A quick tale - A broken dream factory

"We have conquered the earth. Now it is time for the moon and the stars beyond," Director Shankar said to his assembled team of writers and assistant directors as they sat in the plush beachside resort in Maldives. The warm and pleasant sun wasn't the only thing that he was basking on; the success of his last film about a killer robot had surpassed all his other movies put together. "It is time to begin the next project and the only thing we know about this new movie we are going to make is that it will cost more than the previous one," he said amid drunken cheering. "I have a new Hollywood cameraman and special effects team ready to sign the papers. Charu here has agreed to write the chase sequences and they are going to be bigger and better than last time". More cheering. "We have had a week-long holiday and I am sure everybody is completely relaxed, ready and eager to begin work now. I want each one of you to pitch me an idea in three days. No idea is taboo. As long as it spells big commercial success, anything is fine."

That was three days ago. 

The meetings were scheduled in increasing order of experience; the young and wet behind ears were called in first. Any second now, Karthi, the most senior of Assistant directors would be called in. Karthi was nervous. The usual brainstorming sessions were easy enough to handle; you let the eager-to-please young kids come up with ideas and you suggest a tweak there, a twist here and bingo! you have got yourself a script and a good day's work is done. But this one-on-one scared him. This was blatant 'What have you got to offer' challenge. Fifteen years he had been an assistant and he was afraid that he would get passed over. Three days and countless hours scouring through every movie on the pay-per-demand list later he was no closer to coming with anything. There was one sequence from Inception that he was counting on ; a shot of earth folded on itself and the hero running up and down defying gravity. But rumour has it that one of the juniors had already pitched it earlier in the day. Now, he truly had nothing.

Time was closing in.

The door opened and he was signaled in. It was all over.

Time did cartwheels and an hour later, Karthi walked out with his beaming boss. He had pulled out a golden-egg laying rabbit out of the hat. It was a fucking miracle.

He had started with what he thought of the director, hoping that flattery would get him through this ordeal. And then lightning struck. The motherlode. He remembered how Shankar had started the previous meeting with conquering the stars and decided to roll with it. The movie will involve astronuats, exploring space. Not in a dream sequence, dance routine kind of way, but for real. Throw in a few technical terms; rocket, resistor, transistor, satellite and  jackpot! People saw him as the modern director, a risk-taker who used latest technology and scientific terms in his films that people would otherwise not ever encounter. This will be a first by an Indian film-maker. Not just some alien comes to earth in a flying saucer story. But real space exploration. Half the movie happens in the moon or in Mars. 

With each sentence, he could sense Shankar's eyes glaze over in gleeful anticipation. 

"There is one sequence that I can actually see in my mind's eye," said Karthi, "Villain and his goondas chasing the heroine through the sand dunes of the Mars, to rape her of course, their each step a leap due to the Mars' gravity, a tiny earth in the dark background and the hero with a jet pack flying through a volcanic eruption, are there volcanoes there, who cares, to save the heroine. Her oxygen tank runs out and the hero gives her lip kiss to keep her alive. Would make a dramatic scene, wouldn't it?" 

He had thought that Karthi had dried out. How wrong was he! Seniority and experience did count for something. Shankar realised what a massive hit this was going to be. His success formula involved  2 parts larger-than-life hero, 2 parts patriotism, 1 part technology, 1 part set design, 2 parts sentiment, 1 part "I get the struggles of middle class" down-to-earthness,and 5 parts unfettered extravagance. This had all the ingredients, ticked all the boxes. He was already thinking ahead; he can get Thotta Tharani to erect huge sets, the size of stadiums.  Planting the Indian flag in the Moon or Mars or whatever, was sure to create goosebumps. It has to be Mars, so we can say we have overtaken the Americans and the Chinese and the Russians. In the backstory of the hero, and a flashback in second half was his trademark style, he can show him as coming from a poor family, his mother holding a candle for him all through the night for him to study for his engineering entrance exam. The hero can say, "I didn't have money to buy a new shirt and now I am wearing space suit". Ignite youngsters' dreams. He can claim how he was doing a great service to the country by making this movie. Ah! he could borrow from Abdul Kalam's biography for the backstory. If he could get Abdul Kalam to say he liked the film, he could sell in B and C centres for an extra crore or two. And he can name-drop Kubrick, Asimov in interviews for the city people. If Vivek didn't get too preachy, he can do a nice comedy track. Maybe stick to Santhanam. he seems to be the flavour of the year. And Vairamuthu will have a field day with planetary references - 'Chevvay, Buthan, Ulagam unna suthuthu'. Sure there was work to be done; there was still songs and fights to conceptualise. But there will be a climactic battle scene with a thousand extras in alien costumes. Kind of like Avatar without cgi. The publicity wrote itself. Oh! the joy of being a director.

