Uncle bought a Mercedes Benz today.

Half an hour before father’s evening prayers, the house unwillingly tries to adjust its mood to something more sombre. The television shuts down without fail, always disconnected from the main switchboard, never by only the remote. Nanda bai is given her daily reminder to not grind masalas in the kitchen. A dull silence takes over in fifteen minutes, broken only by father’s monotonous singing of selected verses from the Bhagwat Gita while he bathes. Our bathroom door doesn’t close properly, which allows steam to waft through the corridors connecting my room and his. As he reaches the end of the shloka, which I’ve memorised verbatim over years of hearing it again and again, he barks out my name where after I’m expected to fetch turmeric and sandalwood from the kitchen. Father needs the paste to be of a certain consistency. I grind the sandalwood blocks in the kitchen just as I hear the bathroom door open, to make sure it’s fresh and moist enough for prayers. By this time, the entire corridor is flooded with steam and one can barely see the door to the small prayer room at the side.

Our prayer room is the only room in our seventy year old house which hasn’t been touched by renovation. My father and his father before him were very vocal about this. As your cross the boundary of the room, the marble turns to wood, the cream paint that adorns most of my house, save the cracks that land up uninvited till you throw them out during Diwali – slowly vanish to red brick. One’s eyes immediately flash eastwards, towards the main statue of Ganpati kept there in a silver devhara, our only real family heirloom. It’s solid silver, but father refuses to let me clean it with acid because of which it’s become a dull shade of grey. I’ve often asked father how much it’s worth with the antique value of three hundred years backing it, but he refuses to tell me, sometimes even demanding how a son/daughter of his could dare put a price on something so valuable to the family.

Something strange happened today. My father didn’t go straight for a bath and rush to pray after coming home. Instead, he sunk himself in one of the sofas and handed me his wallet. He told me to walk up to the corner and buy a full box of pure ghee pedhas, the ones with powdered sugar on top of them. Years of asking questions and never getting answers from father has conditioned me to simply following instructions. I walked towards the corner where six shops have been standing for a decade without a hint of change to what they sell. The way was littered with Gulmohor pods, just about to flower. I made a mental note to stock these up for school tomorrow. They’re filled with water and make for excellent ammunition to fire mid way through Geography class.

There’s a dwarf that sits on the large stone slab separating Chitale Sweets and Joshi Sweets. He polishes shoes for the entire neighbourhood. I used to be really scared of him when I was small. There hasn’t been a day where I haven’t seen him sitting in his canvas shelter, never bothered by the weather, always flashing a smile to all the regulars. He overhears every conversation that transpires in both the shops, often wincing when people order the wrong things from both the places. He waved cheerily as I entered the lane and asked me if I saw Thursday’s match. I told him I had and added that Ganguli was indeed the star of the game. Pleased at my critical insight, he swore at Sri Lanka, who we had fought, threw a mango toffee at me and picked up the brush and a tub of very brown polish.

The two sweet-shops are almost sacred in Pune’s rigid culinary space. Chitale Sweets is known just as much for its eccentric and rude salesmen as it is for it’s paper thin saffron Jilbis, which people from neighbouring towns have been heard to make entire day trips for. A visit inside is never complete till you’re shown the sweets the servers believe you’re worth. They never greet you, they never smile at you. Over the years, people have warmed up to this show of arrogance. They don’t mind the stabs of humiliation one goes through while one begs and reminds the man behind the counter that a kilogram stands for a thousand grams, not nine hundred and fifty. Only the choicest regulars, the inner circle of buyers who have grown old along with the store get access to the fresh lot of sweets. Still, no one can deny how exquisite the produce from the place is.

Which brings us to Joshi sweets, owned by one of Pune’s oldest families. Every generation that’s owned the outlet has fought bitterly in a very, very public spat worse than the previous one. Every decade a rumour resurfaces where close friends of the family swear by their blood that the shop will shut down any day. It never does. The sweets have not changed in their taste in over a hundred years, a fact verified time and again by their oldest customers. The Joshis are the antithesis of the Chitales. One is welcomed inside with one’s first name. One is asked what one wishes to buy and subsequently taken to every other counter other than the one one wishes to carry out business with. As one is just about to leave the store with the shopping bags heavier and one’s wallet lighter, one is reminded – have you forgotten your so and so? And one has to buy a final item. The portions are always large and the taste is rustic and raw with flavour. There is never any delicate garnish, no sprinkles of dainty gold foil, just eight glass counters and barrels of the choicest food.

I have to admit, I’m loyal to neither. Father never touches anything post the doormat at Joshis, so it’s going to be me facing the Chitales today.

Almost to reaffirm what people whisper saying, the shopkeeper served three people who walked into the store after me reminding me each time – Old people are more important. I sat on a stool, listening to the unbearably monotonous chorus of ‘Sri Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram’, which plays there on loop every single minute of the day. Father had once told me that  old man Chitale had been told to chant Lord Ram’s name ten thousand times a day if he wanted a male heir to his empire of sweet shops. Ever since, he’s played the cassette on loop. It never stops. He even has it as his cell phone ring-tone, just in case. After quizzing me with several questions about school, how my preparations for the terminal examinations were going on and how my sister was doing in college, he measured half a kilogram of pedhas, made sure the sum total was four ninety five grams and pushed the packet in my hands.

