Genius?

I’ve often been fascinated by the way economists work—how their theories are formed; how, in the complicated world that we live in, with nothing certain and true, they manage to still come out with theories that substantiate empirical data. Even more fascinating is how, when confronted by conflicting data, economists with completely contradicting theories can win Nobel prizes. At some level, I think it has a lot to do with assumptions they make: some realistic, some based on popular consensus, some iffy, some downright hilarious; but mostly contrived, to justify some ends and backed by, they all claim, “sound logic”. So, I thought, I’d try my luck at an analysis, pick up a question, a puzzle, a debate and see if I could make sense of it.
Most questions in my life stem from the world of cricket. Even the most existential ones: Who am I? (A dispassionate cricket-lover or an India fan?); what am I doing here? (And not someplace where there's a TV so I can watch my Test Match in peace?), Where do my roots lie? (Why do I support Hyderabad? Would I choose Hyderabad over even Bangalore?) But, I am beating about the bush. In essence, this is a piece on genius. Who qualifies as one? Most importantly, is Laxman one?
In order to justify that inexcusably long first paragraph, I begin by paying obeisance to my economic roots and making a few assumption/statements (none too far-fetched in my opinion): a genius is someone who is special; who, if in an academic field, thinks and acts and theorises at a level that the normal man can only dream of; who, if an artist/sportsman, is someone blessed with infinite amounts of “creative power or natural ability” (OD); who, therefore, is a pioneer of sorts; who is far ahead of his times—innovative, inventive and different.
Laxman’s a man who’s hard to catch or just isn’t flashy enough to be under constant media glare. Interviews come at a trickle. And in the precious few, he’s never verbose, not even close. But, he’s not as soft or as silent as the media portrays him to be: he does say what he wants to say, perhaps more politely than most of the younger lot. What interests and appeals to the cricket-lover in me is his take on any cricket-issue—his comments on the state of the game, the pitch, batting, slip-catching—they are mature, intelligent and incisive, indicative of a man who is a sound cricketing brain. Cricket-wise he is an extremely good strategist—Azharuddin, one of India’s best captains ever, still believes he should be made captain and it really is a pity that we haven’t seen enough of Laxman the Captain. But, based on what little we have seen and know, it would far-fetched to term Laxman a genius, purely on academic terms—as someone who has the ‘vision’, who sees the game from a level above the modern-day thinking cricketer.
“Creative power or natural ability”: both interesting terms. Laxman has wrists of God—his flicks and clips of, not merely his pads but deliveries a good two stumps away from his off-stump are special and unparalleled (no, even Azhar couldn’t produce the shots he does). Blessed with tremendous amounts of natural ability, he’s managed to “create” his own range of strokes: different, silky and very, very special. Every batsman has his own style and in a way, it may be argued that every batsman “creates” his own style based on what comes naturally to him. But, what makes VVS stand apart is how different his predominantly wristy style is: the scale of the deviation from the batting manual is immense, far too much to be in the “permissible” range; and yet, unorthodox as it is, it is still extremely effective. It is a manner that is new comprising of shots that are outrageously distinctive—testimony to his creative powers that can only be derived from his phenomenal natural ability. He definitely will not be a pioneer, simply because his batting is impossible to replicate. And he is different, though not a man ahead of his times (in fact, some may argue that he is slightly behind given the difference in his test and one-day records).
If being innovative is bringing to the game something that it has never seen before, then Laxman, perhaps, just fits the bill. His stroke-play is unique, “ground-breaking” even( a cruel adjective for such a soft batsman). But, in a broader sense, innovation might also imply a continuous tendency to adapt, to learn, to change. And though, even after so many years of watching him bat, some strokes still leave me awe-struck, I can safely say that it is pretty rare that they’ll shock me. The fact that he continues to retain his place in a line-up so star-studded shows that he’s made adjustments—some technical, some mental—to the way he approaches his batting; the fact that he will always remain, in many eyes, someone of unfulfilled potential probably indicates that he hasn’t done enough (or couldn’t do enough) to continuously adapt to bowlers who began to see more of him. He’s still managed to stay a couple of steps ahead, but it probably isn’t quite enough to catapult him into Genius Inc.
Purely on natural ability, Laxman would make the cut. But, otherwise, taking all other grounds of qualifying into account, he’d probably classify as a “limited genius”: who probably requires a whole set of pre-requisites to actually come into his own. Most important, amongst those, is an opposition who is unashamedly attacking, a fielding captain who is not too familiar with his game and Laxman in a mood to be instinctive, to bat with abandon. There are few occasions where this happens: the most recent being that brilliant 109 at Australia, but otherwise, by and large, bowlers have learnt not to feed his strengths. Laxman’s response has been to mellow down, to solidify his defence, to let his instincts be guarded—in a strange way, in a quest to maintain his place in the side, he has limited his genius: it has proved productive, his innings are still punctuated by those magic flicks, but whole innings of magic are few and far in between. He’s realised that the costs of continuing to try and live by the sword greatly outweigh the benefits of curbing his natural instincts. You won’t see those beautiful but frustrating twenty-eights anymore— it’s the gritty seventy-two that’s become his trademark, valuable contributions, running around with the tail.
There’s a lot to VVS’ batting that’s brilliant: his timing, his much-praised hand-eye co-ordination and when in full flow, his invincibility against even the greatest of spin-bowling. It’s not just his wrists that have got him to where he is. But, those very wrists have made him special--that have separated him from other greater mortals; that have flummoxed, with their snapping bite or their yummy roll, the best of bowlers; that have taken him to the brink of genius. He’s there. Almost. And that’s how it should be.

Twilight 2

NightThe City has acquired a gossipy feel to it. I can see whispers and rumours everywhere—on the outer walls of the city, atop sentry towers where my colleagues and I stand guard; in houses, both unpretentious and lavish; on roads a buzzing noise persists even though some time has elapsed since the Sun has set; in temples, where even the clangs of the bells or the chants of the priests aren’t able to sway one’s minds or mouths for too long; in theatres, where the poor actors are at their wits end as the crowds seem restless and distracted; even the forests seem twitchy, with more owls hooting and insects screeching.

Gradually, the last lanterns in the houses are put out—darkness engulfs homes but not the City. The street lamps are ablaze—they tend to burn out only just about the time when the moon is three-fourths done with his journey. A couple of rooms in the western wing of the palace—the section frequented most by me as a love-stricken lad in my teens—have lights burning. The Queen is preparing for her journey. I know it is madness, but my legs want to sprint at full-throttle towards the palace, to get one final glimpse of my Queen.

We play the Aim-Game again. I lose horribly—my first two shots don’t even hit the boulder.

