RONADM

Sometimes you look at someone, and you say to yourself, "God, she is pretty!" It's an ordinary thing to say. But what if you have known her for years, and the loveliness escaped you all this while? I guess then you feel stupid, like I did.

You know there are some people that make it so easy for you to hate them. Have you ever gone on to be nice to any such person? Like, really really nice? And that too for a sustained period of time? I did.

Try it, it's a strange feeling. Something like when you sit awkwardly and your butt goes to sleep. We all like that, don't we? Well, at least I do. And I remember this friend of mine from school did too. Of course now he isn't my friend.

You MUST listen to this song. And this one too. Both from Dev D. Oh well this one too. Thank God for Amit Trivedi! As for Dev D, I think I am going to stick my neck out and say it will be a great film. There is a limit to how far you can ruin a classic! But then I read this review for the movie on a website and now I am not sure. But I really hope it's a great movie.

Oh, also listen to this and this (Slumdog Millionaire) and this from Delhi 6.

And if you like the music, and by now trust my judgment and good taste, read this book - Insects Are Just Like You And Me Except Some Of Them Have Wings - Kuzhali Manickavel . And even if you think I'm a crass idiot, still read it. It's a risk worth taking. Words will climb out of the pages of this magically fascinating book and fill your head with exquisite thoughts you have never ever had before. Every bit of it is so lyrically imaginative you'll want to remember it forever. And days later you actually do recall the beauty, you'll be sitting in the middle of another mundane day at work and a smile will appear from nowhere.

I came across it by chance; and read it for the first time as I walked back home from the book shop. It turned out to be one of those books that makes your heart sink as you reach the end. You wish that somehow it went on forever. Since then I have read it haphazardly, here and there, in no particular order. In fact I have found that I enjoy it much more this way.

Much against my normal self I wrote to the author expressing how wonderful I thought her book was. Honest to God that was the only intention. And I thought it would be cool to ask her to visit the blog. Which she did. But I only meant it like I tell everyone else. Of course when you send such an invite to an author, you can't help but come across as someone who said all those nice and kind words only so that she would read what I have written here. So she left me a few tips on getting some of what I write here published. Of course that's not what I wanted.

Have you gotten yourself into situations that clearly offer no chance of escaping? I have. Often. But then I have observed the best way to get out is to just allow some time to pass. Depending on the complexity of the situation and the intricacy/foolishness of the fuck up you'll need to apply more or less time.


Have you ever seen a man with sadness hanging in lumps under his chin? Neither have I.

Happy B.

I had wanted to write to myself from a few days in the past, and post my own birthday wishes to myself at midnight today. But then I kept delaying it..


It was going to be a hilarious post where I'd wish myself on the seventh anniversary of my 18th birthday (I am witty!!). Then I'd ask myself to stop being a bum - and grow up! Also I'd draw up a list of things to do before I am 30. (Shit I will be 30 in five years!!! It's so fucking scary.) Ya the list would include meeting Clint Eastwood, going to a Radiohead concert, finding the book - Confessions of Zeno, attending a Yann Tiersen live perfomrance, return to having a thirty inch waist, not lose my hair, living in a cold country for a little while, convincing myself that I get cinema, that I really get cinema, and then doing something about that, understand cooking and so on.

Anyway, there has been too much to do in the past week. So that post never got done.

*

In other news, please expect a new short story by the next weekend. You probably don't care, which is perfect. But then someday you might get really really bored and there might be absolutely nothing to do, no hair even to tear out. Maybe then, I could help?

So, I was on a stupid Indian Airlines flight to Bangalore the other day. They have really old air-hostesses that whisper into ears when they see passengers enter and then they almost start to giggle in a wicked witch sort of way as you pass them. They behave like hosts do when uninvited guests arrive for a wedding; you can't really send back anyone from a wedding but you are amused that that someone actually turned up.

Also if you ask them to find a place for your bag, they look at you like you just asked them to have sex with you in public.

I don't really care that they are old, whats the point of having pretty air-hostesses? You rarely ever get to speak to them, and there is a high chance of them being dumb. It's the reason I never really LOOK at a lovely face just passing by. What's the point? Mostly I just put my head down and walk past, it's the truth!!

No, the story isn't about Indian Airlines, or the air hostesses, or travel or avoiding pretty faces and the reasons for doing so, it's not even about World Peace!

It's something that hit me as I was sleeping with my giant egg shaped head resting on my own tiny shoulders on a flight to Bangalore. It's a funny sight especially if my mouth is slightly open. Some turbulence paid us a visit and I woke up, but only slightly and then while shifting myself to the other shoulder my face cut through the dreams I was having. Because, you see, the dreams didn't get enough time to return through my nose. I caught them.

Rest later.

*

Also about this Obama thing. While he was taking the oath, I was trying to pull out my phone from Cookie's mouth, so I missed it. It might be interesting to remember years from now.

