The Recharge

It was a marathon, no less. Five hours of conference calls non-stop. She sat hunched over the laptop, peering closely at the codes and excel charts as she responded to quibbles from the other end of the line. She had not made time to do so much as a simple shoulder stretch. Reckon the statue of The Thinker? Yeah, more or less that kind of a posture.

It was not a random analogy to the famed figurine, one could bet. She was thinking hard alright. Every time she looked at her five year old sitting right across her, alternating between a picture story book, a puzzle and a blank stare, she would think of the sheer futility of it all. What really was the point of all this slogging?

Ummm, Roy, how about we break for lunch and get back? She uttered confidently, knowing people would be mindful of the long hours the entire team was doing.

I think that’s a great idea. Alright chaps, it’s 1PM now. We shall reconnect at 1. 45. I know, it’s been crazy, but the damn project has to go live by tomorrow at any cost. We’ve sought enough extensions already.

OK sure, the rest said in a heartbeat. She sighed to herself. She didn’t want to be the one to throw a spanner in the works.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Rajuuu, it’s lunch time! Come, let’s quickly eat.

Did you make bhindi masala today, mommy? The son asked with an anticipating smile.

Tomorrow for sure, sweetie! How about khichdi followed by Rasagulla?

The kid’s face dropped. OK, he said. When will you be done with your work, mommy? He asked as his mother waited for the khichdi to get heated in the microwave.

It shouldn’t take too long. OK shall we watch Coco this evening?

The boy smiled. OK, he said. He added, can I also suggest a few other titles? If they aren’t good, we can watch Coco.

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Photo by Mathilde Merlin on Unsplash

When did he grow up so much? She wondered to herself resignedly.

As they began to eat, the boy rolled the coaster on the table into a tube, and play acted a ship’s captain, shouting, ‘Hard to starboard’! He liked the stories of mariners, including Captain Haddock from the Tintin series.

She was shaken from her reverie. The project delivery was on her mind. Aadi, you need to eat faster. Aren’t you hungry?

The boy dropped the coaster, flashed a big toothy smile at his mother, and bent his head down to focus on the plate.

By the time they finished lunch, it was 1.20. She thought of engaging him for 15-20 minutes with some conversation. So, can you sing Brown Girl in the Ring completely? You know so many lines already.

No, he said, that song bores me. Can we do the arm wrestling again?

Aadi, you can’t be playing all the time. What did I tell you, the more you learn, the sharper you become. See, when your school reopens, they won’t wait for long. They will expect you to know so much.

When will the school reopen mommy? This is boring.

I know, sweetie. But what to do, all kids are stuck at home. In a month or so, your school should open I think.

Hmmm. Mommy, the clock says 1.25 now. You have a call again right?

It is in another 15 minutes, baby.

OK, I’ll play the piano for a while in the room.

She didn’t ask him to not go. She didn’t know how else to keep him interested at that time. She just went back to her chair. She thought of the brat who was so unrecognizable now. The boy wouldn’t wait for his turn to talk. She was yet to see a more curious kid. There was no electronic device he hadn’t pried open. Ever ready for sport, ever ready for music. Her thoughts tumbled one over the other. The lockdown had seriously changed her son.

At 1.45, just before logging in, she just peeked into the room to see if he was really playing the keyboard. He was staring at the wall, humming Brown Girl in the Ring. He would doze off in no time. She let him be.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One hour into the call, the boy came running to her. Her project lead was rambling on. I remember you saying this bit was all done. Why are we facing issues again? You don’t seem to be taking the deadline seriously.

She was losing it. She wanted to hit back. But her son was clinging to her, pestering. The battery for the keyboard is dead, mommy. It needs a new one.

She tired shush him, animatedly.

He wouldn’t listen. I need the batteries, he raised his voice. Mommy, I need the battery! When will you be done with your call??

She excused herself for a second, muted the mic, and turned to her son. The battery won’t be available till tonight, got it? Let us pick it up this evening.