Everybody wins. Him more than others. But everybody wins.

An old tale

A wise businessman and his son embarked on a long journey of commercial intent. It wasn't a particularly prosperous time but whatever it is that they were selling, perfumes or precious stones, spices or silk, was quite in demand in this strange foriegnland and they made a fortune. Satisfied that the journey had been fruitful and that money had been made, the duo mounted their horses and set forth to return home. The journey was long and the path perilous. So, as dusk approached, they decided to spend the night in a public inn and continue their plod home the morning after. The inn was rowdy with drunkards and whores and the businessman was afraid for his hard-earned wealth. Father and son took turns to guard their bags of gold coins from scheming thieves and greedy eyes.

Before the sun rose and the men woke from their drink-addled stupor, the businessman and his son saddled up and departed. They had hardly crossed the borders of the town when the businessman realised that there was one bag of gold missing. The son, a lad of fifteen, it appeared had, in his sleepless daze, forgotten it. The businessman was angry but anger much like money should be used judiciously and he was in no mood to splurge it on his naif son. Rushed they back to the inn with the fond hope that there might still be something to salvage. And what did they find but their bag, where they left it, undisturbed. The son was joyous that his bungle had cost no damage but an hours delay in their sojourn home. The businessman, however, was most disturbed. Such fortuity did not bode well. He turned to his son and bid him to go home with half the gold and not to turn back. Puzzled but obedient, the son returned.

Years went by and no news of the businessman was ever heard. The son became a wealthy businessman, amassing great wealth and reputation, married well, bore children and lived a princely life. He was kind and generous to his friends and neighbours and respectful and caring to his mother who was, as women tend to be, adamant that her husband was alive and declined to wear the garb of a widow. Many efforts, all vain, later the son had resigned to the idea that his dear father had vanished without a trace.

You can imagine the shock when one day to their very gilded door returned the lost businessman. The years had not been kind to him and he appeared starved and beggarly. His son embraced him with tears. His resolute wife nursed him. Meat and exotic fruits were served in silver platters and much wine was filled in golden goblets. Servants materialised to attend to his every need. His daughter-in-law drew him a scented bath and his grandchildren prepared a bed for him. When he was sufficiently revived, the son hesitantly broached the topic of the mystery of his absence.

The businessman recounted his tale. When they had found the unmolested bag of gold, a great fear had troubled him. They had had the angel of fortune smiling upon them for too long. Weather had been genial through their difficult journey and they had not encountered bandit nor bureaucrat. Their wares had found welcome buyers. They had forgotten a bounty at a public inn and returned to find it unstolen. It could only mean that misfortune and misery wasn't far away. The businessman decided then to shield his family from it. He would tempt misfortune away. He had sent his son home and journeyed in the opposite direction, praying that he had lured fate his way. And he had been right. Disaster stuck soon. He was robbed. But the robbers had spared his life though they had no reason to. He realised that there was still some good luck left in him and destiny wouldn't be satisfied until it had completely broken him. He proceeded, farther and farther away from his family. He gambled what meagre possessions he had but kept winning just enough to be not completely broke. He was captured and sold as a slave but his slave-owner freed him and gave him some money and a mule. Much later, he was cheated of it and reduced to poverty but kind people fed him and gave him a shelter. Through all the hardships there was still some grace and he persevered in his quest for rock bottom.

And then it came to pass. He was living on the streets of a big city, a homeless beggar. A youngster stole his bag of rags. Surely it was some prank or a dare. Nevertheless, here was a beggar with everything that he could call his own in a a soiled bag and though it be worthless, he had been robbed of it for mere amusement. He had laughed and laughed until he wept with joy. Crowds milled around him to see the insane mendicant. But he was free. He had won the tussle against fate. It was thus that he immediately ventured on his travel home and reached the abode of his family, that had stayed unscathed by adversity.

And they lived happily ever after.

Quick tale: Prayer

This may be a totally made up story but I heard this one from a remarkably untrustworthy old man.