Also I couldn't help but think - where was Joe the Plumber? What was he doing that day?

The Big Bang

His first memory was of a deafening vibration followed by a leap through empty space. The little crazy-shaped splinter of wood found himself in a peculiar predicament. His life till then consisted of one loud explosion, one short albeit glorious spell of soaring through some emptiness and finally an abrupt thud.

*

0301A56 was an ordinary ant. Like most of the colony, a common worker, a female sterile ant. She often wondered why she had to do all the work and the Queen had nothing to do but hatch eggs, and flirt with the fertile male drones. Ah the drones, she was often drawn to their spectacular mandibles and sexy long antennae. Alas, being sterile was a horribly wrong move on her part.

But the last few days 0301A56 had been a worried ant too. She had been given the responsibility of rebuilding the north-east wing of the colony. The Queen narrowly escaped the last collapse and 0300A09, the previous engineer of the said segment was torn into roughly eight or nine pieces by the vicious soldier-ants in the aftermath of the disaster.

*

He had been a watchman for as far as Kishore’s memory would take him in the past. But as time went by it was apparent that old Kishore had stopped guarding the house, instead 23, SL Lane began to look after the old man.

No one had lived at the address for almost two decades now, and the loneliness had taken its toll. The spiders had spread their empire without a single battle being fought, the sun shamelessly peeped in through the walls, pointing a million fanatical fingers at all the ruin, and the garden having had enough of sitting out in the sun all by itself decided a few years ago to saunter into the house, to where all the action was.

*

In the meantime our wooden friend lay all by himself, his confusion growing exponentially. Where was he? What was his purpose in life? What strange invisible force came in silent weightless waves and sent him spinning through space every now and again? What was that space? Was he alone? Was he threatened? Should he be afraid? What was that unidentified black object that rudely interrupted his thoughts the other day, and, without seeking permission, took him around one quick as hell circle before leaving him exactly where he was? What was the sticky slimy alien thing that evil being had left him coated in? Was the truth really out there?

The poor thing pulled himself together and travelled back to his very first memory, the explosion. He decided to call it the ‘Big Bang.’ For a while he gloated over the creativity of the name and convinced himself that nothing existed or could have existed before the Big Bang. But then giving such undue importance to himself and the stupid blast didn’t really answer any of his questions. Plus he had ethical concerns regarding this arrogant line of thought, also if he was that important surely he should have been bigger and better looking. By and by good sense came to him and he realised that only he didn’t exist before the big bang. And then really straining his wooden brain, he tried to go back to a time before that darn explosion.


A Chair. Loud Noise. Two separate loud noises. One sweeter than the other. Both equally angry. FIGHTING!! Throwing around of random objects. CRASH!! Chair being lifted. Threats. Horrendously Abusive Language. Window. Chair outside Window. Chair falls, meets with disaster. Loud Bang. End of Chair. Birth of our tiny friend.

*

0301A56 had run out of ideas. For a week now she would leave her chamber at the crack of dawn. She would walk in a different direction everyday and draw ever growing concentric circles in search of premium construction material till the day ended. It wasn’t as if 0301A56 was arrogant or had no friends to request for help; our dear friend was simply what you’d call an individual. She hated working in a team. Many were surprised when the Queen sent for her for the reconstruction work, and now many were looking forward to 0301A56 being torn into eight or nine bits.

The soldier ants had been keeping a close watch over our poor friend; with their muscular trap jaws they would guffaw every time they saw her, then they’d whisper amongst themselves and outline quick menacing circles.

In her sleep 0301A56 would see eight or nine soldier ants walking towards her, their malicious mandibles looking particularly big and in the background sexy male drones were dancing romantically around the Queen in tiny intimate circles. And suddenly the sturdiest building material appeared from nowhere and formed a giant halo behind 0301A56 node like head. And the male drones ditched the foolish gluttonous Queen for 0301A56.

The Queen was going to inspect her work that morning and because the reconstruction had been remarkable in its similarity to the previous structure, 0301A56 knew that the day was going to be the last one of her life.

*

You could say that it was difficult to tell one day of Kishore’s life from another. But if you looked closely, the cot he spent his entire time on had a mind of its own. In the summers during the day it retreated to the porch to shelter Kishore from the violent heat and stayed there till the sun drowned somewhere beyond the horizon. At night the old man was transported out under the starry sky and amidst the cool evening breeze. In the winters, the day was spent with the cot adjusting its perspective to catch the sun’s attention and by early evening both Kishore and his crib were huddled up in the warmest corner of 23, SL Lane.

Kishore himself led a life so bereft of responsibilities and purpose that every little event was a momentous episode in his head. And he lived for those trivialities.

So you could see him hop enthusiastically to the gate to celebrate every new postman that was appointed to SL Lane. Kishore would, as per his own tradition take the rookie through the lane and following established protocol sketch out an exhaustive history of each house and make all the necessary introductions. Of course after a few visits the postman would become better friends with the younger guards and drivers and ignore poor Kishore.

