`With pleasure…’
With my friend Arjun, it is usually more pleasing to place his answer before my question:
`If I were to perform hara-kiri, will you be my kaishaku?’
I really rely on him. A few weeks back, I asked him to read one of my blogs, a seriously funny one. He read it carefully, hugged me tightly, whispered softly `Lovely…it is sad!’
Recently, on the topic of blogs once again, he surprised me with a request:
`I want to feel a book…here, in blogosphere.’
`What?’
`I mean,
• go away from frenetic on-line activities;
• stay off-line with a collection of blogs;
• lazing over the cover, the preface, the table of contents;
• using old skills without tags, labels and search engines;
• having a bird’s eye view over a sea of gathered and discarded thoughts;
• swooping in on that blog which I feel like reading.’
How can I refuse him? Anyway, with regard to time and effort, I found the task to be only as daunting as the task of writing a single blog. This is the output:
COLLECTION OF MY BLOGS
(click here to download PDF file,
size ~ 2.75 MB)
Anyway, a year has gone by since I wrote my first blog. This proved to be ideal to view and arrange with a fresh perspective before moving on.
`Hope other friends try it out too…and, let us know when their collection is ready.’
`That would be nice.’ I really think so.
Arjun said, `Byeeee.’
`Take care.’
`By the way, what does this have to do with virtual hara-kiri?’
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Scream Within
Do you have a scream?
Caged within your mind?
Choking each breath?
Clogging life?
Don’t you have that scream?
Yesterday, when I walked past the graveyard, I heard her scream. Didn’t I tell you, few months back, that my house is on an island, half a kilometer in radius, in the middle of the city; and that, to the west, the graveyard is still there but the old mint is gone? The old mint was not there even when she screamed in the graveyard, twenty six years back.
That evening, I had gone for a party at a friend’s place. I had told my folks that I would be dropped safely at home around nine. For some reason, I felt out of place and making up some hasty excuse, escaped from that group at half past seven. With three kilometers to my house, and one steep hill to climb, I estimated that I could walk and reach home by eight. I walked quickly past the low-lying area near my friend’s place, with the strong stench of the drainage canal in the air. The air cleared when I climbed the hill. The streets were empty, as usual; barely lit by old low-wattage street lamps. I don’t think it was safer then but I was young. At the top of the hill, I followed the road climbing to the left, alongside the graveyard wall. Then, I heard her scream.
It was not a loud scream and if I had not been near that part, I would not have heard it. It bore pain, a brief tired protest too but then and now, it mostly said … nothing … neither a cry for help nor rage nor lost hope … nothing.
I felt scared and I wanted to run. I do not know why I looked over the wall. I could see the back of a man, brushing dust from his clothes, tucking in his shirt slowly and carefully into open pants, adjusting his underwear, zipping up, taking a small comb from the back pocket of his pants, combing his hair and mustache, spitting. I must have slipped or made some noise. The man turned and saw me. His expression did not change; in fact, he looked bored. I must have opened my mouth in fright. He raised his finger to his lips and then, walked away quite leisurely. I recognized him from photos in the paper and you might know him, too.
It was only after he left that I saw her lying still near an unmarked grave. I climbed over the wall and went to her. For years, I have wondered why I did that. To be honest, it must have been just curiosity. Her eyes were open, filled with tears, unblinking. Recently, I saw a face like hers – that eighteen year old suicide bomber in Russia, the one with a baby face. At that time, she looked old to me – at least a dozen years older than me. I did not touch her or speak to her. After few minutes, she slowly sat up, her young body shivering. Using a part of her sari, she wiped her body, harshly wiping her thighs, her legs, her upper body, her face. She tore that part of the sari and threw away the rag. She straightened her clothes, trying in vain to fix her torn blouse. I took out the plastic raincoat from my backpack and held it out to her. She took it without a word and covered herself.
“Shall we go to a hospital?” I asked.
She shook her head, not even looking at me.
“Shall I come with you to the police station?”
This time, she looked at me. Again, she shook her head, smiling sadly, “O child …”
I must have stood there not knowing what to do, watching her shivering, tears rolling down her cheeks, brushing the gravestone. I looked around and recognized the area. This was that part of the graveyard – the place for the unmarked, the excommunicated, the ostracized, the criminals, the immoral lot and all the other bad ghosts discarded by my society.
“Why did you come here?” I asked hoping that it did not sound like an accusation.
I thought that she would not reply or that she might tell me to get lost. But, she asked me,
“Will you sit next to me … just for a moment?” She must have seen me move back involuntarily and she added bitterly “This is not contagious …”
I sat on the ground next to her. We sat quietly for a while but I sensed that she wished to speak – being non-threatening, I must have fitted the role like how we confide to strangers on a train, just someone together for a while.
She pointed at the grave,
“Today is his death anniversary.”
Then she paused, breathing deeply,
“The man you saw knew I would come here. For him and his cronies, it was patriotic revenge. He didn’t even want to be the first … just watched, and waited till the others were done and gone … they said that they felt justified doing this to me, like they were lynching him once again, they said …” she broke down, leaning against me lightly.
I sat there stiffly, hardly thinking about her … what if I had been the victim? For years, I have tried to figure out the answer to that. I knew that she was terribly miserable but to tell you the truth, I have no idea about the extent of her pain.
“Who is he?” I asked, tilting my head towards the grave.
“Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?”
I tried to recollect the day’s headlines. I vaguely remembered a small article about today being a black day. On this date three years back, a terrorist was nabbed – after the terrorist entered a school and killed twenty three people at a primary school, three teachers and twenty kids. One of those teachers was a distant aunt and two of those kids lived in my neighbourhood.
I think I stood up and moved away from her.
“I deserve what I got, right?” she laughed and to me, it seemed like she was mocking herself.
I went back, knelt in front of her, “Sorry.” She must have realized that I was not a child or an adult, and that I meant it. “Was he your husband?”
“No … we knew each other … met when we could …”
I kept quiet.
“I should have known that he was a time-bomb waiting to explode … we never talked about ourselves … why waste time, we thought … I could rest my head against his chest and sleep so well. That’s all that I wanted. I used to wake up knowing that he would be there … looking at me, tenderly, lovingly … that’s all we wanted.”
“I try to forget all that he told me … but, I didn’t listen well I suppose, even when he foretold doom:
In the dark days to come –
With you,
Your words, your kiss, your touch,
To know peace,
To forget rage,
In this world –
In this damned world,
With you,
I might survive.
When I heard about what he did, I hated myself more than I had to hate him. I knew that I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember.”“For three years, I stayed away from this city … unknown. I tried hard not to think of him. But today … I knew that he was buried here … I thought I would ask him … why.”
Her words and her life did not mean much to me then. We parted that night knowing that we will never see each other. I did not know that her scream would stay with me forever.