A group of Jewish prisoners woke up one wintry morning in a Nazi concentration camp near Auschwitz. One of them, a wizened old man with a silver moustache sang a short prayer much to the mute bewilderment of his cell mates. You see, the gas chambers were built and working and a not unfriendly German guard had whispered to them not many hours earlier that today was going to be their turn. The news was met to the most part with total and complete resignation. A few cried silently. No one slept through the night. Not even the little children. And dawn had arrived in the east. The old man sang his prayer and nobody joined him in it. A man from Kiodzko, who until then was one of the silent-weeping could bear it no more and he fumed at the hymn-singing old man. "Why do you pray now? We have been forsaken by men and God and we stare at the gates of our coming death. Why do you pray now?," he screamed.

"I was thanking God," he was told.

"What could you possibly be thankful for? Do you not get it that we are about to die a pointless death? Are you blind to the cruelty of man to his fellow men? And innocent children? There is nothing to be thankful for"

To this entirely reasonable rant, the old man replied, "I thank God because it could have been worse."

To the quizzical looks and the arching eyebrows, he said "I could be them"

Adventures of the Cancer-denier

Joe W. sat in the hospital lobby in a plastic molded chair watching Whoopi Goldberg's animated mute face along with other women of the View. Two year old copies of House and Garden and some celebrity gossip rag that broke the Brangelina news lay uncared in a corner.The doctor called him in eventually. Joe had been to his GP with a recurring bout of abdominal pain and his GP had prescribed this and that and then when the pain hadn't subsided referred him to the hospital and the 'specialists' had gone to work on him and done a battery of tests including blood, urine and something else that was like X-ray but not X-ray and a biopsy with a needle the size of a baby's arm. Today was the day for the results of all those needless needles.

The doctor, an Asian-kind of guy, though with a flawless Bostonian accent, ushered him to his office and with a sombre expression that must have taken years of practice in front of mirrors informed him that the diagnosis wasn't good and he was sorry but the results indicate pancreatic cancer but there was hope and the three-year survival rate wasn't too bad and new treatments are being developed all the time. He looked at the doctor with an expression that was rather unfamiliar in that room. It wasn't denial, puzzlement, disbelief, shock, sorrow, anger, courage, hope, desire, despair or any of the emotions that one would normally associate with a death sentence. It was contempt, and a strange kind of contempt it was. He said, 'Why should I believe you?' and the doctor mistaking it for shock said in an empathising voice of one who has seen too much pain and suffering to not be moved by it, that he was afraid that it was so and the results were very conclusive. That is when he raged, 'How do you know that it is cancer? If you don't know what is causing the stomach pain, do you just call it cancer?'.

'Sir! I am an experienced oncologist and I studied Medicine at John Hopkins and specialised in pancreatic cancer at Harvard. Your liver function tests revealed possible cancer but it was inconclusive. This is your pancreas as seen by our CT-scanners and as you can see this is a textbook case. It shows a clear tumor of 10mm and we have results from the biopsy, that was the procedure with the big needle, that has confirmed that it is not a benign mass and that it is in fact cancerous pancreatic tissue. I am terribly sorry but you are young and otherwise healthy and there are a number of options to fight cancer'.

'I don't want to fight cancer because I don't think this is cancer. Why should I believe that this is cancer or that it is deadly? Just because you are a specialist and you went to Harvard and you say so? I don't think so. And I am not coming back to you quacks'

'Sir! I understand that this comes as a shock to you and that you are in denial but here, you can see this book, this is an authoritative text by Howard Reber and if you see the CT-scan image on the book and your CT-scan image, they are very similar, almost identical. And please you have to keep coming to the hospital for treatment and we should decide on the future course of action that is best for you'

'Who are you to tell me what is best for my future? You are just a scientist. Just because you went to medical school and studied for eight or ten years, doesn't make you king of the world. And so is this Howard guy, a scientist. I trust no one'

'Pancreatic cancer is well researched and well documented. If you'd rather have a second opinion, I urge you to go to another hospital and I am sure that they would confirm for you what I have just said'

'You are all a cabal; the other hospital guys and you. You all want to fleece us by scaring us with tall tales about "cancer", saying You will die if you don't listen to us. Let me tell you what I think - You just want to control people. That is all there is to it. It is about control and money '

'I can assure you that is not the case'

'Then riddle me that - the more people you diagnose with "cancer" the more money you get from government. How is it not in your interest to spread the "cancer lie". Tell me'

'We get more grants from the government because with enough money and support we can cure cancer or at least make it manageable. For the common good'

'Common good, my ass. I have seen scientists. I know all about the politics of science. Do you think I don't know about pharma companies and insurance giants that make billions and billions. And I know about all the doctors who get sued for malpractice. You want money and power. You want people to stop smoking and drinking and having a good time because you nerds couldn't get laid'