I hear the familiar call of the conch and make my way down to the all-night open-air canteen on the city-side of my tower. The soup-maker is a nice man: one of those rotund, jovial sorts. More importantly, he is brilliant at his job. Nearly every sentinel or gate-keeper is here. With soups to refresh sleepy heads and sagging minds, the topic of discussion invariably veers towards the expulsion of the Queen. I enter in the middle of a discussion:
“... And the King has decided to ask the washer-man to stay for longer in his palace away from the angry eyes of protesters who think he has deprived them of their Queen”
“Is he hurt? Did the mob get to him?” I ask.
“Where were you? I heard it was all happening in your lane?” asks Narendra.
“He must have slept through it” someone else says and everyone laughs. My sleeping abilities are legendary in this circle, most of us having gone to the same school of archery. I never sleep on duty though. I wait for the laughter to die down and ask again—
‘Well, what did happen to him?”
“Nothing happened to him. He is capable of taking care of himself. The two mobs clashed and he got away. Not many were injured seriously though”
“Why did he say such an atrocious thing?” asks a soldier who I only know by face and continues, “And look at his audacity: he approached the King directly!”
“The King is easily accessible” chips in Jayendra, famed for his kindness, and continues, “Even you can approach him directly. As for your first question, as you can well see, opinion is divided. I personally feel that it was right of him to suggest to the king that she might be impure. The demon was the epitome of evil. He could have done anything with her”
“The Demon loved her with all his heart” says Siddhartha, as calm as Varuna when appeased. “He would never have harmed her. I hear, from no less that the Monkey-God who visited the demon’s gardens where she was held captive, that she was never even laid a finger upon by the Demon”
“Rubbish! What about during the war when he was losing? Wasn’t he getting increasingly frustrated with the goings-on? Couldn’t he have just taken out his frustration on her?”
“No he couldn’t! He loved her and even his wildest of urges could never have been able to break the shackles of his tormented Love. He wanted to win her, you see. He never wanted to steal her. Most, importantly, he wanted Her to accept Him as her husband, as her Lord. He needn’t have died—he could have just run away from the battlefield with her in tow. But, he fought, naively hoping that if he did beat our King, she might just accept him as her beloved. It was foolish, but that’s how love is. If our King loved her half as much, he wouldn’t really be sending her away. Why should he care if half the city sees her as a fallen woman?”
“How dare you say such stupid things about our King?”
“Now, my friends, don’t have a fight here” says Anantha, looking skyward, “I think its time we got back to our posts”
“I have one last question” I say, picking up my courage, “What if the Queen is impure? Why can’t the King take her back? What is wrong with a man being married to a woman whose chastity is disputed, but whose love is true?”
For a moment they are taken aback, I can see it in their faces. I see a flicker of hope, maybe I am right, and maybe what I think is actually a valid argument. And then they look at one another and begin to laugh—unfortunately, I was a bit too hasty with my assessment—and in a few moments, they are all roaring with mirth, some holding their stomachs, some even having tears in their eyes; even Siddhartha has a smile on face.Day
Mid-way through lunch, I ask my wife:
“What is your take on the Queen-issue?”
“I think its unfortunate, especially for the King and the Queen”
Uncomprehending, I ask, expecting a slew of belittling comments—
“Why is it unfortunate for the King?”
She smiles a smile I haven’t seen for long and says softly,
“If you had crossed mountains and forests and oceans and then fought a bloody battle with a Demon King all for one person, only to realise that she is not going to be with you for more than a short period, how would you feel?”
It hits me like a fire-arrow from the heavens—I have never really seen it from the King’s point of view. He must be distraught, as though a part of him that just sprang back to life is again being stolen away, but—
“But, isn’t it all his own doing? Why did he have to send her away? Doesn’t he know she is pure? He must, she is!”
“He knows. I am certain. But, how could he keep her? Especially since there is growing discontent against Him for accepting Her”
“What does he care about what some of us may think? And he’s led such a blemish-free life that it is impossible for his name to be tarnished by something as trivial as this”
“Impractical and completely out of touch with ground realities—that’s what you are. A peaceful and content Kingdom is not a reflection of the King’s state of mind, but the people’s. If the people are unhappy, or angry, then how can any progress ever be made?”
“But, doesn’t this decision leave many of us unhappy too?”
“No! You are too small a minority. And many of you will find it impossible to hate a man who has sacrificed his most prized possession with no great hesitation. It takes a brave man to do that”
She must be speaking sense for this is exactly what many in the city and the washer-man are saying. But, I am unconvinced and I think it is more my fault than anybody else’s: I am blinded by a skewed viewpoint stemming from my liking for the Queen; I have developed an impenetrable wall around my own reasoning, nothing anyone says will make any difference. I ask,
“Do you believe she is pure and chaste?
“Yes”
“And you still think the King is right?”
“Yes”
“Then who is to blame?”
“ Fate”

I shake my head in disagreement. The brave man is the one who is able to rise above circumstances. And the King could have easily been the brave man.Night
The Moon is in protest. It rose late, almost reluctantly, and now refuses to emerge from behind the clouds. I take heart from the fact that someone shares my sentiments. I have declined to play our Aim-game today and now haven’t even gone down to the soup-maker. The City is asleep, but will awake in some time. The street-lamps are long extinguished; the sky is transforming—it is a very dark blue now, but it won’t be long before it attains its confused yet exquisitely beautiful state: the sky at dawn sometimes makes me wonder whether God is a child, for only a child can produce such a disorderly mishmash of colours whose beauty and purity even the most talented of painters find impossible to capture.

“Open the gates” says a voice whose calmness seems like it is the result of several emotions, like the colours of the rainbow converging to give a pure white.
I look down. Forty feet below and clad in white is purity personified—our Queen, my Queen.
Most of the sentinels are away at the soup-maker and those who remain are just too sleepy to notice who it actually is, having stayed up for hours at a stretch now. They go about their job mechanically, opening the gates without much of a fuss. I strain my neck to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful face on the Earth.
And the moon surprisingly surfaces in silent obeisance.

And the Queen walks out, neither hurriedly nor patiently, not even without the slightest of jerks, not stooping, not looking back even once; her expressive face is stiff, perhaps the only untoward sign in an otherwise perfect performance. But when she walked, she walked like a Queen—with divine grace and dignity until she is swallowed by the shadows of the trees and her footsteps are lost in the mellifluous songs of the birds of twilight. And it is neither night nor day.

Twilight 1

Night
I stand a good forty feet closer to the skies than most men. The night is neither old nor young. The moon hides behind sprawling, fluffy cotton-clouds, bathing the earth in a faint, white light. The torches on my sentry tower shed light on a few hundred metres of the pathway that stretches into the forest. The forest is dark, fairly dense and looks dangerous, but anyone who has been there will tell you that even in the nights it’s almost as safe as anywhere else in the kingdom. On the eastern edge of the forest, lies the only village that borders our City—the capital of the greatest kingdom on the planet. The River runs thin splitting it into two near-equal halves, but provides enough water to sustain them villagers. On the backside of the last row of houses lay the fields: rectangles of different dimensions, some yellow, some green, but in the moonlight, a uniform grey.

