It’s been a month since the ‘giant eagle’ first descended on the M.G. road. It’s no longer the same bustling traffic clogged road. The threat of the ‘giant eagle’ has left it abandoned and deserted. The few who dared the threat for the sake of convenience have quiet conveniently settled in their graves by now. It’s not known whether they received a proper burial though. The ‘giant eagle’ has already marked its territory on the road and carries off anyone who trespasses. Where to? We can only guess.
The Metro rail line project that was supposed to connect Gurgaon to New Delhi has since been stalled. They say it was only a few months away from completion. Commuters had high hopes on the metro project. It was supposed to ease the traffic on the M.G. road.
The traffic did ease eventually, rather stopped altogether for different reasons though.
You can still see the pillars standing from the nearby elevated lands. A wandering Gujjar recently reported sighting a giant nest on one of those pillars. Or was it just a cheap rumour? Depends on how you take the stuff they show on news channels these days.
The pillars stand alone, some joined by a bridge at the top and others lonesome.
The machinery, the cranes and the giant bulldozers lie rusting. So do the last of the trucks that went to bring everything back to their rightful owners.
The road I guess is relaxing after a long period of servitude. Ensconced in an undisturbed layer of concrete it’s enjoying its time off before the civilisation claims it back.
Current circumstances make it highly unlikely for the civilised world to ever claim the road back again. Maybe one of the prerequisites of a civilisation to exist is that everything needs to be under its command, to follow a certain pre-approved pattern that it considers right for all things living and non-living to be on.
The road no longer follows the pattern. It no longer contributes anything to the value creation. It has ceased to serve the noble purpose of progress which the modern society is aimed at.
The road is now rebel territory - A kind of rebel that has since ceased to pose a threat. And therefore it no longer deserves attention.
The civilised world has now got used to not using the road. It conveniently bypasses the road trying to ignore the shame of its defeat.
The ant rows of cars following other cars have now moved away from the road towards the National Highway no. 8.
The bus-stops are no longer the centre of all human anxiety and impatience. Even the toll gates have stopped waiting in expectation.
Dark green coloured ever-expanding creepers have claimed the fallen buildings that lie in between. Its sure better than the fate they were left to – crumbling under their own weight dying a slow death. Those creepers at least seem to nourish the fallen concrete structures with a kind of after-life that none other lifeless structure is destined to have. The trees no longer claim accidents and neither do they feel out of place in the middle of the road. Every undesirable vegetation flourishes on the road.
The M.G. road has become a refuge now for all undesirables of the city. But there’s a difference between undesirables who don’t consider their lives insignificant and those who do. Mostly the latter ones come to the road never to return again. People say that they camp out on and around the road for a few days before the ‘giant eagle’ claims their lives.
“It’s beautiful to die out here on the M.G. road.” The wandering Gujjar on his second visit reported seeing this statement scribbled in bold letters on one of the pillars besides a deserted camp of one of the many refugees.
Monday, April 14, 2008
THE ROAD
“The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall…”
And then he… reached the road. The road… it stretched from the ends of one civilization to the start of another. Civilization, if you identify it by the shining glass buildings and air-conditioned shuttles moving from point A to point B, carrying in them people dressed quite inappropriately for the season with stiffened collars and cold faces. These were the people who traveled by the road apart from others who are seldom talked about in stories.
The road in itself was as peculiar as the characters that used it. And he loved it. He traveled from one end to the other joyously hunting out his victims. And the victims were not too hard to find.
The road was somewhat straight except for a bend or two. At places it was being dug at the very centre to install pillars to support a rail line in air. The road was a mess at such places, making them his favorite hunting grounds. Then there were the trees. A road with trees would look beautiful if the trees were not in the very middle of it. To add to the charm, illegally built buildings brought down by the municipal corporation lined the road on both sides. The government guys had not cared to bring down the structures completely. They just hung in balance dying a painful death, making the place look like a war ravaged country. Such characters of the road were too irresistible for him and let him work like an artist. And a true artist he was. Who else uses the perfect balance of all elements and creates such a beautiful piece of art.
Something that makes people stop and admire it on their way home.
They are always careful enough to not disturb its completion by the slightest interference. The travelers of the road had long since become true admirers of his art. The pattern, the balance, the finish was always on their mind. It was the new ones who weren’t aware or the ones who used to forget its charm under the influence of alcohol or anything that was more attractive.
These were the kinds he despised and always longed to make them a part of it, submerge them in the beauty of it so that they never forget or nothing else remains to be remembered.
And then there was his favorite element – the human mind. Its depths, its richness, its beliefs, its contradictions, afflictions, addictions …such a vast subject to study. The slightest of contradictions and errors of the human mind gave way for his perfect traps.