No, I want it now! He was adamant, and went closer to snuggle in his mother’s embrace.

She exulted! It doesn’t matter if he pestered her all evening. He was getting to be himself. He wouldn’t let the air defeat him. And he would take her with him. Not let her be morose!

She unmuted her mic and spoke into it.

Sorry guys, I’ve got to go. The battery needs recharge! I’ll get to this bit later tonight. And don’t worry, the project is going live tomorrow. You can hold me to it!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Surviving Self

Everyone says we are actually living the dystopian life today. You know, the eerily calm and deserted streets, people dodging the mere hint of physical contact, the morbid silence in the air offset by a deafening clamor on the Internet (which for many including yours truly, is regrettably as bothersome as noises in the head), food supplies vanishing right under your nose at the shopping aisles, jobs hanging by a thread, the urban poor shell-shocked and defenseless, China becoming the global bear bug, and a very hazy perception of time for those working from home.


That makes you gloomy? Let me recount a personal experience.


The night our dear leader announced the nationwide lockdown, I was bending my elbow at my friend Manju’s place. I was naturally out of control and considering a stayover. It took me a full ten minutes and a lot of paraphrasing by Manju to make me understand the import of the PM’s televised address. There was no way I could stay back. I had to return home at any cost. I shook myself free of Manju’s protests and attempted embraces, exited his apartment and started making the first of several futile efforts at getting an Uber or an Ola. After several typos on the app before realizing the cabs were actually off the roads, I was still on the footpath at the end of a full hour. Whatever was left of my conscious mind told me it is safer to get back to Manju’s. I started tracing my steps back when all of a sudden I felt a sharp pain shoot right up through my left leg. A mongrel had got me. Fuck! That was some bite – I still shudder ! I’m a chap who has gatecrashed into strangers’ houses abandoning my footwear on the street, at the very sight of a dog running behind me albeit chasing someone else. For someone positively paranoid of canines wherever he walks, this was my worst nightmare come true. So I had to scream at the top of my lungs. And scream I did. But not a soul on the street to come to my aid as I writhed in pain. I desperately hoped a cop would come along, bark a different bark, and put me on a rickshaw to the nearest hospital.

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Photo by Tania Melnyczuk on Unsplash

No ma’am. None of that happened. I guess everyone on the damn force was either watching the blasted TV address or digesting it at leisure. Not a soul on the road. What if it was a rabid dog? What if I‘d go crazy by the crack of dawn? Though my stupor had started to wear off (a most inopportune moment, I tell you), I took a good two-three minutes to fish out my cellphone from the pocket. And what do I see on the screen? Nothing. The sweet little thing had gone dead just then. I mean, was this for real? My mind raced. Scratch that. It hobbled. Feeling despondent, I thought of pausing my agony for a bit and finding succor in a cigarette. Yes, there it was in my knee pocket. I lit one up, took a drag and started to believe that I could now clear my head and think. The long drag had made the cigarette look ugly with a long smoldering end, and I had to tap it to get the flakes off. And the cigarette slipped from between my fingers. You see, I had hauled myself up on the kerb, with the bitten leg stretched out and the right one folded and lending support. The kill-throat landed perfectly on my right foot. Before I realized that the sudden pang was caused by the cigarette, it had managed to bore a nice little crater right at the center of my foot.