In the years that followed, I kept hearing that scream. I heard it when I was betrayed, when I felt lost, when I felt defeated – by the system, by my society, by kith and kin, when even the judicial system destroyed my life …
When I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember …
With pain, a brief tired protest, saying … nothing …
I hear that scream … is it my scream now?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Blogalgia : 3 Examples Of A Growing Problem
Blogalgia is a type of pygalgia. While pygalgia (pyg=rump, algia=pain) definitely means “pain in the butt”, there is considerable debate about whether blogalgia should be taken to be any combination of “pain” and “blog”. For the sake of generality, “blog” here includes any channel of chatter and social networking using information and communication technology (ICT). It should be emphasized here that the “pain” relates to that experienced at a personal and psychological level and does not include the distress caused by virulent attacks involving identity theft, virtual bullying and hate-mongering.
In the last decade, the rapid growth of various channels of chatter via ICT has been mostly viewed through rosy, though myopic, lenses. Business and charity organizations, and even governments, have realized its immense scope. What began as a means for virtual bonhomie has evolved into the proverbial Trojan horse – even ardent fans raise the question “It feels good but what lies within?”
It is widely believed that the immense growth is a result of the desire for social equality. The hoi polloi is able to “follow” and communicate with the high and mighty or, at least, the hoity-toity. For the first time in the history of mankind: anyone can voice an opinion which, in principle, everyone anywhere could hear immediately.
Unfortunately, this seemingly benign desire for social equality is the root cause for blogalgia. In this note, three examples or symptoms are briefly described and readers are advised to contemplate on the same and take necessary remedial actions, if necessary.
(1) There are numerous articles with the to-do list on how to get “visits” that spans a network. Some of the basic steps are:
• have an adequate number of friends (a theory even says that there is a unique critical number);
• comment frequently on friends’ posts;
• post at an optimal time.
When one still faces nearly-zero viewers despite all such attempts, one rapidly decline into a severe depression and decides to obliterate oneself from the virtual world unable to bear the pain due to the lack of success. It is even worse for that individual who realizes that his friends or “followers” are there not based on conviction, philosophy or any meaningful attachment. Most are there for the same reason as serial “comment”ers, as described below.
(2) Serial “comment”ers are those who comment on everything and refuse to stop even when their comment is not acknowledged. They attempt to ride along and the prize that they seek is a visit to their own site (in the virtual world, Andy Warhol’s expression should be “everyone will be famous for three seconds”). Strangely, they are immune to any rebuke and it is those who receive their comments who suffer from migraine, disillusionment and a total loss of words.
(3) When successful traits in these networks are carried over to other spheres, there is usually painful chaos and havoc in the non-virtual reality of personal and professional relationships. One of the root causes is the inability to write, speak or think a well thought out grammatically correct sentence without emoticons whose substance requires an attention span of more than three seconds. A colleague or a spouse is usually not satisfied with byte-sized efforts or a comment but usually requires an attempt to converse, preferably face-to-face. Even the judicial system is beginning to wonder if the rising number of divorce cases can be attributed to such virtual causes.
The three examples respectively show that blogalgia could be pain suffered by an individual, a network and even an external non-virtual network. A healthy discussion of such and similar symptoms is highly recommended.
In the last decade, the rapid growth of various channels of chatter via ICT has been mostly viewed through rosy, though myopic, lenses. Business and charity organizations, and even governments, have realized its immense scope. What began as a means for virtual bonhomie has evolved into the proverbial Trojan horse – even ardent fans raise the question “It feels good but what lies within?”
It is widely believed that the immense growth is a result of the desire for social equality. The hoi polloi is able to “follow” and communicate with the high and mighty or, at least, the hoity-toity. For the first time in the history of mankind: anyone can voice an opinion which, in principle, everyone anywhere could hear immediately.
Unfortunately, this seemingly benign desire for social equality is the root cause for blogalgia. In this note, three examples or symptoms are briefly described and readers are advised to contemplate on the same and take necessary remedial actions, if necessary.
(1) There are numerous articles with the to-do list on how to get “visits” that spans a network. Some of the basic steps are:
• have an adequate number of friends (a theory even says that there is a unique critical number);
• comment frequently on friends’ posts;
• post at an optimal time.
When one still faces nearly-zero viewers despite all such attempts, one rapidly decline into a severe depression and decides to obliterate oneself from the virtual world unable to bear the pain due to the lack of success. It is even worse for that individual who realizes that his friends or “followers” are there not based on conviction, philosophy or any meaningful attachment. Most are there for the same reason as serial “comment”ers, as described below.
(2) Serial “comment”ers are those who comment on everything and refuse to stop even when their comment is not acknowledged. They attempt to ride along and the prize that they seek is a visit to their own site (in the virtual world, Andy Warhol’s expression should be “everyone will be famous for three seconds”). Strangely, they are immune to any rebuke and it is those who receive their comments who suffer from migraine, disillusionment and a total loss of words.
(3) When successful traits in these networks are carried over to other spheres, there is usually painful chaos and havoc in the non-virtual reality of personal and professional relationships. One of the root causes is the inability to write, speak or think a well thought out grammatically correct sentence without emoticons whose substance requires an attention span of more than three seconds. A colleague or a spouse is usually not satisfied with byte-sized efforts or a comment but usually requires an attempt to converse, preferably face-to-face. Even the judicial system is beginning to wonder if the rising number of divorce cases can be attributed to such virtual causes.
The three examples respectively show that blogalgia could be pain suffered by an individual, a network and even an external non-virtual network. A healthy discussion of such and similar symptoms is highly recommended.
Few Movies, a Book, a deleted Blog & Blogalgia
Alexander the Great is a landmark cosmopolitan Malayalam movie without any reference to Kerala. The story is a shoddy mixture of Rain Man and something very forgettable. If you would like to see glimpses of Dubai and Mumbai (Powai, Marine Drive, etc.), please see this movie. At the end, one asks: in how many days was this movie completed?
This is not a review of the movie. The comments made above should be read like a play within a play or the frustration should be viewed in the context of what happened before.
Like most typical Kerala families, mine is divided into the Mohanlal and the Mammootty camps. Last night, at eight, the first camp won the battle and the whole family went for the second show at half past nine (the presence of actor-politician Ganesh and family in a row ahead soothed some frayed nerves). The second camp lost because Mammootty’s Pokkiri Raja “definitely looks non-Mallu”. No one wanted to be a traitor and suggest Jayaram’s Katha Thudarunnu. For the last decade, we have come to expect very little from Malayalam movies but yesterday, the bars were raised because we saw Yavanika (with the Bharat Gopi) on TV yesterday morning.