Naren wasn’t the most difficult of minds for him to work on. A non-descript farmer from a non-descript village looking for a non-descript job. He was crossing the road at its very end. He reached the other side and realized he was one slipper less. The slipper lay at the middle of the road he had just crossed. He had to make a decision now to walk back to get his slippers. Such decisions are made in a fraction of a second. What may be the time you take to blink your eye, was a whole period of action for the killer. He acted quickly and Naren went back. A speeding radio cab hit Naren first on his head which he had bowed to pick up his slipper, and then his legs. It all happened in a single massive hit which sent Naren flying in the air only to fall back crashing his head on the glass pane of the car.
There lay glass and blood, splattered all across, in a pattern that could inspire any successful merchant banker to give up his profession and start painting.
Passersby stopped and admired the work, giving the killer a kind of applause only he could hear, sitting in the corner, smiling.
And then they moved on.
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall…”
And then he… reached the road. The road… it stretched from the ends of one civilization to the start of another. Civilization, if you identify it by the shining glass buildings and air-conditioned shuttles moving from point A to point B, carrying in them people dressed quite inappropriately for the season with stiffened collars and cold faces. These were the people who traveled by the road apart from others who are seldom talked about in stories.
The road in itself was as peculiar as the characters that used it. And he loved it. He traveled from one end to the other joyously hunting out his victims. And the victims were not too hard to find.
The road was somewhat straight except for a bend or two. At places it was being dug at the very centre to install pillars to support a rail line in air. The road was a mess at such places, making them his favorite hunting grounds. Then there were the trees. A road with trees would look beautiful if the trees were not in the very middle of it. To add to the charm, illegally built buildings brought down by the municipal corporation lined the road on both sides. The government guys had not cared to bring down the structures completely. They just hung in balance dying a painful death, making the place look like a war ravaged country. Such characters of the road were too irresistible for him and let him work like an artist. And a true artist he was. Who else uses the perfect balance of all elements and creates such a beautiful piece of art.
Something that makes people stop and admire it on their way home.
They are always careful enough to not disturb its completion by the slightest interference. The travelers of the road had long since become true admirers of his art. The pattern, the balance, the finish was always on their mind. It was the new ones who weren’t aware or the ones who used to forget its charm under the influence of alcohol or anything that was more attractive.
These were the kinds he despised and always longed to make them a part of it, submerge them in the beauty of it so that they never forget or nothing else remains to be remembered.
And then there was his favorite element – the human mind. Its depths, its richness, its beliefs, its contradictions, afflictions, addictions …such a vast subject to study. The slightest of contradictions and errors of the human mind gave way for his perfect traps.
Naren wasn’t the most difficult of minds for him to work on. A non-descript farmer from a non-descript village looking for a non-descript job. He was crossing the road at its very end. He reached the other side and realized he was one slipper less. The slipper lay at the middle of the road he had just crossed. He had to make a decision now to walk back to get his slippers. Such decisions are made in a fraction of a second. What may be the time you take to blink your eye, was a whole period of action for the killer. He acted quickly and Naren went back. A speeding radio cab hit Naren first on his head which he had bowed to pick up his slipper, and then his legs. It all happened in a single massive hit which sent Naren flying in the air only to fall back crashing his head on the glass pane of the car.
There lay glass and blood, splattered all across, in a pattern that could inspire any successful merchant banker to give up his profession and start painting.
Passersby stopped and admired the work, giving the killer a kind of applause only he could hear, sitting in the corner, smiling.
And then they moved on.
THE INSPIRATION
Two young writers were sitting in a coffee shop. They often chose this one in Lajpat Nagar amongst many that had sprung up in Delhi. It was mostly a time when they didn’t have a hot looking babe to hang out with, that they sat together. Actually they never had any. Perplexed by the intellectual mediocrity of the babes they couldn’t get laid with, they often came to this coffee shop to smoke away their time and talk about something that they would want to talk about. While one was contemplating ordering a 60 bucks coffee and not giving the manager another chance to ask them to leave, the other followed a female’s arse with that usual lustful look in his eyes and broke the silence.
“That’s what you call a wobbly arse.”
“And what’s a wobbly arse?”
“It’s the kind that wobbles when you spank it.”
“You can’t get over thinking about girls. Can you?”
“I hate this thing about you; all the good writers say and write about what they feel and not what’s moral and righteous. The other day I was reading these memoirs by a Turkish writer, where he said when he was a kid, he used to think a lot about religion and politics and the rich and the poor and then he turned 14. He just thought about sex after that.”
“Ha ha…I’m sure he did. But he wrote about a lot of other things too.”