In the evenings he looked forward to the chance arrival of a stray cricket ball into his garden. And before the first kid ran in he would quickly hide the ball in the folds of his dhoti. Then pointing his frail arm casually he would mislead the kid till he was forced to call all his friends. The kids would search in vain, but before long the exploration would turn into a game of hide-n-seek that would, for a little while, bring back life to the lonely house and a wrinkled smile on Kishore’s old face. Later he would slip the ball three feet from his cot. Of course these days, more often than not, the kids played with spare balls or didn’t play at all.

Sometimes, Kishore would just decide to play dead. By the afternoon someone would notice and in a few hours a crowd would collect. At which point the old man would get up slowly, cough a few sentences before turning around to sleep again. However the last few times he did this nobody took notice, but Kishore was convinced it was only because he had gotten up once or twice to drink water and someone must have surely caught all the movement.

*

“It was a good deal”, said the broker from the front seat without looking back.

The young couple smiled at each other and held hands once again.

Their father said of the priest sitting beside the broker, “Swami Ji, aaj Bhoomi Poojan ke liye short notice pe ready ho gaye. It’s a good omen, son!”

Swami Ji didn’t seem to care.

The couple winked at each other and continued to hold hands even though their palms were now sweaty.

“What about the old chowkidaar? What do we do with him?”

The broker turned back and with a wry smile, “You could keep him or fire him, it’s your house now!”

The father continued, “I guess we will do away with him, it’s a large house, and we will need private security.”

The couple nodded.

The car slowed down as it entered SL Lane and after making a few enquiries appeared before House No. 23. The couple, their father and the broker all jumped out to look at the building.

“It’s Beautiful!” “Two months and as good as new, Sir!!” “Congratulations children!”

Swami Ji had already started the prayers from inside the car and after disinfecting himself with some holy water he stepped out.

“Aaaaah!”

The priest let out a violent cry; something had bit or cut his bare feet. The others rushed to him, but by then Swami Ji was pouring holy water over his feet and singing violent mantras to dispel the evil spirit that had caused this bad omen.

“It’s a definite message, you are lucky you haven’t paid the money. I have had a vision, this house is haunted. Never return.”

The couple looked at each other and then hugged. The father, a bit embarrassed of their American ways huddled them into the car and all of them left immediately.

“Don’t worry, Sir, many good houses! Here you would have to stay in hotel for two full months, maybe more. Rest you can move immediately in.”

*

Our wooden friend had barely solved the puzzle of the big bang when the unidentified black object returned. This time he was not taken for a full circle, instead he was left to dangle precariously in mid air, supported by nothing more than the stickiness of the smelly coat he was covered in. But before the tiny splinter could collect himself he fell and landed on his feet before his violent adversary. He was just beginning to clear his throat to make a speech about peace when Swami Ji’s feet landed on him. Of course our crazy-shaped friend didn’t know this; a moment later he was pulled out, this time covered in some warm liquid, and hurled into space. And in this way our splintered friend made the second glorious journey of his life.

*

0310A56 thought it would be a good idea to see the outside world one last time before her death. So she climbed out of the main entrance of her subterranean colony. The plan was to take one final walk to the top of the ant hill where 0310A56 would reflect upon her short life. But even as her antennae dangled in freedom for one last time, she caught the attention of a handful of soldier-ants. She wanted to tell them that escape was not on her mind, but then she thought being torn into eight or nine pieces would be equally horrible now or fifteen minutes later. So she just stood at the foot of the ant hill as the soldier-ants marched towards her. A row of deadly mandibles, just like from her dream except for the halo or the sexy drones.


But then suddenly from nowhere, a giant scrap of wood crashed onto the evil row of ants. So splendid was 0310A56’s luck that the bit of wood fractured the backs and broke the jaws of all those soldier ants simultaneously. And as if this was not enough the scrap of wood was perfect construction material for the north-east wing. 0310A56 shouted out to the other worker ants.

*

After his second journey too came to an abrupt end, our wooden friend decided he had had enough action for a day. But like his entire life, things were not going according to plan. Suddenly he found that he was being nibbled upon by hundreds of tiny teeth. Within seconds our friend was shining like a flag post. Then before he knew it, he was hauled up like a king and was taken on a ride sitting on a cosy bed that moved like a tiny wave. For the first time in his life the poor guy was having fun and was not being torn apart by existential questions. Very soon he disappeared into the hole at the bottom of the anthill.

Inside he couldn’t say for sure but he was being treated with a lot of respect and some very important but fat sort of thing came up to him as if to inspect his body. Then our wooden friend was taken deeper into the colony and laid to rest in an upright position between two floors. Of course he was not aware of his structural contribution to the ant nest but our friend having traced his ancestry back to a piece of furniture found that he was now, finally, at peace with himself and his life.