Rewinding further, there is disappointment of being let down by a crime novel, Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid. This book might be the last in the Tony Hill-Carol Jordan series (also made famous by the TV series Wire in the Blood). The book started off well (the danger of virtual social networking used as the crime plot along with McDermid’s humour and the reader is goaded to accept “non-mainstream” relationships). Why was I disappointed? My rule for crime fiction is: if you want to end the series, kill the hero but please do not domesticate. They should remain weird, or better, get weirder. Can you imagine Holmes married and with a child or two on his knees?
Then, there was the blog that I had to delete. In that blog, I made a school-boy-or-girl-ish attempt to write crime fiction. I dreamt of reviews like “spine-chilling”, “page-turner”, “creepy”, “u r a monster”. My polite and stoic friends endured bits and pieces and tried to encourage me with “luv ur umor”.
Sometime around then, I visited my psychologist. He hum-haw-ed, said that I am doing well with NaSTy (Narcissistic Self-Destruction Tendency). He also added that I should stay away from blogs to avoid blogalgia (for details, please click here).
This is not a review of the movie. The comments made above should be read like a play within a play or the frustration should be viewed in the context of what happened before.
Like most typical Kerala families, mine is divided into the Mohanlal and the Mammootty camps. Last night, at eight, the first camp won the battle and the whole family went for the second show at half past nine (the presence of actor-politician Ganesh and family in a row ahead soothed some frayed nerves). The second camp lost because Mammootty’s Pokkiri Raja “definitely looks non-Mallu”. No one wanted to be a traitor and suggest Jayaram’s Katha Thudarunnu. For the last decade, we have come to expect very little from Malayalam movies but yesterday, the bars were raised because we saw Yavanika (with the Bharat Gopi) on TV yesterday morning.
Rewinding further, there is disappointment of being let down by a crime novel, Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid. This book might be the last in the Tony Hill-Carol Jordan series (also made famous by the TV series Wire in the Blood). The book started off well (the danger of virtual social networking used as the crime plot along with McDermid’s humour and the reader is goaded to accept “non-mainstream” relationships). Why was I disappointed? My rule for crime fiction is: if you want to end the series, kill the hero but please do not domesticate. They should remain weird, or better, get weirder. Can you imagine Holmes married and with a child or two on his knees?
Then, there was the blog that I had to delete. In that blog, I made a school-boy-or-girl-ish attempt to write crime fiction. I dreamt of reviews like “spine-chilling”, “page-turner”, “creepy”, “u r a monster”. My polite and stoic friends endured bits and pieces and tried to encourage me with “luv ur umor”.
Sometime around then, I visited my psychologist. He hum-haw-ed, said that I am doing well with NaSTy (Narcissistic Self-Destruction Tendency). He also added that I should stay away from blogs to avoid blogalgia (for details, please click here).
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Simply Murder
Acknowledgement: based on the outline given in Bina Gupta's Sulekha blog, for link please click here ... since the outline is not mine, I deleted the blog but just for the sake of completeness of my records, I am including this here ... shrouded in obscurity and relative anonymity. :-)
Simply Murder
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. It felt more like a sledgehammer at work within my head. Groggy and snarling, I quickly wrapped the housecoat over my nightclothes, tied a tight careless knot and went down the stairs to the front door. A moment’s sanity made me do the habitual check through the eyehole. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, squinting at the near midday light and croaked, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward, apologized for waking me up and proceeded to ask the customary to confirm my identity. Then, he introduced himself
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station.”
Sid – Siddharth, Siddique, Sidney? I have always hated this anglicized attempt of whitening a brown man’s name. Who but an idiot would make Padmanabhan Paddy or Krishnamurthy Kris? For me, Subrahmaniam is not Sub; maybe, Chuppramani. Why would a red-blooded male want to present a castrated self? As usual, I could not control my thoughts; but fortunately, it does not show on the outside. I smiled sweetly at the tall clean-shaven handsome young man with no wedding ring and he seems to be charmed. He continued,
“This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes.”
The person in all black – jeans, corduroy top and boots – turned out to be an attractive woman leaning against the wall, rolling a cigarette expertly and lighting it with a match. She must be around forty, about five eight, with an athletic and tough frame, dark unruly hair generously peppered with gray and the darkest eyes I have seen staring intently at me. But for her eyes, I would have fallen in love with her, desperately, passionately. I asked her,
“Shoky?”
“Not Shoky, Shokie – “ie”, not “y”. Everyone calls her that.” the young man gushed with great admiration.
“I have heard about you two. Shokie the Sherlock and Sid the Watson in that famous case…the case of Minister Twitter, right?” The young man was blushing and the lady kept staring. I remembered more details and I could not resist myself,
“Shokie? Your name is supposed to be Sherlie Kockier, right?”
“None of your business,” the curt reply. The young man intervened,
“We are here because of a crime.”
“Here?”
“Next door…”
“Rosie’s place? What happened?” Taking in their joint presence, I assumed that it must be something nasty.
“Rosie was found dead.”
“Ohmigod! When?”
“Last night…around eleven.”
“Last night? You were here? And…I slept through all of it!” I leaned against the door, looking shocked and terribly disturbed, even feeling guilty for sleeping too well.
“We would like to ask a few questions. Can we come inside?”
“Please…of course…please come in.” I replied and took them to the drawing room. “Can I get you coffee? Please join me…I need a strong brew…” They nodded and asked for black with no sugar, just like me. I went to the kitchen, ground coffee-beans, placed filter paper in the coffee-machine, added water and heaps of the fresh powder. Standing at the doorway, taking in the aroma, I tried to listen to the whispering in the drawing room,
“Feed nearly all the details…let’s get the story right…slip up…”
I went back to the drawing room with three mugs of coffee.
“Sid” started with the preliminary questions, confirming that I have lived in this exclusive locality for the last three years; and, been the only neighbour of Rosie, the movie icon, who shifted here two years back. Our two houses feel even more exclusive in this large estate because it is in a well-shielded cul-de-sac, with hers against the steep cliff and mine situated at the entrance, nearly shielding Rosie’s house.
Then, I felt as if I needed to know,
“How did she die?”
“Apparently suicide,” Shokie muttered and continued, “Where were you last night?”
“Here.”
“Anyone to confirm that?”
“No.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Come on, Rosie is an icon…I mean, was. Ohmigod! I still feel shocked.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“Me? Of course not. How will I know her?”
“Well, you live here.”
“Courtesy of a rich impotent uncle.”
“I know.” Shokie, still staring, was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. “He died suddenly, didn’t he?”
“It’s usually so, isn’t it?”
“Maybe…” Shokie shrugged.
The young man must have noticed that I was beginning to feel terribly insulted and he tried to divert the flow,
“I am actually quite perplexed. She was found hanging in a locked empty room…”
I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, “Was there a suicide note?”