'Sir! I beg with you. We can argue from now to eternity if science and scientists are perfect and recount all the mistakes we have done but you have pancreatic cancer and if we don't treat you, you'll die within a year'

'Cancer is just an elaborate conspiracy by scientists to steal money from the taxpayer. That is all there is to it. Kind of like Global warming. The whole climate change myth is a liberal plot by tree-huggers and lesbians to take away our Hummers. I'll have no more of it. Goodbye to you and may you burn in hell'

'Ah! well! He got away, this smart man. So, which other gullible, totally unskeptic tool can I diagnose with cancer. I am down on this month's quota'

Pig on a spit fire

You are dead to me. I have killed you from my memory and washed the blood-stained floors with saline water. I cordoned off the area with a 'Crime Scene - Do not cross' barrier tape. I sprayed liberal amounts of room-freshener to remove any lingering fragrance. (I chose Lavender because I am afraid Jasmine and Rose will resurrect you). And sanitised. Sanity. Sanitise. Sanity. Sanitise. Was it really over? Could that be it?

There was nothing left to do but return home and shower. I turned on the shower and tepid water trickled down my chin washing away tears. The water got warmer and warmer until you raised from the steam. Like a ghost but alive. Sure, I was startled, but why was I happy that you were not completely dead? I did not know why you were alive and in my shower. How could you have crossed the cordon? It said 'Do not cross'. Surely you are not allowed to disobey such explicit directives. You looked at me from your perch atop the curtains and smiled. And I smiled back. The last drop of the shower saw you vanish. I do not know if through the drain or through the window. I do not search you. I changed and went to work.

I filled my days with this and that. Honestly, I couldn't say with what but the days were filled and what did I care. And you did not return for days, sometimes weeks. But you always came. The other day from inside the oven. I am no longer surprised when you spring from the CD player when it plays Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor. Tin ta tin ta tin tin. Or that time when you emerged out of the bucket of popcorn at the movies. In fact, sometimes I know of your coming before you come. My friends are spooked when I tell them of your presence. They pity me, their pity like the excess oil in Eggplant Masala. Horrible, unhealthy and tasty. They recommend exorcism and take me to dinners and drinks. I do not want to be dispossessed but I am too polite to decline them. I go along but I know that it is futile. I don't want to be free of my demons, just in control of them. Not too much control. An illusion of control would do. I rue sharing your emergence with my friends. It should have been our secret. I have learnt/am learning to hide well. Emergence-submergence.

Of late I notice that your features aren't that well defined. Like a blurry picture. A despectacled vision. Unfocussed. Your eyes and that sharp nose. And the lips. You are losing it. The other day, you were irrecognisable. Just dark hair cascading to your shoulders. I wouldn't have known it was you. After all, there are other dark haired phantoms for me. But curiously enough you carried a name board. A nameboard with your name calligraphied Lucida style hung around your neck. I was terrified. I am terrified. What if all I have remaining of you is the nameboard? Maybe the dinners and drinks do work. I lock myself in my room and block the world. I don't want your ghost haunting me but it sure is nice to know that your trace is there. A preserved footprint in a vast and sifting desert. I invoke you. I want to refind refine your memory. I play the songs that resurrect you. Ah! music. Moonlight sonata and SPB singing of the raindrops that fell on him in Dvijavanthi raagam. Still, you do not come and I am beginning to panic. I bake cheesecakes and chocolate muffins but you are not enticed. I go mad looking for you. I look for you in dark haired maidens, the living ones. I imagine that when they smile it is your smile that they smile. That somehow you have slipped under their face. An echo of an echo remains, I think. Or maybe it is my fevered mind that creates this phantom echo. It is fading. You are fading. I go mad slowly, like a pig on the spit fire, roasting ever so slowly. It will glow golden before turning black. I go mad looking for you. I go mad looking for you.

Blue poles

Bourgeois, he thought. The paintings were so bourgeois. Horse races, ballet dancers and nudes in their toilette. Not really avant-garde today. Was it ever? And the crowd was lapping it up. Young couples on their date. Holding hands and nodding knowledgeably at brush stroke or colour or whatever it is that impressed people. Old men and women. Retired. Bored. (And the coffee at the members lounge, well! that was something)

A little girl in the middle. Divine. Unselfconscious of these staring morons. He fought the urge to cover her in a white blanket away from their polluting gaze. She shouldn't be here. He wobbled out. Need some air. What suppressed and suffocated him in this well-aired gallery? What was this scent?

