The Internet Cloud

I login, as ever, soon as I get up in the morning, and scroll down the familiar application window to check how populated my friend list is. I do this every day without exception or purpose, like a dog dusts itself after an severe scuffle in the mud with another. My fingers coil over the mouse with confidence, each one at ease with what is expected of it. The mouse’s incarnation inside the screen transforms the uneven human motion into a more graceful glide.

I see the same familiar faces. Familiar names. People I know, spread across the planet, unified together in this moment by habit and digital codes. They will stay here, throughout the day, always within reach, and yet I may perhaps not offer them a cursory greeting.

And yet, I continue to scroll. A million times a day. Minute after minute. Hour after hour. For what? Hope?

And then some day, I shall find that unfamiliar name. The name that I have been waiting for. The name I have not seen in days. Perhaps months. All this time, I’ll have been glancing perfunctorily at the other names, recognizing but not registering. And then, just as perfunctorily, your name will be sitting there, unassuming in the crowd.

And then I’ll be taken over by that most mystifying of all human traits – hesitation. Should I greet you immediately, desperately? Or should I wait, nonchalant and impassive as any other name on your screen, escaped from notice? I’ll wait. I’ll open a dozen sites, grown bland and uninteresting as canteen food, and sift through them, as if your name on the screen will be watching my every move. Every once in a while, I will steal a glance towards where your name ought to be, satisfying myself that you are still here, intensely proximal. I shall pick out other names in the list and greet them, names I’ve not spoken to in ages. Some of them will return the greeting, some will not. Of those that do, some will strike further conversation; some will simply stare at me out of that screen, through all those 0s and 1s, without a word.

Some days, I will be too late. All at once, you shall disappear, as suddenly as you appeared, from under my watchful eyes. And I shall be heartbroken I waited too long. But then, I will think, if you were only there for these handful of minutes, I could not have had a conversation anyway.

Some days, you will be too late. You shall just float there forever, I know not for what reason, but long enough for my desperation to pump through my heart and into my fingers. And I shall type ‘Good Time of Day’ and press the fatal ‘Return’ key before I can stop myself. I will stare in horror at my foolhardiness, wishing I could turn back Time and not do it. But it will be gone. Like words spoken.

Then shall begin the excruciating wait. Would you respond? Or would you ignore my sudden bursting forth, perhaps with a chuckle, as I do to so many who dare do the same with me? Again, I shall go back to my dozen sites, browsing through them, checking mail, playing games, as if everything were fine. Hell, I would even close the bloody window with your name on it, dismissing you from sight, as if it did not matter whether or not you replied. All the time, desperately hoping, that suddenly, out of nowhere, the window would pop up again, with your lovely written words in it.

Occasionally, it does pop up. An impersonal ‘Hi, how are you?’ to my warm ‘Good Time of Day’. Words that can be spoken anywhere and to anyone and mean nothing. Hollow. But at least, there is a reply. A chance to extend beyond. So I think about what I shall write next. Again, nothing too personal so quickly. Something simple, witty, unique. ‘How’s the city treating you?’ maybe. And then I must wait again. This time, more heartbreakingly than before, for hope is replaced by expectation. For infinite seconds, nothing happens. I implore, with all my might, you, all vestiges of civilized indifference devastated in your ‘Hi, how are you?’. Then slowly, the window flickers. There are those extra words of agony next to your name ‘...is typing’. What will you say? Will you enchant me with a description of your city? Or will you dismiss this question, beseeching you for words, as an innocuous demand upon your time? Or will you start to speak, as you already have, and then simply let it hang, dashing my hopes with ‘...is typing’ for eternity?

Whatever you do, I shall be waiting for you the next time too.

Short Story - The Porn Story

I first met the extraordinary Mrs. Gupta in a sleepy little cocktail party that one of our mutual friends had invited us to. I had, of course, heard of her from various sources, and though most of the stories constituted of the same basic facts, I never quite managed to shake off my incredulity towards them.

At first glance, I could detect nothing in her appearance to betray her reportedly macabre tastes. She was and looked well over seventy, draped in a spotless white sari with elegant black borders. Her face appeared entirely composed of deep lines and wrinkles of varying sizes, her lips thin and colourless, as if they were inward extensions of the lines on each side of them. Small, black, lifeless eyes. Her hair had turned completely gray and lay thinly on her head in long frail strands bunched together tightly near the nape of her neck. She sat patiently listening to and evidently uninterested in the high pitched gossips of the ladies around her. The only feature worth noting, I reflected, was the absence of glasses. I had rarely seen a woman of that age without them.

It was during a particularly low phase in my fledgling career as a writer. In the past year, I had published a few stories in second grade magazines, earning barely sufficient money to stay afloat in a city like Mumbai. For several months, I’d been constantly approaching publishers to see if my motley collection of stories and essays could be combined into one volume through a common thread; a thread I myself could not detect. Expectedly, the publishers were not keen. They told me I could become a pretty decent author, but not by writing short stories. Write a full length novel and come back to us, they said. These days, nobody publishes short stories by an unknown author, they added.

And so here I was, trying desperately to find inspiration for a novel. There were none coming. Everywhere I went, everything I looked at, I tried to find myself a story. I even attempted to put myself into the shoes of authors past and how they’d look at a scene. Once, I’d sat three hours in front of an old, nearly blind beggar staring at him, until he’d gotten so uncomfortable that he’d limped off himself. What would the great authors write about him? Murakami would possess him with powers to make frogs or fishes or some such thing fall from the sky. Coetzee would create a poignant history of the man and who he was. Beckett would perhaps see him waiting for that one coin that would change his luck. Kafka would simply name him K. Which of these interpretations would I enjoy the most? For a long time, I had considered the one closest to my own to be an indication of the best. For wasn’t it when an author could describe a situation as if you were doing it yourself, as if he had gotten into your head and read your thoughts, that he achieved the inhuman? But then, I reasoned, that meant the author had merely reproduced what one has already thought oneself and has, therefore, little to offer by way of an alternate perception. So then was it the work that differs the most from one’s perception that should be considered the greatest?

Coming back to Mrs. Gupta, the chance encounter with her raised high hopes for me. A woman whose life and inexplicable tastes were worthy of being documented. A woman who perhaps held in her mind my future. A woman I had to talk to.

And so I walked up to her and offered her a glass of wine, which she graciously declined. I introduced myself.

“A writer, I see. How interesting”

Then she looked away again into the crowded milieu of multicoloured skins and fabrics, as if that interested her more. I asked if I could sit next to her for a while. She looked up at me for a moment with a semblance of surprise and then nodded.

“You don’t appear very interested in talking to all these people; don’t know many of them, I gather?”

“I know all of them”

“Oh”

For the next half hour, we sat next to each other, without conversation. At the end of it, she asked me to help her to her feet. I did so.

“Thank you, young man” she said “Visit my home sometime if you want to. I get quite lonely sometimes. A cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yes, of course. It’ll give me great pleasure.”

She nodded, picked up the walking stick next to the chair and walked off.

For a week after that, I meditated on how serious she really had been about the invitation to coffee. She had appeared earnest enough. The more pressing concern, however, was whether I should indeed go. If indeed the rumours about her were true, this could lead to an encounter more demanding than one over coffee. But I was desperate for my story. So I went.

Nothing happened. Her home was a lovely little two storey bungalow by the seaside. She didn’t speak much at all, politely answering whatever queries I put to her. I, prudently, avoided talking to her of what really held my interest. After a couple of hours, I bade her goodbye.

“Come back some time if you want to” she said, as I walked out.

Come back, I did. Several times in the next two months. Determined. Dogged. Each time, I spent a little more time with her. I learnt she had had a husband who died some ten years ago. I learnt she had a son she hadn’t seen in fifteen years, though he lived in the same city. I learnt she liked walking to the nearby park once a week and play with the children there.

It was probably my fourteenth visit, when she proposed I accompany her upstairs to see what it looked like. So far, she’d never shown me around the house and I hadn’t expressed any particular inclination in doing so. I was immediately on alert, the fear of what this might culminate in, coming back. But there was no conceivable reason why I could refuse and so followed her up the stairs, anxious and perspiring.

The stairs ended in a balcony, one that was visible from outside the house. It looked extremely clean, given the sea and the sand right next to it, and was evidently cared for. At the far end of the balcony, there was a door that led into what looked like a penthouse. She waited while I walked around the balcony, taking in the view and making mental notes of what I would or would not describe, if this did end in a story. Then she gestured towards the door and led me into the room.