“Some crap suicide note from the internet…worse, rubbish poetry at that.” Sid said.
“Can I see it?” I asked.
Sid handed me a printout in a plastic cover. I read the first two lines, “When Sylvia wrote, I-have-done-it-again…”
“It’s from a blog…it won’t be difficult for us to find the author’s identity. Maybe, a little bit of hacking.” Sid informed me.
“There’s an easier way,” I tried to suggest.
“What?” asked Sid.
“You could just ask.” I felt quite naïve.
“Are you familiar with that note?” Shokie asked.
“Yes…I wrote that blog.” I replied feeling rather guilty.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asked an exasperated Sid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”
“Sylvia Plath.”
“Let’s leave that,” Shokie suggested. “Sid, why don’t you continue with the murder scene?”
“Ok…Rosie was found hanging in a locked empty room, locked and bolted from the inside and without even a stool for her to stand on. Shokie checked if there was water on the floor – just in case Rosie had used an ice block for some funny reason and which melted before we got there. Supposedly, it’s an old idea in some pulp fiction. Anyway…even the key’s inside and the windows were locked from inside. It must be murder but how did the murderer get out?”
I blurted, “Must be through the window.”
“Simple, isn’t it?” Shokie added. Was she trying to goad or praise?
I tried to explain, “I assumed that Rosie has the same type of window lock like here.”
“You reported a burglary a year back, didn’t you?” Shokie asked.
“Yes, when I came back after a trip, there were some valuables missing.”
“Insured valuables, right?” Shokie persisted.
“Yes, of course! Are you trying to suggest something?” I nearly shouted. Were they trying to frame me?
Shokie ignored my outburst. I decided to continue from where I had left off.
“All the locks were undisturbed. Someone helped the police at that time and said that it’s easy with this type of window lock – an old type which can be nudged open from the outside with a small blade and closed in a similar fashion. Was it you who helped the police?” I asked but Shokie merely shrugged. I turned to the young man,
“When did she die – you mentioned that you found her at eleven. I am sure I saw her outside around half past nine.”
“Did you? Was she with someone?”
“Yes.” I hesitated and then added, “With that son of the Industries Minister.”
“She was supposed to be his…you know, mistress, keep, right?” Sid asked.
“From what I saw, he looked like the toy boy.” I replied with distaste for sullied reputation. “But…how was she found…could you tell me?”
“We got a call…around ten fifty. When we managed to open the door, she was in the throes of the last struggle and then died. The hangman’s knot was cruel – it was a slow strangulating death. We think that the killer must have set it up for us and then, called us.”
“But why…that sick bastard!” I looked horrified. “Did the killer call from her place?”
“That would be too easy, right? No, it was from a mobile.”
“Have you traced it?” I asked.
“Yes, to a shop outside this enclave. Do you know the blind paanwallah?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“You were there last night, weren’t you?” Shokie’s accusations irritated once again.
“Yes. Last night and nearly every day, I have gone for my half-pack for the night.”
“True, people there said so. It also seems quite a few people make use of the paanwallah’s mobile without his knowledge.”
“Did the people there also say that they saw me using the mobile?”
“No. They wouldn’t, would they?” Shokie taunted. I clenched the cushions and held back my desire to hurt, by word or action. I turned to Sid, “Do you know if there were other visitors?”
“Yes, it was enough to check with the security person at the gate. From eight to eight forty, her fiancé; from nine to ten, the minister’s son; at ten past ten, a taxi came with two men and they left at ten twenty. So, we have a very narrow window of opportunity…about thirty minutes…for the crime.”
“Who were the two men?” I asked.
“We managed to find the men. Do you know Rosie’s history?”
“No.”
“Luckily, she kept a diary. Reshma till ten, pills and steroids for development of the child artiste, from then on the era of Rosie, stage-managed by her wily mother. No father to talk about…Well, that man was her long lost father…now, on scene for her riches…maybe, she told him to get lost.” Sid informed.
“Jagratha!” I exclaimed.
“What?” both of them queried together.
“Jagratha – an old Malayalam detective film…it’s nearly the same plot.”
“Who was the killer?” the young man asked.
Before I could speak, Shokie said “The father. He was the father of the fiancé, too.”
Sid replied “Bull-crap!” and added, “Well, novels and movies are usually based on real crime.”
“Here, it seems to be topsy-turvy, right? Was that the intention?” Shokie asked me.
“How would I know?”
“Don’t you?”
I could not hold back my anger any longer. “Have you been told to frame an innocent to save some bastard – like one of those V.I.P. visitors?”
I asked to be excused for a moment. I gathered the mugs and went to the kitchen. From there, I tried to eavesdrop and only caught the following,
“I am sure that’s the murderer…but…what’s the motive?”
I returned to the drawing room. They were standing. Sid asked me,
“Do you mind if we search?”
“Do you have a warrant? Just to be correct, you know. Anyway, what do you expect to find?” I asked.
Shokie entered the fray, “Hopefully some drug or chloroform used to sedate while Rosie was being hanged? Maybe, the light-weight step-ladder, too? How about footprints, shoes, clothes? But, we won’t find any, will we?” I kept quiet.
At the door, Shokie turned to me and asked,
“Just for fun…if you were the one who committed this crime, what would be the motive?”
I stared back for a while as if I was thinking hard and then said,
“Simply…murder…without motive…just because I could.”
I stared at those dark eyes. Those dead eyes, dead after seeing too many dead murdered people. Dead like mine.
Those eyes will keep on staring, prying, violating privacy, till there’s some evidence…or, till I die…or maybe, I will be the Moriarty for this Sherlock.
I woke up, thrashing against those images of dark depths, my nightclothes drenched with sweat,
“What a nightmare!”
But, was it the dream that woke me up?
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward,
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station. This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes. We are here because of a crime. Rosie was found dead.”
Simply Murder
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. It felt more like a sledgehammer at work within my head. Groggy and snarling, I quickly wrapped the housecoat over my nightclothes, tied a tight careless knot and went down the stairs to the front door. A moment’s sanity made me do the habitual check through the eyehole. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, squinting at the near midday light and croaked, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward, apologized for waking me up and proceeded to ask the customary to confirm my identity. Then, he introduced himself
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station.”
Sid – Siddharth, Siddique, Sidney? I have always hated this anglicized attempt of whitening a brown man’s name. Who but an idiot would make Padmanabhan Paddy or Krishnamurthy Kris? For me, Subrahmaniam is not Sub; maybe, Chuppramani. Why would a red-blooded male want to present a castrated self? As usual, I could not control my thoughts; but fortunately, it does not show on the outside. I smiled sweetly at the tall clean-shaven handsome young man with no wedding ring and he seems to be charmed. He continued,
“This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes.”