I now had to obviously divide my attention to the two sources of pain. Both of them were like uncontrollable kids, believe you me. I don’t remember much about what happened that night after these two little incidents, because I must have passed out.
When I woke up, it wasn’t well into the day. You see, I wasn’t at my home. The first rays of sunlight had barely made their way to this part of the world. I found myself right where I had passed out. Only, I smelt of dog pee, was covered with dry leaves fallen from a tree, and staring at a nice big puss had formed where the dog had found its mark. A dog had left me to the dogs, what? I lifted myself up only to slump down again.
It was the first day of the lockdown, so even the grocers, the hawkers, none of them had turned up. It was only a good couple of hours later that the evidence of the lockdown started to fall in place. The cops came in teams and started erecting barricades and check posts. I hollered at the one nearest to me. He looked at me for a second and turned away. I hollered back with, “you motherfucker, are you deaf or are you blind?” in Kannada. That got him. The expletive was my flag of the castaway! I rejoiced. The constable came charging at me, ready to thwack me. I said I need help. Look at me, I need help. He did help me. He called up someone, interrogated me enough, got me water as well, and put me on a police jeep to the nearest hospital. Not before sending my spectacles flying.

I’m lying on the hospital bed now. I have been treated, and should be out real soon. They want me out as fast as possible. The hospital is getting Covid-ready. As I read news reports about state of the world out there, they don’t register a lot inside my head.
If you ask me, I’ve already been to hell and back. A personal hell. I look forward to the quarantine and a loooong stay-put.

Action Manifesto

‘Controlled aggression’ was the headline of an ad for a mutual fund in today’s newspaper. The image was that of a bowler pumping his fists and screaming after scalping a wicket. I gave a hint of a smirk before turning over the page.

Forget a newspaper ad, no force on earth could change my mind.


Amol Badwe, Learning & Development Manager with an MNC at Pune, used to think that genuine cordiality was the best demeanor one could have. Winning over people was very important. No, he wasn’t too keen about collecting a virtual army of ‘friends’ on Facebook. They were just names for most part, he thought. Winning over people at work, his professional contacts, and his limited set of friends of course.

Amol never said ‘no’ to people. Even if he had to, he would take extreme pains to get them to empathize with him before letting him off the hook. There were instances when people would tell him irritably, “theek hai yaar, tension kashaala ghetoyaes? Naahi jamnaar tar naahi jamnaar. Its Ok”.  He never missed an opportunity to compliment people on their attire. While he was more vested in women, he would do an occasional, “that’s a nice shirt, man!” to the men around him too, just to reassure himself that he was being fair to both sexes. He knew it himself that he was looking for avenues to flirt. Yes, he was married and, in a love-filled one at that. But who has set in stone the definition of propriety?

People well-acquainted with Amol knew that he wore his heart on his sleeve. His face betrayed emotions. He was aware that people could manipulate him, but rationalized it saying it was because of the face God had given him.

If he hadn’t rehearsed, he couldn’t lie. When Ravi, an old friend had once asked him on phone what his weekend plans were, he had said he’d be traveling to Andheri East in Mumbai to meet his cousin, the latter had exclaimed, “Wow! You’d better have made plans to meet me. You know I live in Andheri right?”. Amol could have said any random thing to Ravi and shake himself off obligations. What he instead was, “ohh.. yesss.. of course you live in Andheri!! You see, my wife will be a little impatient. I’ll be done with my meeting at 6.30. To meet you would mean another hour. If I leave at 7.30,  I won’t be at Pune before 11.30-12! I’m sure you can understand”

“Why would she be impatient? You would have driven down, right? And the day after is a Sunday anyway, how would half to one hour make a difference?”

“I agree with you buddy. In fact, it would be so great to catch up with you after so many years. But I’ll make proper plan and visit you sometime soon. We should do a good lunch with drink, what say?”


It was on one of the pleasant Friday afternoons, when the general mood at office was to not work, with many of the folks ready to leave early for the week and board a train or flight to their hometown, that Amol Badwe’s idyll was disturbed. Milind Raut, the guy who he had no clue about the existence of, came visiting. The receptionist got Amol on his desk phone.

“OK. I’m coming. Ask him to wait for a minute.”

He entered the reception lobby and caught Milind, flipping a newspaper. Milind, a scrawny bespectacled chap wearing a steel watch that placed itself perennially on the dorsum of his palm, a checkered slack with sleeves curled inward in an effort to hide his tubular arms, and jet-black denim trousers standing heavily on colorful sneakers.