Outside foyer. Pretty girl at the ticket counter. Small talk. And there it was in front of his eyes. A National Gallery flyer. Grey black blue orange. Jackson Pollock. It can't be true. They couldn't possibly have a Jackson Pollock here. Is this... is this Jackson Pollock displayed here?, he asked. She didn't know. This was her summer job. Art wasn't her thing. She hoped to be in real-estate someday. But she was courteous enough to tell him to check with one of the security people. They do the rounds, you see, and they may know what is where. If at all.

He ran in as much as one can run within a gallery. Bespectacled lady disapproved. The first security guard in sight, he begged him, please tell me if there is a Jackson Pollock on display.

Jackson who? Never heard of him. But that painting in the flyer, it is down the hall and to your left.

Down the hall and to his left...

Blue poles

Quick Tale: Multiverse

She and I lived in separate universes now. She was blissfully married and I was happily single (or was it the other way around). Our universes grew apart after the Big Bang of her marriage. We were kind of an item until then. And we hadn't met since. We were continents apart too and there just wasn't a chance. I have slept several nights wondering how it would be when we met next (nights were when the two universes seemed closest). How and when. I didn't have long, cosmically speaking, to find out.

She is in my arms and I love the way her head fits into my chest. Her ears concentrate on the sound of my heart like a caveman would listen to the ground for approaching danger. Love Love. Love Love.

They belong together, these disparate universes. Surely their separateness is an illusion. They stare at voids where eyes should be and turn away for good measure. We share an awkward smile that reads unstated understanding. We belong together and yet we touch each other and walk to our own quantum universes. It cannot be. The laws of physics cannot take it. Will not allow it. No. Certainly not. That will be the end of everything. We belong together, in our parallel universes.

Quick tale: Slim Pickings

I was heading out and would have left the library but for the strange request from a thin reed like boy. I overheard him asking the librarian to suggest a book and the librarian reeled out a few titles that he ought to check. The boy seemed unconvinced and went on to leaf through random titles. I felt compelled to help the boy find an appropriate book.

I approached him and offered to help. 'What kind of books have you read? What do you enjoy? I'll suggest something similar'

'I read David Copperfield and I want something like that. How about Tale of two cities? Do you think it is deep. I want to read a deep book because one is supposed to read deep books. David Copperfield was deep. I learnt a lot from it. I want something like that,' he breathlessly spoke.

'Tale of two cities is a fantastic book. And I am sure you will love it. You should read Oliver Twist too'

'What is Shakespeare?'

'Shakespeare was a British dramatist...'

'No no, I know that. I meant how is he? Is he good?'

'Yes, he is considered by many as one of the greatest writers'

'What does he write?'

'Well! He has written a wide variety of books, ranging from comedies to tragedies. Have you heard of The Twelfth Night?'

My sales pitch on Shakespeare had clearly no effect and my customer was walking away. So a change of strategy was called for.

'How about Indian authors? Have you read R.K. Narayan? He is wonderful'

'Yeah!' he replied unenthusiastically, 'I have read him. English teacher, Financial Expert. It made me sleep. I want something more... I don't know'

'You should read Waiting for the Mahatma. It is one of my favourites'

The boy obviously didn't think much of my taste. 'Hmmm. But the book is so old.' It was an old copy, dusty hardcover and brown paper. It was evident that the boy was looking for a book that not only was a good read but would appear to be one.

The book evangelist that I was, I was undeterred. 'I will find him a book that he approves,' I told myself.

'Why don't you read Jefferey Archer? It should be here somewhere. Ah! Here it is. You could read 'Shall we tell the president?' or a 'Not a penny more, not a penny less'. They are intelligent and thrilling. You will like them'

'But they are so big. I may never complete them'

Sigh! The book should look new, sound intelligent and be thin. And yes, not by an Indian.

'Why don't you start with a collection of Short stories then? Take this one.' I handed him a copy of 'To cut a long story short'. It wasn't too fat, it wasn't too thin. It was just right. And new. And there were so many colourful volumes of Archer in the rack. Archer was good. One can always feel proud about reading an Archer.

'Thanks. This looks like something I can read'. He beamed a thanks and I left.

I sit at home wondering if he borrowed the book and if he liked it.