The person in all black – jeans, corduroy top and boots – turned out to be an attractive woman leaning against the wall, rolling a cigarette expertly and lighting it with a match. She must be around forty, about five eight, with an athletic and tough frame, dark unruly hair generously peppered with gray and the darkest eyes I have seen staring intently at me. But for her eyes, I would have fallen in love with her, desperately, passionately. I asked her,
“Shoky?”
“Not Shoky, Shokie – “ie”, not “y”. Everyone calls her that.” the young man gushed with great admiration.
“I have heard about you two. Shokie the Sherlock and Sid the Watson in that famous case…the case of Minister Twitter, right?” The young man was blushing and the lady kept staring. I remembered more details and I could not resist myself,
“Shokie? Your name is supposed to be Sherlie Kockier, right?”
“None of your business,” the curt reply. The young man intervened,
“We are here because of a crime.”
“Here?”
“Next door…”
“Rosie’s place? What happened?” Taking in their joint presence, I assumed that it must be something nasty.
“Rosie was found dead.”
“Ohmigod! When?”
“Last night…around eleven.”
“Last night? You were here? And…I slept through all of it!” I leaned against the door, looking shocked and terribly disturbed, even feeling guilty for sleeping too well.
“We would like to ask a few questions. Can we come inside?”
“Please…of course…please come in.” I replied and took them to the drawing room. “Can I get you coffee? Please join me…I need a strong brew…” They nodded and asked for black with no sugar, just like me. I went to the kitchen, ground coffee-beans, placed filter paper in the coffee-machine, added water and heaps of the fresh powder. Standing at the doorway, taking in the aroma, I tried to listen to the whispering in the drawing room,
“Feed nearly all the details…let’s get the story right…slip up…”
I went back to the drawing room with three mugs of coffee.
“Sid” started with the preliminary questions, confirming that I have lived in this exclusive locality for the last three years; and, been the only neighbour of Rosie, the movie icon, who shifted here two years back. Our two houses feel even more exclusive in this large estate because it is in a well-shielded cul-de-sac, with hers against the steep cliff and mine situated at the entrance, nearly shielding Rosie’s house.
Then, I felt as if I needed to know,
“How did she die?”
“Apparently suicide,” Shokie muttered and continued, “Where were you last night?”
“Here.”
“Anyone to confirm that?”
“No.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Come on, Rosie is an icon…I mean, was. Ohmigod! I still feel shocked.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“Me? Of course not. How will I know her?”
“Well, you live here.”
“Courtesy of a rich impotent uncle.”
“I know.” Shokie, still staring, was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. “He died suddenly, didn’t he?”
“It’s usually so, isn’t it?”
“Maybe…” Shokie shrugged.
The young man must have noticed that I was beginning to feel terribly insulted and he tried to divert the flow,
“I am actually quite perplexed. She was found hanging in a locked empty room…”
I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, “Was there a suicide note?”
“Some crap suicide note from the internet…worse, rubbish poetry at that.” Sid said.
“Can I see it?” I asked.
Sid handed me a printout in a plastic cover. I read the first two lines, “When Sylvia wrote, I-have-done-it-again…”
“It’s from a blog…it won’t be difficult for us to find the author’s identity. Maybe, a little bit of hacking.” Sid informed me.
“There’s an easier way,” I tried to suggest.
“What?” asked Sid.
“You could just ask.” I felt quite naïve.
“Are you familiar with that note?” Shokie asked.
“Yes…I wrote that blog.” I replied feeling rather guilty.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asked an exasperated Sid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”
“Sylvia Plath.”
“Let’s leave that,” Shokie suggested. “Sid, why don’t you continue with the murder scene?”
“Ok…Rosie was found hanging in a locked empty room, locked and bolted from the inside and without even a stool for her to stand on. Shokie checked if there was water on the floor – just in case Rosie had used an ice block for some funny reason and which melted before we got there. Supposedly, it’s an old idea in some pulp fiction. Anyway…even the key’s inside and the windows were locked from inside. It must be murder but how did the murderer get out?”
I blurted, “Must be through the window.”
“Simple, isn’t it?” Shokie added. Was she trying to goad or praise?
I tried to explain, “I assumed that Rosie has the same type of window lock like here.”
“You reported a burglary a year back, didn’t you?” Shokie asked.
“Yes, when I came back after a trip, there were some valuables missing.”
“Insured valuables, right?” Shokie persisted.
“Yes, of course! Are you trying to suggest something?” I nearly shouted. Were they trying to frame me?
Shokie ignored my outburst. I decided to continue from where I had left off.
“All the locks were undisturbed. Someone helped the police at that time and said that it’s easy with this type of window lock – an old type which can be nudged open from the outside with a small blade and closed in a similar fashion. Was it you who helped the police?” I asked but Shokie merely shrugged. I turned to the young man,
“When did she die – you mentioned that you found her at eleven. I am sure I saw her outside around half past nine.”
“Did you? Was she with someone?”
“Yes.” I hesitated and then added, “With that son of the Industries Minister.”
“She was supposed to be his…you know, mistress, keep, right?” Sid asked.
“From what I saw, he looked like the toy boy.” I replied with distaste for sullied reputation. “But…how was she found…could you tell me?”
“We got a call…around ten fifty. When we managed to open the door, she was in the throes of the last struggle and then died. The hangman’s knot was cruel – it was a slow strangulating death. We think that the killer must have set it up for us and then, called us.”
“But why…that sick bastard!” I looked horrified. “Did the killer call from her place?”
“That would be too easy, right? No, it was from a mobile.”
“Have you traced it?” I asked.
“Yes, to a shop outside this enclave. Do you know the blind paanwallah?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“You were there last night, weren’t you?” Shokie’s accusations irritated once again.
“Yes. Last night and nearly every day, I have gone for my half-pack for the night.”
“True, people there said so. It also seems quite a few people make use of the paanwallah’s mobile without his knowledge.”
“Did the people there also say that they saw me using the mobile?”
“No. They wouldn’t, would they?” Shokie taunted. I clenched the cushions and held back my desire to hurt, by word or action. I turned to Sid, “Do you know if there were other visitors?”
“Yes, it was enough to check with the security person at the gate. From eight to eight forty, her fiancé; from nine to ten, the minister’s son; at ten past ten, a taxi came with two men and they left at ten twenty. So, we have a very narrow window of opportunity…about thirty minutes…for the crime.”
“Who were the two men?” I asked.
“We managed to find the men. Do you know Rosie’s history?”
“No.”
“Luckily, she kept a diary. Reshma till ten, pills and steroids for development of the child artiste, from then on the era of Rosie, stage-managed by her wily mother. No father to talk about…Well, that man was her long lost father…now, on scene for her riches…maybe, she told him to get lost.” Sid informed.
