Blue Notebook No.2

Once there was a redheaded man without eyes and without ears. He had no hair either, so that he was a redhead was just something they said. He could not speak, for he had no mouth. He had no nose either. He didn't even have arms or legs. He had no stomach either, and he had no back, and he had no spine, and no intestines of any kind. He didn't have anything at all. So it is hard to understand whom we are really talking about. So it is probably best not to talk about him any more.

Born in St. Petersburg in 1905, Daniil Kharms was one of the founders, in 1928, of OBERIU, or Association of Real Art, an avant-garde group of writers and artists who embraced the ideas of the Futurists and believed that art should operate outside the rules of logic. In 1941, he was arrested by the N.K.V.D. for making “defeatist statements”; sentenced to incarceration in the psychiatric ward of a prison hospital, he died of starvation the following year, during the siege of Leningrad. For more of his absurdist stories visit http://www.sevaj.dk/kharms/kharmseng.htm

THE ADVERTISING PSYCHOLOGIST

“So tell me from the very beginning.”
“yaaa… it started last night.”
“I said - from the very beginning.”
“But wouldn’t you like to listen to the immediate reason that made me come to you.”
“Ok, go ahead.”
“Well, I spent the entire night thinking about whether to use “Here’s the most exciting offer...” or “Tata Indicom presents the most exciting offer…”
“Then what did you use?”
“It’s not about what did I use. It’s about why did I think so much about it…”
“That’s what you are paid for, right?”
“Yaaaa…but you also get paid for scratching out shit stuck in commodes.”
“That’s another debate….let’s stick to your problems. Tell me what worries you the most?”
“Every night I dream that I’m a fish.”
“And what happens then?”
“I’m always in a small pond and there are these other fish that smell exactly like me.”
“Can you really smell them in your dreams?”
“Of course, they all smell like fish…Actually they even look like me.”
“Ok, so they are the same species.”
“And there’s no other species, not even frogs… no alligators… only fish.”
“Must be a small pond.”
“They even sound the same.”
“What do they say?”
“Nothing they just open and close their lips.”
“Ok tell me about your friends.”
“yaa…. That’s an interesting topic, I have lots of friends.”
“Tell me about your best friends. What do they do?”
“One is a copywriter, the other is a copy supervisor and another is a creative supervisor. But I’ve left them all in Delhi.”
“Do you have many friends here?”
“Lots of them.”
“What do they do?”
“Let me think… ya… one is a senior copywriter, the other is a junior copywriter and some of them are still trainee writers.”
“Quiet an interesting variety. Don’t you have friends in other professions?”
“Nope… the marketing guys are so boring. They don’t watch the same movies that I do.”
“And what kind of movies do you watch?”
“My friends have quiet an interesting collection that I can choose from."
"There must be more."
"yaaa...but...well, all that my friends in sales talk about is the slight increase in Katrina Kaif's breast size since she started sleeping with some new dickhead. hey... by the way did you know that there's a scene in that movie 'Boom' where Katrina pushes Gulshan Grover's head into her boobs...wow... I still haven't checked it out.”
“Ok, tell me about your job.”
“I don’t feel that excited about it anymore.”
“Go on.”
“I once used to think of it as a noble purpose that one could abandon everything else for. But now that I know that I won’t become a martyr, it’s really hard to carry the same enthusiastic smile. The fact is that Ill only be slaughtered like a goat and hung upside down. A butcher will chop me off piece by piece to sell each one for a profit and the young calves will watch in amazement.”

“Im afraid son, we’ll have to continue this some other time, your time is over. That would be 700 rupees.”
“Hey but you haven’t given me any expert advice… what are the 700 bucks for?”
“I listened to you.”
“No one gets paid for doing nothing.”
“I’m sorry but the board outside says ‘Advertising psychologist’.”