“Yes but those guys had issues dude… he wrote about the melancholy that prevailed in the fallen capital of the great Ottoman empire, Kafka had this whole surrealistic movement influencing him, Dylan had this folk tradition which was in vogue. And he could do it better than anyone else. Tom waits, Lou reed wrote about the down-town trash a great capitalist economy, Rand glorified the virtues of capitalism or individualism or objectivism or whatever. What do we have to get inspired by? Hot looking dumb chicks?
“You sound like a pseudo. But I know all you can think about is sex.”
“Dude, there’s more to me than sex.”
“The truth is - you are sex and more.”
“Whatever…maybe we are living in happy times. Booming economy, great jobs, a flat and a car for every hardworking executive of a corporation, fashionable wives, kids in schools that cost more than a stay in a luxury liner. Happy lives. Happy times.”
“That’s what someone cursed an artist with – may you live in happy times.”
“Or may be its guys like us who aren’t living those happy lives, desire mayhem and disorder and chaos and ugliness.”
“There must be some kind of way out of here - said the joker to the thief.”
“And I must assume that the joker is me and the thief is you.”
“How does it matter? Both of them aren’t normal. It’s just that the thief accepts the intellectual mediocrity of most people and obviousness of life and the joker can’t come to terms with it. And the thief is the one helping him understand that.”
“But dude I can’t live with this shit. I need inspiration. Some real inspiration.”
The other guy takes out a rod out from somewhere under the table and bangs it on the head of his friend. He keeps hitting till the poor guys head is all but a pulp of blood and flesh.
“Is this inspiration enough for you?” He shouts aloud.
“Extreme violence is not an alternative to real inspiration.” A voice comes out from the moving lips of the battered head.
People around them continue sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes oblivious of what just happened.
“That’s what you call a wobbly arse.”
“And what’s a wobbly arse?”
“It’s the kind that wobbles when you spank it.”
“You can’t get over thinking about girls. Can you?”
“I hate this thing about you; all the good writers say and write about what they feel and not what’s moral and righteous. The other day I was reading these memoirs by a Turkish writer, where he said when he was a kid, he used to think a lot about religion and politics and the rich and the poor and then he turned 14. He just thought about sex after that.”
“Ha ha…I’m sure he did. But he wrote about a lot of other things too.”
“Yes but those guys had issues dude… he wrote about the melancholy that prevailed in the fallen capital of the great Ottoman empire, Kafka had this whole surrealistic movement influencing him, Dylan had this folk tradition which was in vogue. And he could do it better than anyone else. Tom waits, Lou reed wrote about the down-town trash a great capitalist economy, Rand glorified the virtues of capitalism or individualism or objectivism or whatever. What do we have to get inspired by? Hot looking dumb chicks?
“You sound like a pseudo. But I know all you can think about is sex.”
“Dude, there’s more to me than sex.”
“The truth is - you are sex and more.”
“Whatever…maybe we are living in happy times. Booming economy, great jobs, a flat and a car for every hardworking executive of a corporation, fashionable wives, kids in schools that cost more than a stay in a luxury liner. Happy lives. Happy times.”
“That’s what someone cursed an artist with – may you live in happy times.”
“Or may be its guys like us who aren’t living those happy lives, desire mayhem and disorder and chaos and ugliness.”
“There must be some kind of way out of here - said the joker to the thief.”
“And I must assume that the joker is me and the thief is you.”
“How does it matter? Both of them aren’t normal. It’s just that the thief accepts the intellectual mediocrity of most people and obviousness of life and the joker can’t come to terms with it. And the thief is the one helping him understand that.”
“But dude I can’t live with this shit. I need inspiration. Some real inspiration.”
The other guy takes out a rod out from somewhere under the table and bangs it on the head of his friend. He keeps hitting till the poor guys head is all but a pulp of blood and flesh.
“Is this inspiration enough for you?” He shouts aloud.
“Extreme violence is not an alternative to real inspiration.” A voice comes out from the moving lips of the battered head.
People around them continue sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes oblivious of what just happened.
SATAN AND THE SALESMAN
It tasted salty…deliciously salty…the drop of sweat that dripped down his lips. Apart from the taste of the sweat there was nothing else at the moment that could make him feel any less miserable than he was feeling. His helmet felt like an over heated pressure cooker with the head being cooked inside…brain cells being exhumed beyond repair. The papers said 45 degrees…with the heat bouncing back from the big flashy hoods of cars around which it felt at least 5 degrees more. When your in Gurgaon* two things are what you are always surrounded by, glass and dust. The dust creeps inside you and the glass towering on both sides of the road adds to the boiling charm of the situation.
In the month of June, New Delhi is no better. Especially when you want people to open up accounts with your bank. To top it all up, you get targets impossible to achieve. And the heat… fucking heat, makes your field a living hell. And Mangesh, a small town guy from Rampur*, had now fully understood that life of a salesman was itself a living hell.