*

After supporting the north-east wing with the wood, 0310A56 was welcomed to loud cheers and warm applause by the colony. Then the Queen dragged her fat bum and felicitated 0310A56, presenting her a certificate. 0310A56 wondered why this was not done atop the anthill so that everyone could see; but then her eyes caught the jealous antennae of the soldier ants and she just thanked the gods for having saved her life. After the ceremony the Queen left, ant 0310A56’s friends returned to her, and a lot of hugging and dangling of antennae followed. Amidst all this 0310A56 even got to flirt with a few of the drones, who she realised were the classic and tragic combination of beauty with no brains. Plus the poor things lived only a few weeks. Suddenly their antennae seemed a lot less long and sexy.

*

From the corner of his eye Kishore had seen the car come to a halt before the house. At first he thought they were just looking for parking space, but when he saw three people look at 23, SL Lane Kishore couldn’t contain his excitement. He rearranged his dhoti and cursed himself for not having shaved since last week. Then stick in one hand he began to hop towards the gate, his smile getting wider with each half step.

When the car turned around to leave, Kishore had just about reached the gate. And even before he could say anything the car sped away leaving behind a cloud of dust. Kishore looked sadly on; he wondered why the people had come. Then he turned around, it was a summer evening and the cot needed to be pulled out into the open.

0001 AG

From the dawn of time man has had infinite quantities of it at hand.

And as is our temperament, we have used it recklessly much like every other free gift from Mrs. Nature. We sat back on our asses for a couple of million years before twiddling the bloody thumb, a large number of years were used in thousands before we realised that the dog was our best friend and lets not begin to lament the centuries lost before we finally had the ipod.

As I sit here, writing this – I am ashamed of the astonishing laziness of my ancestors. Of course, I have benefitted from their research, but it doesn’t hide the fact that if they had been slightly more industrious in their effort and ambitious in their thinking I would have been able to sustain myself and afford necessary luxuries of life (electric toothbrush etc.) without having to go to work. We had a million years and still the fools couldn’t come up with the All-O-Gratis.

Anyway, here I am - the product of generations of lethargy. Luckily so much time has gone by that even with the miserable amount of effort I am fully clothed, and it’s not deer skin, I don’t hunt my lunch or send smoke signals. I don't make a God out of everything under the sun, snakes, planets, Rajnikanth, small things, rodents, water in every form from ocean and rivers to puddles and vapour, the sun itself and so on. Also, I write a blog instead of painting caves with stupid mango pulp.

Of course some things have changed for the worse, I will not have a hundred wives, and here I make the modest assumption of being an emperor if I was in the Mughal era. Also it will not be polite to fart in public in my lifetime.

While some things remain the same; I am about as likely to be killed in the name of religion as I would have been during the 1600s.

What is also constant is the abundant amount of time I have with precious little to do. Over the years, as a race, we humans have cleverly distributed responsibilities between ourselves. So the All-O-Gratis (AGO) is what the people at CERN are working on, I don’t know why they insist on calling it The Large Hadron Collider (LHC). These scientist types need to be as creative as they are intelligent. Also the point of the AGO is that all of us have one of it, so that we can all get everything we want without having to put in any effort for it. But the AGO they have built and call by that atrociously violent name; as you’d have seen on TV, is the size of Belgium.

That’s the thing with these scientist types; they make the first version really gigantic, stodgy and un-mass-marketable. Then they begin to make it stylish and accessible, and lean and quicker. I think it’s an elaborate ploy, if we had Pentium IV and Windows XP to begin with, what would our dear Diltons do in the ensuing years?

So after the fellows at CERN took the headache of leading mankind to the pinnacle of all knowledge and truth the rest of us were left with very little to do, both in terms of quantity and quality. So minute were our collective responsibilities that we even divided them up with no clear plan. I became someone who sells detergent and blogs, you became someone who does something that involves varying proportions of using MS Excel and Powerpoint, uses the detergent and reads blogs. That’s a good way to explain your job –

Job = a*hrs. spent at work + b*hrs. spent at work

a is the MS Excel Multiplier and b is the Power Point multiplier. a and b oscillate between zero and one and must add up to at most one.

At the extreme if a is one and hence b is zero you are the proud employee of any of the three hundred and eighteen Knowledge Processing Centres (KPOs) in and around Gurgaon’s famous IFFCO Chowk. If on the other hand b is one and hence a is zero you are an HR Manager or any Senior Manager. In my case a is .01 and b is even more close to zero. I work in the field you see. High Five!!!

So what I was saying is that all of us are simply twiddling our thumbs, albeit in fancier ways, and waiting till the CERN people serve their purpose.

I am sure the thought of being held responsible for all the inane work the rest of mankind would be doing years from now will be a source of serious motivation for our heroes at CERN and enough reason for them to speed up their efforts behind the AGO.