Presently, the familiar rattle of a wooden cart and hooves disturbs the quiet. It is the washer-man, with a cartload of dirty clothes, generally the last man to leave the city for the village.
"Open the gates!" he bellows. His voice has a ringing clarity earned by years of shouting.
A few sleepy men, who literally work under me, stir and rise to do the needful. I call out to the washer-man as he leaves, the gates being shut behind him. He doesn't turn around, but merely waves. I don't know him too well, but I like the man. Like his voice, he has a certain unambiguous manner about himself.
The air is calm and humid, like a scorched, placid river in summer; Insects hum at different frequencies, the odd owl hoots; but it is the roar of the river-- rendered soft by the distance-- I have grown to love most. And then the first arrow flies, piercing the wind, hitting our favourite target—a huge boulder at the very edge of the forest, hardly any distance away. It is a poor shot, striking way off the centre, and a groan of agony is heard from somewhere on my right. Immediately two more follow, both better shots, but not good enough, one from my right the other from my left. Now, only I remain: I pick up my bow and one of my lighter arrows and take aim. With a silent prayer to our Lord and master, I shoot and hold my breath. The arrow rips across the air with a whoosh and much to my delight, hits right in the middle. Bull’s-eye! And I let out a soft whistle of joy, there’s all-round applause from my associate sentinel; I celebrate by letting a letting a couple of arrows soar and sail into the distance. I love my job: there’s nothing in the world I’d give it up for.

Day

I wake up to the calls of a carpet-seller on the street and a whiff of rain in the air. Judging by the colour of the light that seeps in through the windows—a pale yellow—I presume it is lunchtime. And sure enough, it is, for just then my wife enters to tell me that lunch is ready. At the table, I survey the array of dishes displayed, nodding approvingly.
“The king has a funny idea” my wife says, abruptly.
“The king has many deceptively funny ideas. But, he is the wisest man on Earth” I say
It is now her time to nod in approval and she continues—
“But this one is really strange. He wants US to choose the seven ministers in his court”
My wife is a courtier in the palace. She’s a scholar, well-trained in administrative affairs. Her father was her teacher: he was a very powerful man, one of the three Special Advisors to the King’s slippers. Yes, the King’s slippers. When the king, after a series of complicated occurrences, was banished for fourteen years to the forests, it was his brother who ruled us, though he never wanted the job. So, he placed the King’s slippers on the throne (another one of the King’s funny ideas?) and ruled.
“Aha! Something on the lines of what those foreign emissaries were talking about?
“Yes. They are called ‘elections’”
“Interesting idea”
“I think it is a whole lot of hogwash. It will only lead to factionalism in an already fractured court. Also, those who wield maximum political clout and can throw their weight around will probably get in: they might not necessarily be the most loved or best-suited candidates”
I had other problems with this process.
“Why do only you courtiers get to vote? What about us civilians?”
“That’s a great idea! Why don’t we all puncture more holes into a sinking boat?” she asked, with a sarcasm that was as biting as the chill in the winters.
Over the past few years, I thought she was beginning to sound increasingly like her father. The air of the court is cursed: it does funny things to people. Her father was a pompous man, God bless his departed soul, and it took a lot of convincing to get him to allow his daughter to marry a lowly archer like me. I heard from some insiders in the court that it was the King who finally managed to convince him. We got along as well as our King’s mothers and he used a peculiar condescending tone every time he addressed me. I thought I had heard a faint echo of him in what his daughter had just said to me. Keen to avoid a fight, I bit back my retort and took off on a tangent:
“I think we should have this ... what did you call it? ... ‘election’ for the King! Get all the potential candidates for the post of the King and let’s have an election!’
“Very funny” she said, took a quick swig and slammed her glass of wine onto the table with a bang. The conversation was over.
I think I still love her. I think.

Night
There’s a full-moon tonight; and a clear sky. I lie on my back and gaze at the few stars that, despite the moon’s all-encompassing radiance, shine bright. My mind wanders: I think longingly of my only son, now a handsome youth of eighteen, on a merchant-boat headed somewhere to the West; I then think of myself at eighteen, some dreamer I was then—madly in love with the ill-fated Queen from Mithila, loafing around palace gates hoping to get a glimpse of her, harbouring dreams of becoming the greatest archer in the Kingdom; almost wistfully, I think of my wife then: a bright, charming, aristocratic girl full of ideas, full of hope; and suddenly I think of the washer-man, who, as the rumour goes, is a special invitee of the King for the night; And then I hear the first arrow whiz by and agile as ever, I pick up my bow and quiver, and as I take aim, I am transported back to the magical land of my youth: I am the best in the kingdom, I tell myself, I am the best in the world.

Day

‘The demons are coming, the demons are coming’, someone screams. There’s a stampede, people fleeing in all directions. I stand in the heart of the city, my bow and arrow in hand and take aim. After all, I am the best archer in the world. A woman comes running to me and thuds into my chest, and refuses to let go. It is the Queen, my first love. ‘Save me’ she says. I shoot and it beheads the demon, blood splatters all around, the Demon backtracks.
‘Nice hit!’ says a voice and the sarcasm sounds very familiar, ‘Our king did that for days before he realised that there’s no point in doing so. Don’t you know anything at all? Aim for the stomach, you moron’ says my wife, who is what the Queen has transformed into.
“The demon is a cheat! And a bad influence!” One half of the crowd of onlookers goes.
“Let him go!” another half says.
Yes, No, Yes, No, Yes...

I wake up with a jerk, much earlier than I wanted to, for the shafts of sunlight through my window are more orange than yellow. And then I wake up to the roar: the roar of my dreams is manifest in an equally ear-piercing roar from outside my window. For a second, I grope, still half-asleep, for my bow and quiver, before I remember that the demons have long since vanished from the face of the Earth, our benevolent King himself having taken care of most of that. I peep through my window and momentarily wonder if it is still a dream.

It is a sight to behold. I live on a thin, slightly snaky and extremely long road, lined by luxurious houses of the members of the aristocracy on both sides. And at this moment, I would bet five gold coins against anyone finding even an inch of space on the road. Never since the return of our King after the Great War, have I seen a crowd so huge. Never have I ever seen one so boisterous and vociferous. I climb up to the top of my house, keen to get a better view. And the centre of attraction is what makes me clasp my mouth in amazement: squatting atop a pile of obviously lavish gifts and garments on a familiar wooden cart is the washer-man! He sits with his arms crossed against his chest, trying to appear calm; but it’s his eyes that give him away: they are laden with a fear so immense that I feel my heart go out for him. The crowd is noticeably split into two agitated groups—those that agree with him, and those that don’t. Though, it is impossible to say what the matter is: there are just too many voices.