I thought about school. Today was an eventful day at school. Yellow house defeated green for the first time in six years to win the annual sports day overall championship. There is no way this could have happened without a certain amount of red tape involved, we suspect Anshuman Thombre, who was seen sneaking out of the PT sir’s house last Sunday. Yellow have had a terrible history at excelling in anything, so it was quite the day for anyone unfortunate enough to have been drawn into the house. I cycled home like any self respecting student, extremely indignant that we’d have to deal with all of them gloating for the next year.

Father was already standing in the backyard by the time I reached home. Our old Esteem was dripping water by the time I walked into the driveway. Our watchman Baban, an old wrinkly fellow with an awful amount of hair sprouting out from his ears and who, to be fair would have been removed a long time back if it hadn’t been for the fact he had served us for a while looked at me approaching and declared that my uncle was going to visit. It always bothered me that he was privy to father’s intimate days months before I was. He would share with me the less harmful details of the future he had overheard, just to remind me how important he was.

Father checked the contents of my purchase to verify if I had brought what he asked. He asked me if I got a receipt, followed by the change. He asked if I had counted it. I replied affirmative to all three counts. He pushed an open palm at my watchman, who placed a packet of 555 cigarettes in his hand. Father opened the packet and lit one up. He would smoke either while he was driving, or when he was having a great conversation with someone, or when he was edgy. He didn’t qualify for the first two right now.  I had no idea why father was so nervous about his brother coming over. Kaka used to stay in America, and had just recently shifted back to Pune. He was always fun to hang around, had hilarious stories about what it was like to be an Indian in America. He still spoke perfect Marathi, which I find really funny, because I can’t. Mine seems strange and foreign. He would switch from an American accent in English to a perfect Kokanastha Brahman accent in Marathi right between sentences, which was very disconcerting the the ears.

The first thing he noticed was that the car had wipers on its headlights. That was a huge deal. What an important vehicle this must be, if its lights needed wipers, he thought. He remembered all the scrap books he had made with entire pages filled with cut-outs of the Mercedes-S class, the Mercedes-M class and so on. The star looked exactly like one of those. It was raven black and shiny to the point where one could use it as a mirror if one wanted. As his uncle parked the car, the smell of fresh leather and foam started taking over the wintery smell of Gulmohor and Chapha. He looked at his father, who nodded before his son could ask the question.

He screamed and jumped on his uncle as soon as he got out of the car. Why didn’t you tell me? When did you get it? Why did you get black? Didn’t they have blue? How many people know? Does it have a phone inside like they say it does – were some of the questions he fired without a seconds pause for an answer.

The uncle touched his father’s feet. They hugged. His father reminded the uncle to offer the pedhas as a prasad to Lord Shankar, without whose mercy the father was sure this extravagance would not have been possible. The boy opened the door and sat marvelling at all the knobs and buttons inside. There’s a real phone here, he exclaimed looking at the car’s satellite phone, a device useless in Indian territory. The boy pressed the first button on the dashboard and the car whirred into life, its mirrors slowly coming out. We need to do this by hand, he reminded his father. He pressed a second button and the windows disappeared into the car, all automated. How many hours of his life he had spent wrestling with the rear windows in their Esteem, he remembered. He pressed the horn and the car blared out a sound so unique he was sure all the neighbours along the street would come out to take a look. He was wrong, for his neighbours were already watching. Some from their balcony like Mr Yadav, with a cup of tea and khari ready at the side. Some had walked to the porch almost disappointed to find out that it didn’t belong to a celebrity, perhaps from the television shows. The uncle pulled the boy’s cheeks and reminded him that the car belonged to all of them. The boy demanded they go for a drive. The uncle asked the father if he’d like to drive all of them along. The father insisted his son and the uncle go on their own, he would watch them from the distance.

The boy was anxiously watching through the car windows. He really wanted his school friends to see him. Of course, he would tell them about the drive anyway, but the actual thrill of having their jaw drop without any sort of warning was what he was hoping for. Neither Utkarsh nor JP were playing in their porch. He cursed their timing at being unproductive.

The car cruised through the lanes of Pune, orange with fallen Gulmohor. People craned their necks to look inside the car. The boy made sure he didn’t make eye contact. Other kids on the road excitedly jumped and pointed to their fathers and mothers, who ruffled their hair and told them not to point. At the signal, a college graduate of Pune’s prestigious Fergusson college poked his girlfriend, who assured him that he too would drive such a car one day. The boy decided it was time he showed of his vast knowledge about automobiles, and quizzed his uncle with a volley of questions about the BHP of the car, the torque and so on. He had no idea what any of them meant of course. The uncle knew this but complied. The boy made notes in his head, he knew he’d have to add this when his friends would argue about how powerful the car really is tomorrow in school.

They passed by Law colllege and went past Kanchan Galli, where the foothills of Pune’s hill start from. As they crossed Maggi Point, a spot made famous by its serving of India’s favourite instant noodles, the uncle asked the boy if he’d like to drive. The boy naturally wanted to but was very forthcoming about his lack of maneuverability in controlling the vehicle. The uncle chuckled and asked him to sit on his lap. The boy complied. Now keep one hand here, and keep the other here, instructed the uncle in a voice that resembled his father’s except it didn’t have the pages of safety instructions his father would have mentioned before.

The boy turned the steering slowly, his uncle making sure he didn’t turn to much. The car turned obediently. The boy was thrilled. He couldn’t wait to grow up and stop pedalling for a change. He asked his uncle whether he could put his foot on the accelerator and change the gear, but his uncle said no. A few more years and I’ll teach you he added, as an afterthought.