He came up to Amol at the glass access door, looked right into his eyes, and said in an unexpectedly gruff voice,

“Amol Badwe na tumhi? Yaa majha barobar. Please come with me”

“Hello, boss, I don’t know who you are? Aani Kuthe yaeoon?”

Abbe saale! Kaana khaali ek dega na, you’ll understand!”

“What??? Please get out of here, right away! Prerna, ask the security to take him away please!”

“Call the security if you have to, but before that here goes”, Milind took a step closer to him menacingly, and whacked him hard across the face, sending Amol reeling. Amol heard these words before he collapsed, “Bhenchod, next time you send those Whatsapp messages to Gauri and act like a saint na, saale bajaake rakhdoonga!”


When he came to, Amol found himself on a hospital bed. His colleagues had rushed him to the hospital, just to be sure. They had imagined that a defibrillator or some such technique would be needed to revive him. But the doctor had just shaken him up violently and given him water to drink. He presently asked Amol to take rest for a while before heading back home.

 The  motherfucker mentioned Gauri! I could just chokeslam him and he wouldn’t get up ever! He looks puny, but I must give it to his temerity! Whatever happened to the thing called civility? Maybe he is Gauri’s boyfriend; others wouldn’t have given a damn! And whatever on earth did I do that he almost finished me off? A Whatsapp message? Really?

These thoughts swam in his head. He was anything but resting.

Gauri Verma was the girl he used to chat to at the gym. A joke or two he would have exchanged with her at the most. And maybe a compliment here and a harmless coffee invite there. Not that anything ever materialized. It’s the cheap thrill I get, seeing the Whatsapp notification with her name appear on my phone, he rationalized to himself. The bitch! She has ratted on me, though I can’t for the life of me understand whatever on earth had I done to tick her or that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers off.  If this is the kind of people she hangs out with, then to hell with her.

But something still needs to be done about Milind all the same.


At the start of the week, I launched a Blitzkrieg of sorts against Milind. I didn’t have to do many enquiries before getting to know where he lived. Wanowrie. I went over to his apartment complex, told the security my name was Gauri Shankar, and he only had to say Gauri, Milind will know. I was let inside. I knocked on his door on the 2nd floor. To my luck, he answered. I had carried an old defunct laptop with me. I smashed it on his head with one lavish swing. His mother came out alarmed. I held a Whatsapp message on my phone, to her face. It said, “You’ll get your money if you fuck my mother”. Obviously, I had stored some random number as Milind Raut. In the fury and shock of the moment, she wouldn’t bother to check if her son could indeed write with near-impeccable grammar. I told her to have a hold on her son, else he will be a confirmed sociopath. Having ensured Milind wouldn’t move an inch and that his mother would spend all night wondering if she should finish off the work I had started – breaking her son’s head – or attend to his evident concussion, I headed back home and flipped open my other functioning laptop. I dashed off an email to the editors of Pune Mirror and Sakaal, who I knew personally. I tipped them off on the newly surfaced menace called Milind Raut,  a gerontophile on the loose. A photoshopped picture to boot. I was confident they would publish the story with discretion. The next morning, on the way to work, I lodged a complaint against Milind at the police station. Showed the inspector the doctor’s report and the morning’s newspaper. That evening I tracked Gauri at the gym and told her that her boyfriend was done for. All thanks to her brainless tip off. It was a pleasure to see the horror on her face.  Finally that night I went over to Mlind’s apartment, bribed the security to stick a note on his door, which read, “try acting smart, and you won’t know what hit you next time. Tu gelas re!”


The next morning, nothing seemed to have moved. It looked like a lazier Saturday than usual. Amol had woken up late. Of course, having dreamt a revenge dripping with venom, he’d needed time before he had soaked his illusion in.


But who on earth was Milind Rau ? Gauri, whom he met later in the day at the gym, denied knowing him. She may have lied, but I’d made it known to her she would be on my radar right then.