And then, finally, the washer-man gathers his wits about him and raises his hands to address the crowd: “Silence” he roars.
And immediately, more calls for quiet are heard. He waits until the last voice falls silent.
“I have done what I thought was right” his voice sounds nervous. He continues,
“I only expressed to the King what I thought of the issue. Had he thought I was wrong, he was free to ignore what I had said and move on with his life. Why blame me?”
A murmur of voices, gradually rising in volume, follows. I seize the momentary hush to ask a young soldier, clad in silver shining armour, standing on the pavement below me:
“What is happening? What did the washer-man do?”
The soldier gives me an incredulous where-in-the-world-were-you-all-day stare and says, “The Queen has been asked to leave the City by the King because he feels her chastity is questionable”
Initially, I think he is lying or misinformed, or I have just heard him wrong. But, subsequently, I look around at the ever-bulging crowd, at the plethora of troubled men and women and then at him—his grave countenance tells me that this is no joke and conveys to me the gravity of the situation.
I do not know what I feel, I do not even know if I can feel anything. I can only mutely hear him go on, “After all” he is saying, “she was a captive of the Demon for so many years. Who knows what he might have done with her?”
I find my voice—it’s a whisper, and surprisingly audible. I ask, pointing in the direction of the wooden cart:
“And what did he do?”
“Who? The washer-man? He was the one who suggested to the king that she might be corrupted. Apparently, they talked all night. The king, for his part, continuously reiterates that the decision is his and his alone. And ...”
I turn my back to him and slump into the corner—my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped around my shins. It doesn’t make any sense, I think. How could the wisest man on Earth even think that she was impure? And what if she was? What does it matter? Why don’t people understand?
‘Ridiculous’ I mutter to myself, but feel neither pain nor rage, only emptiness.
The crowd was roaring yet again, but it all seems so distant now that it barely registers.
To continue ...

Political Science- II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Political Science

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To continue...

Inheritance

Father would turn around and beam at him. And then, instantly, recognition dawns—he knows, he knows-- his expression would change faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, would continue to grin in the same lopsided manner, and his father would beckon him to his side, looking away to hide the tears that pour harder than the monsoon shower, down his dark cheek. He would walk; his eyes filled with pride, his expression unchanging, and bury his head into his father’s chest. And a bear-hug would follow, and his father would say, between innumerable chokes, “Thank you”
The boy crouched by the river and gazed below at his reflection. The water was blue, the blue of the sky above, the blue of his mother’s sari in the photograph, and green, light-green as the highest of leaves on the tallest of trees, the sun illuminating them with its brilliance; the river bed was golden, glimmering in the light of the sun; Few tiny fish glided leisurely, hardly bothering where they were heading; the river moved even slower than the fish, so slow that snails could wade against the current, so slow that it could have just been asleep; and the river snored softly as it lumbered along, taking with it the mute talk of thousands of its inhabitants.

A falling leaf pirouetted in mid-air before landing with the grace of a princess where his eyes were in the reflection—sending tiny, dancing, concentric, ripples before the current coaxed it move ahead. He smiled at his image in the water and saw his lips let out a sigh, slightly annoyed. It had always been that: “You look just like your father”, a pause, and then “Especially when you smile”. And he would feel a shot of pride, like the time when he caught his first multi-coloured butterfly, and he would beam—showing his crowded, overlapping teeth, that sprouted like coconut trees on the coast, each heading in a different direction—another father-side inheritance. His mother had left him with only her ears—giant, round ones that made his father good-humouredly suggest he dress-up as Gandhi for Independence Day. Everything else was his father’s: deep-brown, wide eyes, long, thin nose and crowded jaws.

He smiled again his signature smile; he saw his father smile at him from the river. He grimaced. It seemed pointless, but he would not lose hope; never give up. It was for his father— the one man who he wanted to be most like; the man who lost his cool as often as snowfall on the ghats; whose words were sparse but weighed and could never be wrong; whose velvet humour was soft: gentle as his laughter, softer than his nature; whose love for his son was mirrored only by his son’s unqualified love for him, like reflection of images on crystal-clear river water.

The whimsical wind picked up, messing up his hair, loosening his collar button: the photograph fell off his fluttering pocket. It was older than he was. At the edges, it was frayed and stained a dull brown. Dressed in a striped dull-orange cotton shirt that he still faithfully wore, his father had more hair, and try as he might, he couldn’t spot the grey hairs along his sideburns that he had almost presumed his father had been born with. He seemed to have been caught at the wrong moment, for his calm eyes were unfocussed, staring at something above the camera, and his mouth had curled itself into an ‘O’.
His mother was staring straight at the camera, her palm carelessly placed on the hand her father had set on her shoulder. Her eyes radiated exuberance—a passion for life itself—that made even her striking blue sari pale into insignificance. And she smiled her one-sided smile, far more to the left than the right—her lips inverted, red twin rainbows of happiness that had been abruptly cut short at one side; one eyebrow raised higher than the other; a single bridge of glee linking her nose to her highly curved left-lip.

It was his mother’s smile that had brought him to the river—a smile that, but for in photographs, he had never seen; a smile that he knew only he, who had more of her than anyone else, could reproduce; a smile he knew his father deemed priceless; a smile that he had vowed to make his own in a span of two weeks—by the 15th of February, his father’s birthday—and he had barely a week left; a smile that he would gift to his father—his most special and best birthday gift ever.

And amidst the river, the trees and the hills, for a full week, he smiled. From noon, after school, to dusk, he would sit amongst them toiling, practicing, replicating—the wind made the trees rustle and applaud in encouragement; the hills seemed as enthralled in his attempt as he was, sharing everything with him—echoing with his laughter and his frustrated cries; the river played its part, trying to stay as calm as ever, his toughest critic, imitating his attempts: he watched, with time and intense practice, in astonishment and ecstasy, his father merge into his mother in its clear water—he saw his right side sit still while his left lips curled exaggeratedly, his eyes brighten up, lit by the intensity of his desire, mirroring his mother’s zeal; a single linking line of joy that his father never called his own surfaced like a welcome guest on his left cheek; and by weekend he got his eyebrows to dance, although unpredictably.
****

The room was fairly dark, angled yellow light seeped in from the neighbouring room through the half-shut door. The constant screeching of insects from the garden trickled through the closed windows. A lizard fell from the wall onto the floor with a muffled thump; bedcovers ruffled. The boy couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t sleep. His mind raced as he played time and again the scene in his head—he saw every single moment in stunning clarity, his own practiced calm and his father breaking down: pride and jubilance etched on every line in his face; he fidgeted and shook in his bed; his heart thumped louder than a thousand falling lizards; a practiced, fixed smile was planted on his young face.

And the clock struck twelve times.

He jumped off his bed and kicked-- his bed-sheet landed virtually five feet away from where he lay. And he paced into the light and immediately shut his eyes, unable to bare its glare. In a few seconds he grew accustomed to the brightness, and made his way silently to his father’s study-cum-bedroom, all the time making sure he was smiling the right way. He sensed the presence of several colourful butterflies in his stomach, his head swam with excitement. And with a knock, he burst into the room smiling and bellowed “Happy birthday!”

Father turned around and beamed at him. And instantly recognition dawned for the expression on his face changed faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, continued to smile in the same lopsided manner as father beckoned him to his side, his face hardened, inscrutable. He walked: his eyes full of pride, his expression unchanging, right up to his father, expectant, excited. And Father grasped him by the shoulders and shook him roughly, trying to wipe the frozen smile off, and when he couldn’t, slapped him hard on his cheek and screamed “Get that thing off your face! She’s gone!”