It was a penthouse alright. Converted into a library. Four shelves full of books. There was a small glass paned window next to which was a medium sized reading table and two chairs.

I walked up to a shelf and picked up a book. And I realized all that I had heard of her was true. The truth was placed neatly, row upon row, stack upon stack, hundreds of them. On all the shelves

Porn. Magazines, graphic novels, literature. All porn.

I dared not look at her. I leafed through a few, scarcely able to keep my hands from shaking. A seventy year old woman, perfectly sane, who devoured porn.

I said nothing. She said nothing. I quietly made my downstairs; she made no attempt to intervene.

At the door, I turned around and asked her to if I could have a glass of water. She returned a minute later with it.

“I’ll take your leave now” I said.

“Do come back again”

That’s it. No explanations. But she had wanted me to see that room. Why? And what secret perversion made her keep, and in all likelihood read, all of that? What was the meaning of all this?

For a month after that, I did not go back. I lay at home, rarely going out, thinking of her. Devising stories. I thought of several, each more morbid than the other. But that was not the point. I had to know what the truth was. I had to ask her. And if her letting me have a look meant anything, then she probably wanted me to ask. She knew I was a writer.

So one morning, I called her and asked if I could see her. She consented, without letting her voice betray whether or not she wanted me to. I went anyway.

As always, she sat me in the cosy sofa where I always sat and went inside to make us some coffee. I sat there, looking around me, half expecting to see what I did not know.

She put the cups on the table and sat opposite me, looking at me intently. I did not speak. The silence hung over us oppressively.

“You wanted to see me again.” She said after a while. I nodded.

“It is about the library, isn’t it?”

“Yes”

“You want to make a story out of this, don’t you?”

I did not respond.

“That’s why you’ve been coming to me all this time”

I remained silent, staring down into my cup.

“So go ahead, ask.”

I looked up. She had been staring at me all the time.

“Why?” I asked

Her husband had been a moderately successful businessman. She had met her when she was about thirty and he well over forty. She had fallen madly in love with him and his money. He was in love with sex. So they had married.

A year into the marriage, they had realized that compatibility did not enter the equation for the two of them. They didn’t have the same tastes in anything. Not even different tastes. They just didn’t know what they wanted, assured only of the fact that whatever one desired, the other did not. Before either could contemplate a separation, a child had been produced. So, for the rest of their lives, they based their relationship on sex. To the very end. Just that.

Their son had, once he grew up, sensed the apathy that the two had towards themselves and towards him. So he had left. The two had gone on anyway.

And then the husband had died. And Mrs. Gupta’s entire life, wasted, had come tumbling down on her. She had mourned and wept for two years, yearning for her husband’s physical presence. There was no memory of him, of their time together, that she could conjure up to soothe her grief, to replace it with melancholy. And that made his absence more severe.

She looked back and forth in her life to find what she could go on with now. There was nothing. Once, before their marriage, she’d wanted to paint. Now her hands trembled and she smeared paint over the canvass.

Then one day, she had picked herself up, put on a dress she’d worn when she was young and which ill fitted her, put on pounds of makeup and gone to a pub. There she had sat alone at a table, staring at every man that walked in, smiling coquettishly at whoever cared to look at her. Nobody had come to her, talked to her. She’d returned home after they told her they had to close and cried herself to sleep.

Thus she spent every night thereafter. Sitting in one of the corner tables, being a laughing stock. Until one day, a young handsome looking fellow had walked up to her and asked her if she’d like a drink.

Later that night, she had returned home with him. She had asked him to wait in the hall, while she decorated her bedroom with fragrant colourful candles, which she’d bought in anticipation. Then she had stripped herself naked, switched off the lights and asked him to come in. When he entered, he had turned the light on. He wanted to see her for what she was, he told her. He had looked at her with tender eyes as she stood disconsolate and feeling more naked than she had ever felt before. Then he had walked up to her, taken her in his arms, and gently kissed her on the lips.

He had tried desperately to arouse her, to satisfy her. That she could not experience anything close to an orgasm, was entirely God’s fault. In truth, she never had had an orgasm in twenty years; when she was with her husband, that had not seemed to matter. She had cried desperately, clinging on to the young man, sniffing I am sorrys and saliva all over him. There was nothing wrong with what had happened, the man had told her. He had asked her to wait while he went outside and returned with a book in his hand. What is it, she had asked. It’s porn, he had replied. So they had lain there the rest of the night, in each others’ arms and he had read the entire book to her. She had not stopped crying, with sadness and pleasure and relief. Thank you, she had said. Thank you, as she dozed off in the best sleep of her life. In the morning, when she had woken up, he was gone. She found a note from him which said he was sorry and that he couldn’t let his conscience do this any longer.

A week later, a large parcel had arrived. It was from her son. He had sent her two porn magazines. She had read them, standing on the porch, right where she had opened them.

Another parcel arrived after a week. They continued to arrive week after week, year after year.

Her son had never come to meet her himself. The incredible library upstairs was her memories of her husband, her son and that last wonderful night she would have in her life, all rolled into one.

All of this, I wanted her to tell me.

“That is no business of yours” she told me instead.

Short Story - Ganglands

Once upon a time, in a little known town in India, there lived two handsome young men, driven by one great ambition – to bring the town’s haphazard but promising gangland under their control. Naturally, the two bayed for each other’s blood.

Now, the small time gang lords, obviously displeased with this interference, against their best judgements, called a temporary truce and convened a meeting in a long abandoned textile mill, appropriately located in a rundown part of town. That these two would have to be stopped was agreed upon unequivocally. However, exactly how this should be accomplished was more vigorously discussed. Various means were suggested. Coercion was immediately ruled out given the well known ambitiousness and stubbornness of the individuals in question. Eliminating them was deemed too drastic; the two had by that time gained much popularity amongst the minions and such an action could lead to outrage and revolt.  Someone suggested eliciting the local police’s help. “Let them sleep” said somebody else.

The problem was nobody had definite knowledge of how the two men planned to lay siege upon their fiefdoms and therefore planning a counteroffensive proved to be a somewhat ambiguous task. When after many hours of poring over the matter, no consensus could be arrived at, they decided to not indulge in any immediate action; rather let those two make the first move. Nevertheless, the gang lords promised to bury individual differences and business interests and remain united against this enigmatic external threat.

With this uneasy alliance, the town became an edgy, peaceful place. The small time crooks, drug dealers, robbers, etc, part of one clan or the other, were given strict instructions to not pick up fights with members of rival clans. To assuage their barely controllable tempers, they were allowed free booze in the evenings and free women later. So there they were in the ill-lit bars from early evening, drinking their fill and exchanging hostile and helpless glances with each other. In the early hours of the morning, they’d be deposited into a girl’s room, where they’d sleep till the next evening.

The townsfolk too were disgruntled. The perennial conflict of the gangs had been the cornerstone of the town’s economy. With the war on hold, bribes and payoffs reduced to a trickle. Bar owners and pimps had to peddle their wares at enormous discounts to the gang lords, owing to the free booze & women benefits being meted out. This meant the common folk had to be charged higher to keep the money flowing in. The drug trade too suffered. In the absence of competing clans vying for the same set of customers, prices shot up.

In short, the entire town was on the verge of revolt.

This was precisely the situation the two young men had hoped for. Without any effort on their own parts, they could see discontent and rage set in the ranks. This was their golden chance to exploit the situation. And thus started the long drawn and skilful process of indulging and buying out men from all echelons of these gangs. So began the great exodus. Money was spent, favours exchanged and infidels eliminated. For the disgruntled populace, a fantastic new opportunity had opened up. They negotiated and renegotiated with the two aspiring men; each out to outdo the other in the formation of their armies.

 By the time the gang lords realized their folly, it was a tad too late. For a while, they threatened their men and the public with violence. They met with abject failure. The town had witnessed firsthand the limitations of these aging lords and had no intention of bringing them back to power. Each act of violence was retaliated with a more gruesome one. Myriad battles raged on the streets. Blood spilled and flowed. The sewers overflowed with disposed bodies.