Later that evening, he got a Whatsapp from an unknown number.


“Hey Amol. Don’t trust Gauri. Regds, Milind”

Amol was visibly flustered. And he thought, ‘this time, real action, no shit’.

 

——-  Could be continued ——

Lethal Whim

Ji wished for a secret weapon.

He had concluded that the only way to end crime against women and children was to be able to attack culprits from stealth. He wanted to do better than Batman. Indian criminals were too shifty to take on someone like Batman. So he reasoned. They shouldn’t know what hit them.

It isn’t clear to this day if Ji had a divine intervention, or if he experienced a violent spasm in his sleep one night.  Police dossiers mention that the hunt for clues is on. But the fact of the matter is, when Ji woke up, he felt a little weightless. After he had dressed following shower, he casually interlocked his fingers and pressed to crack his knuckles. Then headed out. He saw someone he knew and waved at the person. The latter seemed to look through him.

A couple of similar observations later, Ji was sure that he had become invisible.

He spotted a lanky young man with a hint of a moustache, making passes at a girl passing by. He walked straight up to the boy, grabbed him by his wavy hair, swirled him around and smashed his face to the wall. The paralyzed young man began to scream. Ji then flicked open a knife, and started slashing through the boy’s trousers from behind, while having him pinned down. When the last shreds of the boy’s pants had come off his legs, Ji proceeded to destroy his testicles. That was when he remembered there was some work he had attend to. He let go of the boy, dashed out of sight, ran for a couple of kilometres, and transformed back to his regular self.

Ji checked the newspaper the next morning. Not a word about this strange incident. Nor any mention on the Internet.

He decided the only way to contain any crime was to strike terror into the hearts of the people. They have to sit up and take notice. In the limited time he had on hand during evenings, owing to the clandestine nature of his ‘operation’, he set about looking for signs of trouble. He would float by like a ghost, wreak havoc and flee.

The news people and social media did dig this. They added emotion to sensation. Other things that went into the mix included sorcery, religion, politics to name a few. Respectable publications turned tabloids overnight. Homicides started trending. Crime it seemed had just gotten glamorous. The thugs and hooligans wanted their fifteen minutes of fame apparently.  Women in the city had never felt more unsafe.

Ji flunked his exams a couple months later. He realized that if he had to make a living, he needed to pass his exams. His invisibility would only empower him to loot.

Ji is now praying hard to get back to being normal. He is disappearing without warning, and greed & lust getting him through his moments of invisibility.

Dangerous times. We should all pray for Ji.

The Trigger

Alright, can we have a show of hands please? How many of us think happiness is transient?  Or should we roger Abraham Lincoln’s words, like many others’, that ‘most folks are happy as they make their minds to be’? Let’s  ask Ribbin Joseph.

Ribbin, the accountant, is a very unassuming chap.  He cracked an interview with Intellect, a respectable technology firm in Bengaluru around six months ago, and accepted the job offer in a trice.  Not that Ribbin was any the less gainful in employment, but it was the need for change that raised its alluring head, which incidentally is biennial on an average.  His folks cheered him and wished him the very best. They said they should celebrate his getting the new job in style and took Ribbin to a fancy restaurant. He wasn’t sure if this really called for a celebration. His friends demanded a treat, to which he responded by laughing it off and asking them to raise their standards. What’s great about changing a job, he would argue. I got a higher role, yeah, so what? I haven’t won a Nobel, have I? he would continue saying.

One has to give it to Ribbin’s sense of humour, though a bit on the drier side. When a colleague of his asked him to lend to her the Michael Crichton novel he was raving about, he replied pithily that it was booked! Pity that the lady didn’t get it, but he was mighty pleased with himself. If you had been around and spied on him at that time, you would have caught him chuckling to himself. With half a self-congratulatory nod, he went back to his desk and started clearing those invoices with a little extra vigour.