Rediscover

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

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

One Last Time

He appeared slightly flustered by the crowd around his little settlement. I waited patiently a few metres behind a short, portly man who wanted a milk-stick for his son, who he carried on his shoulders. As always, he performed his business with a detachedness that was alarming. I watched him dish out smoothly various milk products, collect money and produce change. He neither uttered a word, nor the frown that creased his forehead and strung his eyebrows, even threatened to leave his face. I watched the crowd thin down and disappear until he turned towards me-- the shabby, careless college student from the hostel across the road whose cheeks were sucked into his protruding cheekbone; whose slim, tanned figure brought to his mind his own malnourished relatives from the village; whose comical inability with the scissors always made him chuckle inwardly, though his stern exterior gave little away. In all my years in the campus, I had never seen him smile and it had taken me almost a year to differentiate between the lone two expressions that he sported— the slightly flustered frown, and the very flustered frown.

I pointed to what I wanted (a packet of cold chocolate-flavoured milk) and he grunted. In quick succession he slid the packet and then the scissors towards me, across the counter and waited-- sporting his slightly flustered frown. I gingerly slid my incompetent fingers into the scissors and held the packet in my free hand. One crisp snip at the corner broke the electric silence, and a triangular piece of plastic gently floated to the ground. ‘There’, I thought, ‘no drama, no embarrassment’. Relief battled astonishment when I looked up at him, for on his face was planted a thin smile. And then I bowed low-- a spur of the moment, extravagant bow. He laughed and applauded--a single, loud clap. He then proceeded to do the unthinkable-- he refused any money, saying
"Keep it. You earned that one", his gruff voice, clearly under-used, sprinkled with cheer.
I gradually managed to mutter a ‘thank you’, too dazed to refuse his offer, and turned around to leave.
"Oye!” he called, “Thank you for coming so often! I heard you've finished your course. And leaving soon!"
That was when it hit me. I was leaving. I looked around and took in deeply everything around me like a man swallowing a lungful of air before plunging into the river -- the organised mess of the mad, honking vehicles; the vendors at the busy chowk along the road that snaked from the junction; the few, scattered trees, their branches deprived of life; and the simple mandirs at their feet, often consisting of a single mud idol and a few flowers, placed reverently. Almost unconsciously, I raised my hand and waved it, not turning my back, saying good-bye to him. And goodbye to everything in the vicinity of his dairy.

*****
I lay down on the lawn, the grass pricking my bare arms in a comforting way, and stared at the stars. It was a surprisingly clear, black, sickle-mooned sky. The only light in the vicinity, of the 220-watt bulb of the dhabha, barely extended to where I lay— it’s last, faint rays kissing my feet. Joyous laughter rung out from the small circle of students gathered around the dhabha; its old, cranky radio played a poignant number that spoke of crushed love.
Presently, a face appeared above, blocking the Orion’s belt. I knew the long, wavy hair, the only distinguishable feature in the darkness, and the scent of batter, onion and cooking oil. It was Vinod, the dhabha owner.

“Would you like to have something to go with the sky? A parantha, perhaps?” he asked.
“A bun-butter would do just fine” I said.
“One bun-butter, coming up!” he said, and made to move.
“And listen, make one for all of them too” I said gesturing at the small crowd of students, almost all of them my juniors, who had gathered around his dhabha, “It’s on me. And probably, a chai to go with”
“Ah!” he said, nodding his head knowingly, “One last treat, eh?”

On impulse, I shut my eyes and winced, as though he had just told me that the results were out and I had failed. The words stung me—I could feel them running inside me, mocking me and my current state, touching raw nerves, flooding my mind with green, wonderful memories of the campus and the hostel, now tinged with the grey of parting. The stray phrases of the sad song from the radio that I managed to catch between the guffaws and cackles of the students, whose glee now seemed strangely cacophonous, seemed to put into the tune what my mind had to say. The scent of Vinod’s paranthas, the uneven sound of his radio, his special masala-packed tea for the parched throat in summer, the feel of the unkempt, sprawling lawn around his dhabha—these would soon cease to be a part of my world.
And I opened my eyes and the stars were still there, twinkling and smiling, thousands, maybe millions of them. I smiled knowing that unlike the untrimmed lawn that I lay on or the dhabha, wherever I went, they would always be with me.
“Yes” I said wistfully, though the scent of onion and batter had long receded, “One last time”

*****

I walked out of the college gate in a huff, into the road that led to the market. I had been to see my results that were to be displayed on the notice board. And for the second time since dawn, I returned dejected for they hadn’t yet been put up. It was summer, and the dry, sweltering heat kept most people in their rooms, under their fans or coolers. But not me—I didn’t want to waste away my last week in the campus, shut up, in my room. The market was barely half-full, business moving at trickle; some shops had their shutters down; cows lounged lazily by the pavements, the rickshaw-wallahs, sprawled on their rickshaw-seats, giving them company. I ambled along the familiar track of the bazaar, pausing to sniff at the apples displayed by the roadside vendor, staring at the hoardings, peering through every window, as I had when I first walked through the market—young and curious, barely seventeen.

As I turned the corner, leading into another row of shops, I felt a tug at my shorts. I turned around. It was a beggar girl. I threw her one of my dirtiest looks, and said “Go away”, in my sternest voice. She stopped, gave me a pathetic look of utmost dejection, and slowly turned away.
I was not unsympathetic and cold-hearted—on the contrary, I quite liked children—yet, these urchins brought out the beast in me. For they weren’t children in the truest sense of the word (or so it seemed to me)—their eyes had a glint of something beyond mischief, a cunning alien to the eyes of a child; their expressions were put on and practiced to win hearts of many a compassionate mind. But, what really irked me was the way they carried themselves. It was bizarre—they lacked the clumsiness that was so inherent in a child. They moved like adults trapped in the bodies of children—polished, unfaltering and sans any impishness, any gaiety.

And yet, that day, as I saw her go, a wave of sympathy swept over me. I felt sorry for her because the world had trained her to look beyond her birthright—her childhood. She was like a caterpillar trying to fly, not knowing that it wasn’t yet time for her to do so.
“Oye”, I called after her.
She turned. I beckoned her, feeling my pockets for some loose change. She walked towards me, her face inscrutable. I dropped a couple of coins into her outstretched palm. ‘First time’, I thought. Then a faint, glum whisper inside my head added, ‘And last time’.

And for the third time since the previous day, all the weight in my stomach seemed to have passed into my throat, constricting it, leaving in my tummy an uncomfortable, weightless sensation. The pain of parting hung over me like an enormous, hugely depressing rain-cloud that extended all the way up to the horizon. I didn’t want to leave, not so early. I kicked a Coke-can that lay crushed in my path and was watching it sail when I heard someone shout my name. I turned around and saw Rakesh, a first-year, waving his bony, long arms frantically, rushing towards me.