In time, the gang lords realized the hopelessness of their predicament. There was nothing they could do now. They summoned their closest aides and advisors and scratched their heads over an alternate solution. As it turned out, there was only one. They had to reach a compromise with either of the two factions. And they had to do it before the rest. Hasty communications were sent. The lords fell over each other in their bid to align themselves with those in positions of power.

The two men bargained hard. Those that committed the highest percentages, had more and pertinent officials on their payroll and were docile or dumb enough to not pose future threat were preferred. The rest, like their henchmen, were thrown out of the window. Literally.

Eventually, the realignment was complete. Drug peddlers and pimps infested the streets again. The bars reopened their supplies of booze at affordable prices to the commoner. The town returned to normalcy.

The revolt, however, had been a great education for both the men. And it was important to avoid this at all costs. Peace , calm and unity were virtues of another world. So then, the two avowed enemies met. They understood that for one to survive, the other must too. But coexistence could not be congenial. Therefore, the two men shook hands and made several important decisions. Artificial and actual sale prices, payoffs, etc were fixed, leaving sufficient room for bargaining and satisfaction for the public. Intermittent, unremarkable clashes between the two were mandated. These would be used to cleanse each others’ groups of irrelevant, dispensable resources. Deriding each other on public platforms was encouraged.

For many years hence, the town blossomed. The economy expanded manifold. As did prices, which didn’t pinch the citizens so much since they themselves were receiving higher payoffs and revenues in business. Occasional scuffles between the two regimes were doctored; irrelevant The two men grew their wealth and power even as the rest remained happy and as poor as they always had been.

Till the two ran, unplanned, into each other at a posh restaurant and didn’t know how to react. Everybody in the vicinity closed in around them, expecting a thrilling encounter. Their bodyguards and disciples, unaware of the arrangement of coexistence, drew their guns and readied for a bloody finale. There was no escape.

“Put your guns down” said one of the young men to his bunch, “this is between him and me”

The other fellow commanded his troops likewise.

They formed a battle ring around the two men. “A fight till death!” cried someone.

“Yes! Yes! A fight till death!” echoed everyone else.

And thus began the great combat. They exchanged blows and kicks and everything else in their armoury. For hours they strived for an artificial advantage, even as their minds raced to find a way out of the mess. They were battered, bruised and barely able to stand. Yet they fought on. Finally, one of them, punched hard on the nose fell and would not get up.

Someone threw a gun into the ring. “Finish him! Finish him!” they cried, even as the other side looked on in horror.

The man picked up the gun and stood over his motionless competitor. He took aim. Suddenly, the other man, swung his legs into his knees. He toppled and fell, the gun slipping out of his hands. Even as he fell, with one swift action, the other man reached for the gun and fired. On the chandelier that hung over them. The chandelier groaned and came crashing down, breaking into a million pieces of useless glass and burying both men underneath.

When they woke up, they lay in the local hospital, in their respective rooms. Their followers stood teary eyed all around them. As their eyes gradually focussed on the real world again, they heard chants of relief and gratitude.

“He’s come back to us! He’s come back to us!”

They looked around quizzically at their bunch, failing to comprehend what all the noise was about. Who were these people anyway?

The doctors diagnosed them with loss of memory. They may regain it with time, they said. When they go back to their old familiar people, objects and places, they might.

The doctors’ instructions were followed. Back in their dens, the two spent time reading the local newspaper, sipping tea with biscuits and refusing to acknowledge anyone with familiarity.

All the clashes and violence and trade that had remained standstill while the two were still in hospital, returned with a vengeance. Each clan indicted the other for the state of their leader. The town watched and heard from behind closed doors and shuttered windows, as the war raged on the streets. Loss of property and life became irrelevant. Nobody knew where this would end.

Even as the war waged, close allies of the two men worked endlessly and tirelessly on them to regain their memory and take stock of the situation. Old stories were recounted in excruciating details, supplemented with photographs wherever possible. Nothing worked.

Unable to control the self destructive bloodshed on the streets any longer, the think tank of both sides decided their only hope was to make the two confront each other again. Recreating that epic battle in the restaurant could conceivably strike a chord inside their wayward minds.

The restaurant scene was recreated with painstaking detail. They searched and found everyone who had been present that day. Many had, of course, died in the meanwhile, but there was nothing that could be done about that. The same people, the same waiters, the same tables, the same time, the same date, the same clothes.

And so, they met again. The crowd cheered and jeered. “A fight till death” someone shouted.

“Yes! Yes! A fight till death!” echoed everyone else.

“He is your worst enemy! You want to kill him!” aides whispered into their ears.

“Maybe he is. But now, I don’t even know him!” they replied

Waiting

He sat, waiting.

He stretched out his legs under the table one after the other, feeling the muted click at the knees. It meant nothing and felt like nothing but felt good. He’d been waiting for a while.

He looked around at people on the other tables. Friends, businessmen, lovers, to be lovers. Hot females. Well dressed females. Dumb males. It takes all sorts, he thought.

Nobody minded the ridiculously loud music. Nobody minded the clock slipping past midnight. Nobody minded the waiters and waitresses fleeting deftly around their tables, overhearing comfortably what they discussed. Nobody minded the city outside. It was Mumbai. It could have been New York.

He sipped some more beer. Licking the froth off his lips, he studied the mug, three quarters filled. Décors changed. Menus changed. Even whisky glasses changed. But beer mugs never did. Anywhere.

He thought for a while about Nikita. And how not beautiful she was. Eyes too far apart, accentuated by brows that met. Oversized cheeks that seemed as if they were locked in a battle to stretch her face outwards on either side. The strange combination of a roundish face, short neck and broad shoulders. The slightly bulging belly which she refused to conceal through her choice of tight body hugging outfits. Nice legs though. And a nice girl. He really wished something worked out between them.

He picked up his mug and held it up against the dim yellow light bulb of the pub. Closing one eye, he looked into the side. The bulb looked a little yellower and the area around it a little darker. He moved the mug down slowly, waiting for the bulb to rise above the beer into clear glass. When it did, it revealed his sticky, oily fingerprints on the mug. He wiped them off with his palms as best as he could. Next, he tried to hold the mug at the exact position where the bulb would be half out of the liquid and found his hand shook too much. He sighed and put it back on the table.

On the table right in front, a couple (to be lovers) was regretting their decision to sit across the table. He wouldn’t have minded the girl himself. Outside, another couple stood waiting impatiently. They’d been waiting for some time. He didn’t mind that girl either. Not long to wait now.

He flipped out another cigarette and motioned to the waiter, who graciously offered him a lighter. He looked at his watch. It’d been two minutes since he’d seen it last. He waited for the second hand to move and just when he was about to decide there was something the matter with it, it did. It was as if time was waiting with him.

The couple moved out and the one waiting moved in. Lovers surely; nobody went on prospective dates after midnight. He hoped the girl, with her low cut green gown, would sit on the opposite side. She did not. Instinctively, he gazed down at his own attire and wondered how ridiculous he must look, all dressed up and alone. He straightened his shirt with his hand, dabbed at the mound that his trousers made over his crotch and looked around to check if anybody had noticed.

Still no sign of him.

He went back to his beer mug. The fizz rose to the top of the mug, each bubble in a race against the others to get there first. To them, I must be God; he contemplated this for a few seconds and then sipped a little.

He clearly felt the effects of the beer now. Not that it would make his speech disjointed or slurred or screw up his sense of straight lines. Alcohol never did that to him. It only made him make conversation. Made him enjoy conversations. And made him adore Fatih Akin.

The watch had moved another three minutes.

The crowd inside the pub had gradually thinned. Just four tables, including his, were occupied. Almost in sync, the music had imperceptibly melted into softer instrumental sounds; the place felt more intimate now. The couple in front of him were holding hands, he noticed. On a table behind him, another couple were readying to leave, struggling to keep their hands off each other. Some distance away, a group of four young men (college kids, probably) chattered away. He focused his stare on them, absolutely certain of what he was looking for. Soon enough, one of them stole a glance at one couple and the other. He made some comment and the others sniggered. Brothers!

The drink again. It was like the centre of his existence in this place. The pub and he had no business with each other. It was only the beer that brought them together. He gulped it down quickly till only a little, barely sufficient for one last swig, remained.

At long last, he came. He saw him walk up to his table in measured, confident strides, an irritating apologetic smile plastered across his face. Thank You Sir, the waiter whispered and placed his credit card and the processed bill on the table.