The father was still waiting downstairs when the drive was over. He invited his brother for dinner but the uncle refused, lying about a prior commitment at the Gymkhana. The father didn’t try to force him into coming. The boy demanded to know when they’d go out together, the uncle laughed and said they’d plan a long trip to Rajgad or any of the many forts scattered around the Maharashtrian countryside. He reminded his nephew to hang from the bar every day and stretch his spine, the boy promised he would.

Father stared at me again, and he pushed the box of pedhas I had brought a little while back at me. I passed it to my uncle. He opened it, finished one in a single bite and gave me the box back. I thanked him for the drive and he pulled my hair. You don’t need to be formal with me, he said. I’m your uncle, not an outsider.

The house was silent and dark when we walked upstairs. The lights in the prayer room, which are usually gleaming bright by now, had been forgotten. Father threw the house keys on the sofa and asked me how my day was at school. He asked me how prepared I was for the terminal exams. I said I had finished reading all my books once. I would finish reading them again by the time the exams started. Father told me he was very proud he had me as his son. He started walking towards his bedroom. I asked him if I should prepare sandalwood for the pooja later. No need, he said.

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Artwork credit: Aditya Phadke
Instagram – Artyaditya

Story by Sumedh Natu

Twitter, Instagram – @sumedhnatu

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ARNAB GOSWAMI’S SILENCE

Hey guys,

A lot of people followed the blog a couple of years back and I haven’t been that regular writing anymore. I’ve been meaning to write to the few of you who’d wait for posts just explaining what I’m doing, but I haven’t and I apologise for that. I’ll be doing that very soon. I have however, taken my articles to video and I’ve been trying to create a Nerdwriter1, Every Frame A Painting, Crashcourse format here in India that’ll benefit our content. This is the pilot of that effort.

I hope you guys like it. Your feedback is ever welcome.

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The Birds of June

This June, a withered pigeon started its quest to build a nest in my house.
It was an exceptionally ugly pigeon, not the kind of a pigeon you’d want building a nest in your house.
Not that I care about how pigeons look, I don’t care much for pigeons at all,
Or birds, or animals,
Or living things for the matter,
My mother, who doesn’t like change looked at the pigeon’s efforts with disapproval
“Throw it out”, she told the maid, not making it clear whether she was talking about the nest or the pigeon.
And the maid would throw the half –made nest out, emotionless, eggs or not.
This happened once. Twice. And then…
The third time it happened, I asked casually –
“What problem do you have with the pigeon,

It’s not bothering you

It’s not stealing

Let the damn thing stay.”

Mother, who hates letting things be gave me the look,

The look that suggested that I was in no place to address her thus…
But for some reason she shrugged – and said –“Hmph”
And thus the pigeon stayed…
In all its grotesqueness,
Every morning it would come back and gather twig after twig.

Throwing them together in a terrible heap all awkward and sloppy.
It was infuriating
How perfect the pigeon was finding its creation.
Mother would stare from the kitchen while she made her tea first thing in the morning,

Saying, “What a dumb bird”
What a dumb bird!

It was true though.
As I observed the absolute mediocrity of the animal
How meaningless could your life be
If your goal for the day is to fetch twigs

 

Weeks passed. The nest had now taken shape.
Well…nest…if you could call it a nest.
I noticed, mother dear had begun to observe the animal.
Almost obsessively every morning
She would coop up next to the window
Staring while the pigeon would go on aimlessly
Sometimes I would catch her poke grains of rice at the pigeon
Almost demanding the bird to accept the offering,
After all – SHE was offering the food.
Who was the pigeon to refuse it!
“What a dumb bird”, she would say.
What a dumb bird, really

Soon enough, a suitable mate was wooed into the nest.
Who would sit in the nest with him
While the male pigeon flew around to get more food for the two of them
She would reject his offerings

And his advances

Guarding with her life the solitary egg
That was the purpose of their existence
Guarding it
To get something new into this world
While mother watched, now utterly fascinated.
She would watch every day, sometimes hours on an end
Marvelling the stupidity of the male bird
How he flew around day in and day out
“What a dumb bird!” she would say
Yet now going out of her way to throw grain hoping that they would eat it

I think it was June
When the egg hatched.
No wait…it was the end of may
Well whatever…the damn thing hatched.
And the foulest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to see popped an eye out of the shell.

Mother was thrilled!

Delighted that this long wait had born fruit.
Look son, she said –look at how the egg has hatched
I saw a the chick, the scrawny shit that it was
Lying begging for food
The father having abandoned it now
Maybe he left,  maybe he was killed, maybe he died naturally

I’ll never know

The female pigeon would fiercely guard her kid
Mustering this absurd, untold bravery where she would hoot angrily
Whenever someone approached the nest
As the kid grew
Grew feathers
She started taking longer gaps foraging for food for the youngling

 

Two days before  my birthday
When the monsoon threatened to ravage the city
We were out at a friends when the downpour started
We had no choice but to stay the night
It poured and poured and poured
Water everywhere
We went home the next day
And saw the little chick

Lying there cold, pecked to death

Pecked till there were cold puncture wounds all over its body

Pecked to a bloody mess

Killed by the same stupid pigeon who gave him birth

And mother burst into tears
Long uncontrollable tears
For hours and hours…

Till she settled down, slowly

“What a dumb bird” she said, wiping her eyes…

 

 

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Rajaram Shah’s First Red Light

It was about eleven thirty in the night when Rajaram Shah, feeling quite unlike himself realised that only a paltry sum of fifty euros stood in front of his four inch inch penis and the six foot two inch ivory white prostitute standing in front of him.