3 years back, he came to the capital to do an MBA course that was expensive enough to drain his father’s finances and burden him with loans even before starting to earn. With the hope of making it big, he was quiet happy during the placement season by bagging a good package in a world-renowned bank. He didn’t quiet care to look closely at the profile. The first day itself he was given a nice leather bag with metal edges and kicked out of the office to try and open as many accounts as he could. With his leather briefcase strapped around his back he rode his bike all around the city knowing little what to do. Finally found a nice little place in the India Gate garden and dozed off. Little did he know that the coming days would be worse.
Not many days ago, a customer locked him up in his go-down and he had to call his superiors to sort out matters. Another day he was chased by a ferocious dog belonging to a guy he had high hopes on. Fortunately the dog was called back when he stumbled upon something and broke his leg. Life was already not very rewarding and then came the heat wave.
Mangesh was the kind of guy, you could easily slap on the back of his head and he won’t bother to hit you back. He had an easy life back home and after that the college gave him good value for his money. But it was very different for him now. The world was never like this. No-one cared, not a single kind word. The boss used to switch off the air-conditioning after 11 and tell them to go out on their calls.
Hate was something he had found easy to carry along. Helped face the heat better, rose along with the mercury. It was a beautiful feeling to let all out and feel all powerful. His job seldom gave him that feeling.
Miserably failing in his Gurgaon campaign, he came back to Delhi all exhausted and account-less. His boss waited in expectation as he always did.
“dhanda kitna laaya hai?” (“how much business did you get today?”)
He hated that word ‘dhanda’*. It made him feel like a prostitute who cruises the dirtiest corners of the city and meets the filthiest of people to earn her living. After completing his MBA from (if not one of the best) one of the most expensive colleges in Delhi this wasn’t the way he had ever imagined he would be addressed. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to turn out. This wasn’t the way he was supposed to live. This wasn’t how hot summers were supposed to be. This wasn’t just right.
And the heat… fucking heat. His head was already spinning from the day’s job, cruising aimlessly from house to house knocking.
“abey ghoor kya raha hai? MBA me tereko dhanda laana nahi sikhaya kya? Abey…..”
(“What are you staring at? Didn’t they tell you how bring business in your MBA? You….”)
Mangesh didn’t want to hear another word… he never did.
It was still hot outside, as if the earth was now releasing what it had absorbed all day long. His face burned as he looked down but he no longer had that feeling of disappointment and humiliation inside him. He felt strong, all-powerful. He could feel a kind invigorating energy inside him.
He looked up when the first drop fell on his shirt. The blood dissolved to reveal the plain white colour of his shirt, and then another… and another. He looked down to watch the blood getting dissolved into the pools of water gathering around him.
Delhi’s meteorological department had issued a statement today that the monsoons would arrive late this year. Their weatherman was wrong… very wrong.
*Gurgaon - a suburb near New Delhi settled mainly by IT companies, BPOs and other major MNC corporate offices
*Rampur – a small town in northern India not very far from New Delhi
*Dhanda – a very cheap word used for ‘trade’ usually by pimps and prostitutes
In the month of June, New Delhi is no better. Especially when you want people to open up accounts with your bank. To top it all up, you get targets impossible to achieve. And the heat… fucking heat, makes your field a living hell. And Mangesh, a small town guy from Rampur*, had now fully understood that life of a salesman was itself a living hell.
3 years back, he came to the capital to do an MBA course that was expensive enough to drain his father’s finances and burden him with loans even before starting to earn. With the hope of making it big, he was quiet happy during the placement season by bagging a good package in a world-renowned bank. He didn’t quiet care to look closely at the profile. The first day itself he was given a nice leather bag with metal edges and kicked out of the office to try and open as many accounts as he could. With his leather briefcase strapped around his back he rode his bike all around the city knowing little what to do. Finally found a nice little place in the India Gate garden and dozed off. Little did he know that the coming days would be worse.
Not many days ago, a customer locked him up in his go-down and he had to call his superiors to sort out matters. Another day he was chased by a ferocious dog belonging to a guy he had high hopes on. Fortunately the dog was called back when he stumbled upon something and broke his leg. Life was already not very rewarding and then came the heat wave.
Mangesh was the kind of guy, you could easily slap on the back of his head and he won’t bother to hit you back. He had an easy life back home and after that the college gave him good value for his money. But it was very different for him now. The world was never like this. No-one cared, not a single kind word. The boss used to switch off the air-conditioning after 11 and tell them to go out on their calls.
Hate was something he had found easy to carry along. Helped face the heat better, rose along with the mercury. It was a beautiful feeling to let all out and feel all powerful. His job seldom gave him that feeling.