“Jagratha!” I exclaimed.
“What?” both of them queried together.
“Jagratha – an old Malayalam detective film…it’s nearly the same plot.”
“Who was the killer?” the young man asked.
Before I could speak, Shokie said “The father. He was the father of the fiancé, too.”
Sid replied “Bull-crap!” and added, “Well, novels and movies are usually based on real crime.”
“Here, it seems to be topsy-turvy, right? Was that the intention?” Shokie asked me.
“How would I know?”
“Don’t you?”
I could not hold back my anger any longer. “Have you been told to frame an innocent to save some bastard – like one of those V.I.P. visitors?”
I asked to be excused for a moment. I gathered the mugs and went to the kitchen. From there, I tried to eavesdrop and only caught the following,
“I am sure that’s the murderer…but…what’s the motive?”
I returned to the drawing room. They were standing. Sid asked me,
“Do you mind if we search?”
“Do you have a warrant? Just to be correct, you know. Anyway, what do you expect to find?” I asked.
Shokie entered the fray, “Hopefully some drug or chloroform used to sedate while Rosie was being hanged? Maybe, the light-weight step-ladder, too? How about footprints, shoes, clothes? But, we won’t find any, will we?” I kept quiet.
At the door, Shokie turned to me and asked,
“Just for fun…if you were the one who committed this crime, what would be the motive?”
I stared back for a while as if I was thinking hard and then said,
“Simply…murder…without motive…just because I could.”
I stared at those dark eyes. Those dead eyes, dead after seeing too many dead murdered people. Dead like mine.
Those eyes will keep on staring, prying, violating privacy, till there’s some evidence…or, till I die…or maybe, I will be the Moriarty for this Sherlock.
I woke up, thrashing against those images of dark depths, my nightclothes drenched with sweat,
“What a nightmare!”
But, was it the dream that woke me up?
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward,
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station. This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes. We are here because of a crime. Rosie was found dead.”
Thursday, April 22, 2010
For God’s Sake, Listen!
Arjun stretched comfortably on the back seat of his firm’s sedan and sang this first line of the title song from “High Noon”[1]. The driver turned with an amused look. Arjun smiled back. He felt happy and quite contented with life.
The 10-day business trip to London was a success in the company of looters [2]. And, it included a great weekend with wonderful weather for shopping and walking. As the car moved slowly from the airport to Saki Naka, he hardly looked outside while recollecting the time at Canary Wharf, on the tube, on the Embankment, to the Tate Modern, crossing over to St. Paul’s, the latest books and movies, classics too…what a life!
A slight bump with another car shook him out of his reverie. He started making plans for the rest of the day. He wanted to get back home, have a long bath, relax in his armchair, watch the new DVD of “High Noon”…and, of course, spend time with his wife Shanthi.
He saw the Chinese restaurant at Saki Naka. That is where they had gone, before his London trip, to celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary: a cosy lunch and tender loving care for dessert. The thought made him urge the driver to go faster.
Right then, he got a call from his wife. What a coincidence, he thought.
Arjun: I was just thinking about you.
Shanthi: Have you reached?
Arjun: Yes. Just passed Saki Naka. Close to that Chinese place, remember?
Shanthi: Yeah. Arjun?
Arjun: Yupp, that’s me…don’t wear it out. Sorry, old joke, huh? Feels great to be back and I’m waiting to be with you.
Shanthi: Arjun…I’ve moved out.
Arjun: What?
Shanthi: I don’t want to live with you…I mean…I want to pursue other interests.
Arjun: Interests?
Shanthi: I have to…separate…live…without you.
Arjun: Have to?
Shanthi: Damn it! Stop sounding like your Woody Allen movies, please.
Arjun: What do you want me to sound like? Rhett Butler? Frankly my dear and $#%&ing crap…
Shanthi: Stop shouting, Arjun. Will you please, for once, for God’s sake, listen?
Arjun: Don’t tell me to listen.
Shanthi: OK…
Arjun: When did you decide?
Shanthi: I shifted 10 days back.
Arjun: Wonderful…did you wait for my flight to leave?
Shanthi: Arjun! It’s not easy for me.
Arjun: So…what’s next?
Shanthi: Do you want to meet? I thought it would be best without meeting.
Arjun: See you when I see you, is it? Fine.
Shanthi: I have taken the car and the microwave.
Arjun: The home theater?
Shanthi: Thought you might need it. I have left the fridge and the washing machine, too.
Arjun: Thanks.
Shanthi: If there’s anything I have forgotten, could you drop me an email?
Arjun: Sure. A living-out relationship [3], is it?
Shanthi: Maybe…after six months or so, my lawyer could get in touch with yours. OK?
Arjun: Hmm…
Shanthi: Take care, Arjun.
Arjun: (silent)
Shanthi: Bye. Love you.
Arjun: Me too. Good luck, kid!
The car had reached his apartment and the driver waited outside with the baggage. Arjun stepped out, thanked and gave a generous tip to the driver, nodded at the security guards and took the lift to 13D.
Shanthi had remembered to cancel the milkman but not the newspaper-wallah. Arjun gathered the old newspaper and magazines lying inside on the floor. Just out of habit, he started cutting out articles which caught his eye and made quick notes on post-it. The IPL tamasha [4], the war between the Maoists [5] and the government [6]…Arjun knew what he was doing, procrastinating.
He unpacked and had a long shower. It was late evening and he felt as if the four walls were closing in on him. Claustrophobia, was it? He wanted to take a long walk. But, that’s not a great idea in suburban Mumbai. He left the flat and nearly took the lift to the basement car park before he remembered that Shanthi had taken the (their) car. He took an auto-rickshaw and gave directions to a bar-cum-restaurant he (they) liked.
Arjun took the usual table. Not sentimental, he reasoned, it’s just the best. The waiter took his order: a double portion of crispy fried chicken (dry and spicy), Shanthi’s favourite cocktail and a cigarette pack. Shanthi used to be the adventurous one while he stuck to single malt and cigarettes. Her cocktail was: iced vodka over chopped bloody-hot green chilly. As he took the first sip, he had to blink back the tears and gasp, “Fire-and-ice. Damn you girl.”[7]
It was after the waiter had placed the second glass of the same cocktail that he asked himself, “Why? What was wrong with us?”
What did she mean by “pursue other interests” - another man, career, hobbies? Arjun had no clue about what she wanted to do in life. He assumed that she was happy with her current job, to be his wife, partner, friend, philosopher, guide, $#%&-buddy, whatever. What did she want? Is it something which she couldn’t do…with him?
A normal healthy, wealthy and lucky couple we were, Arjun thought. Vacations together, enjoying books and movies together, investing together, sharing responsibility. They were a great couple, weren’t they?