He picked up the card, nodded and left.

Mosquito Repellent

He sighed. Slapping the book shut, he placed it carefully next to the makeshift mattress on the floor which had, out of disinterest and laziness, become a permanent bed for him and a permanent fixture in the drawing room. The watch read 2 AM. He checked, one more time, the alarm he’d set for 7 the impending morning, then lifted himself up off the mattress and scrambled, as noiselessly as possible, to the washroom. The door, lamenting in its disrepair, creaked ruefully. Relieving himself, he sighed again, his tool throbbing in ecstasy as it finally shed the weight of its restraint and with it, more than an hour’s torment.

Before switching off the lights, he stole a quick glance around the room, taking in the discolored white walls and the multitudes of haphazardly scattered newspapers, magazines, open biscuit and wafer packs, polythene bags, shoes and the enormous television set on the floor. It was only Tuesday; it would be another four days before the maid came and cleared some of the mess. On the mattress right next to his, his roommate was already fast asleep. On the other side of him, through the Indian High-rise version of a French window (that slid open unto a cramped balcony), he could see the twinkling lights of the Mumbai night; the city desperately holding onto its conscious being even as the consciousness of those that actually provide relevance to its existence, the people, slowly melted into dreams and dreamlessness. He switched off the light, switched on the liquid mosquito repellent and lay down on his bed.

For the first few moments, he stared into the vacant darkness, more aware than ever of the grunts from the ill-oiled ceiling fan and occasional honks of late night automobiles. The red glow from the mosquito repellent lit up the switchboard around it, investing it with a faintly surreal presence. As his retinas expanded to take in more of the darkness and thus, resurrect his sight, the room gradually reconstructed itself around him. In the meanwhile, the roommate had commenced snoring with involuntary abandon. He’d noticed for some time now that darkness was in some weird manner, a catalyst for the snores, as if it dissipated the subconscious’s embarrassment and inhibitions in the light.

He reflected on the long, tiring day that had been. Fourteen unfruitful, uninteresting hours in office. There was more to come next day; he was to fly to another city to meet people with whom he’d have to discuss the developments of today. I need to get some sleep, he said to himself and closed his eyes.

For some reason he couldn’t sleep. Maybe because of the snoring right next to him, but he didn’t think so. Over the months, he’d grown used to it. No, that wasn’t the case. Somehow, a strange feeling that something was not quite right infested his mind. He opened his eyes and inspected the room. Everything seemed to be in order. But he couldn’t sleep.

So, he stared out of the window into the distance. From where he lay, all he could see was the upper crust of the city and city’s halo permeating the sky above. There was no moon. And he noticed the mosquito repellent’s red glow reflected outside the windowpane from within, a metaphysical twin brother suspended from the heavens. He chuckled at his own half baked poeticism. Maybe I’ll write about this someday, he thought. He resumed looking into the distance, searching for more objects that could become subjects in his, as yet, fictional essay.

Some distance from the balcony, a wire cable was strung across his view. On it were perched dozens of sleeping pigeons. An independent, carefree life? He mused. No, too commonplace, too inelegant. Intermittently, he noted sudden twitches and jerks on the pigeon’s wings, involuntary in all probability. It is not the tools at one’s disposal that decides freedom, it is the conscious use of them? Bullshit, what’s with freedom today?

He came back to the red glow. It appeared to be shuddering a little, an illusion borne out of the slight trembling of the windowpane due to the wind outside, but nonetheless adding to its mystique. Perhaps, the reflection wants to rid itself of the burden of its existence? Now that would be absolute freedom, wouldn’t it? What the fuck!

All at once, the feeling of something not quite right came back to him. The glow had shifted up a little bit. Had it? He stole a quick glance at the mosquito repellent inside the room. It was still exactly where it always was. Obviously. He turned back to the glow outside. It appeared to have shifted up further. What was this? He appraised the entire room, not really knowing what he was looking for. Whatever it was, he did not find it. Maybe, I’ve been reading too much Murakami, he thought. He looked at his roommate, still fast asleep; he realized now that the snoring had stopped.

The glow had shifted further up, almost touching the roof of his balcony. There could not possibly be any doubt now; it definitely was moving. Even as he stared at it, the glow shuddered one final time and vanished into the floor above. He turned around, with wide, frantic eyes. The repellent was still there.

What should I do? He thought about getting up and going out into the balcony. Or switching off the repellent. Or just walking about for a while. But he found he couldn’t move. Not that some invisible force had paralyzed him, it was just that he couldn’t bring himself to move. So, he just lay there.

Nothing more happened. In a while, he drifted off to sleep. It had been a long, tiring day.

Stalemate

I was born in the winter of ’83; Akhil in the summer of ’83, and Nikhil in the autumn of ’82. This marked disparity in the seasons of our arrival, however, did not prove to be an impediment to our camaraderie, which we struck almost as soon as the last of us had poked his head out, owing to the already blossomed friendship of our parents.

Even before we had any idea of what went on around us, we found ourselves thrown together in all kinds of weird situations. Being brothers, Akhil and Nikhil had to bear the brunt of these. They were frequently laid next to each other, in various stages of undress, to which they further contributed by splashing their limbs wildly and with total disregard for social etiquette, on strange mattresses, waterproof, that squeaked embarrassingly and regularly. To make matters worse, it was in such vulnerable situations, that the two were deemed to be at their cutest, and throngs of grown-ups hovered over them, smiling, tickling, and clapping and making observations on their resemblances to their parents. On such occasions when my parents visited theirs and vice versa, I joined Akhil and Nikhil in being objects of public display and affection. Thoroughly frustrated with all the unsolicited attention, we made attempts to mouth some severe foul language, but what emerged instead were indecipherable cackles, which only added to the general amusement. It was then that we cried.

Even twenty five years later, though they are a very different kind of friends than they were all those years ago, they continue to hold on to their spaces in my subconscious. Several times a day, in the most trivial and unrelated incidents, they are fetched into my thoughts. Just the other day I spotted this cripple limping towards me, while I was having a delicious double chicken egg roll at one of those shabby roadside joints with grimy, discolored pans and staff that are found in multiples in every conceivable corner of Kolkata. The moment I saw the man, I was reminded of Nikhil. The two of them had so much in common, other than the fact that Nikhil is not lame. It is just that he is really lame. He’s the kind of chap who keeps staring at you queerly long after you’ve finished a joke and everybody else has finished laughing and starts laughing uncontrollably halfway through when he is telling a joke himself.

Then there was this time when I walked into the rest room at an up market restaurant and, having sat myself comfortably, found myself staring at a full length mirror in front of me. When I reflect back on that moment now, it seems inexplicable that I should think of my two friends at the time instead of the absurdity of the mirror’s presence inside that place. It is not a pretty sight. But anyway, what I did think of was my two friends. I suppose it was because my earliest memories of being in that position, while staring at somebody doing the same thing and staring back, were with Akhil and Nikhil.

The point is the two of them lurked on the outer peripheries of my immediate thoughts all the time.

After being objects of affection for the first few months, we found ourselves turned into objects of competition. Like most other competitions in life, these too revolved around what each of us did faster or with greater dignity. Who walked first. Who talked first. Who went to school first. Who cried less…silly motherly comparisons which had no bearing whatsoever to what kind of men we’d turn out to be in the future.

I am pleased to state that I came out tops on most of these counts.

As the years progressed, the comparisons grew more diverse and fiercer. Who went to the best school. Who was the best student. Who won in school drawing and painting and craft and sports meets. It hardly mattered that all three of us went to different schools. This time, of course, the competition was also played out at a greater level, where the rest of the universe was also included. The key contest, however, continued to be amongst the three of us. For whoever won that one, the rest did not matter. Much like we adore Sania Mirza for being the best female tennis player in India.

I still came out tops.

I suppose it was when our ages meandered into double figures that we shifted from being victims to being participants in all of this ourselves. I realized I was decidedly the better of the lot and therefore deserved to be treated thus. And so, I started mixing more and more with those I deemed worthy of my companionship; Akhil and Nikhil climbed steadily down in my list of important persons. Our parents had dragged us through the first phase of our friendship. We had dragged them through the next phase. It appeared that we were slipping back into the first phase again.