What a day it will be though, once we all have our own star-autographed AGOs. I will move to Belgium, or any other quaint place in Europe with a lot of snow, alcohol, history and cobbled streets. Also I shall look up Clémence Poésy and offer her the impressive proposal of spending the rest of her life with me. I think she will agree, she seems like a nice girl. Very smart too. You must check her out in In Bruges, it's brilliant otherwise too. The first movie I saw in months. Oh!! Only wish those nerds would hurry it up. By the way, what would you do in 0001 AG (Anno Gratis)?

This Post Needs a Title

A title so that you can read it. Reading is a good for the heart. And also helps you fall asleep. I read before I sleep. After sleeping most of us wake up. When I wake up I go to the loo. In the loo I read the newspaper. The news is full of shit. That’s why I take it to the loo. Which is freezing in the winters. When it’s cold there is fog. I love the fog and I clear it with tea. People drink tea and read the newspaper. I am not one of them. I drink tea at work. Where it’s horrible and there is no news. Work is boring, but that’s only when I do nothing. I do nothing all the time. Time is precious but not for me. I have too much time. Which is why I am writing this. This. This. Sometimes I want to write faster ____________ think. But that’s not possible. think Of course some people type faster than they. But then they are superhuman. But superhuman people must also work. Because it gives you something to do. And pays for the rent. Of course I don’t pay rent but still I work. It pays for the good tea that I get just outside work. Outside of work there isn’t much to do. Some days I like to cook. Other days I allow time to collect between my toes. I have ten of them. Just like you. You are reading this. This. I am trying to type as I think but can’t keep up. Up is where we will all finally go. Before that I want to go to Egypt and see the pyramids. And maybe Paris. But not China. I definitely don’t like the Chinese. They seem angry, even through the TV. The TV is my best friend. Who is yours? In a few days I will be 25. 25 is a lot of years. But not much money. For 25 bucks you will only get about one cup of tea, two slices of bread and some butter. Maybe a little more. But in 25 years you can have a lot of bread. I have had a lot of bread, and you? In England, they used plates of bread and on days the gentlemen were particularly hungry, they ate their plates. England must be cold. I hate the cold, but only when I am in the loo. Do-be-do-be-dooo. Posts come from ideas. Ideas come when you think. I think best when I am alone. I’m alone best when I am in the loo. There is no one but the occasional lizard. Or spider. Or Mosquito. The spiders I avoid. The mosquitoes I kill. The lizards, they avoid me. The loo is a bit like the world that way. All sorts of characters and then there is time hanging from the ceiling or collecting in one corner. But I have a lot of time. I am only 25. Almost. Which is actually a lot of years. And enough money for coffee. Coffee is what I like. Filter. Coffee and Cigarettes was fairly vague. But we were all scared to say. A lot of things are vague. Like this post. And me. Does that mean I am an artist? If I am vague? To be an artist you need to be cool. And be ahead of your time. And die young. And dress strangely. I am not cool. And a bit behind my time. And already 25. And wear boring clothes. I can never be an artist. But in my head I am one. I have won three Oscars. All in my loo. Where it was freezing and I was bored. So I went for a walk. When I am bored my mind wanders. When my mind wanders I write a post. When I write a post I need a title. But in the loo there are no titles. Or tea for that matter. I could go on. But in the winters the bloody loo is freezing.

Abu's Bag

The street was everything people had said it would be. It was a particularly narrow lane, further stifled by rows of kiosks on either side. Behind the stalls came the string of houses, restaurants and lodges. There was no space between two buildings to tell one from another, and they were all of the same height and colour. From the middle of the street it seemed like you were looking at nothing but a wall, a tall fence of some sort, built to keep out strangers.

If you only used the number of people moving to the mosque at that time, you could choke the street completely. Yet, an equal number of men, women, children, beggars, peddlers and strangers were moving in the other direction at the same time. But nobody else seemed to notice, nobody else seemed to bump into others, nobody else got their feet stamped.

In many ways it was a different world, it smelt different, the food was different, the clothes too, and there were no posters of morning shows, or wandering animals, and nobody was staring at the women, yet, despite all the good manners, the atmosphere was somewhat squalid. Attar was being sold, dry fruits were being bought, every third shop was offering the cheapest flight tickets to the same place, but most of all it was a different world because the people were not the same.

There was a certain tension in the air, made more unbearable by the sun, which was in a particularly foul mood that summer afternoon. But nobody else seemed to be aware of it, they were mostly, well, smiling.

*

Abu’s house was like every other house near it. The steps leading up to it were uneven as if a child had made them, using only his hands. They were narrow and you’d have to bend to avoid the ceiling. Through the window of his room, you could see Abu reading his prayers, but you couldn’t hear him from the street. Momin, his little brother, was running around him in circles. Directly below them a strange old man was selling sweets. Ten rupees for a plate, hundred for ten plates and a thousand rupees for hundred plates, announced a board behind his eccentric head.

