inspire, it inspired just one emotion: fear.
"It's a fucking female. We are NOT hitting anyone! No fights, just talking. What is wrong with you guys?"
That's when he noticed, following their gaze: at the edge of the car park, along their row, fifteen cars to the right, was a police car.
"Right" he said, not taking his eyes away, "these chutiyas had to turn up here also. Its ok, if we keep it quiet, they won't notice. Ok?"

"It is said, in the puranas that a leader is not—" she said in her head and paused. Something was not right.
She shut her eyes again, and focused. The words had to flow and yet be forceful and loud, it had to sweep people off their feet. Focus, she muttered. And then went again:
"It is said, in the puranas that a successful leader—"
The metro screeched to a halt just then, causing her to momentarily be imbalanced. She held onto the railing and looked around, hoping no one noticed.
Twenty pair of interested eyes stared back at her.
This station is ______.Please stay clear of the doors

Luckily, the phone rang just then, to distract her: it was a message wishing her luck, she read it, shrugged and looked up—two more stops to go.

'Now, men, get off. As quietly as you can" he said, opening the door and closed it with a soft click.
"And keep an eye on the—"
The rest of what he said was lost in three doors banging like gunshots in the still air. Instinctively, his eyes immediately ran to the policemen standing: they hadn't noticed. Rage filled him, he wanted to bang something too, someone's head maybe, but he held his calm and said:
"Silence people. Silence"
They stopped muttering, but he could sense their fidgetiness. It was getting to him now, making him nervous.

And then he saw her get out. He had never seen her before, but he knew it was her.
"Look!" the kid next to him bellowed and Rana was quick to stamp on his feet. It had the desired effect: he shut up.

She got out of the metro, made her way up the escalator. All was a blur now, she couldn't think anymore. Mechanically, she made her way up the stairs and walked in a haze until she realized she was going the wrong way. She pulled herself up, turned around and walked: the station was unfamiliar and she shouldn't be making such mistakes. Time was of essence. She made her way towards the correct exit, ignored the security guard whose eyes tracked her until she was finally out and breathed in the fresh late-winter, early-spring air. It had a refreshing, calming effect. She spotted the car she was supposed to take quite easily for there were few cars and walked towards it.


They saw her coming their way: she was something divine, Rana thought. He'd have much liked to woo her than threaten her. She walked gracefully, like an angel straight from the epics; her short kurti clung on to her body attractively; her shades were placed delicately over her fore-head.
Someone behind him whistled softly but suggestively. And he controlled the urge to smash him to pulp. Instead, he glanced quickly at the oblivious policemen and said just one word: Now.

And then she saw them and froze. She was afraid this would happen and had thus insisted on driving to the rally, all by herself. She thought no one knew how she was coming or where her car was.


The marched silently in a file and Rana stopped right in front of her, blocking her path. The rest formed a circle around her. He was impressed by their efficiency, but was far more impressed by how beautiful she was. For a second, he lost his bearings: the fear in her kohl-lined eyes nearly melted his heart, she was suddenly this delicate piece of crockery, to be handled with care. And then he heard himself say, in a voice whose texture sounded alien to him,
"Get into the car. And not a word"
She nodded mutely, weeping: tears trickled down her cheeks. Rana saw she hadn't expected this, not one bit, her face said it all.
The policemen were laughing; someone must have cracked a joke somewhere.

They had formed a circle around her now and she was left defenseless. How did they get to know? Who had told them? And how did none in her own party come to her rescue? She silently gave in to their demands and followed them in to the car. She didn't want this. She so didn't.



**********

"VOTE FOR US AND VOTE FOR HAPPINESS:SAGARIKA"
In a stunningly powerful first rally, the newly announced first-time candidate from the Students' Party, the attractive Sagarika, held the crowd of thousands a-sway in a forceful speech. Already famous, a darling of the local media due to her photogenic face, her new-age sense of style and vicious comments, Sagarika couldn't have hoped for a better debut.
Arriving in the media van (we got to her in spite of her trying to get off a stop in advance and giving us the slip!), Sagarika propounded her three-point agenda … "

FRIENDLY ABDUCTORS
In a strange case, a girl was abducted from the VV Metro station, only to be dropped back a few blocks from her house. She was unharmed and was only robbed off her wallet and mobile phone, not before the leader amongst them got her a rose and chocolates …