It did not help, or perhaps helped, that our interests veered in diametrically opposite directions. Being an only child, I turned to literature and movies to fill up my spare time, as much out of necessity as out of interest. They, on the other hand, had each other for company for the most part and could chat and squabble with each other on a variety of irrelevant issues. Which they did. So while they grew into sociable young fellows, I grew up to be an intellectual and a loner. There are good things and bad things to be said about both kinds, but one can only become one of them, and that too not always out of choice. On whatever occasions we did get together, we involved ourselves in activities that were neutral and non conversational, such as playing cricket and computer games.

Of course, I still came out tops.

When I moved to a different city for my graduation, our communication all but stopped. Conversations over the telephone were never very high on my methods of interaction anyway. Even when I was home during breaks, we rarely met. Again, it was our parents who continued to be the catalysts of us getting together, when either family visited the other. We continued to be cordial, indeed jovial, on these visits though we had absolutely nothing to talk about.

At that point, I sincerely believed that we had reached a stage where we could neither grow apart any further nor reach anywhere meaningful. Our friendship was doomed to be a stalemate for the rest of our lives.

In the end, there were two things that changed this. Alcohol and Bridge. When I discovered that they had developed a taste for spirits, I immediately decided to confer upon them all the experience and expertise I had gained, since I had started earlier. I am never quite sure if they ever respected me for my achievements in academic or professional life; I gained that with my knowledge of liquids. They spent hours discussing where to find the best drinks and what mixed well with what. They called me at the most unearthly hours from some pub where they’d taken their friends to consult me on what they should order. And I reveled in their admiration.

In the meanwhile, our fathers decided that we had grown old enough to sit and play cards with them at the same table. This solved the most pressing problem for the three of us – what we were to do when we met each other outside of a bar or a pub and inside one of our homes. We latched onto Bridge with a desperation that our fathers mistook for a love of the game. Gradually, we did manage to love the game too, but that can never take away from the reason why we started taking an interest in it.

And so, we are now friends who want to see each other again. That we are again stuck in a stalemate hardly matters. The whole thing is not a burden anymore.

Interestingly, Bridge is the one thing, where I cannot claim to have come out tops.

The Same

Checks the mirror one more time. Everything appears in order. Is pleased. Runs index finger of right hand over blue tie dotted with red spots, the size of a paracetamol tablet. Loves the tie; wife’s first gift. Has worn it twice in seven years. First wedding anniversary and first (and only so far) child. Sorry, reverse the order. Never worn it since wife died four years ago. Till today, that is. Today is the third time; promotion party in office.

Climbs down nine flights of stairs, whistling. There’s plenty of time yet. Good for health too. Meets nobody during the journey. Emerges from the building; watchman salutes. Smiles back. Gets into car, a off-white Honda City, bought a year ago. Tears past the watchman, who remains unperturbed out of habit, and onto the road that is one of many that approach the bridge that takes all of them across the great river.

The evening traffic lies thick upon the bridge; a frozen river of proud automobiles, aspiring automobiles and public transport systems, indistinguishable from each other and inseparable from their lights when viewed from the sky. Gently rolls the Honda City into this river, and becomes part of it. A drop. When summer comes, the ice melts. Slowly at first, tiny droplets that trickle down through the ice and the mountainside till the tipping point is reached. And then, suddenly, the mountains relinquish their hold. Scrambles down, in great bursts, in quest of serenity, hoping to reach it before the weather changes again. Each droplet, trying to outdo the other, unifies and strengthens. Not all can make it, however. Becomes ice again, waits for the next thaw, beside another, never seen before. Could it be her? In another birth? In another time?

Summer comes again.

Once on the plains, continues to rush for a while, filled with the mad glee of freedom and its pursuit of the ocean. But it is short lived. Soon, realizes that the path ends there. Once the ocean meets, the gaiety must end. For there lies the ultimate stillness. Slows down, enjoying the ride, delaying the inevitable.

Hates the moon. The moon enters and speeds up and slows down, inflates and deflates, at will, with its mere presence. Why this compulsion? Why must something so far away, and so completely detached, be allowed to exert such control?

Cities are wonderful companions. Makes friends with each new city that passes. The city lights up the countenance so much. Sparkles with joy. The city, too, can see so much of itself in its reflection. And love it. For it is the only one it will ever see. Makes them wobble and twinkle, merrier and prettier than they really are. Nothing wrong with spreading some happiness around! Passes by busy, bustling streets and railway tracks, through ports and under bridges. Maybe passing under the same bridge above which still waits in the car. To each city, promises to return. And does. Only a little different.

The finale, like ever, is anti climactic. Strains against the pull till the ocean comes into view. Then, the defenses are dropped, desire lost. The last distance is made in resignation, without resistance. Struggles, one final time, when they finally meet, and then disappears.

Loves the moon. It is the only thing that brings some action, some pace. A change, predictable and refreshing. There’s something to it after all!

Short Story - Armageddon

It was a meeting like no other. Clouds wheezed by. Thunders clapped, but did not touch the two. The stars above were the size of the moon. The moon filled half the sky. It was bright. Really bright. But the Sun could not be seen. Finally, Man and God were meeting.

It was God who had set the ball rolling. Prime Ministers and Presidents of all countries in the world had received an email stating ‘We should meet. There’s much to discuss.’ The mails had then gone on to recount each recipient’s entire life in excruciating details. There were also images attached to the mail from various points in time of his or her life. They were pictures taken from all sorts of humanly impossible angles; God was evidently intent on demonstrating his powers without humility. The mails were signed off with ‘Yours truly, God’.

Intrigued but ashamed to discuss it, the Heads of State, had kept the matter to themselves. So God had written again. This time He had used the ‘Reply to all’ option. That had woken everybody up.
A hasty meeting had been convened. At the end of it, a well framed reply was sent back to God. It ran thus
God,
We apologize for the delay in responding to your summons. We were too taken aback by your first mail to take it seriously.
It is impossible to find the words to describe what all of us are feeling at the moment. Suffice to say, it’s the most important event in our lives.
Having said that, you will agree with us, God, that your invitation is extremely vague. Could you kindly elaborate upon what is it that you wish to discuss? Also, you have not mentioned the time and venue for this meeting. We don’t wish to be disrespectful, but you do realize that your request is most unusual.
We’ve already chosen a panel to be present at the meeting on our behalf.
Awaiting your revert…

God had responded almost immediately.

Choose one man only. I’ll get in touch with him myself. I wish to discuss the end of the world

The original panel, consisting of the representatives of the then most powerful nations, was grief stricken. Each member had wanted to meet Him. But now that only one would be allowed, they couldn’t allow anyone from the panel to meet God, since the meeting could lead to a significant shift in the balance of power towards that country. Therefore, it was decided that the Head of State of the poorest country would be chosen. Even if the fellow got any vital inputs, it wouldn’t make much of a difference to the world order. In any case, it was a risk they had to take.

The end of the world? When? Wasn’t that supposed to be billions of years in the future? Why discuss it now? In fact, why discuss it at all? Why with man? Hadn’t God taken enough decisions unilaterally to not be able to do it on His own?

The best and most highly regarded practitioners of their respective fields from various fields were brought together to ponder over what clarifications the chosen one should seek from God. It was all done amidst much fanfare. After all, they were about to learn firsthand, what their predecessors had wasted lifetimes in search of.

At length, it was decided that all was in readiness for the meeting to occur. A mail was sent to God requesting further instructions. That night, the chosen one disappeared.

Clouds wheezed by. Thunders clapped, but did not touch him. The stars above were the size of the moon. The moon filled half the sky. It was bright. Really bright. But the Sun could not be seen.

What place was this? Was he dreaming? Or was it heaven? He looked around. It didn’t prove to be much help since it looked the same in all directions. He rubbed his eyes, pinched himself and looked around again. Still the same. He was starting to get quite flustered with the whole thing, when he spotted someone in the distance. The person was squatting down, looking downwards with his head between his knees, as if in deep thought. When calling out to him didn’t work, the chosen one started walking towards this strange being.
From closer, he discerned respectable attire. A nice clean black trouser and a freshly ironed gleaming white shirt. No footwear.

Walking right up to him, the man asked, “Hi, you from these parts?”

The figure slowly uncoiled itself, evidently with great distress, and stood up, face to face.
Average height. Slightly heavyset. Nice, calm face. Common. No facial hair. Blue eyes. Glasses. Thinning hair. One or two grey. On closer inspection, patches of perspiration on the shirt. Obviously out of breath.