“What is it?” I asked, as soon as he reached within ear-shot.
“Srikanth Sir sent me—the results are out” he said, pausing to pant, arms on his knees, “There is good news and bad news”
“Spit it out. Don’t dramatize”
“You got a distinction—77%. Nearly topped the course!” he said, bubbling over with infectious enthusiasm.
I was relieved. It wasn’t unexpected, though.
“And the bad news”, he continued, “You failed the qualifying exam by a single mark”
“Oh” was all I could say at that time.
Qualifying exams were trivial, wasteful exams that the University deemed important and, though not counted in one’s aggregate, had to be cleared. I regretted not caring to put in the effort to pass, a few hours worth distracted study at most.
“Is there a supplementary exam?”
“Hmmm? Re-exam? Yes, there is one”
“When?” I asked.
And then, suddenly, I saw the tiniest hint of hope—like a sniff of a controversy for the scam-hungry media-man.
“Six weeks from now. More than enough time for you to get 200 on 100!” he said, laughing at his own little joke, and continued, not noticing how big my eyes had grown, “The exact date is yet to be… ”
“Six weeks!” I screamed jubilantly, cutting him short.

And I grabbed his hand and broke into a run, pushing aside pedestrians, apologizing loudly, not bothering to stop; beamed at random shop-owners, as I tore past them, tugging a stunned Rakesh along; yanked at the tail of a giant cow that blocked my path—it stepped aside, too surprised to react otherwise; the market rushed by, the vehicles on the road seemed to spin in a whirl; my head spun just as fast and elation swooped down upon me— I was not leaving, not for another six weeks! A whole six weeks!
“Rakesh!” I said finally as we stopped before my favourite banta-wallah, my voice quivering with excitement, sweat pouring down our shirts, “the caterpillars – you must learn to love them”

Playground of Fear

“Will it fall today?” Arun asked, squinting at the tower and trying hard to conceal the half-smile that threatened to lighten up his bony cheeks.
“I am not too sure. I saw it wobble a bit, just before you came” I replied very seriously—I was a far better actor than he was.
We stood in silence, our small palms shielding our innocent eyes from the blinding radiance of the blazing sun, gazing intently at the top of the telephone tower that bordered our playground—a thousand feet up in the sky. A little behind us, over fifty rough, loud boys ran behind a tattered football, their bare feet untroubled by the rocky, red earth; Another half a dozen or so tried keeping pace with the crazy, swirling wind as it blew up minor dust storms and carried junk with it; And the cows rested lazily in the corner by the shade of the few trees that braved the summer heat—their tails languidly swatting flies.
“Oh”, said Arun eventually, nudging me with his elbow, the mirth in his voice as clear as daylight, “I think it just shook! Did you see that?”
I caught his eye and we both broke down laughing, clutching our tummies…

“This will be our last ride” I say, looking at the sky. Massive dark-grey clouds loom large over us like the demons straight from the epics.
“Why?” he asks, turning up to look at me. He tightens his grip over my fore-finger
“It looks like its going to rain” I say, averting his gaze.
He looks up too and scowls. From the corner of my eye, I see him open his mouth to say something, but he thinks the better of it. I am relieved—no moan of protest.
“Okay”, he says, “but I want to go on that one, again” pointing at the Giant Wheel.
It is now my turn to hesitate and restrain from objecting. The Giant Wheel, with its ever-rotating, dangerously swinging compartments, instils in me the same amount of fear as a pack of menacing stray dogs in an abandoned alley in the night-time. I can already feel the butterflies in my stomach, the dizziness in my head and the sensation of my digestive tract doing a complete nosedive when I look at the view from the top. I try to think of an excuse, but one look at his shining, excited eyes and the expectant smile on his adorable face puts an end to any such thought. I steel myself. It takes a brave man to accept this, but, when it comes to most things in life, I am a coward…
We sat on the sprawling branches of the almost bare tree facing the deserted playground. It had been a good two hours since the ‘long’ bell, signalling the end of school, had gone. The boisterous footballers had all gone; the cows, now undisturbed, leisurely grazed on the large patch of knee-length wild weeds at the far end. I bit into my twenty second bogari, a small, yellow-green, wild-fruit who’s English-name I still don’t know, and smiled—it tasted better than my twenty first.
“Want to see my latest?” he asked and paused to send a shower of seeds flying to the ground, “I added the finishing touches in maths class today”
I nod my head vigorously, my mouth too full to answer.
He tugged at a branch a little above us, and his bag came sliding down directly into his outstretched arm.
“This one is for you” he said and pulled out a giant chart-paper, “It’s about our big dream!”
Arun was a natural at art—a prodigy. His style was unique—easy, flowing, a touch lazy and he commonly flaunted a disregard for conventions. His eye for the smallest of details, even at that tender age, was unparalleled.
What he showed me that summer afternoon is probably the clearest image from my childhood.

We walk past the merry-go-round, with its array of swaying animals and blaring music, and I hold back for a moment. He jerks at my finger and quickens his pace—his eagerness evident with every passing step—he is almost hopping now. I am resigned to my fate…
And that is when I feel it drizzle—a tiny, cold drop lands on my neck and trickles down my spine. In seconds, I can see droplets silhouetted against the black windows of the House of Terror. I hear it drum softly against the pile of asbestos sheets that lay disowned by the pathway. I can smell it in the moist air, on the wet earth. I smile. His face contorts.
The picture. It was the playground. On the bottom left corner is a hysterical kid, the terror in his eyes palpable, running for shelter with his arms spread out. Following him are hordes of other children, all clad in khaki shorts and loose shirts, panic strewn across their faces. A cloud of dust, emanating from the epicentre, obscures the row of trees bordering the playground, though their hazy, crooked outlines have a sorry tale to tell. The entire right wing of the school-building is gone—a few loose bricks lay scattered around. And in the middle of the scene of destruction, like the fallen giant Ghatotkacha on the battlefield of the Kurukshetra, the tower lay, its intricately done design gone partly haywire by the fall and its various long metallic, silver interconnections dangling dangerously.
The sky is still a clear blue. The yellow sun still smiles. And somewhere above, I spot the spiral, white trail of a jet plane. And I can’t help smiling when I catch sight of the two of us, obscured by the dust, perched on the tip of the fallen tower, beaming like we had just fulfilled a long-awaited dream—like we had scaled Everest.
“It’s simply amazing” I finally said, eyes still scanning the picture intently, savouring it’s complex, unique beauty. It had colours splashed lazily all around and yet, there was an attention to several small but significant features; It was weird and fantastic, yet completely realistic.