Miserably failing in his Gurgaon campaign, he came back to Delhi all exhausted and account-less. His boss waited in expectation as he always did.
“dhanda kitna laaya hai?” (“how much business did you get today?”)
He hated that word ‘dhanda’*. It made him feel like a prostitute who cruises the dirtiest corners of the city and meets the filthiest of people to earn her living. After completing his MBA from (if not one of the best) one of the most expensive colleges in Delhi this wasn’t the way he had ever imagined he would be addressed. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to turn out. This wasn’t the way he was supposed to live. This wasn’t how hot summers were supposed to be. This wasn’t just right.
And the heat… fucking heat. His head was already spinning from the day’s job, cruising aimlessly from house to house knocking.
“abey ghoor kya raha hai? MBA me tereko dhanda laana nahi sikhaya kya? Abey…..”
(“What are you staring at? Didn’t they tell you how bring business in your MBA? You….”)
Mangesh didn’t want to hear another word… he never did.
It was still hot outside, as if the earth was now releasing what it had absorbed all day long. His face burned as he looked down but he no longer had that feeling of disappointment and humiliation inside him. He felt strong, all-powerful. He could feel a kind invigorating energy inside him.
He looked up when the first drop fell on his shirt. The blood dissolved to reveal the plain white colour of his shirt, and then another… and another. He looked down to watch the blood getting dissolved into the pools of water gathering around him.
Delhi’s meteorological department had issued a statement today that the monsoons would arrive late this year. Their weatherman was wrong… very wrong.
*Gurgaon - a suburb near New Delhi settled mainly by IT companies, BPOs and other major MNC corporate offices
*Rampur – a small town in northern India not very far from New Delhi
*Dhanda – a very cheap word used for ‘trade’ usually by pimps and prostitutes
THE TOMB
I recently moved from one of the filthiest serai’s in South Delhi -‘Neb serai’ to a rather decent one – ‘Lado serai’. This new serai is quite peculiar in its own special way. Maybe it’s because its age-old structures are still safe from being razed to the ground by the notorious Delhi builders who are afraid of the ‘Jaat’.
The ‘Jaat’ is well built farmer with far less thinking abilities than an average school kid and such an unpredictable behaviour pattern that can put any sociological expert to shame. He used to own huge tracts of land around Delhi but is now slowly selling it off plot by plot. It’s he and his brethren who mostly inhabit the serai’s of Delhi. In Lado serai each four storied building belongs to a ‘Jaat’ family with single guys like me fearfully residing on the floors above. There’s a reason to this fear – the ‘Jaat’ himself.
The Jaat women of Lado serai are the most mysterious characters. You can’t say whether they are beautiful or not because they have their faces mostly covered. Even when their faces aren’t covered, there’s an unwritten law (Jaat hates writing) in Lado serai which is implemented in the most ruthless manner and all outsiders follow – do not look at a female faces. No one knows the reason but assume that it’s a matter of honour like with the Arabs. This can be accepted as the most logical explanation.
Lado Serai, is a very ancient locality with not many ancient buildings left. The only thing ancient that is left is the shadow of Qutub Minar. It’s the first thing you look at when you wake up and get out into your balcony. There’s another structure you notice in another direction. It’s a strange tomb. The blackened walls are a testimony to its age and the architecture doesn’t pretend to be outstanding. It stands on a small rocky hill in its own quiet way never seeking attention. I’ve never spotted any tourist, foreign or Indian, visiting the tomb.
A few days later I discovered something new about the Tomb. I spotted someone coming out of the tomb. I followed that someone’s path from when it was a speck in my sight to when my eyes signalled my brain to register the image of a woman. She crossed the main road and walked right into the lane entering Lado serai. Just then my eyes travelled all the way back to the tomb and I saw two women entering the tomb. ‘The women of Lado serai sure are admirers of medieval architecture’ I thought for a moment.
In a few days time it became a familiar sight watching women in traditional gear, with their veils covering their face, walking in and out of the tomb. Still I could never notice a tourist or even a street kid around the tomb. Except for the days of these strange visits by the women, the tomb stood there alone, quietly, looking even more mysterious and alluring in its silence and abandonment. I never once saw the Jaats enter the strange tomb.
There was one I particularly liked. Not because she was pretty, I never dared to look at her face. I just watched her walk to the tomb on a moonless night and realized that something was different about this one. Maybe it was the way she walked or the way everything seemed to get mysteriously dark as she crossed by. Or maybe it’s common to get attracted to whatever is unusual.
One day, no longer being able to hold myself out of fear, the heavy chains of fear just loosened and I approached her and did what I wasn’t meant to do. Looked at her face, and there was nothing unusual about it. In fact, it was one of the most stunning faces I had ever seen. Regaining my senses I managed to utter my first few words.