Heaving in great lungfulls of air, he replied
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am”. Enormous gasping breaths again.
“You look pretty winded, friend. Anything the matter?”
“Yes, you idiot! I’ve had to pull you up all this way, that’s what the matter is!”
“Pull me up, eh? What’s that supposed to mean? Look here, surely you don’t want me to believe you are God or something, do you?”
“What utter nonsense! Of course, I am God. Who else could bring you up all this way?”
“Oh yeah? Even if I were to believe you brought me up here, how did you get so tired? I mean, you are God, right?”
“Spare me the sarcasm, kid. I am not what I used to be once. These things take a lot out of me, these days. But one must keep up appearances.”
“They do? How do you control the entire world then?”
“Correction, it’s the entire universe. And who said I control it? The whole thing has been out of hand for ages! I am sorry kid, there’s not much I can do about it now”
“What? You don’t control the world? I mean, you can’t? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You made the damn thing, right?”
God sighed. This was going to take longer than he’d estimated.
“Oh yeah? You telling me that, eh? Let me explain this to you with an example. You guys have this thing called the financial market – Stock markets, commodity markets and all that jazz. You made it right? Look where it’s gone now!”
Ten seconds of silence.
“But, but, we are only human beings. You are God!”
“That’s the whole point, son. I am only God! Everybody has limitations, you know. You don’t know how much it hurt when that woman wrote The God of small things! Although, I gather the book had nothing to do with me. Frankly, now that we are on the topic, I never did realize why she called the book that. But that’s beside the point of course.”
“So then, all these years, all the faith, worship…it was all…a waste?”
“Why, of course not! I loved every bit of it!”
“What? You think we did it for you to love it?”
“Oh. So you did not do it so I would love it? Why did you do it then?”
“I...I, because we had faith in you”
“Yeah, whatever”
This was it. Man’s greatest hope. Dashed. Pummeled. Sunk.
God, of course, sensed the Man’s dejection.
“Hey, don’t be too disappointed kid! Look at the brighter side. I still know most of the answers to the questions you’ve always wanted to ask! Is that not enough? Once you know what I know, you can work things out for yourself. Why on earth would you need me?”
“You do? I am not sure I want to believe you anymore…” the Man’s voice trailed off.
“Of course I do. Go on, try me”
“OK, tell me, is there life on other planets in the universe?”
“Yes, not on as many as once used to be though”
“Uh – huh? What happened?”
“You happened. I told you, you guys got out of control, didn’t I. I had to keep shutting down other planets so as to concentrate on yours. There’re very few left now” said God. “Of course, all the sacrifices didn’t matter in the end. I lost control anyway” added God, with a touch of disappointment in his voice.
“So, these other life forms, they’re not men like us? I mean, they’re not as well developed as us?”
“No, they’re better developed that you are. Earth was the first planet I developed, you know. Afterwards, I got better at my work. Most of the other planets have extremely intelligent beings. They’re intelligent enough to know how not to lose control”
“What? You mean we’re the worst beings you’ve created? Why keep us then? Why not let us go?”
“You were my first job, son. I’ve gotten terribly sentimental about you fellows…”
“So, you’re going to tell me where we’ll find these other living beings?”
“Do I look like a fool? I will not have you getting in touch with those lovely creatures and poisoning their minds as well…trust me; you don’t need to meet them. You’ll be fine on your own.”
“You think that’s going to stop us from searching? In fact, now that you’ve told me that there is something to look for, we’ll try harder than ever before!”
“Dammit! Dammit! Why do I always have to do that! I only hope you guys don’t find that out too soon”
‘We’ll see about that God”, now that the Man had established that God was not what He was expected to be, his attitude had become faintly cocky and patronizing.
“So God, tell me about death. Why do we have to die?”
“There is no reason for it kid. It just happens. If it begins, it must end. It is not my making”
“Oh yeah? So then, you must have begun at some point God? Are you going to die too?”
“Yes Son. I will too, in due course. I’ve grown up like everything else and will grow old like everything else. See, you can start to see a grey hair or two on my head. I’ll of course, outlive your planet quite comfortably, so don’t get too perturbed. I’ll be around for as long as you will be”
“My God! You will die? YOU?”
“Now don’t read too much into it. Like most other things about me, it doesn’t really make any difference”
“Thank God”
“Naah, it’s alright. You carry on with your questions Son.”
“Tell me God, what lies beyond this universe?”
“Ah, you got me there Son. I’ve not the slightest idea, honestly.”
“What?”
“Yeah well, what’s so shocking about that? Why must I know absolutely everything! I’ve never been outside; I don’t know if there’s an outside.”
“I don’t know what to say God! Every belief, every…”
“Yes, I know. Let’s not get started on that again.”
“So, you mean to tell me you’ve absolutely no control over our planet now?”
“No. There’re still things I can manage. Time, for example. I can still control time”
“Control time? What control? Time just works on its own. Nobody controls it…it just goes on in its own sweet way…”, the Man said, incredulous.
“Ah, that tripe you guys invented! Time on clocks and watches and sundials and who knows what else! You think time moves like that? Steady and rhythmic?”
“It does not?”
“Of course it does not. I don’t know what got that idea into your head in the first place. Tell me Son, have you ever felt time passing at that same boring pace? Have you not sometimes felt it pass too quickly and quite immobile at others?”
“Yes, that we all do! But time still moves at the same pace! It is just our feeling that deceives us…”
“No. It is the clock that deceives you. Why should time be any other way than the way you feel it? If, for you, time just races past, then that’s what matters. For you, it raced past. What the clock shows is absolute junk. It is one of those comic human concoctions to simplify matters. To have the same time for everybody. But in truth Son, time belongs to each of us, in a different way. You know, its one of my last weapons of getting back at you guys. It works beautifully! Whoever pisses me off, I start stretching time for them. It does mean that they live longer, in the true sense of time, but because Men have conditioned themselves so much with the time on the clock, they feel really morose about it. You don’t know how funny it is! To see people grumbling even as they are gaining time! Absolutely heavenly, the feeling!”
The Man pondered over this revelation for a while. This was certainly not turning out to be anywhere close to what he’d expected, but it was becoming quite interesting nevertheless. But it was also starting to seem rather irrelevant. These meandering conversations weren’t going to do much good, if they were to go on forever.
“So, tell me God, why did you want to meet one of us? To discuss the end of the world? What for?”
God’s tone, which had thus far tinged with banter, became earnest.
“Why yes! That is precisely why I’ve convened this meeting. There’s much to discuss. You know and I know that the world is going to end someday. We need to plan how you’re going to survive it. I can’t do it on my own, I need your help.”
“Sure thing God! Of course we’ll help you! But why now? Couldn’t you let us understand the whole thing works a little better before we discuss this?”
“No, I’ve been keeping track of your progress in this direction for a while. And I don’t see much future in it. You’ll keep discovering newer things as you go along, but none of it will be of much assistance in solving the core issue. As I see it, this is as good a time as any to discuss. Besides, I’ve never been able to muster the courage to see for myself how it actually happens. With you around, I’ll have some support.”
“What? You’ve not seen the end of the world? How do you know it even happens then? And you want me to witness it with you? Witness our own destruction!”
“Son, the one human trait that has endlessly fascinated me is how fascinated you are by your own downfall and annihilation. You’re afraid of it, but at the same time you have this ridiculous urge to know what happens and how it happens. Quite, remarkable! That is why, I know, however much you may fear it, but you will want to see how it happens!”
“Alright. If you insist. So, how are we going to do it? Time travel?”
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about it! I’ve completely done away with the concept of time travel! It is so much simpler now! But of course, humans can’t use it. Proprietary systems, you see!”
“Yes, we’ll see about that later. But, what is that? No time travel, you said? How else does one go forward in time?”
“That’s the thing Son, you don’t have to go forward anymore. You know…hold on, let me start from the beginning. I used to do it the time travel way for such a long time! Going backwards and forwards, trying to change this and that. Over the years, the changes I made or tried to make became rarer, but I still enjoyed watching. But anyways, I read this awesome novel a few years ago…Slaughterhouse – Five! It’s brilliant, I tell you! That’s where I came across the concept of continuous time. As if, time is just a constant string, stationary in its infinitesimal fractions forever. Of course, it was factually not completely correct, but it gave me the idea of stringing together time in parallel, rather than the series I’d been using for so long…”
“Hey, God, wait a bit. I can’t make any sense out of this. What infinitesimal fractions?”
“Don’t bother yourself with the technicalities Son. If you really are interested, go read that book. The point is, I don’t time travel now. I can place Time like a chain in front of me and study it. And modify it, if I want to”
“Yeah, whatever. Let’s do it”
“Yes, let’s do it. Wait a minute, let me get everything ready.”
Saying this, God clapped his hands a few times. Magically, a strange device appeared from nowhere. It looked faintly similar to internet servers, but this Man was unaware of the resemblance. He had hardly ever used a desktop computer in his life. The most involved operation he’d ever done on a computer was attaching a file on a mail.
God pressed what appeared to be a button on the device. Immediately, from an aperture in it, a brilliant ray emerged, a ray so bright, that the brightness of the ambience described in preceding sections paled in comparison. God made a few swishes on the clouds that were floating around and created a hazy white screen in them. He guided the light from the device to this screen, whereupon, an image, of quite embarrassing quality, started to flicker on screen.
“There, all set” said God, wiping off the perspiration on his forehead for even these tasks evidently required much exertion on his part.
The image on the screen was of a non-descript wasteland that could have been anywhere and in any era on earth. If it was earth at all. The Man enquired into the matter.
“It is Earth Son” replied God, “The image is from a place in Afghanistan, present day. I always start from there. It is an image that has remained much the same over the years. Of course, I am talking about what humans called modern times. It looked quite different at the start.”
“Right. So then, how do we see into the past and the future with this thing?”
“I just have to command it to show me what I want to. See! 1945, Hiroshima”
Immediately, the image changed to what indeed appeared to be a Japanese city. Even as they saw, the flash of light and the mushroom that signified the dropping of the bomb appeared on screen.
“There’re certain incidents that I’ve saved as favourites”, explained God, “So when I say Hiroshima and 1945, the device automatically takes me to the moment of the bombing. No need to specify dates.
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed the man, “Why, you do have something to show for our faith after all!”
God smiled broadly when he heard this. He was obviously gladdened by the compliment.
“So God, show me what 10,000 BC looked like. You know, I saw a movie by that name recently. Such trash! I am sure it didn’t look like that at all. I am curious now!”
“I am afraid there’s not much time Son. Taking it that far back is going to take some time. Let us not waste too much time on this. In any case, it’ll take time to move forward to the end.”
The Man sighed. But in the absence of choice, he had to agree. God, of course, had not really waited for him to agree.
“To the End” he commanded.
The screen became dark and fuzzy as the device set to work. Every once in a while, the Man could discern a place he could recognize. He thought he’d spotted the Statue of Liberty once, the pyramids a couple of times. For a very brief instant, he’d also seen his village, where he’d grown up.
“Why, that is my village!”
“Yes Son, it is. I thought you’d be happy to spot it”
“You bet I am!”
After around twenty minutes, as per the human definition of time, the images rushing past slowed down and gradually stopped.
There were thousands of people on the screen, looking upwards at a glowing red sky. The soil upon which they were standing was almost as red as the sky. There was smoke coming out of it. No signs of vegetation could be seen.
They started noticing other details. What had initially appeared to be fireworks in the sky were now discernible as thousands of meteors and comets scorching the sky. Every now and then, one of them rammed into the planet in the distance, and enormous sprouts of fire, molten rocks and gas flew. Suddenly, one of them struck the ground very close to the screen, wiping out the teeming mass of human beings on screen in an instant.
“Dear God!” exclaimed God
“Dear me!” said the Man
“I can’t watch this any longer! I must stop it. Stop!”
Instantly, the image disappeared.
God and Man looked at each other. They knew what they were to see would be along these lines. But now that they’d seen it, it looked unthinkable.
“We’ve got to do something to stop that!” said the Man.
“Yes. We must. That is why I called you. Now, listen. I’ve hit upon this idea…”
“Yes yes, whatever it is. Just do it!”
“Hear me out now Son. See, as I’d told you, I can control time. One of the things I can do is delineate time.”
“Delineate?”
“Yes. Basically, I can pick up any length of time from anywhere and insert in someplace else. For example, I can cut that Hiroshima Bombing part out and insert it at the beginning of the second world war!”
“You could? And what happens then?”
“I am not sure. I’ve never done it obviously. Doing it has its risk. Not knowing the outcome is one of them.”
“Hmm. So then, what do you propose?”
“What I propose is that we cut that last bit, the end, out of there and insert it somewhere else. What should happen, I guess, is that Armageddon will come and go and then, the planet will jump back to how it was just before it. And because, the Armageddon is already behind us, there will be none after that!”
“But what happens when the end of time is supposed to be reached but does not? Where do we go from there?”
“Not sure, as I said. But because there is no logical reason for time to stop at that point, it will probably continue. So basically, a whole new series of time will be created! One that will last forever!”
“But without the Sun and whatever else we require to make the planet livable?”
“Don’t worry about those things. In time, your science will progress sufficiently to combat those problems. You will no longer need the Sun or the resources of the planet to survive. All that the planet will be worth is ground beneath your feet.”
“But if that’s the case, why go to so much trouble? We can shift to some other planet in another system”
God chuckled to himself. That is one thing I cannot have you doing, he thought. Can’t let you get out and reach my other kingdoms. And terminate my command there as well!
Aloud he said, “No Son. There lies the problem. Space travel through such long distances is something the human resource will never satisfactorily develop. You’ll know what to do when you get to another planet, but you’ll never have the ability to get there”
“Hmm, sounds good to me. Anyway, you are the God. Do whatever you want to. What can I say?”
“Of course. But I wanted Man to know what I am going to do. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done for you. One that will decide how long your planet shall survive.
It was done.
They replayed the thing to see what happened. Armageddon was unleashed. And subsequently leashed. Earth returned from the dead, as did its inhabitants. Eventually, they reached to where Armageddon should actually have come.
God and Man waited with bated breath to see how time would unfurl itself thereon. But it did not. The whole system remained there, frozen in eternity.