Soon, life at Intellect for Ribbin hit the treadmill, and weekdays started appearing indistinguishable from one another. Gym, breakfast, commute, traffic, login, cigarette, bills, meeting, blah, lunch, cigarette, bills, blah, logout, traffic, home, TV, dinner, reading, sleep. In this cycle of daily activities, not much could possibly change. And then the weekends were a heady mix of sleep, TV, reading and eating out.  In due course, Ribbin had subscribed to the apparent monotony of work, which showed in a couple of instances. He walked in late on a windy Monday, oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the boss’s cabin. He was summoned in no time, and it suffices to say the meeting had done its job of hitting Ribbin’s self-confidence. He smoked an extra cigarette, contemplated on resigning first and then looking for a job, as he  felt he didn’t belong here. What a gloomy day it was!

Sometime in the late afternoon the same day, as he was walking across the aisle, Ribbin averted a head-on collision with a lady he had been throwing admiring glances at. Now Shubha the lady had not met his eye once in these six months, leading our man to believe that he probably couldn’t carry himself off well. Cut to the present. Shubha stopped in her tracks, caught his eye and grinned at him before moving on.  Ribbin was quick to quick in flashing back that benign smile at her and stood aside to let her pass. He could barely hold his excitement. She too had perhaps been secretly admiring. Probably she hadn’t mustered the courage to come up and speak with him. Never mind, as long as he knew that people had approving thoughts about him. Wasn’t the world beautiful? But of course bosses will have a go at you. It’s part of their profile. And who doesn’t make mistakes? With these thoughts, Ribbin spent the rest of the afternoon, and closed his day a half hour early, feeling he deserved that time off for himself. Such a lovely evening that it was!

In less than a week from the date of that sweet accident, Shubha left the organization. Ribbin decided that one shouldn’t have been so easily excitable and made a solemn vow to himself. In fact, he hadn’t made any great friends over the time and guessed that it might remain this way for him. Lonely, undervalued, and strictly business like. That his bosses and some of the old hands at the company had a coterie of sorts didn’t help matters either. Ribbin’s manager, Piyush, was a gentleman of varied interests and was known to lead a very ‘happening’ life outside work. But for some inexplicable reason, Piyush seemed to restrict all conversation with Ribbin to business. So, when he walked up to Ribbin’s  desk and chatted to him about books, Crichton included, our man was pleasantly surprised. Ribbin grabbed the opportunity to talk about movies, travel, sports, music, all in the window of 5 minutes. The boss seemed to be in a chatty mood that day, and responded well to observations on the aforesaid topics. Boy, wasn’t that wonderful? Ribbin’s reasoning as he drove back home was that Piyush wasn’t such a tart after all.  One only needed to make time for small talk, and bob’s your uncle!

What does one say about Ribbin Joseph? He appears to be of the kind who don’t have much to complain about in life, but aren’t the most enthusiastic either. Not of the kind who will likely have ‘happiness’ added to the ‘things to do’ list for the day, but more like the ones who need a trigger for happiness. Yes, a trigger.

Should happiness really need a trigger? Ribbn says he doesn’t know if that is how you term it, but just that those fleeting moments of joy give him an instant high, and is sure that there are plenty more to come by.

Nightmare by invitation

Swapnil Pednekar had never foreseen this problem. Intractable as it was, the predicament didn’t seem to offer a way out and he was getting knotted up by the minute. Whatever  happened to our dear Swapnil?

Fancying himself a creative writer, Pednekar always tried his hand at smart and quirky themes. He believed he would have rocked the field of advertising, but his ‘well-wishers’ advised him against taking up an ad agency stint, citing pathetic pay scales. Resigning to his concession of being a typical Indian middle-class young man with an eye on a secure future, he took up the first available job at an IT firm in Pune.  As with many individuals of his sensibilities, he went about pursuing his passion for writing by the moonlight. Never did an evening pass without him scribbling his thoughts; never did a day break without his resolution to quit his nine-to-five compulsion.