It is pouring now. We run past the Ferris wheel. He stops jumping into every puddle in the pathway, pauses and peers at the colossal structure through the downpour. His head is turned away, but I know the expression on his face—the beautiful, sad eyes, the agony of the weight in his throat. I don’t want him to linger on and quickly grab him by his shoulders and we sprint towards the temporary shelter, a huge tent where several others, many thoroughly drenched, have gathered.
“I heard you are leaving for good” Arun said, matter-of-factly.
The local bus-stand was alive with the chatter of dozens of school children, their vocal chords not in the least affected by hours of exercise from dawn in class.
“Yes. Bangalore. In a week’s time”
He smiled and a comfortable silence followed. I wondered when we had met the last time: a month ago? Two months? We had been slotted in different classes for almost a year and naturally, we had drifted apart, immersed in our own worlds.
“Have you sketched anything…” I said, and paused mid-way, for just then, my bus spluttered to halt with a huge hiss.
“I will miss you, man” he said, and we shook hands and I hopped onto the bus. I would miss his openness, his subtle humour, his brilliant sketches. But, the bond we shared was special—our love for each other would not be affected, in the least, by the infrequency of our meetings.
I found a seat by the window, and waved to him.
He waved back, and said something, and laughed. I laughed too, though I remember not registering a single word of what he had said for the engine of the bus had switched on just then. I stuck my head out of the window and waved until the end of the road after which we turned the corner and he was out of sight.

He is slightly pacified now, munching away on the muffin I buy at the hastily set-up, makeshift counter, now hidden by the multitude of people cramped in the shelter. His eyes are still red, his cheeks swollen, and his smile hidden. I turn away, and my eyes move from person to person, sight to sight—a group of rowdy college boys create a ruckus so loud that the incessant patter of the rain is forgotten; an old couple try their best to keep their grandson from running into the rain; a bony stray dog contently rests by a boy, sitting on a ragged cloth spread over the wet, muddy earth. A book is propped against his jutting knees, and his hand works furiously over it. It’s the boy who catches my attention. My eyes refuse to budge.

The last I heard of Arun was a while ago from a common friend, who lived in the same town where Arun and I grew up. Tales of his dramatic walk out on his parents, who refused to respect his passion for art, branding it ‘impractical’ and ‘unaffordable’, had long reached my ears. It turned out, unfortunately, that he was a complete failure, for he neither had the money, the clout, nor the resources to back his talent. “All he does now” said my friend, shaking his head in sympathy though I suspect he had derived a considerable amount of pleasure in telling the tale “is drink, drink and drink. I sometimes hear him walking past my house late in the night, screaming, ‘I am a genius! I am a genius’”
I sat with my head buried in my hands, not uttering a word. Tears threatened to pour down my unshaven cheeks.
“And did you know he got married?” he continued in that same tone of casual nonchalance tinged with phoney compassion, “It was a failure too! She walked out on him, when he could no longer support the three of them—yes three! He has a son” I found my blood curling and my sorrow turned to rage-- an intense hatred for my friend who was no longer able to restrain the excitement in his tone. And yet, all I did was to bury my head further into my hands, and allowed him to continue, even though every cell in my body ached to have a go at him and shut his mouth forever. When it comes to most things in life, I am a coward…

I stand behind him with my son, peer at his sketchbook that rests against his knees and watch his hands go magically over the page. He doesn’t notice me. The dog has, and it looks at me wearily through the corner of its eye. He is sketching the scene that lay outside: an amusement park deserted in the rain, in the darkness. It’s a tough task, and yet, he manages it with the ease of a pro—somehow, the rides ranging from the merry-go-round to the Giant Wheel swaying ever so slightly in the wind, the rain, the woods that lay behind, and most importantly, the darkness all seem to stand out, yet complement each other like an ensemble, each unique, nonetheless, together and dependent, creating a special aura. The dog whines, and he gives a start and immediately shoves his book into the worn-out bag slung over his shoulders. His eyes are alert, as he scans the crowd. Sure enough, a woman arrives busily and he immediately stands up.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing… Just looking at the rain” he says, and I spot him wink at the dog, with the tiniest hint of a smile, and suddenly his face looks vaguely familiar.
“Looking at the rain” she mimes unbelievingly, “Do whatever you want, as long as you don’t take out that stupid sketchbook of yours and waste time drawing. I don’t want you ending up like your father: drunk, jobless and poor”
He doesn’t respond, but simply follows her. The dog follows, wagging its tail. I see them receding and have this insane urge to stop them, to ask the boy to show me more of his sketches, to ask him who the father is. I think I know the half-smile; the long, slender fingers; the insatiable passion for minute details in sketches. Drunk, artist father?
‘What are the odds?’ whispers another voice in my brain extremely unconvincingly and a part of me knows it’s only an excuse…
And suddenly, I realise they are gone—lost in the crowd, swallowed up by the darkness. And somewhere inside, I am happy they are gone. I am not heartless. I am only afraid that my pure, innocent and open memories of a friendship that stood for eternal youth and hope might be ruined if I do come across this drunken failure of a man. He is a man I do not know, I cannot love. I am afraid of him. It’s the fear that gives me a sense of relief and prevents me from acting… for when it comes to most things in life, I am a shameless coward…

Candle In The Wind

He gripped the handle-bar and guided the rickshaw through the tiny gap between the pavement and the string of other cycle-rickshaws with an ease that, for the inexperienced eye, could have been easily mistaken for recklessness. As the road curved and widened, he hopped onto the pedal, and with one Zidanesque step-over, put his right leg on the other pedal across the bar and perched onto his seat. The rhythmic creaking of the chain soon prevailed over the cries of the other men—their voices, some hoarse with the shouting, seemed to fade away.

By the time he was half-way through, sweat dropped from his body like water from ice-cubes in the open. Tiny sweat beads on the back of his neck glistened and shone like miniscule gems—his shirt was completely drenched. He crouched, drawing strength from every muscle in his thighs and gritted his teeth in grim determination. The traveler in the back bobbed along like a cork in the sea, immersed in his own sea of thoughts. The rickshaw-wallah pedaled along, his breathing growing heavier with every yard.

And suddenly, he felt he could go no more. His old bony limbs, unable to bear the strain, gave away. He got off the rickshaw and panted loudly; his head cast downwards, towards the ground, white hair shimmering in the afternoon sun, hands still on the handle-bar. As the breathing slowed, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned his head, slowly as ever, and found the passenger who quickly thrust a 20 rupee note in his hands and walked away. He nodded his head ever so slightly as a mark of acknowledgement—it was the most he could do then.

******

With his turban rolled up into a pillow, he lay down on the pavement, below the peepal tree, watching the fine sky from between the leaves. The incident earlier that day had left him a little shaken—but he guiltily admitted to himself that it was not unforeseen. He had been working for too long and age was no longer on his side; nor was the weather. The sun seemed hell-bent on sapping the little energy his frail body could store up. His tired eyes blinked slowly a couple of times, before they gave in and closed.

A world was shut out, but another opened. The smell of bhel puri wafted from the chaat shop across the road; the odd crow let out a shriek from above; cars and bikes, few at this time of the day, honked as they passed—motors on full throttle; students from the college ahead chatted noisily, as they walked by; children, from the small colony of workers that had made the pavement their home, cried—only to be hushed and pacified by their mothers; and the radio from the paan-shop, for a welcome change, hummed a lullaby. And this world too slowly faded away to a more interesting one of dreams and fantasies….