“Hey what’s your name and why do you go to the tomb?”
“Our kinds have no name and at the end of the day everyone has to return to the place one belongs” she said and smiled. Her sharp pointed teeth were the last thing I remember before I lost all sense of reality.
The ‘Jaat’ is well built farmer with far less thinking abilities than an average school kid and such an unpredictable behaviour pattern that can put any sociological expert to shame. He used to own huge tracts of land around Delhi but is now slowly selling it off plot by plot. It’s he and his brethren who mostly inhabit the serai’s of Delhi. In Lado serai each four storied building belongs to a ‘Jaat’ family with single guys like me fearfully residing on the floors above. There’s a reason to this fear – the ‘Jaat’ himself.
The Jaat women of Lado serai are the most mysterious characters. You can’t say whether they are beautiful or not because they have their faces mostly covered. Even when their faces aren’t covered, there’s an unwritten law (Jaat hates writing) in Lado serai which is implemented in the most ruthless manner and all outsiders follow – do not look at a female faces. No one knows the reason but assume that it’s a matter of honour like with the Arabs. This can be accepted as the most logical explanation.
Lado Serai, is a very ancient locality with not many ancient buildings left. The only thing ancient that is left is the shadow of Qutub Minar. It’s the first thing you look at when you wake up and get out into your balcony. There’s another structure you notice in another direction. It’s a strange tomb. The blackened walls are a testimony to its age and the architecture doesn’t pretend to be outstanding. It stands on a small rocky hill in its own quiet way never seeking attention. I’ve never spotted any tourist, foreign or Indian, visiting the tomb.
A few days later I discovered something new about the Tomb. I spotted someone coming out of the tomb. I followed that someone’s path from when it was a speck in my sight to when my eyes signalled my brain to register the image of a woman. She crossed the main road and walked right into the lane entering Lado serai. Just then my eyes travelled all the way back to the tomb and I saw two women entering the tomb. ‘The women of Lado serai sure are admirers of medieval architecture’ I thought for a moment.
In a few days time it became a familiar sight watching women in traditional gear, with their veils covering their face, walking in and out of the tomb. Still I could never notice a tourist or even a street kid around the tomb. Except for the days of these strange visits by the women, the tomb stood there alone, quietly, looking even more mysterious and alluring in its silence and abandonment. I never once saw the Jaats enter the strange tomb.
There was one I particularly liked. Not because she was pretty, I never dared to look at her face. I just watched her walk to the tomb on a moonless night and realized that something was different about this one. Maybe it was the way she walked or the way everything seemed to get mysteriously dark as she crossed by. Or maybe it’s common to get attracted to whatever is unusual.
One day, no longer being able to hold myself out of fear, the heavy chains of fear just loosened and I approached her and did what I wasn’t meant to do. Looked at her face, and there was nothing unusual about it. In fact, it was one of the most stunning faces I had ever seen. Regaining my senses I managed to utter my first few words.
“Hey what’s your name and why do you go to the tomb?”
“Our kinds have no name and at the end of the day everyone has to return to the place one belongs” she said and smiled. Her sharp pointed teeth were the last thing I remember before I lost all sense of reality.
WASTED
“You’re wasted man…you’re wasted” I heard a voice from somewhere above. I felt my head being held by a hand that thrust it into the sand. I slowly rose as soon as it loosened its grip. I could taste sand, I could feel its odorless smell… the grains were creeping in my hair, in my eyes, my nostrils... slowly moving deep inside, entering my soul. I didn’t mind any of that except for the sand in my shoes, giving me that that feeling, of my skin melting into sand. My attention traveled from my shoes to my hand. I could see a big hairy foot over where my hand was. I could feel it being crushed and move deep into the sand under the pressure of the big hairy leg.
The sun was too hot for me to be able to look up to find out who was it? Anyways I didn’t care. I wouldn’t have cared if someone had hit me with a baseball bat. I didn’t care to look at the half naked women around me, nor did I care for the waves. With my back to the sea, I was just staring into the sand. But the pain he caused was so unbearable that I had to look up to see who this bastard was? Who couldn’t see me drifting into the oblivion. What does he care about? How does it concern him, whether I’m getting wasted or trashed or whatever. I was always wasted anyways. I look up and the sun blinds me. I see a silhouette of a huge bald man walking away.
‘He’s walking away?’ I manage to get up, grab an empty beer bottle from many lying around the beach, hold it by its neck and follow the man. I’ve already had enough mishaps here (on what was supposed to be a happening trip) that I plan to pour all my frustrations into the big bald head of the giant. Was he actually a giant or was I drunk?
Or was the combined effect of heat on the back of my head and alcohol on my brains giving me a vision that was out of proportion.