Was it because of kids or rather, the lack of it? But, both had agreed to postpone that – quite indefinitely. Arjun didn’t give a damn about propagating his genes. At best, he could tolerate kids for a few hours at a stretch and that too, if they were reasonable and mature. As for Shanthi, though she did talk about her biological clock, she never seemed too keen about kids either. At least, they never fought on that issue, Arjun recollected.
Was it sex-related? But, they were “better than average” as judged by most surveys [8]. According to the same journals, by way of frequency, choice of position and place, what-not, they were supposed to be “great”. They were passionate most of the time and quite often, at the same time. Didn’t they enjoy it? He did, didn’t he, and, Shanthi? Well, they had never fought on that issue either, Arjun remembered.
Was it because of family? But, they hardly saw them.
Were there terrible fights? Well, nothing really abnormal. Like any maturing relationship, the fights were just getting meaner, louder and the stretches of post-fight silence were lengthening, but it was never really unreasonable, he reasoned. As per current fashion, they had had a few sessions with a counsellor. They discontinued when they heard that the counsellor is an alleged paedophile. Maybe, it would have helped if they had not discontinued, Arjun wondered.
And love? Arjun grimaced. For him, love was like God. When times are good, one assumes that it’s there; when times are bad, one hopes that it’s there; and at other times, who really cares[9]? He respected her, he trusted her, he cared for her, isn’t that love-or-whatever-in-action, Arjun justified.
Why?
On the TV at the bar, an advertisement for some bike suggested, “Thinking is such a waste of time.” That sure helps [10].
Arjun left the place and returned to his flat. He reclined comfortably in his armchair, watching “High Noon” and singing along,
“Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’…
Wait, wait along…”
BACK TO POST [1] For details about this great movie with Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly, please visit http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0044706/. A video of this song seems to be available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QKLvKZ6nIiA&feature=related.
BACK TO POST [2] This is with reference to investment bankers and the case of fraud filed by the SEC against Goldman Sachs. Do you think financial reforms will happen? Please read Paul Krugman’s blog titled “Looters in Loafers”: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/19/opinion/19krugman.html?partner=rssnyt&emc=rss. The SEC might lose the battle but that’s not the point, is it? Michael Lewis wryly points out that GS “did nothing worse than live by the ethical assumptions of your market -- any money-making event short of obviously illegal is admirable” in http://preview.bloomberg.com/news/2010-04-22/bond-market-will-never-be-same-after-goldman-commentary-by-michael-lewis.html. GS suggests that the case is just politics. Who was it who said “The word 'politics' is derived from the word 'poly', meaning 'many', and the word 'ticks', meaning 'blood sucking parasites'.” Does that mean politics is a synonym for investment banking?
BACK TO POST [3] There seems to be a lot of debate about live-in relationships and pre-marital sex. Is it not a personal matter? The debate seems to have dragged in even Krishna and Radha. Lesser mortals (like social networking sites which require a herd mentality for survival) try to be mature and compromise, build a proper ‘network’ of contacts, lead a ‘moral’ life and balance longevity and expectations. Is it not true that idiots, heroes and Gods in every culture decide their own life – and, the masses follow?
BACK TO POST [4] Note 1: Has Shashi Tharoor stopped tweeting? Note 2: Does Tharoor represent Trivandrum? Note 3: Tharoor will at least have his ol’ common room buddies but where will Modi go? Note 4: Do you think this will lead to anything substantial? Why didn’t the government or the IT department conduct normal checks during the last three years?
BACK TO POST [5] Note 1: Is Arundathi Roy OK with Maoists using kids? Aren’t there other representatives of the tribals? Reference: Arundathi Roy’s article: http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?264738
BACK TO POST [6] Note 1: The PM has asked the civil service personnel to fight Naxals with development, and he has also pointed out that such underdeveloped regions and people are easy prey for extremist organizations. Note 2: If the government had someone to talk to (say, a social worker among the tribal people), what would they say? Will they prevent large-scale relocation of poor helpless and voiceless people? How do they plan to include without imposing an alien culture? How do they plan to educate and improve the standard of living? Will they bring in industries in a phased manner? Ministers and governments will change but the plan for social reform should not change for at least two to three generations.
BACK TO POST [7] Statutory warning: cigarettes and alcohol are injurious to health and more importantly, injurious to the health of those around you. If you are in solitary confinement and ready to take care of yourself, go ahead at your own risk. Some also believe that eating chicken is also injurious to health. Of course, it is probable that you might die sooner in a traffic accident or a terrorist attack.
BACK TO POST [8] A source (though not very reliable) once revealed that journalists have a software tool to “fill out” these surveys. In the first version, the tough questions delved on the missionary and who-on-top and from then on, with each version, it was a test of the geeks’ imagination.
BACK TO POST [9] A comrade once said, “It’s just a sentimental manifestation of materialism imposed upon us by crony capitalism” or, some combination or permutation of the same. For capitalists, since multi-billion dollar industries revolve around love, “anything marketable is certainly worth it”. For others, the glorified four-letter word serves multiple purposes: (a) family love – used to be the cheapest way to have a group of people to protect property and wealth; these days, it is advisable to restrict this to one spouse and utmost two children. (b) patriotism – is there another way to recruit soldiers? (c) platonic love – if either or both are repulsive or inconvenient. (d) romantic love – it is best when the lovers, one or both, meet an early death; if Shakespeare had allowed Romeo and Juliet to live happily ever after, he would not have been the Bard but a blogger. (e) etc. Some claim that humans are the only animals capable of love. Of course, we are the only animals capable of creating nuclear weapons and synthetic CDOs, too.
BACK TO POST [10] I guess I have to apologize for experimenting with footnotes on a blog even though I agree with Noel Coward who said, "Having to read footnotes resembles having to go downstairs to answer the door while in the midst of making love." Maybe, the person at the door is a better companion than the one upstairs. I wanted to write a simple happy love story but it is tough to separate the characters and the world in which they live. What do you think?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Avatar
Once in a while, I decide to try out a new avatar. Nothing dramatic – far from that actually – merely exploring the many universes I could inhabit with a few trivial decisions. Let me give you two examples.
---xxx---
Job:
I got sick of seeing the same old faces and decided to attend a few interviews. And, I got a decent job offer. For some reason, I rejected the offer. I think I gave the excuse that I expected an indecent offer.
It could not have been the numbers that mattered. I started my professional career with a paycheck of USD 60 (I repeat, monthly paycheck) but, I joined that institution based on an irrational good feeling which turned out to be right.
I did not get a good feeling at this new place.
• Maybe, it was because I heard the Big Boss use the four-letter word with a very junior employee. (Trust me, I am not puritanical but I believe in a fair fight.)