Swapnil had a hundred short stories to his credit, but just a handful of them published. He always wanted to be known for that one piece that would end wars and vanquish poverty. In his constant endeavour to churn out that seminal work of art,  Swapnil always meditated on different approaches to telling a story. His latest brainwave was to tell a story featuring a writer whose characters came to life, literally, and threw his life out of gear. Kicked about this revolutionary idea, he dashed home from work on a breezy evening, and pulled out his laptop without bothering to change even. This was a grand idea, and he would not rush it one bit. He just wanted to make a start, save the draft and sleep over the flow of the story. He wrote, “Ron from Bombay wanted to disrupt the literary world and wrote a story in which the characters came to life and started talking.  The protagonist was a female prostitute who commanded respect in the alleys of Bombay, and was sought after by the media. During an interview with the Times of India, Mala Dy,  the prostitute was asked if she ever thought of changing to a respectable line, and being a model for many of her followers. Mala Dy retorted , “But why should I change? This has given me life and today I’m sitting here talking to you because of what I do, night and day!” The interviewer seemed to be convinced.” With these lines Pednekar saved his draft and proceeded to finish dinner and then call it a night.

He went to bed, with a smile that refused to leave him till he drifted off. The smile sat on his lips right after he woke up early, and resumed dancing ever so gaily.

Till he opened the saved draft.

—-  —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —-

In continuation, Swapnil wanted the interviewer to ask Mala Dy about what was the median age of people visiting her. But the last line read completely different.

“Dude, can you get me a job that pays this kind of money? If yes, come and see me tomorrow. Or do you wanna make it tonight itself?”

Swapnil rubbed his eyes a dozen times and stared at that last line. Was he seeing what he thought was happening? It was still the same, “… tonight itself?”

He was wide awake now, and could hear his pulse racing. For a good five minutes Swapnil let himself lose all calm and started howling, wondering as he did, if THIS was the sound of his impulse.

Back at his laptop, Pednekar scrolled up and saw that the one paragraph he had stopped had had crossed a page.  As he eyeballed the activity on his machine while he had slept in ignorant bliss, Swapnil saw that there was a conversation in progress.

Ron: “Hey Swapnil, kaay re! Tu svatah la kaay samajtos? Who do you think you are?”

A few blank spaces down.

O baba, aiktoyes ka? Do you hear me?  I just wanna know what made you think I’m a writer. Man, I wanted to be an MLA and go on to become CM. Hell, maajha naav Roshan Galande, Ron naahi. Chaaila! Jai Maharashtra!

Swapnil read on and realized that the belligerent Roshan Galande had decided to peek into the character that his own character had supposedly created.

“O writer bhau, hullo, ithe bug! Tula sex manje khup aavaData ka? You seem to like this sex business a lot! Writers are like that only. Given a chance, they write out their imagination! Hello madam, interview vinterview sagaLe bandh kara aaNi ghar zaa! End this interview business and get going!”

To which the feisty Mala Dy responds, “Oiy, mera baap bhi aise baat nahi karte. My dad would think twice before yelling at me. Look at your guts! This is my interview, and I have every business being here.”

Galande: “Wait till I go get my boys! You will face the heat. Aattha bug! Jai Shivaji!

Mala Dy, returning to the dumbstruck interviewer, “Can we please continue? Don’t mind these thugs, huh? I know how to deal with them. What was your question, again?”

Interviewer: “Have you ever considered changing your line and getting into the mainstream,  and being a model to your followers?”

…. ….  …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. ….

Pednekar, fairly in control of himself and alert now, realized it didn’t make sense to continue this story. But then, should he be quitting? Wasn’t it THIS great idea that had found favour with divinity or mysticism or black magic or whatever? He could close the file and destroy it forever. Or should he let the characters tell the story themselves? All he had to do was trigger a conversation and stop worrying about the proceeding. Wouldn’t that mean he was relinquishing his creativity for inanimate characters that decide to start typing on their own? Still better, should he start conversing with his characters and arrive at an agreement, and complete the story in harmony? But seriously, would that even work? A writer who doesn’t want to be one, gets to be a politician and goes about terrorizing the neighbourhood. A prostitute cannot survive a story, because she’s being tormented by the politician. How does one even kill a character?