Momin moved away from the window. But in an instant he returned to circling his brother, only now he held a brown bag made of leather in his hands. To catch his brother’s attention Momin began to loosely swing the bag around in tiny circles. Immediately, Abu got up and snatched the bag away. You couldn’t say whether he had finished his prayers or not, but Momin knew he had angered his brother immensely and in a moment the little boy ran down the uneven stairs, past the old man selling sweets and escaped into the street.

Abu stretched the bag open from the top, peeped in, and then checked something delicately before pulling the strings tight to secure the contents. He seemed relieved that Momin hadn’t looked inside.

Abu was dressed oddly that day; he rarely ever wore t-shirts and jeans. He preferred traditional clothes, he felt uncomfortable fitted this way and he felt worse because his sisters constantly teased him. They said he looked like Salman Khan’s driver. He’d pull them by their hair across the house till they cried; Ammi would have to save the girls. But then hugging their mother from behind, Shakeela would tease him again. And then Abu would chase her for a second time.

He hung the bag from his shoulder in an odd way. Then Abu stood before the mirror and for a while he continued to say something to himself, again the street completely drowned his voice.

*

Soon he was out of his house, making his way through the crowd. He walked slowly but with definite purpose, with a face that seemed like it was lost in an ocean of thoughts but with eyes that were constantly alert. The bag was now in both his hands, he seemed to be avoiding any contact between the crowd and the leather. But he did it very subtly; so that you could hardly say that Abu was behaving awkwardly unless you were following him closely.

At the end of the street, the other side marked out its boundary with a row of shops selling cigarettes and a fleet of auto rickshaws carefully announcing the faith of their owners with an Om.

Abu spotted Momin there, smoking. The little boy turned blue with fear; the cigarette fell lifelessly from his mouth and after colouring part of his kurta with ash it landed on his toe. This made him jump up and around in circles, so he didn’t notice Abu walking up to him.

And then to Momin’s greatest surprise, his elder brother just ruffled his hair, and pulled his cheeks before buying him some gum. He was stunned; but before Momin could collect himself Abu was already getting inside an auto-rickshaw.

He realised he wasn’t to tell Abba about his brother taking the auto-rickshaw; Abu would have to give a good enough reason for not taking a bus like everybody else in the family. As he bit into the gum Momin wondered where Abu was going, but before he could give it any more thought his friends called out to him.

*

The bag was in Abu’s lap, he had his arms around it, but it was a strange hug, he seemed to avoid touching the bag. Usually he liked to watch the city go by, he would stare into passing cars, at the pretty girls with their lovely hair, at the shops, at old men sitting aimlessly on the streets watching everything with disbelief, at women picking clothes and exchanging gossip, at kids throwing themselves onto the windows of posh cars begging for money, at posh cars brushing aside these kids, but today Abu just stared blankly into space.

He had failed his high school for the third time and this time his Abba didn’t even beat him. No one said anything about whether he should go back to school, but no one said anything even when he didn’t. It had been many months now, and he had done nothing more than obscure jobs which amounted to little experience and even lesser money. And still no one at home said anything. For a while the silence seemed like support but lately Abu had the pathetic feeling of being someone not even worthy of scorn. He felt guilty, he wanted to yell at his father angrily for no clear reason just so that he’d yell back.

Sometimes this would become unbearable, especially when his parents would discuss Khaled Mian’s son. He was an engineer in Dubai and sent money back home every month; secretly everyone on the street wanted a son like Khaled Mian’s. To avoid feeling completely worthless Abu would stay away from home and walk pointlessly around the street.

That is when Abu met Saadat for the first time.

Saadat was about five years older than Abu, a respectable man in these parts. He was scrawny, but there was a certain charm about Saadat. He was fair in a Kashmiri sort of way and had these really intense eyes and a fine nose, and spoke in a way that drew everyone to him. Saadat was easily the most stylish man Abu had ever seen in his life.

In the evening Saadat met with a group of about twenty friends, they’d discuss various things, Urdu, Pakistan, Islam, the state of Muslims in India, Partition, Literature, and Music. He took Abu with him to one such meeting the first time they met. Abu was overwhelmed at first, but Saadat went out of his way to make him comfortable. And soon Abu was having a good time; even though he had never met any of the other men there, they didn’t even live on the street.

For the first time, someone wanted to listen to what Abu had to say, in fact Saadat and the rest encouraged his opinions, for the first time Abu was treated like an adult. There was something especially intriguing about Saadat, beyond his style, beyond his striking face, people wanted to know him, wanted to talk to him, wanted to listen to him. Very soon, Abu felt a growing respect for Saadat. He called him his elder brother, and took his advice on everything. Saadat even helped Abu with money occasionally. Before long Abu was a regular at those meetings.