Like at first sight

I nose dove in like. Yup! This one is for real. Haaahaaa

I did not know anything about her, all I had was a smile and eyes that were full of joy. It could have simply been that she had come well prepared to this exam. Yes, it happened in the examination hall. She was a final year Computer Science student and was sitting for, oh! it doesn't matter, does it? Anyway, I was the invigilator in her hall. Oh! Come on! Don't look so scandalous. I know what you are thinking. I am a teacher and she was a student and you think it is wrong. Hey! We haven't even come to the stage of the story where it is appropriate to be shocked.

In my defence, though I am a teacher and she a student, she wasn't MY student. Hell! She wasn't even in the same college. Yes, this was in a college where I had been appointed as an external invigilator. So, as you can clearly see, she wasn't my student and I had no scruples holding me back.

Holding me back from what, you ask me. I had fallen in like at first sight. Don't roll your eyes. I didn't say, LOVE at first sight. I simply liked the way she held herself and thought that this was a person I could be comfortable around. You know, it is quite natural to like or dislike a person based purely on first impressions. Of course, first impressions can be misleading but how can you know that unless you had a chance to make second and third impressions.

That, therefore was the plan. I wanted to ask her out for coffee. Don't laugh at me. I know it is an alien concept here but a coffee date is safe and simple. I mean, it takes up less energy, time and money. And there is ample time for conversation and an hour with a person should give you enough data to decide if you wanted to invest on another date. I should admit, though, I didn't know how she would react.

The bigger problem was how was I going to ask her? And perhaps more importantly, when? Surely, even if I gathered enough guts to ask her and knew the words to do that, I couldn't ask her in the middle of an examination if she would come out with me.

I thought of a cunning plan. Yes! you are right. I had too much time to kill. Three hours of doing nothing but walk around a 25x20 feet room.

Logistically, I would have very little time after the exam to make my move, if I had any. A minute at the most. And there would be people around; other students. And logically, there was always the off-chance that she would slap me or start crying or get her classmates to kick my butt. Make that most probably.

Don't get impatient. I am coming to my cunning plan. I decided that asking her out is an elaborate process and since I did not have time for that now, I should create time for it later. Obviously, I couldn't meet her again (remember it is not my college) without being obvious that I am interested in her. So my cunning plan was... wait for it... to give her... are you ready for it: a note.

Stop laughing. It is not funny.

Maybe it is. A little.

But that is not all. The note wouldn't be something lame like, 'I like you', or 'You are so beautiful' or even 'Will you have coffee with me?'. The note will have my blog address. That's right! This very blog.

Laugh all you want but hear me out, will ya?

The idea was to not get slapped. I mean not put her or myself in an embarrassing situation. Nobody could blame me for asking her to check a website. They might think I was desperate for some readership but that wouldn't be so bad. I could do with more readers.

OK! She got the note. She thinks it is a weird request. She wonders if I am crazy. What next, you ask me.

The plan was to get her curious enough to check out my blog. There I could put up a post asking her out for coffee. If she was interested, anonymous commenting is enabled, she could leave me a message. Or mail me at the email id in my profile. And yes, it would also help her form an opinion of the kind of person I am.

What! You think she wouldn't want to go out with me after reading what I put up on my blogs. You don't know that. Lots of people think I am adorable. Anyway, I think it is only fair that she knows what to expect of me. She needs to be prepared if she was going to accept.

What if she wasn't interested? Simple. She wouldn't leave a message. Or worst case... leave a crappy one, calling me all sort of names. Well! I am the moderator of my blog, right? I could just delete it and nobody needs to know.

Either way, I couldn't lose. The plan was perfect.

Is the suspense killing you? Are you dying to know if I did ask her? I am not going to tell you.

What do you think? Did I or didn't I?

Overheard

"I was so late today, I was fervently hoping that I hadn't missed the bus", the man panted to a halt. He hadn't missed the bus or his friend.

"No! You are alright. I think we have a couple of minutes before the bus arrives. What happened to you? You are the early bird. You should have been here before me."

"Don't get me started. Worst morning ever. I am surprised I didn't get run over by a cement truck. You got some water with you. I am..."

"Knackered with all the running you have been doing? Here! Drink some. Delayed at breakfast? Did the waiter serve you yesterday's remains or what?"

"Like that would be something new! The guy upstairs hung himself from the ceiling"

"Alright! That IS something new. Don't see someone commit suicide all the time. What happened to this friend?"

"Hey! He is no friend, OK? He just lives upstairs. I don't know what happened to him. Maybe love failure. Hung himself with the clothesline yesterday. No one realised anything was wrong until this morning when the lady who comes to clean the room knocked on his door and hearing no response decided to peep in through the window and saw him dangling from the roof"

"Then, what happened?"