Impossible, thought Rajaram. He had purchased dry fruits and spices that were more expensive in the past.

He stared at the perfect figure in front of him, ready to be rented out. His mouth watered. The feeling that he could afford her physical shell so easily added to it. This was a primal feeling of power. He felt his wallet bulge fatter than his penis ever had and a euphoric feeling of childlike elation stirred in him. He had never seen a woman look so desirable anywhere in his hometown. Women such as this were seen only in the inner folders of his pornography collection. His own wife back at home refused to undress in front of him, unless he agreed to look away and the lights were switched off. But then, he had been married for only half a year.

Rajaram had been sent to Antwerp to sell two solitaires that were proving themselves to be particularly hard to sell in his hometown of Surat. His family business of crafting personalised diamond sets had taken a rather unhappy u-turn after the economy had majestically crashed over the past three months. Even the most affluent of Surat’s elite who had no problem being fleeced by the Shah’s in broad daylight on a casual Wednesday afternoon were watching their expenses all of a sudden.

Rajaram’s father knew an old Jewish trader near the red light district who he knew would love to be ‘surprised’ by a visit from his Indian allies. Rajaram was packed off with a warning from his father not to eat any meat, drink any alcohol or engage in any activity that would dishonour the clan through the duration of his first foreign trip. He had sworn on different sets of Gods that he wouldn’t. His father knew he would.

The whiteness of her skin fascinated him. His own skin looked so murky in comparison. It reminded him of dirt. He wanted to know what she felt like. He wondered if blonde white girls were blonde even down there.

His deal had gone rather well. He hadn’t sold at the price his father wanted to, but none the less, he had sold at a handsome profit. Taking in account the small cuts he would need to give to bribe out customs officers back at home and the two middlemen that had helped balance out the translations, he would still come back home with enough cash to lavishly splurge through the next five months.

There were at least a hundred women to choose from, in the red light street. Each was standing in a glass cubicle, in very much the same way clothes are displayed on mannequins in stores, like meat hangs on hooks ready to be picked. The cubicles were numbered in a rural bazaar sort of a way. They were all scantily dressed, each with the same tacky neon green palely glowing lingerie.

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Rajaram had walked slowly in the rectangular block, mentally rating and forming an image of how each one would feel in bed. He walked past the first two – chestnut brown latinas with obviously coloured blonde hair. One of them raised her finger and waggled it invitingly at him. His penis was half hard already. But he must be patient. He must see all the goods before making a transaction. He must not make a hasty first timer decision, he thought.

Rajaram had turned right at the intersection. An old wrinkled man had been furiously arguing with an equally old looking transexual. He appeared to have touched her in a place she had warned him not to, and was demanding more money. A small glimmer of fear had stirred in him about what he was about to do.

Rajaram walked silently past women of every shape and size, women with large breasts and small ones, women talking on the phone about topics as insignificant as the increasing price of nail paint remover and women deformed and ugly, struggling at the prospect of getting a customer. They were from Hungary, Estonia, Germany and a hundred other places which had no importance in their lives

A dim red glow illuminated the street. Passers by were lightly painted by the colour at intervals as they walked. As each man paused and stared, Rajaram noticed the same hungry look of abject sexual desperation on each masculine face, dark and dangerous. Some made lewd signs at the women in the stalls. Some hooted and catcalled. A drunk man opened his zipper and pulled his cock out waving it in front of a Turkish woman’s face. He was promptly attacked by brothel security. The world will never be a place for women, Rajaram thought.

Rajaram stopped in front of the Red and Blue nightclub bang in the middle of the stretch. Three fifteen year old schoolgirls with their faces caked with makeup were pleading to the bouncers that they were eighteen, but had forgotten all their id’s at home owing to a very unfortunate coincidence. One of them casually pulled her dress lower, giving the bouncer a very ample view of her breasts.

Raja stared at a cubicle just behind a sex shop promising very attractive discounts on its newest range of vibrators. He went closer, drawn to the stunning vision of sexual perfection in it. She was mouth watering. She was tall, with legs large and muscular. Her bellybutton was pierced, her dark nipples standing erect behind the light fabric on her breasts. Her breasts in question were huge and firm. Rajaram felt an unquestionable urge to throw her on the floor and mount her immediately. The woman sensed his desire and spread her legs just enough for him to get a glipse of a bit of her vagina. Like a dog following meat, Rajaram came close to her cubicle.

The woman opened the door and with a causal air, asked the man in front of her, “What would you like?” Her east European accent was pronounced. Rajaram asked innocently, “What all can I do?”

For fifty euros you can touch me. You can fuck me in any position you like for twenty minutes and I also blow you.

The proposition sounded highly lucrative. Fifty euros to even see her in her nakedness was a bargain. Rajaram would have gladly paid a thousand for her to fondle him, let alone have sex.  But the Indianness in him kicked him. He refused to just agree, even though the amount was chicken feed for him.

Thirty Euros!”, he said, trying to sound like someone who does this everyday.

Fifty is base price, mister”, she replied. Her eyes sparkling blue. They were lenses, Rajaram realised.