Anyways I followed him to a place which now looked more like a desert than a beach beside the sea. And the sea seemed to have disappeared. Suddenly I realized that I wasn’t even following anyone. I was in the middle of nowhere. Does the beach really empty out into a huge bed of sand… a desert, like a river into the sea? Spreading far…endless. And i feel small, insignificant. Where’s everyone else? Where’s the entire humanity? There’s no-one, anywhere, it’s just me and the hot outstretching desert. Me, getting lost, in the desert wastes. Djinns do speak the truth.
The sun was too hot for me to be able to look up to find out who was it? Anyways I didn’t care. I wouldn’t have cared if someone had hit me with a baseball bat. I didn’t care to look at the half naked women around me, nor did I care for the waves. With my back to the sea, I was just staring into the sand. But the pain he caused was so unbearable that I had to look up to see who this bastard was? Who couldn’t see me drifting into the oblivion. What does he care about? How does it concern him, whether I’m getting wasted or trashed or whatever. I was always wasted anyways. I look up and the sun blinds me. I see a silhouette of a huge bald man walking away.
‘He’s walking away?’ I manage to get up, grab an empty beer bottle from many lying around the beach, hold it by its neck and follow the man. I’ve already had enough mishaps here (on what was supposed to be a happening trip) that I plan to pour all my frustrations into the big bald head of the giant. Was he actually a giant or was I drunk?
Or was the combined effect of heat on the back of my head and alcohol on my brains giving me a vision that was out of proportion.
Anyways I followed him to a place which now looked more like a desert than a beach beside the sea. And the sea seemed to have disappeared. Suddenly I realized that I wasn’t even following anyone. I was in the middle of nowhere. Does the beach really empty out into a huge bed of sand… a desert, like a river into the sea? Spreading far…endless. And i feel small, insignificant. Where’s everyone else? Where’s the entire humanity? There’s no-one, anywhere, it’s just me and the hot outstretching desert. Me, getting lost, in the desert wastes. Djinns do speak the truth.
THE UNDESIRABLES
2007 A.D New Delhi
“It’s too hot these days.”
“Hot and humid.”
“Why don’t we leave?”
“Because we need a place to stay.”
“You know that the boundaries of time and space don’t restrict us.”
“Yes... but there’s something called home”
1585 A.D. Istanbul
“I have a feeling our days are numbered here.”
“You sound as if it's the first time you've had this feeling.”
“This time it’s for real.”
“Fear in itself is a sum total of reality, future and uncertainty.”
“I’m not here to listen to your absurd theories.”
“What brings you to this desolate place then?”
“The followers of Nusret Hoja are after us… they are hunting us all down one by one”
“Who is Nusret Hoja? And what do mean by ‘us’.”
“These are not the times to act so innocent and ignorant. Nusret Hoja is the leader of all fanatics in this country and they are after all men who visit coffee houses and mingle in the company of the dervishes who dance to the tune of prayers.”
“And I guess they have a good enough reason?”
“They say coffee makes you delirious and makes you indulge in blasphemy.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Hasn’t happened to me but the other day that dreamy eyed boy Shevket went out of his mind, stood up on the table and announced ‘hey you, men and women of Istanbul, listen to what I have to say. For it is I who controls time. Strange events are about to unfold. The city you live in is about to become the seat of one of the greatest empires which will later crumble under the feet of the Frankish infidels. Your Arab neighbours will unsuccessfully wage war against the Frankish inhabitants of a far-off continent to stop them from stealing their buried gold'.”
“What buried gold do the Arabs have?”
“Don’t you pay attention to what those-who-have-lost-their-senses say, just think about where do we go this time?”
“I refuse to listen to you. Last time, on your suggestion we hid among the Jews of Spain and were subsequently driven out by Queen Isabella.”
“But that’s how we landed in this beautiful city of Istanbul.”
“Which according to you, is now impossible to survive in.”
“Yes, because we have been spotted in the company of dervishes and coffee drinkers”
“Where do we go then?”
“Akbar, the emperor of Hindustan has sent emissaries to the four corners of the world to bring back artists of the highest order to reside in his court. I met one of them yesterday and fooled him into believing that I’m a renowned calligrapher and agreed to leave Istanbul along with my assistant which would be you.”
“I can hear people on the street shouting Allaho-akbar.”
“May be its time.”
“Let’s leave.”
1947 A.D. New Delhi
“The prime minister is closing all manholes and flushing out all undesirables from the city.”
“After surviving the partition riots this was the last thing I expected.”
“Where do we go now?”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. This city is big enough to hide in.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s too hot these days.”
“Hot and humid.”
“Why don’t we leave?”
“Because we need a place to stay.”