"You think I am telling you a bedtime story? What else? She screamed her bloody lungs out and we had to break open the door and pull him down. As if that wasn't enough we had to call the police and an ambulance. Too much trouble for a monday morning"

"Who was this guy? Was he that tall fat one with french beard? Whatshisname... Thanikachalam or Arunachalam or something?"

"Oh no! Not that guy. Wish it was him, that arrogant prick. But if he was it would have taken us another hour to get him down from the ceiling. Or the rope would have sundered. This guy is the bald one. I don't think you have seen him"

"What an adventure man! My life, it is so boring. Nothing spicy ever happens"

"Yeah! I wouldn't mind it so much if it wasn't for the mobile phone I forgot to take in all this hullabaloo. What a terrible inconvenience!"

Confessions of an eavesdropper

I don't do that often, he began, but this amazing thing happened to me yesterday. If I had a blog, I would write about it.

Having had nothing to write about for a while, I was more than just interested.

He went on.

I don't usually take the share auto. Not good for my back, you see. But the buses were so crowded and it looked like it might rain. Anyway, I got into this auto and a stop later, three girls got in. The girls were quite young. Fresh out of college, I'd guess. Working in some software company, carrying laptops, and wearing fancy slippers, vain about earning all that big bucks before they even knew the value of money.

Anyway, you know how girls are? They are gossipy and not really discreet. Even in public. The object of discussion today, was the love affair of one of them, a certain Lavanya. She wasn't drop dead gorgeous, but was quite pretty. I wasn't listening or anything but I understood from their chat that this Lavanya girl was in love with a guy called Dominic. The problem was that not only was he a couple of years younger than her, he was a good-for-nothing loafer who made no attempt to qualify himself for a decent job. This has been the bone of contention for a while now and though they fight often, their love is so strong, it endures all. Of course it hasn't stopped Lavanya from feeling hurt.

One of her friends, the girl in the green salwar, she looked quite sensible, you know; she tried to be supportive. Told her that she must try avoiding him for a while and that only then, he will realise her true worth and return to her a better man. Fair enough, I thought. Lavanya, already on the verge of crying, replied that she couldn't possibly do that. The maximum she has been away from him was a day and a half. "He has other friends and other pastimes. What am I to do without him?", she asked and like a sign the phone beeped. She picked it up and it was apparent that it was from this Dominic fellow. I tell you, her face grew a few shades brighter.

Obviously, I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation but from what I could gather, he wanted to meet her to discuss something and she was trying to tell him that she was halfway home. He convinced her that it was very important. She didn't need much convincing, if you ask me. Anyway she said she would wait near the post office, hung up and requested the autodriver to pull over. The ever supportive friends brigade walked out with her. Moral support, I believe is the word used there.

Anyway, I have been thinking about it all of yesternight. What do you think happened? Are they still together? Has he agreed to make an effort? What was the 'important' thing? I tell you, the next time, I see her or one of her friends in the auto stand, I will walk up and ask. The suspense; it is unbearable.

Quick tale: NRI Trouble

My last few days as an NRI (though I never saw myself as one, but lets not get into that and be termed unpatriotic or anti-national) and I have decided to vent it all out. If you are wondering what NRI is, fear not, it is not transmitted sexually. It is the term used for the Indian diaspora - Non-Resident Indian.

I have been in the States for thirty years. My children were born here and speak with a funny accent. I am returning to India now. To lead a quiet, semi-retired life. I have earned a lot, and being born in a generation that my son now not-so-affectionately calls 'people who did not know how to enjoy life', saved most of it. I can afford to withdraw from the rat-race.

In my years abroad, I have often read comments from RIs, the Resident Indians (or Real Indians, as they'd like to call themselves) that I have betrayed my country by joining hands with the white dudes. They coined a word for that - 'Brain drain'. I am not selfish but I see no rational in sacrificing my life (or my brain) for a country, mine or someone else's. I refuse to be limited by man-made boundaries and concepts of National pride. Now if someone wins an award, plays a sport or does something noteworthy, the Indian media tries manufacturing pride from that. Mr. So-and-so won this prestigious award and later when he farted, the one closest to him was an Indian. He says that he was hit by the smell the strongest. Isn't that something we all should be proud of? Bollocks.