“Thirty is all I have” said Rajaram attempting a sad and desperate face that fooled no one.

“Look mister. Forty is as low as I go. You take or you leave” said the woman with a tone of finality that told Rajaram bargaining was pointless beyond this stage.

Fine. I’ll give you forty” She ushered him in.

Money first” she demanded as he entered the brothel. Rajaram counted two notes of twenty and held them in front of her. She quickly stashed them away and guided him to her room, a corridor away. “My name is Christine“, she added giving him a formal peck on the cheek.

The room appeared to be where she stayed. There was an obnoxious red satin bed cover on the bed, which was the only bit of furniture besides a chest of drawers. Three photos were stuck on them. Two appeared to be of her parents and what seemed to be a childhood photo of hers. She was sitting on a swing in the photo, the innocence of childhood stamped vibrantly on her face. Rajaram wondered if she’d have ever thought this day would come back then.

“What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off!”, she demanded. She squeezed a generous helping of lube on her palms and rubbed it all inside her vagina with no hint of hesitation. “Don’t be shy now“, she added, a little more kindly, almost sensing his awkwardness.

Rajaram removed his shirt and jeans and threw them on the floor. He proceeded with his underwear. He faced her stark naked.

You have a big dick”, she said. He knew she was lying, but he felt the ego boost, none the less. Christina made him lie down and removed a condom packet. She ripped it open and slid it on his throbbing penis with a certain professionalism he knew he wouldn’t be able to pull off on himself anytime in the near future. She began to blow him slowly. Rajaram was turned on. He placed his palms greedily on her breasts and pressed.

“NO. Slowly. The silicon. It will break”

Christina slapped his hands away. Somewhere in a corner of Rajaram’s mind it registered. No wonder their breasts looked so firm and large. It was impossible that they were natural. Each and every one of them were loaded with silicon.

Rajaram got up and inserted himself from
the top. Her vagina felt odd, loose yet firm.

Come baby! Come in my pussy”, she droned, sounding very much like a well rehearsed script. She had repeated the same lines with the same tone to countless others. As he began thrusting harder, an animal like urge took over him. He felt nothing for the human being he was having sex with. He didn’t care if he was hurting her or not.

Go on top?” Rajaram panted, not knowing requests didn’t belong in the corners of the room that had only seen demands.
“No”, came her cold reply. “That is all you get for forty. Are you done yet? Have you come?”

It dawned on Rajaram that his usual battle of trying to last longer than the woman who was with him didn’t apply here. He was in the heat of the moment though and had no plans of dismounting anytime soon.

Fine. I’ll give you fifty!”, he mouthed

“Doesn’t work now”

“What do you mean, doesn’t work now?”

“Everyone says they pay later. After coming, they don’t”

” I’ve given you what you asked for till now. I’m telling you. I’ll give you fifty”

“Fine mister. But you don’t pay. I won’t let you leave.”

The promise of ten extra Euros saw a noticeable difference in her participation. She clawed at his back and butt with crude effort, and after twelve minutes worth of mechanised fucking, Rajaram Shah came, restoring his conscious thoughts as every drop of himself collected inside blocked by latex.

Christina was washing the lube off her vagina from a bidet in full sight by the time Rajaram finished wearing his trousers. He peeled a ten Euro note across and handed it to her. He noticed a copy of Dan Brown’s ‘Digital Fortress’ in the room, but decided against asking her for her opinion on whether the end was predictable.

Close the door on your way out mister’ she said, kissing him on the cheek, closing the contract formally, before standing outside, exactly like she had for him, just for another stranger this time.

Rajaram was thinking of a lot of things when he came out. He was thinking of whether there were cameras in the room. He was thinking of the book more than necessary. It made her seem human, almost. He walked into a dingy reeking bar in the same lane and was greeted by twelve African American women, each engrossed in convincing one or more of the men in the bar to take them to bed after buying them drinks and settling on a price for the night.

The world is a dark place, thought Rajaram as two men proceeded to put their tongues in each others mouths at a table nearby. They had a rainbow badge on their tshirts. He had no idea what it meant. He simply sat in his chair comprehending the morality of the past hour in his life and realised that there was no glory in his actions. There would be millions like him over the world, sitting the same way, arguing with themselves about the terrible shade of grey the world has painted mankind with. He swore he would never repeat it.

On his way home, he stopped at cubicle number three. He saw a girl, barely over sixteen shyly showing off her supple body. She was beautiful beyond words. She looked at each potential man crossing her with a gaze of partial fear and hope. Did she know how beautiful she looked, Rajaram wondered. What wouldn’t he do to take her to a place of comfort, of security. As remorse slowly filled him, Rajaram Shah walked home with her picture haunting his imagination with regret and a sadness that would last him for a very long time.

He would fuck her all three times he visited Antwerp the following year.

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Don’t Postpone Your Court Date

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Have you seen Ratatouille? There are two lines from that movie I’m going to quote here. Remember when the food critic, Anton Ego is asked about his loyalty for food? He snarls out, “I don’t like food, I LOVE it! If I don’t love it, I don’t swallow!!!”

That line encompasses everything I feel for cinema.

I love cinema. I love cinema to the point where my last wish in the slightly worrying situation I’m kidnapped by Incas and given one last wish would be to watch Reservior Dogs followed by Cinema Paradiso or Dil Chahta Hai rounded up by Six Shooter with a small break in between to cry about being sacrificed to the sun or the Wimbledon 2008 Final. I would do all this eating honey glazed pork ribs, because hey! which level headed rational thinking individual doesn’t like honey glazed pork ribs?!?!