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What was that? Kill a character? How about bumping off the MLA? And make the prostitute very peaceable?

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He looked at his watch and realized that he was a couple hours late to work already. Darn the bloody story, get to real business, he decided. While at office, his laptop’s hard disk crashed.

The computer died. Swapnil Pednekar survived!

Carla – the daughter of the cop

The Bengaluru city Police Commissioner’s prodigal son-in-law never ceased to baffle the top cop. Barely three months into the marriage, Rohan displayed excessively erratic behaviour in sporadic fashion. Nothing could be predicted of him. The first four weeks after the wedding witnessed what was a continued party.  Rohan, and consequently his wife, would cut cakes at sharp 10AM celebrating each day of marriage.  ‘Happy tresdieversary’ was written on the cake on the third day after the wedding.  Commissioner Da Cunha later learnt that the word was coined by Rohan after a quick internet research. The newlyweds would step out of the house at around 2PM visibly intoxicated, but smartly dressed nevertheless. They would return at around 8 or 9, start chanting psalms, which bewildered many, as Rohan came from an orthodox Hindu family. In the second month, for just under a week, Mr & Mrs. Rohan had set up an office, with an elaborately done glazed steel signboard that read ‘Carla’.  By the eighth day, the office had disappeared. For the next two weeks, in the chilly month of January, the couple had taken off to Munnar, without a single woolly or a jacket packed in, as observed by the domestic help.

It wasn’t that Da Cunha was completely unprepared for a binging of sorts. Carla, his only daughter, was a notorious reveller and used to make the headlines in the local tabloids quite often. But she had never crossed the limits of the law.  A graduate of English literature, she had done a course in Physics on a whim. Not that she tried to meld her apparently disparate sets of knowledge to present a new thought to the world or anything like that.  She would never give a rationale to her random pursuits. People started dismissing her as a result of being in her influential father’s endowment, coupled with her aspiration to be a newsmaker. On her part, Carla, successful in working herself out to a svelte figure, dressed without inhibitions but stunned many the other way when she would come  attend socio-religious gatherings draped in elaborately woven Kanchipuram silk sarees . Da Cunha had given her security cover, inexplicably having it accounted for in the department’s books.  So, Carla would never suffer a scratch even if she were to pose in the nude. When she was interviewed by the media a couple times, she surprised people again by her statements on hard work, respect for the elders, and, on the virtue of virginity before marriage. In fact, she was going steady with Rohan, and never had taken off with him outside the city, nor was she seen with him after dark.  This had reinforced Da Cunha’s belief in his daughter’s choices, and made him readily accept Rohan as his son-in-law.

Carla

However, all said and done….

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Three more months later

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Two more companies are known to have been registered in Carla’s name – Carlacious and Carladen – neither operating now.  Enquiry reveals that Carlacious was a food joint and Carladen was a holiday ideas company. Her whereabouts have been ascertained but she’s unreachable.

Rohan is making some noises here and there. He  doesn’t live with Carla, and has been spotted commuting to work. An analyst gig at Goldman Sachs. A couple of his reports have been published in financial journals.

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Da Cunha is none the better for his confusion still

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Carla has just returned home. She doesn’t look very different, but her face betrays uncertainty. Rohan asks her “You must have made your notes. What do you think?”

Carla says, “Maybe it’s just our country and not the world”

“You are saying our country still doesn’t offer limitless possibilities?”

“Not for your average chap on the road. My being in a position of influence didn’t get me that far, just think of others”

Da Cunha has his moment of reckoning.

He utters regretfully, “Wish I were never a Commissioner, or you were born to a different father”