*

Abu wondered what his Abba would say when he discovered what his son was going to do today. But Saadat had assured him that when the time came, if it was necessary, he’d explain things to Abu’s parents.

*

The bag was still in his lap when the auto-rickshaw screeched to a halt. Abu didn’t realise this till the driver turned around and tapped the bag gently. He awoke from his trance and furiously pulled the bag away, and then muttering something Abu placed a crumpled set of notes into the driver’s hand. The driver let out the choicest set of curses, but Abu had already walked away. He went straight to a phone booth, and pulling out a scrap of paper called the number written on it. Abu whispered some quick sentences but you couldn’t say what they were.

It was a very popular cinema hall. Often the actors would be here at the opening of their films. Only the rich could afford the ticket - more than what Abu spent in an entire week. All around there were cafés, fancy restaurants, pubs, book stores and music shops, and the girls were all unusually pretty and wore the skimpiest outfits Abu had ever seen, you could see boys flirt shamelessly, and he had heard that at night you could even catch people stumbling out of bars and kissing near the fountain. But unlike the other boys who aspired to such a life, Abu found the very idea repulsive.

The place made Abu uncomfortable and so he settled in a corner which was more deserted than the rest. He opened the bag, then holding the top he looked inside for a while, and then he put it on the ground and placed his hand inside the bag. There was no emotion on his face as he tried to rearrange something inside. It didn’t take him long, and after looking inside one last time, Abu secured the bag.

*

Abu got up and left the corner; he now held the bag gently in his hand like a suitcase and walked towards a café. As he opened the door he was overwhelmed by the number of people inside, but he soon recovered, the larger the crowd the better it was for Abu. He took a seat by the front of the café, just next to the glass wall. You could see Abu sitting there, looking like he was waiting for something. He placed the bag so that it rested against the glass wall; you could see it right next to his feet.

From outside Abu seemed impatient.

He wasn’t very comfortable there; his awkward eyes kept drifting to the bare set of legs underneath every table. The conversations in English, the sound of women laughing, the loud music and the heavy smoke, all irritated Abu, like an itch. Above all he was uncomfortable because no one in the café even noticed Abu sitting there all by himself. He sent away the waiter rudely. It wasn’t like Abu to do such a thing; he was too well mannered and too shy in these parts of the city. But as time went by Abu grew visibly annoyed, and then, suddenly, he went down to the bag and fiddled with it. Abu got up and looked around the café, from outside, you couldn’t tell but he seemed to smile dryly. Leaving the bag there Abu walked quickly out of the café.

He was walking very swiftly, away from the café. The waiter was taking another order but was looking at Abu walk away, the bag was still there. Through the glass you could see it, slightly open now.

The glass wall of the café caught a faint reflection of everything around it, the theatre, the music stores, the boys who were still flirting with the girls, the bars with their neon boards, the large movie posters; Abu was walking out of that image, quickly. For a while that reflection drowned everything around it, overwhelming reality. Only Abu’s bag made its presence felt, except nobody seemed to notice it. And even if you wanted to shout, you couldn’t, because that entire moment existed nowhere else but in that reflection and in it time was slowing down collecting below the bag concentrating around it and things were growing quieter as if they were waiting in anticipation.

Soon it felt like nothing existed but Abu’s bag, and as the clock ticked, and Abu moved completely out of the reflection, this feeling grew only stronger and more unbearable.

But then the noises returned, suddenly, and the reflection was broken and people were moving about as if nobody else had felt that tension.

*

Abu had recognised her from far away. You couldn’t really miss Nesti, Abu thought; he hadn’t seen a prettier girl in all his life. She was thin, and tall. Her skin was radiant like the moon and her eyes were large and dreamy. As she walked towards him, Abu was glad Nesti wasn’t dressed like the other girls there, and had her head covered.

She was a friend of Saadat’s and Abu had fallen in love with her when they met for the very first time at Saadat’s home. As he walked towards her, he could see her smile; nothing could have made Abu happier.

His shyness had kept him from telling Nesti he loved her. Thankfully they spent a lot of time together, and Saadat always helped him out with a lot of advice and a bit of money here and there to take her to the movies. It was Nesti’s birthday today, and Abu wanted to impress her by wishing her in English, before telling her how he felt for her. He had practiced in front of the mirror for more than a week but now he found his feet trembling a bit.

“Happy Birthday, Nesti! Many happy returns of today!”

And then all of a sudden he remembered something, “Arre, Nesti, chalo, chalo jaldi!”

Holding her by her wrist he pulled her as he ran back to the café. Nesti followed giggling and once they were inside the café, she shyly hid behind Abu’s shoulder. He sat her down, and then from the bag pulled out a pink Teddy Bear, holding a heart.

Saadat had pushed hard for a larger one wearing a red “I LOVE YOU” t-shirt, but Abu felt it would be inappropriate, also his bag wouldn’t hold the larger toy.