I don’t write about either food or cinema because I don’t think I’m qualified to. I see these long personal opinions every Friday where an ABC tells the entirety of his social reach how Vishal Bhardwaj should have ended Haider 30 minutes before its current screen time. Hold on kid. He’s Vishal Bhardwaj, someone with an IQ bordering the boiling point of water on the Fahrenheit scale. You’re a kid with a DSLR and Torrents. Keep it in your mouth.

Here’s where I’m making an exception. I saw Court yesterday. Heard of it? It’s a film Chaitanya Tamhane made and released last year. Italians saw it last year. Germans saw it last year. People in Mozambique probably saw it last year. I saw it yesterday. This makes me pissed at myself. Partially because it’s my fault. If I made time to watch Main Tera Hero and dream of going for a date with Narghis, I had the time to watch Court at least 18 times by now. But I didn’t. I hadn’t bothered finding out which films are making headlines in some of the most prominent film circles in the world, especially considering the director probably eats Pani Puri in the same tapri I do, given the closeness of proximity of his location.

Besides that, I didn’t hear anything about the film. The Times of India didn’t comment on how its actors forgot to wear underwear, no one tweeted about it, there was nothing. Let’s face it. It’s a bit tough to be enthusiastic about something no one knows anything about. I digress. This is about the film. Court is the BEST. I repeat, THE BEST. No wait, I should say that slowly again, THE FUCKING BEST film I’ve seen in a theater over the last ten years. It is on par with Birdman and Boyhood and Gravity and Pulp Fiction and The Shawshank Redemption and any other foreign tagged film you can throw at my face and I will fiercely defend it as the best film a debutant director has made in decades. It deserves to have a VIP entrace in any list that features the words ‘Courtroom Drama’ and a throne of some kind in any list that features the words, ‘Directorial Debut’

For those of you who’d like to know a little about what it’s about, Court follows the Indian judicial system through the eyes of four sub-characters. The accused, two lawyers and the judge. Its screenplay is like a methodical timelapse of a jigsaw puzzle forming steadily in front of your eyes. The accused has been charged of encouraging a man to commit suicide by jumping into a sewer and suffocating himself to death. The accused has been arrested for allegedly singing a song that instructedthe poor to graphically kill themselves in the exact way mentioned above

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I need more structure to this. Let me try it this way.

Unlike other CR dramas that involve someone like Tom Cruise screaming his lungs out heroically followed by long soliloquies about handling truth, 1.5 kilo hands and dogs identifying witnesses in front of a live audience, court maintains the calm sanctity of real life. Firstly, it’s pace is maddeningly slow for a courtroom drama. The shots you see are wides, they stay on for a couple of seconds even after the editor inside your film watching eye expects a cut. That doesn’t happen. The slow pace works fantastically, because you want to know what’s going to happen. He makes you wait for content, which in many ways goes with the theme of the film in itself.

The film follows the lives of both the lawyers fighting the case even outside of the courtroom. It makes you understand their economic background. It makes you realise what shapes the thought process of the two lawyers, what their personal lives are like. It throws light on about 4 other social issues simply following them around. The lawyer who is fighting on behalf of the state comes home after an entire day’s work and proceeds to cook a new meal for her husband and kids, who are oblivious to her day. They don’t care about whether she’s eaten or not. They don’t consider that it’s probably best if they dine together, not at different times. She herself is happily doing this, she doesn’t see the gross inequality in her own house as a social injustice. It works because it’s so subtly shown. The entire film is layered so well. I don’t want to delve into the actual content, because that will spoil a first time experience if you haven’t watched it. It reminded me of an incident I had read of a couple of years back where Black Sabbath vocalist Ozzy Osbourne was tried because a kid allegedly shot himself after listening to one of his songs called ‘Suicide Solution’

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The last ten minutes of the film, after the case is over will spear you in the gut. It’s an ending that will sink in slowly, and once it does, you’ll have goosebumps, if you understand what he’s showing you. No amount of adjectives or hyperbole can explain the kind of impact that last shot had on me. It has rocked me to the core.

Please, please watch the film. It’s an absolutely historic film that will stay in the theaters for just about a couple of weeks more and trust me, it will be something vastly iconic to have missed in the cinemas. You know how you talk about seeing South Africa chase that gigantic 400 something score on live television for the rest of your life? It’s like that. It’s killing me to think that barely anyone will end up going for it. Because it doesn’t have the budgets to buy up every single billboard on Juhu beach. It deserves at least a thousand blog posts more and it deserves at least a month in cinema halls.

I’ve read Pu La Deshpande, and seen him narrate stories on TV, and he’s probably the only humorist I tell everyone who doesn’t speak Marathi is right up there next to PG Wodehouse for humour, and yes! It’s hard to believe till you’ve experienced it. My lot, my entire convent educated English adoring lot are in an unfortunate position where we don’t resonate with our own culture any more. Which is no one’s fault. But it’s the sad truth of my generation. We watch Game of Thrones for breakfast, read Stephen King for lunch and hear Coldplay for dinner. There’s nothing wrong in it. We’re sandwiched in between an abject disdain for our vernacular languages which is a really sad thing, because we don’t see (Marathi in my case) as a language cool enough for all everything we do. I can’t imagine having sex talking in Marathi, or even Hindi for the matter, which is a real truth test to find out how comfortable you are with a language. Which is probably why an average city boy will consider seeing a Fast and the Furious -12 (The finalest final one ever) over something like Court, just because of the level of proximity he has with the language.