“You know that the boundaries of time and space don’t restrict us.”
“Yes... but there’s something called home”
1585 A.D. Istanbul
“I have a feeling our days are numbered here.”
“You sound as if it's the first time you've had this feeling.”
“This time it’s for real.”
“Fear in itself is a sum total of reality, future and uncertainty.”
“I’m not here to listen to your absurd theories.”
“What brings you to this desolate place then?”
“The followers of Nusret Hoja are after us… they are hunting us all down one by one”
“Who is Nusret Hoja? And what do mean by ‘us’.”
“These are not the times to act so innocent and ignorant. Nusret Hoja is the leader of all fanatics in this country and they are after all men who visit coffee houses and mingle in the company of the dervishes who dance to the tune of prayers.”
“And I guess they have a good enough reason?”
“They say coffee makes you delirious and makes you indulge in blasphemy.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Hasn’t happened to me but the other day that dreamy eyed boy Shevket went out of his mind, stood up on the table and announced ‘hey you, men and women of Istanbul, listen to what I have to say. For it is I who controls time. Strange events are about to unfold. The city you live in is about to become the seat of one of the greatest empires which will later crumble under the feet of the Frankish infidels. Your Arab neighbours will unsuccessfully wage war against the Frankish inhabitants of a far-off continent to stop them from stealing their buried gold'.”
“What buried gold do the Arabs have?”
“Don’t you pay attention to what those-who-have-lost-their-senses say, just think about where do we go this time?”
“I refuse to listen to you. Last time, on your suggestion we hid among the Jews of Spain and were subsequently driven out by Queen Isabella.”
“But that’s how we landed in this beautiful city of Istanbul.”
“Which according to you, is now impossible to survive in.”
“Yes, because we have been spotted in the company of dervishes and coffee drinkers”
“Where do we go then?”
“Akbar, the emperor of Hindustan has sent emissaries to the four corners of the world to bring back artists of the highest order to reside in his court. I met one of them yesterday and fooled him into believing that I’m a renowned calligrapher and agreed to leave Istanbul along with my assistant which would be you.”
“I can hear people on the street shouting Allaho-akbar.”
“May be its time.”
“Let’s leave.”
1947 A.D. New Delhi
“The prime minister is closing all manholes and flushing out all undesirables from the city.”
“After surviving the partition riots this was the last thing I expected.”
“Where do we go now?”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. This city is big enough to hide in.”
“Maybe.”
THE LONER
A casually dressed guy sits alone in the corner of a room, smoking. Young guys and girls sway to the beats of artificially created sounds, one of them moves to the same corner.
“Why do you sit like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like ... in the corner...”
“There’s something in corners you won’t get”
“I can try”
“Hmmm…forget it… get lost”
“Hey, you could do with some talking”
“There’s nothing in the centre you see”
“I don’t see that”
“Are you that dumb?”
“This isn’t a good attitude dude”
“I refuse to speak”
“There’re quiet a few gorgeous looking women in the centre dude”
“There will always be something in the centre. To me what matters is a 90 degree perspective of the world”
“Ok… and what’s a 90 degree perspective?”
“You get a 360 degree perspective in the centre, you see”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“You are making me talk too much”
“Just tell me what’s wrong with a 360 degree perspective, and ill go away?”
“It just makes your head spin”
“That’s a weird reason”
“The real world isn’t interesting enough to risk getting your neck twisted”
“Where does the interesting world lie then?”
“It’s the other 270 degrees”
“Dude I wasn’t very good at math in school”
“It’s because you shared a 360 degree perspective”
“True…roll a joint dude, I think my head is swirling”
“Sure”
Two guys sit in a corner of the room, smoking.
“Why do you sit like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like ... in the corner...”
“There’s something in corners you won’t get”
“I can try”
“Hmmm…forget it… get lost”
“Hey, you could do with some talking”
“There’s nothing in the centre you see”
“I don’t see that”
“Are you that dumb?”
“This isn’t a good attitude dude”
“I refuse to speak”
“There’re quiet a few gorgeous looking women in the centre dude”
“There will always be something in the centre. To me what matters is a 90 degree perspective of the world”
“Ok… and what’s a 90 degree perspective?”
“You get a 360 degree perspective in the centre, you see”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“You are making me talk too much”
“Just tell me what’s wrong with a 360 degree perspective, and ill go away?”
“It just makes your head spin”
“That’s a weird reason”
“The real world isn’t interesting enough to risk getting your neck twisted”
“Where does the interesting world lie then?”
“It’s the other 270 degrees”
“Dude I wasn’t very good at math in school”
“It’s because you shared a 360 degree perspective”
“True…roll a joint dude, I think my head is swirling”
“Sure”
Two guys sit in a corner of the room, smoking.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