S O R R Y

After a week of shameless intrusion into the married life of two of my friends (married to each other of-course) I thought I should now try finding a new accommodation. Being new in the city won’t be considered a respectable excuse for long. Especially for a guy like me who’s best friends hate to introduce him to his girlfriends. Let alone girlfriends, keeping me close to any of their female acquaintances is considered like an invitation to a dreadful calamity that will ruin their lives and careers for eternity. Maybe these particular friends of mine helped me because they kind of expected the wiser side of me (surprise! surprise! I do have a wiser side) to camouflage the weirder one, in face of such generous attitude.
Ok, forget all that, I was about to tell you a nice warm story about a nice warm (I guess I shouldn’t use this British expression in a hot and humid city) rather nice cool apartment. Luckily after finding a room-mate and shelling out 50,000 bucks for just half of my share I became the proud co-owner of a one bedroom, hall and kitchen apartment. It’s got a fridge and an AC (All my life I’ve never had an air conditioned room, because of the disrespect it causes to our middle-class family values). Although my share in the room’s rent came out to be around one third of my meagre salary, I thought this flat would be really comfortable to get a pretty Ukrainian whore home and lose my virginity after 25 years. And also I wouldn’t have to shell out any money to buy ice for the weekly parties at my flat with half-naked girlfriends of my friends spread around.
Anyways, I started staying at this new flat with this wonderful AC which always buzzzzzed me to sleep. And automatically woke me up after chilling me to the bone so that it can be switched off. Mornings seemed to be difficult at first because I had to take a detour around all the buildings of the colony and then reach the main road. One day I tried to experiment and started walking in the opposite direction and wallah! I discovered a shorter way. Later I realised that it wasn’t actually a shorter cut, In fact it was stupid of me to take a de-tour when the way to the main road was in fact the same one that I thought myself a genius to discover.
Now that I had discovered the way out it was always a confusion to find the way back in. Then I discovered this big bold ‘sorry’ banner that had been tied on a tree at the turn towards my building. For the first few days I didn’t think much about it other than the fact that it was there to help me find my way back home.One humid evening, when my T-shirt was sticking to my back, and I had fucked up the first brief I was given in my new agency, I looked at the ‘sorry’ and felt really good. It was as if the world feeling apologetic for my all fucked up existence. The question that why I had a fucked up existence in the first place flew across my mind, but well... it flew fast and was nowhere to be seen after a few seconds.
It really was a refreshing message for me.To me it meant - Sorry, for not letting you have a phone number... Sorry, for not letting you have a bank account which can get you a phone number... Sorry, for not letting you have a billing address that can get you a bank account... Sorry for not letting you have a passport which can give you a billing address... Sorry, for not letting you have a pan-card which can get you a passport... Sorry, for not letting you have a valid license that can get you a pan-card... Sorry, for not letting you have money to go back to Delhi to get your license validated and Sorry, for not letting you have a bank account which can get you money.
That ‘sorry’ never seemed to be solving any of my problems but still it was a relief. When I managed to come out of this existential-angst cycle, I looked around and saw that the apartment windows of the opposite building were facing that ‘sorry’ banner. I figured there’s a nice pretty girl staying in one of those apartments and her boyfriend must have tied that ‘sorry’ banner right opposite so that she can forgive him for tearing her new Tommy-Hilfiger T-shirt during one of his animal urges. Although I hate love-stories, I thought this one was cute enough to warm my depressingly cynical heart.
A few days later when I had stopped looking out for the ‘sorry’ banner (although mostly it was hard to ignore) to find my way back home, I saw the reply that was etched out across the banner with a blue pen “It’s ok, Rahul” or was it “It’s ok, life.”

EARLY MORNING REFLECTIONS

I've always had a relationship problem with this chick. No matter how much i want her to stay longer, she always leaves me at 6 sharp. Even if we've had just 2-3 hours for ourselves.

She acts real faithful at night though. As soon as the clock strikes 9, she's right there, always on time, all over me, caressing me, overpowering me, hitting me with sudden punches. It doesn't matter to her if i die driving or if i get fired when my boss starts finding me useless every night after 9. She's kind of wild you know. But boy... she wants me real bad.

I wonder what happens to her early morning.

THE FIRST DAY

Dilli waala
“arrey saab saarey mumbai me paani bharela hai… 750 lagega.”
“Meter se chalo.”
“Meter se nai jayega, paani bharela ai.”
“Lekin Mumbai central se Andheri 750? 600 doonga.”
“(dilli se aaya lagta hai chutia, meter se to 200 hi banta hai.) accha 700 de dena… jaldi chalo.”
“Accha ttheek hai, lekin 700 se ek paisa zyaada nahi doonga, chalo chalo.”

Shock
“Bhai yahan mere dost rehte hain Neeraj or Ira.”
“Kon Neeraj Ira.”
“Yahin 2nd floor me rehte hain.”
“Dilli se aaya tum?”
“Haan.”
“Wahi log jo bhada pe rehta hai?”
“Haan haan wahi.”
“Vo aaya nahi teen din se ghar.”
“Kya?.. lekin…par… bhai par mere paas 6 bag hain. Ab kya karoon kahan jaaoon.”
“itna samaan kaye ko leke aaya Mumbai. Phone karne ka tha na un log ko.”
“vo phone nahi uttha rahe. Please mera samaan rakh lo. Mein kahan jaaoonga?”
“koi leke gaya to?”
“bhai le ke jaane do ab. Kya kar sakta hun? Kucch important bhi nahi hai. Bas rakh lo.”
“ttheek hai… ttheek hai… rakh do seediyon ke neecche.”

Homeless
“yaar loki mein aa gaya.”
“to bhosdike ehsaan kia agar aa gaya.”
“yaar Neeraj Ira ghar pe nahin hain, mein kahan jaaoon?”
“bhenchod phone karma than a pehle.”
“yaar teen din se vo phone nahin uttha rahe.”
“to bhosdike bina phone kare aata hai kya koi Mumbai.”
“kya karta yaar. Accha mein tere ghar aa jaaoon?”
“yaar mein coffee shop me baitth ke coffee pee raha hun. Ek ghante tak pahunchoonga.”
“ttheek hai mein apna samaan leke pahunch jaata hun.”
“bhosdike samaan wahin cchod de, mujhe flat khaali karne ka notice mila hua hai.”
“yaar lekin mere paas 6 bag hain.”
“gandu koi 6 bag leke aata hai kya Mumbai. Mein jab aaya tha sirf ek bag leke aaya tha.”
“ab kya karoon yaar.”
“Itna samaan leke aayega to gaurd dande maar ke bhaga dega, vaise hi sulga hua hai mere se, Samaan wahin cchod de or aaja ghar.”
“ttheek hai.”

Introspection
“Why did you even think of moving to Mumbai in the first place?”
“…because… well…I wanted to experience something… I don’t exactly know what.”
“And you got your share the day you landed.”
“Looks like it...”

THE GIANT EAGLE

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.

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.