We’re slowly proceeding to shun out masterpieces of our own culture. Venice Film Festival has to validate Court before it becomes acceptable to watch. Le Monde has to write a review before we begin considering watching it. It sucks.

After seeing Court, I can say without any effort that I have never been more proud of an Indian directorial debut.  I’ve had the absolute honour of watching it in the cinemas. Remember that speech Anton Ego gives in the end of Ratatouille through his review. I’m just going to sum it up using that. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.

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Ending the Reign of the Grammar Nazi

One of the biggest failures of our education system, and of our generation in general is our tendency to be hugely critical of mistakes. It starts from school where the kid who mis-pronounces a word while reading is mocked to little bits, often supported by the teacher who confirms that he is indeed an idiot. For those five seconds, he could discover a new radioactive element but will find himself alienated for the simple reason that he pronounced ‘tomato’ with an extra ‘ah’.

I restrict this particular piece towards usage of language, because it’s a problem that resurfaces on the internet repeatedly. It’s sad that despite our trend to seem as liberal and open minded as possible, we’re the first to criticize the users of incorrect grammar or bad spelling. The incorrect usage of language is often looked at as the sign of someone who has no clarity in what he or she wants to say.

To go wrong on a public platform is blasphemy, with people who you’ve never interacted with for months reaching out of their way to tell you that the ‘Athiest’ you’ve written is actually ‘Atheist’. I used to think languages were meant to communicate well in this age, not be a standard to prove how well educated one is nor weapons meant to be hurled at those unfortunate individuals who never learnt their model auxiliaries proficiently through school. Yes – You damn well understood the meaning of ‘Can I go to the playground?’

Make no mistake, I love language. I love language just as much as I like a rare steak, just as much as I love Robert DeNiro in Raging Bull. I am completely for its evolution as the need of society demands it.

It’s necessary to follow rules of grammar to lay forth the foundation of a language, to form a skeleton for words to bind together thoughts in a cohesive form. I respect that mesh. But to use grammar as a base to distinguish the few of us who have been privileged enough to acquaint ourselves in its accepted perfect usage and to shun the ones who fail trying is a gross mistake.

I understand that there are places where it is protocol to follow the correct usage of prepositions and verbs. Exams, for example. Job interviews, formal letters of application, where one wouldn’t want to bring forth a casual or slovenly appearance and would want to highlight the seriousness of ones outlook through every aspect of his diction. There is no need to have the same outlook towards casual conversation. That restricts creativity. That makes you conform when you don’t need to conform.

It’s for this very reason that I dislike the compliment ‘well written’. It’s freely thrown as a mark of appreciation all over the world. I see it more as an approval for syntax as opposed to the actual content that the writer has to offer. It compliments the performance more than the script. Of course, there are several writers whose artistry with language supersede their content. For  them; such an epithet is apt. I’m still a firm old believer in content thriving as a monarch in the world of creativity.

One day, I’m sure we’ll face someone who will break the mesh of our prim and proper rules of grammar and raise a middle finger to the apostrophe in the same way a Picasso raised his to proportion and a Goddard to the cut. It’s only then that we’ll realise that we halted our own creative expression just for the simple reason of not wanting an asterix on our timelines.

 

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Look Brother! I can fly!

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One dull winter morning, the kind of a morning where nothing of significance happens, where the clouds are a dull grey and the colours of the peacock refuse to excite the eye, Rama woke up to find out that he had grown a beautiful pair of wings overnight.

His initial reaction was one of horror. As muscles in his body that had never been used began to twitch and his eyes saw the outline of this transformation, he wanted to scream in horror, though he did not feel physical pain in any part of his body. His shoulders and arms seemed intact but did not seem the feeble twig like extensions they used to be. He closed his eyes and touched what he could touch of his left wing with his palm and realised that they were made of several folds, and had a much larger span than what he immediately perceived in his mind. Their outer covering was of fur and the inner layer of tight bound muscle.

“How did this happen?” thought Rama as he proceeded to find a mirror to examine himself. His entire body seemed to have transformed to accommodate the wings. He had become toned and lithe, and the cut of every muscle could be seen prominently against his skin. As he willed his wings to open a little and the folds undid themselves, Rama could not remember seeing a sight that was so beautiful. His wings were pearly white against his bluish dark skin tone. He was a picture of perfection, a word that had never been used near or about him since his birth.

“Could I still be asleep?”

It was a perfectly valid question. After all, no one should fall prey to hallucination. He opened the knife he would keep next to his bed and delicately poked himself. A small dot of blood formed at the spot. The pain that came with it, was the sweetest thing he had felt. It was proof that a good thing had happened on an ordinary day.

It’s your turn to milk the deer” brought his elation to the ground. His brother, Lakshman had already woken up and was screaming his set of morning orders from the inner den. Milking the family deer was the least of Rama’s concerns, at this precise moment. How would Lakshman react when he saw the wings? Would he think of his transformation as a disease? And what use were these majestic wings, anyway? Why had he been gifted them? Questions such as these kept wafting through his head.

“Rama!!!!”