I maybe right, I maybe wrong. Let's not debate that. I am set in my ways and nothing you say or do is going to change that. You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Don't start wagging the plane ticket in my face and say that if I am returning to India now in my old age, it is because of the emotional strings that connects me to it. Bullshit. My return is for reasons other than emotion. Economic perhaps. It is cheaper to live in India with a live-in hired help. And I have nephews and nieces who'll fall over themselves to be of assisstance. Come visiting, and hear me talk. And I can get good dosas everyday. What? That I enjoy my dosas doesn't make me a patriot. It is a convenience not a bond with the soil. Does liking pizzas make one an Italian?

That my son and daughters haven't enough time for me is not because they grew up abroad (and weren't instilled with Indian values), it is because they are highly successful and have a life of their own. I don't expect anything else from them.

And then there are these kids, my cousin's boy one of them, who watch some movie in the social-fantasy genre and go about rambling about Indianness and social responsibility. If you ask me, these movies should be banned and the film-makers shipped to Guantanamo. This kid, I forgot his name, drugged by this 'we can change the world' shit, wrote about how all we NRIs do is complain. "Stop complaining about our bad roads or traffic or pollution or lack of water supply or poverty or illiteracy or...", he writes. I want to tell him, "You idiot! If we are complaining, it is because you are not".

Oh! forgive me, Mr. Stephanopoulos. I haven't even offered you anything. Coffee or tea? Old age, uh? Can't stop the talking.

Quick tale: Music

'You should feel the music, man!', he said, 'it doesn't matter if you understand it or not'

'I simply don't get it. How do I do it? I can't listen to some music where the only words I can make out are expletives', I managed a weak response.

'There is an energy to the music and you should let it carry you,' he gesticulated, 'Go with the ebb and flow of it. And keep listening to it enough times and you will get the lyrics. Maybe it is not Wordsworth, Shakespeare stuff, but it is cool, man!'

I rolled my eyes. 'Forget it. Maybe I don't have that deeper sense of music that you do. I'll listen to stuff that I can understand. You stop trying to convert me. I don't feel that I lose anything in life if I can't listen to someone rap about having anal sex'

'Oh! you are incorrigible. I shouldn't be even trying to educate you. What a waste of my precious two minutes'

The rest of the drive, we spoke nothing, me trying to think happy thoughts and him singing along 'An ass like that'. Thankfully it took us only one rendering of an Ass like that to reach our friend Karthik's place.

Karthik had just bought an amazing Hi-fi stereo system in the Christmas sale and we were here to celebrate it. He was, like the true Madrasi that he is, listening to A.R.Rahman. Dil se, arguably the master's best work, was playing on the stereo. In Tamil though (I didn't realise that it was made into Tamil as well... but then I do remember that it was a Tamil director who made the movie).

Our rapper hero got wild. 'Come on dude! You can't play this music. Varun and me don't know Tamil. If you have Dil se, the original Hindi one that is, then lets play that. Or else I'll run to the car and get my CD pack'

Quick Tale : Unforeseen

"I want to leave. Is there any way that my tickets could be advanced? I can't imagine living here for another 3 weeks"

This was my mother. Four days into her stay in Australia. What do you say to that? I had anticipated trouble but just not this. Say for instance, using the toilets in a land that wipes their asses with paper. I had made arrangements (let's just leave it at that) and could have handled that.

I could have understood even if she had freaked out at the girlfriend with whom I have been living for the last 6 months. I haven't told her that yet and I have seen no indication that she has discovered it. You can never underestimate an Indian mother, they say, but I was as careful as humanly possible. I cleared out all my girlfriend's junk out of my bedroom (don't get me started about the troubles I had to go through to pacify her. I am simply not capable of handling two women, read problems, at the same time) and made it messy enough for my mom to believe it was still 'my' room.

The problem was something that for the life of me I could never have foreseen.

'Please tell me there is Sun'. Those were her first words after she landed in Sydney Airport.OK! I admit. I am exaggerating. Those were not her first words. I wasn't counting but it surely couldn't have been over fifty. Anyway, the only thing I remember was that we hadn't crossed the parking lot at that time. I also remember that I had responded assuringly that it was summer and the mornings are bright and sunny, even hot at times.

That was to be the first of a string of faux pas.

"Not THAT Sun, you imbecile. The other one. The more important one. The TV channel".

Really! They should teach more tact and diplomacy in school.

"Sun TV? In Australia?", I asked incredulously, "Well! I think there is service here. There is an Indian family in Liverpool..."

Well! That is all I got to say before I was silenced by a menacing look.

There! I rest my case. We need to ban television. All the satellite channels in the world. It is an alien conspiracy to control humans. I swear.