On the Rocks

Waking up in the morning is such a pain! Straight from beautiful blissful dreams to the nightmares of work. Not that I remember my dreams, mind you. But then, they must be beautiful, I suppose. If they were not, I’d probably remember them.

I must say though, I have started to enjoy the first five minutes after the first two minutes after I’ve woken up. I am dimly aware of my room partner shuffling around the apartment, picking up the cleanest shirt from the floor where several lie in a dump, including some of mine, sniffing it, especially near the armpits and then rushing to iron it as best as he can. Then the occasional rattle of vessels and cutlery while he makes himself some tea. Finally, he puts on his shoes, contemplates polishing them but does not, and then submerges himself under deodorant.

This happens daily. And I enjoy it daily. I am better off than he is.

Thankfully, it’s a Friday today. Something to look forward to at the end of the day. I finally get up, a good ten minutes after my partner has left, and make an inspection of the entire apartment. Not with any definite purpose, simply out of habit. At the end of it, my consciousness is complete and I am ready to brush my teeth.

I chuckle when my eyes alight on the dump of shirts on the floor. Today’s Friday. I can wear a tee. I never iron my tees.

On my way to office, in an auto rickshaw, I consider my options for breakfast. I eventually settle for a flimsy packet of wafers, hardly enough to satisfy a one year old's appetite. But it saves time. I can always make up for it during lunchtime.

As always, I am amongst the first to reach office. It’ll take at least another hour for the entire place to fill up. They’re not very particular about timings here, at least not at the start of the day. I’ve never quite understood the logic of delaying coming to office and then sitting through half the night to complete one’s duties. I mean, an extra hour in the morning hardly merits much attention, but that same hour in the evening is the difference between a movie at the theatre and a dismal dinner at home while the television plays popular tracks by Himesh Reshammiya and news from the latest bomb blasts. And not necessarily on different channels.

I check unread mails, respond to those that deserve such treatment. Then I log onto gtalk and wish my friends in other parts of the world good whatever time of the day. There’s some chitchat; I keep at it till I am fed up and then get myself a coffee from the vending machine. With the coffee in hand, I walk over to those that have already arrived and chitchat some more. Unfortunately, these early arrivers are typically the clerical kind, which seriously limits the scope of conversation. But then, one has to make do with what one has got.