He woke up when he felt someone tug at his moustache. Two small, fragile palms ran over his unshaven cheeks. He liked the easy, simple gestures—one that could come only from a child—but pretended to be flustered as he rolled over, his face turned away; eyes tightly shut. The hands now were placed firmly on his shoulders as they tried, in vain, to turn him. He grunted and rolled back to face the child. The hands clapped in glee and a pure, innocent voice cried in victory. There was a quick shuffle of tiny feet and he felt a near-weightless body bounce up and down his stomach. Eyes still shut; he mumbled and grumbled, apparently annoyed but, playing his part to perfection, much to the delight of the child.

It all stopped as suddenly as it started. He no longer heard crisp, dry leaves crack under the shuffling feet; nor did he feel the child jump; he just felt a head placed, sideways, on his chest and a body on his stomach that rose and fell with his breathing. He put his hand affectionately over the bare brown back of the boy. And for those few moments he felt happiness that relieved him of all pain; that made him forget all that had passed since dawn.

This was how they lived—the rickshaw-wallah and the child from across the road. They never came across each other at any other time of the day; their conversations were muted; their eyes rarely met....
******

A week had passed and the old man found it harder and harder to go on. He dreaded the day for it brought nothing but pain; he dreaded the nights, for the pain drove his sleep away. Incidents like the one earlier were becoming more frequent and not all passengers were considerate. Several refused to pay and he had to go on an empty stomach to compensate. Hunger, fatigue and a sense of world-weariness overcame him.

The future looked bleak. He couldn’t stop riding the rickshaw—he had been doing it since he could remember and if he did stop, he would rot away to death—alone and unemployed. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do to earn and he was too old to learn something now. But, it was high time he moved on. And as he lay down under the tree, musing thus, staring at the sky that looked like twinkling stars between the leaves, a small smile lit up his lips and he closed his eyes…

The child crossed the road and positioned himself by the old man. He grabbed the silver-white hair and messed it up; played drums on the bare chest; bounced away on his shrunken stomach. He got no response. He stopped, and put his head on the old man’s chest. With every passing moment he pressed his ear, harder and harder, against the body. Much later, with a shrug of his shoulders, he silently walked away; his brows knitted in a frown.
He tugged at his mother’s sari, and when she refused to respond, bit her knee. She let out a wail and asked, harshly, “What is it?”“The tabla is not playing inside the old man’s chest anymore"

******

The old man had moved on to a better world. A world of wider roads and lesser motor-vehicles; of polished rickshaws and pleasant weather; of untiring bodies and customers who didn’t bargain; of free, delicious bhel puris and silent afternoons; a world where children remained children and never grew old; a world where the nasal singer didn’t scream through the radio from the paan-shop every time he wanted a nap and some peace….

My Favourite Superhero

RADHEYA(KARNA)
I held the" Mahabharatha" in my hand--it felt unnaturally light. It had been ages since I had seen the book. There was a time when I had to stand on the one-foot wall beside the wash-basin to peer into the mirror above and brush my teeth; a time when the book required two hands to be carried around on my head--not unlike coolies carrying heavy suitcases; a time when I would read it on a daily basis--picking out random pages and savouring every word of the master-epic. But, that day, I knew I wouldn’t open the book and start from just any page--I turned to page 649, to a chapter called "Radheya was my son". Every time I read that chapter, I would almost cry, my throat would cringe and my mind would feel exhausted. It was my favourite chapter--a beautiful but most painful one.

The Mahabharatha, for me, had only one hero. He was the only reason that, as a kid, I was heavily critical of the televised series of the epic. The first time I saw him come on screen, I was aghast. Firstly, there was the background music which made you wonder if he would say, "Mugambo Khush hua". And when he walked and patted his dear friend Duryodhana on his back, they both faced the camera and broke into wicked grins that broke my heart. My Radheya, the one that had been in my head ever since I had read the book, even when at his most displeasing, never had a face so contorted and cruel-looking as this. I ran away from the room, returning only after making sure that it was at least a good 15 minutes after the show.

If someone asked me to represent Radheya's life on piece a of paper, I would probably give sheet to a three-year-old and ask him to scribble--for that's how messy it is. The uncomfortable circumstances of his birth lay a somewhat shaky platform for a very painful life--his seemingly absurd craving to take up archery as a boy of sixteen, when everyone(including himself) thinks he is a sutaputra--a lower caste.; the shattering disappointment, the first of many, over the fact that he finds no willing teacher to teach him, a son of a charioteer--And when he does find one, the great Bhagawan Bhargava, he not only defeats him in battle(a feat that no one other than Bhishma had achieved before), but gets cursed--a curse that eventually leads to his death in battlefield. Such is his life, where brief periods of sunshine are overshadowed by massive grey clouds that eventually suck all the light out of his life like weeds sucking out the very existence of a flower-bed.

But, Radheya was a fighter--a true Kshatriya. A man, for whom adversity, as the cliché rides, was only a stepping stone to success--a path to making name, fame and earning respect. But, what appeals most to a reader is his love for giving; a trait that was exploited by Indra. When he gave his Kavacha and Kundala, knowing very well who the beggar in disguise was, he knew he had given away a part of himself. Here was a trade-off wherein he stood to loose and yet he took part with a smile on his face as blood dripped of his chest and shoulders. All that came naturally to him--just as his artistry with the bow punctuated with grace, flamboyance and characteristic poise; just as his unwavering loyalty to his king, Duryodhana, who had stolen his heart away for life with one act of supreme generosity; just as his love for his adopted mother in whose honour he had refused to be called by any other name, irrespective of the amount of insult it brought to him; just as his promise to Kunti, which heavily influenced the outcome of war.

No doubt, his character is stained. There is an obvious question-mark on his actions--the humiliation of Draupadi is a case in point. But, you cant expect a man to lead a blemish free life if he were to be put through such turmoil and controversy. In fact, his life could have been far worse--that he lived the way he did is nothing short of a miracle--something that speakes volumes of his ability and strong character. Long before the war commenced, he had realised he was on the wrong side, fighting a losing battle. But, he wasn't a man who would go back on his word--his unconditional love for his master and King called for him to be by his side until death drew them apart. For Duryodhana gave him what he always wanted--trust, fame and respect.

And as I read, slowly, every word of the chapter, I felt the old surge of mixed emotions flowing back--the shot of pride when Kunti tells Yudhishtra that Radheya was not a suta and asks him to perform his funeral rites, the excitement when the Pandavas exclaim "Not a suta!" and she relates the tale of his birth, the bitter pleasure when the Pandavas sit shocked, hand on heads, failing to come to terms with reality(Arjuna goes, "I killed my own brother") and finally, the immense agony when Bhima remembers the words of Duryodhana who had uttered, on that fateful day in the tournament, " Cant you see he is a Kshatriya. Dont you realise a deer can never have the imperial gait of a lion?"--those lines, for me, make the Mahabharatha truly magnificent--for even the greatest and the most humble of men,Yudhistra, couldn’t see what the scheming, jealous teenager could in a suta with a bow--A master and a hero. And fate's least favourite child.