Abu presented it to her, and then taking Nesti completely by surprise, clumsily kissed her on the cheek, colouring them red with embarrassment. He laughed at her, but mostly it was his own nervousness. He’d seen Salman Khan do it a million times in the movies, but Abu still didn’t get the kiss right.

You could see the couple smiling and speaking to each other, Abu called out to the waiter but this time he placed his hand on the waiter’s shoulder and whispered the order into his ear. Nesti had her arms around the bear, in a tight hug; Abu couldn't have asked for more.

Abu's bag was lying by his feet; through the glass you could see that it was empty.

*

Sometimes we put up fences nobody can see, but they are there anyway, all the time, carving out the strangers and keeping them out.

Tiny Purple Fishes

If you ask me, a year is more or less like a story, it doesn’t begin and it never ends. We just select a particular evening from which to look back and to plan ahead. Well, last night I didn’t really feel like it, so I’ll probably call it a year some other time.

All my years have been fairly eventful. Last year, this time, I was in many ways another person, and then I tumbled through various incidents, small, big, tragic, happy, big and tragic, small and happy...

Fairly eventful eh? But maybe it’s simply because a year is so long a time, something or the other is bound to happen. Then again, maybe I lead a fairly interesting life; which seems plausible, but not always.

Sometimes it’s funny how we are grateful for things we needn’t be. What choice does the sun have but to shine? And the stars? And time? Could it decide to go faster or slower or better or worse? It has no alternative but to tick. People bring in the New Year with such joy; it’s almost as if we ran the risk of it never coming.

**

I have the most irritating clock in my room. It's not a Grandfather Clock which would have been way more cool; it's my grandfather's clock. Ajanta Quartz.

TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick.

It’s like it limps through the day. TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick.

Who the hell ever wants to know what second it is?

TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick.

AAAARGH

TICK tick TICK TICK TICK TICK tick Tick tick TICK tick.

It enjoys this I tell you, my agony, every time I am aware of it, the ticking gets particularly elaborate and slow, an ancient yet powerful ploy of effectively driving your enemy mad - TEEEIYUCKK teeeiyuckk TEEEIYUCKK teeeiyuckk.

That, along with the depressing energy saving bulbs, drives me crazy every night. Those bulbs are evil too. They buzz. And they aren’t even lame. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. But they purposely become dim when I want to read.

The clock is lucky it belonged to my grand father. But someday someone is going to lose an arm. And no one will notice.

BECAUSE WHO THE HELL EVER WANTS TO KNOW WHAT SECOND IT IS?

TICK ZZZ tick ZZZ TICK ZZZ tick ZZZ TICK ZZZ tick.

The bulbs are lucky I am all for saving energy and hence Mother Earth, BUT NOT FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!

**

I think I must stop aimlessly floating through blogs of other people. I am so sick of reading ornate sentences that mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. Zilch. They aren’t funny or sad, or general or even random. They are nothing. I am sorry, I am no writer, and feel free to trash how I write, but sample this…

“As I walked through what appeared nothing more than a dream with the sun crashing down on me and my day I wanted to reach into my cold thoughts for those tiny purple fish, my short-lived hopes and despair. But then I spoke of him to myself and the conversation carved pretty blue and tiny ripples across my life and I smiled.

I will never be yours.

I cried.”

“What the??” “FUCK” “Who are these people???”

And I am sorry, but women are more to blame here, they pick a collection of words like azure, loco, fable, and then just spread it across a post. Think about it, a post like that, a senile ticking clock and evil bulbs.

I am positively frightened of the New Year already.

**

A lot of people say your year will turn out as good or bad as the first day. I think it’s a load of crap. But just to be on the safe side, I haven’t had a bath, answered my phone or worked; I have been in bed all day and have eaten like a pig, also I watched Maléna, and like Renato I was fascinated by the general purity of her soul and the naked scenes, and I am writing a post!!

TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick Tick tick TICK tick.

Enough. Sorry Grandpa!

**

Oh by the way, that paragraph, I made it up using obscure words, some absurd phrases and lyrics by Cream. Sorry, Cream. But I swear; the net is full of such writing. It’s really exasperating.

**

The Coffee Song - by Colton and Smith

Theres a full time reservation
Made in a sort of bar at some location,
And theres a story, a kind of fable,
On a card at the corner table.
On it is a message; been there some time.
It starts off, the coffee tasted so fine...

It says, one day, this may find you,
These few words may just remind you.
We sat here together just to pass time;
You said how the coffee tasted so fine.

It goes on to say, I love you.
If you should find this I must hear from you.
It gives a number but the name has faded away.
All that is left are just the words, maybe someday...

Thats the story and the fable;
Never leave alone from a corner table.
Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo.
Doo doo-doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo doo.

**

I can't stop editing this post, or eating LOTTE Choco Pies (yum), or listening to Cream.

I'm finally listening to lyrics.