My Boss is an incompetent asshole. I can scarcely believe he is the marketing head of my organization after I’ve interacted with him. But, I must admit, the guy’s got a pretty wacky sense of humour. If nothing else, he’s at least fun to be with. I often wonder why I don’t reciprocate to him in similar vein; something I know I am capable of. I think it is because I am not quite sure if his interpretation of humour allows for more than one practitioner at a time.

Coming back to my initial assertion about him, I’ve never yet elicited a satisfactory answer from him on the doubts I’ve raised and clarifications I’ve sought. I might as well stop asking him altogether, but I do it to keep him happy and to keep him updated on what I’ve been doing without being too blatant about it.

What I’ve been doing though, is far from what I expected. It is staggering to see the inadequacies and inefficiencies of the corporate world of today. There are processes and protocols built so ridiculously, it is difficult to imagine the people designing them, doing so with straight faces. What can be accomplished in one meeting is stretched to three. Even the simplest mailed communication is copied to half the organization to let everybody know just how responsible one is towards one’s work and to escape all responsibility if something goes wrong in the future. But then, that’s the way it is.

Towards afternoon, one of my friends from campus calls me and invites me to Hard Rock Café in the evening. He reels of the list of names, mutual friends, expected to be in attendance. I accept without hesitation.

My boss takes me along for an important meeting during lunchtime. The incompetent inconsiderate asshole! On top of that, the meeting turns out to be the usual. Irrelevant. I smile and yawn my way through it.

On returning to office, I get news of another series of blasts in a major city. I read through half baked details of the incidents and the strong statements made by political heavyweights. This whole thing has gone from shocking to ridiculous to mundane. I am not sure if that’s what the terrorists aimed for. My mailbox is full with mails from my friend groups enquiring into the wellbeing of those friends that are based in that city. One or two have already replied stating that they remain unaffected. I suspect by the end of tomorrow, everybody else will have followed suit. At least, everybody we know is alright, we’ll say at the end of it.

I meet representatives of a national jewelery brand sometime later. We discuss possibilities of association for their brand with a couple of ours. They want to associate with only one, I want them to do it for both. We discuss for a while. In the end, I agree to give them a better deal on their preferred one and they agree to support the other.

Back in office, I am informed that I need to work on a presentation my boss is to deliver on Monday. That heartless prick! Has to discover work like that just when the sun is about to set! And what presentation! I could’ve made it when I was in 5^th grade. And the damn thing’s going to take time on top of that! What happens to my Hard Rock Café commitment now? No, I tell myself. I am going to attend that get-together, whatever happens.

I suggest to him that he might not really require my services for the task. He tells me that it is all a learning experience for me and how he was asked to staple photocopied documents together neatly for his first year in service. Yeah, right. I am sure he was. At least there was somebody who knew what he is worth. I desperately think of other extrication measures. Headache? No, too lame. Another important meeting? He’ll ask for details. Somebody else who can do it? Everybody else has already slipped out. Dammit! Dammit! I know what I am going to have to say. I don’t want to say it, but I know I have to.

I have some personal commitments in the evening, I inform him. I pause for a second or two, gauging his reaction, and then offer to come to office early next day and get it done. Yes, on a Saturday. He agrees. I’ll think up something tomorrow too, after that he’s got to do it on his own, I tell myself.

I know I will come to office tomorrow.

I am already late for the get-together. Taking a cab is out of question. I take the local train, straight from office. Throughout the journey, I keep stealing a look at the bags and attaché cases of other people. I am sure they do the same to mine.

I am the last to reach the café. Which is not such a bad thing, for they’ve already found a place after having waited for half an hour. Great to see these guys! Amongst loud laughter and conversation and even louder music, I order a Jack Daniels. On the rocks. The waiter tells me, regretfully, that it is unavailable. He recommends another drink. Balls, I say! We get up in a huff and find ourselves another café. A man should get to drink what he wants to!

Reunion

I was meeting Nishant and Sunita after almost three years, for the first time since we graduated out of college.

We had, of course, kept in touch all this while through the internet and the telephone. It is interesting to observe how these methods of communications ascend and descend in importance as relationships wear on after they’ve lost their purpose. The telephone carries most of the burden for the first few months, while the memories still retain their freshness and one still believes in the immortality of them. Gradually, as memories turn into nostalgias, email takes over.

Our friendship had, in these years, morphed into two phone conversations a year, one for each’s birthday, and the occasional forwarded mail, marked impersonally to a half hundred people, most of whose existences I was unaware of. However, when I learnt I’d be in Delhi this weekend, I decided to catch up with them anyway.

We met on Sunday afternoon in one of the many malls that dot the Delhi landscape. Strangely, these days, it is these crowded public places that are the most preferred for such companionable meets as ours. Nevertheless, the exhilaration I felt and hoped they did too, on meeting old friends was certainly not manufactured.

It was the middle of January and afternoons were the only time when the fog betrayed the existence of a Sun. In these hours, the city basks in a warm laziness; a hazy spectacle whose majesty can never quite be captured by a lens. It also makes multiple layers of warm woolen clothes a necessity; a condition I generally disapprove of since it shows my already bloated self in even poorer light.

And so it was, that the first thing both my friends told me after we’d waved at each other, embraced and smiled warmly and awkwardly, was that I’d pile up a few more kilos. The matter of my weight and general physical appearance has long since ceased to be the cause of anxiety to me, and I responded with a joke I’d repeated and perfected over the years and do not want to reproduce here.

To my eyes, the two of them had remained much the same, barring a marked improvement in the state of Sunita’s bosom; a shortcoming that we had spent many hours ridiculing when we were in college and one that had caused her some heartburn. I thought about sharing my observation with her but the interceding years stopped me from doing so. I satisfied myself by stating that she too appeared to have put on weight and hoped feebly that she’d get the drift. If she did get it, and I personally opine that she did not, she did not show it.

The mischievous glint in Nishant’s eyes was intact.

We’d never planned out an agenda for the reunion and it came back to haunt us now. We stood sheepishly near the entrance to the mall, looking at each other and at the people around us, cracking an odd joke and sharing through our eyes and expressions the common thought that we were making fools of ourselves. Eventually, Nishant suggested we continue doing the same in a café, and we agreed gratefully.

Having spent a few minutes discussing and ordering our drinks, we felt the awkwardness slipping away gradually. We caught up on what each of us had been doing in greater detail than the restrictive nature of long distance communication had ever allowed us to. I found that Nishant was planning to marry the girl he’d been going out with for more than a year now within the next one year. And that Sunita’s quest for a long term relationship had remained incomplete and would probably remain so, for her parents had decided to take matters into their own hands. The mandatory digs about my relationship status were made and my college crushes discussed. I bore it with a dignity that, I thought, befitted a more mature person than the one they were discussing about.

It is always difficult to meet past friends who have not, in the eyes of the world and in their own, fared as well as one has oneself. One measures and fumbles with each syllable; fearful that the odd assertion here and there would be perceived as boastfulness. And one cannot quite go back to being what one was all those years ago, simply because one cannot.

Nishant and Sunita told me about some of their capers after we’d left college (being in the same city, they had met every once in a while), which they thought hilarious and which I found little more than faintly amusing. They were the kind of incidents that appeal only to those that are present while it unfolds. I told them about some of mine which, I am sure, they found as uninteresting.

We talked some future. Nishant told me how he planned to move to the US soon after his marriage. I told them what I thought I would probably end up doing. Sunita cribbed for a while about her job and stated that she’d look for a switch in the near future.

By this time, our first coffees were drunk and more ordered. Talk veered to those days. All the good times spent. The drunken fiascos. The uninvited dinners at marriage parties. The professor everybody feared. The professor with the sleepy eyes and deadpan expression who could never figure out how there were only ten people in the room and thirty on the attendance sheet.

Most of it felt distant and filled me with a sense of weariness. It vexed me that it should be thus. I had had such great times recounting these exact episodes to friends I’d made since, that I had assumed it would give me greater joy to do so with those that were part of them. I realized, then, that it was not they who brought warmth to those memories; it was the me that was with them there. And, therefore, I figured memories are savored better in the absence of those that they are built of.

We spent three hours together, at the end of which, I was more relieved than rueful that it had ended. These were people that did not belong anymore. They were of a different time and place and it was wrong to force them into my now. They were better off being in those two phone conversations and forwarded mails.

I’ve been to Delhi many times since, but have not met them.