• Or maybe, I did not like the restrooms. (I do not know why they decided to have thin walls in the restroom and the Big Boss’ office.)
• Or possibly, the HR person resembled my real-estate broker. (I am being unfair to my real-estate broker but for some strange reason, all the HR people I have known resemble my real-estate broker – all except one, but she left HR to become a real-estate broker.)
Moral of the story :
Good feelings? (Use the four-letter word.) To accept good offers, forget good feelings.
Matrimony:
I joined one of the many online matrimonial sites. To those virgins who have never frequented these online adult websites, let me say that the good ones cater to a wide variety of fetishism in men and women: single, in the process of being single, divorced, without issue, with issue but without liability, normal, disabled, etc.
I curbed my inclination to be verbose and along with the mandatory inputs such as age, sex, misleading vital statistics (athletic, average, slim, etc.), entered my succinct proposal: “Looking for a trustworthy companion.”
It started off well. I was informed, “Congrats! So-and-so has expressed interest in you.”
The interested person turned out to be:
“Caring, stable, upper middle class, well-employed, preference for partners working in European countries, innocent divorce following marriage three years back which lasted few weeks, with loving six-year old child not living together.”
Since I consider an “innocent” divorce to be fictitious, I declined interest.
Then, the virus/bug/glitch occurred when I started expressing interest in suitable characters. Strangely, in all cases, my interest was being declined before I expressed it.
I contacted the administrator of the site. I received a quick (discomforting though succinct) reply: “Time-zone problem.”
I have not figured out the “time-zone” problem. One of my nasty friends offered the explanation, “Probably, you have been blocked – trustworthy people do not look for trustworthy companions.”
Moral of the story :
For company, do not look for fictitious characters. (Use the four-letter word again.)
---xxx---
That could have been the new avatar. With a few trivial decisions, one of my many lives disappeared in a space-time worm-hole. Picture me with a companion, working somewhere in Europe, earning plenty and whispering sweet loving four-letter words to my boss.
(n.b. Any resemblance to fiction is purely coincidental.)
Job:
I got sick of seeing the same old faces and decided to attend a few interviews. And, I got a decent job offer. For some reason, I rejected the offer. I think I gave the excuse that I expected an indecent offer.
It could not have been the numbers that mattered. I started my professional career with a paycheck of USD 60 (I repeat, monthly paycheck) but, I joined that institution based on an irrational good feeling which turned out to be right.
I did not get a good feeling at this new place.
• Maybe, it was because I heard the Big Boss use the four-letter word with a very junior employee. (Trust me, I am not puritanical but I believe in a fair fight.)
• Or maybe, I did not like the restrooms. (I do not know why they decided to have thin walls in the restroom and the Big Boss’ office.)
• Or possibly, the HR person resembled my real-estate broker. (I am being unfair to my real-estate broker but for some strange reason, all the HR people I have known resemble my real-estate broker – all except one, but she left HR to become a real-estate broker.)
Moral of the story :
Good feelings? (Use the four-letter word.) To accept good offers, forget good feelings.
Matrimony:
I joined one of the many online matrimonial sites. To those virgins who have never frequented these online adult websites, let me say that the good ones cater to a wide variety of fetishism in men and women: single, in the process of being single, divorced, without issue, with issue but without liability, normal, disabled, etc.
I curbed my inclination to be verbose and along with the mandatory inputs such as age, sex, misleading vital statistics (athletic, average, slim, etc.), entered my succinct proposal: “Looking for a trustworthy companion.”
It started off well. I was informed, “Congrats! So-and-so has expressed interest in you.”
The interested person turned out to be:
“Caring, stable, upper middle class, well-employed, preference for partners working in European countries, innocent divorce following marriage three years back which lasted few weeks, with loving six-year old child not living together.”
Since I consider an “innocent” divorce to be fictitious, I declined interest.
Then, the virus/bug/glitch occurred when I started expressing interest in suitable characters. Strangely, in all cases, my interest was being declined before I expressed it.
I contacted the administrator of the site. I received a quick (discomforting though succinct) reply: “Time-zone problem.”
I have not figured out the “time-zone” problem. One of my nasty friends offered the explanation, “Probably, you have been blocked – trustworthy people do not look for trustworthy companions.”
Moral of the story :
For company, do not look for fictitious characters. (Use the four-letter word again.)
That could have been the new avatar. With a few trivial decisions, one of my many lives disappeared in a space-time worm-hole. Picture me with a companion, working somewhere in Europe, earning plenty and whispering sweet loving four-letter words to my boss.
(n.b. Any resemblance to fiction is purely coincidental.)
Friday, April 9, 2010
Suicide
When Sylvia wrote
I-have-done-it-again,
You and I ooh-aah-ed;
Of what use is that
To dust six feet under?
In the good well he was found,
And his kid still quite fresh
Hanging from the new fan,
So was it with Sita and Sati,
Honour, despair, fine words.
Cowards, idiots at least;
With bulging eyes, bloated
Carcass, shit-smeared,
Not even a pretty sight,
Exiting with no encore.
Let’s be fair.
How long
Will I care
When you’re use-
Less, dead or alive?
But, you’ve nothing to kill,
By my hand or yours;
On a strange silent path,
Poor, alone and dreaming,
Hardly a page three dreary.
With a fine company of ghosts,
Madmen not so street-smart,
Worthless dead in worthy wars,
Faceless, voiceless, lifeless,
You live a suicide every day.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Madness
I’m not in chains, not yet,
room-bound, maybe;
With six windows
and the Net, I’m not really
Not free.
How did it start,
you ask, don’t you?
I didn’t do
what others did.
That’s it.
Then they whispered
and spoke in signs;
Interfered, controlled,
incapacitated, isolated.
It’s easy.
It’s tough to sit and talk,
to listen, not to judge;
It’s tough to understand,
we know it all,
Don’t we?
Threw it all away, they say,
spitting phlegm, excreting,
vomiting, sweating, crying,
Threw it all away, I say,
But me, my mind.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Not Meant To Care, My Friend
i wish i could be the one
to carve your tombstone,
my friend.
the final deed to speak of your worth,
your life, all that, o crap, you know that.
as it was, let it be, all the way mere mirth,
with a clown’s mask at an ol’ jester’s death.
while you suck in last life breath,
let me whisper the pleasant truth;
for we are mature, to bear even that,
salt upon wounded life, bleed not that.
a joke it was, between you and me,
when we did time, timed it didn’t we?
so engaged in life, with so little love to part,
two stories, two storytellers, two worlds apart.
when you pass on:
shall i comfort you,
that i will think of you,
i wish to be with you –
but surely, why lie?
it would hurt my intelligence
to feign ignorance of your need
for my love, but we are friends.
not meant to care, are we,
my friend?
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