The voice intensified. Lakshman had always been the commanding one, though he was older by just a few minutes. The brothers were nothing like twins. Rama was bluish and looked underfed, while Lakshman was a handsome golden bronze oak in shade, handsome as a lion in heat. His legs were like mace irons and his voice sent the python scuttling away despite it being deaf and dumb.

Rama covered himself with his lijaas and walked down the twenty foot passage that connected both their rooms into the common room. The added weight of his wings, as a thoughtful reader might have thought, did not seem to bother him. He was walking with a grace no one who knew him would have ever thought he’d develop. As he opened the door to the common room, he realised Lakshman was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in the kitchen, slow roasting meat. Rama hoped it wasn’t hare. Hare tasted fine, but it didn’t agree with his stomach after a second helping. He would have to exercise control.

Rama cautiously opened the main door, and stepped outside. The sun was just starting to reveal herself, very shyly. The tips of the tallest trees looked scarlet. As he looked up at the sky and saw three hawks cruising through the air currents, he instinctively knew what he was supposed to do and flexed his wings out. The folds of muscle neatly packed to accommodate room for himself crashed outwards in a blaze and stood out in white perfection against his blue skin. He looked like he had been born to tame the skies.

Rama  flapped his wings. His heart gushed blood to every extension, it came to him like the creator had willed it. He began to see every air current like a different person, one calm, one angry, one particularly morbid, one energetic but short lived. As the pressure under his wings started building up and the weight he felt of his own body started reducing, Rama finally came to terms with his transformation. He could fly.

As Rama rose higher, the million doubts that had flocked his mind seemed so breeze away. The trees and man-caves around seemed so small. He could see thousands of miles around. The world was so big. Rama’s eye caught the glance of a current that seemed friendly, so he decided to lock his wings to it. What a beautiful morning, Rama thought, as he levitated peacefully above his door.

“Explain yourself right now!” Lakshman’s voice radiated through the cold winter morning. Rama felt the happiness ebb out of him. How was he to make his brother understand what he was going through. What if Lakshman decided to throw him out of home?

As Rama slowly lowered himself, he prostrated himself before his elder brother and truthfully recounted the events of the morning. Lakshman’s face was inscrutable as he asked an occasional question. As Rama finished the story, Lakshman touched the left wing with his palm, almost with the same look he would have whenever they managed to pan gold at the river bed. He felt his brothers torso, and how hard it had become overnight. He even compared their shoulders, to see which seemed better developed.

The settlement healer was called, to take a look at whether the demons had bewitched Rama. Lakshman didn’t want any bad spirits changing himself, no way at all. As the healer saw Rama fly, he too had nothing to report but bewilderment and awe at the beauty of Rama’s flight. He passed the transformation as the good grace of forest well –wisher. After all, who would gift someone as simple as Rama something so beautiful? The deeper question – why?

Days passed, and news of Rama spread across caves and settlements all around. People would come by making excuses to meet Lakshman in the morning hours where Rama would practise flying. He had become so good. He would be swooping in circles and suddenly dive-bomb to skim the grass. He would levitate like the lazy stream for hours and accelerate like a falling flake of ice the next moment.

Rama’s fame seem to have cast a spell of morbidity on Lakshman. He had become competitive in every small way. He would take small delight in proving himself to be superior in every small aspect, right from who ate more bee honey during breakfast, to who found the fresher catch, when the two went net fishing.

The brothers had felt a strange shift of power in the house. Of course, Lakshman was still utterly dominant. The right to obedience that he once commanded seemed subdued now. A small amount of tension seemed to emerge when Rama finished his hunts hours before Lakshman and always managed to prey on the choicest meat. Once Rama had walked into his bed early to find Lakshman trying to flap his arms in the same way Rama would ruffle his wings after a long flight.

On Lakshman’s twenty-fifth day of birth, Rama bowed his head low and asked his brother what service he could render as the customary slave promise?  Lakshman was quiet for a very long time and asked Rama if he was strong. Rama said yes. He would do anything for his brother.

“Take me for a flight” his brother commanded.

Rama had never been happier. In the two years since his wings emerged, Lakshman had never asked even once how it felt to fly. Rama knew that Lakshman was far too proud to ask him how it felt, thought the curiosity of seeing Rama fly high up amongst the heavens with his trademark arrow like silhouette marked in a haze of blue against the sky had send darts of jealousy through Lakshman every single time.

Gripping his brother tight Rama soared higher than he ever had before. It was a wonderful moment. They were one, for the first time. Rama manoeuvred through giant Aprico trees and hooted at the scabby vultures that would haunt the skies at every alternate hour during the season end. He showed him the spot where the three sisters of Chihara’s family would come to touch themselves.

When they were down, Lakshman started asking strange questions. Do you love me, Rama? He asked. More than my life brother, Rama replied. Would you do anything I asked?

Of course, brother, came Rama’s reply.

“Sit down on this chair and don’t move till I tell you.”

Rama sat. He tucked his wings back into their folds. He wondered what Lakshman could possibly want from him? Maybe he was to go somewhere far and get him something.

As Lakshman came back, he was carrying a strange looking object with him. It looked like a saw, but it had a double blade and a hinge in between. It was almost as if…

“I want your wings”

Rama stared in horrified disbelief at his brother. Surely, he hadn’t just heard what he had heard.

A surge of emotions thundered through Rama’s head. For the first time in his life, he considered physically striking his brother. He felt utterly repulsed at the very face of his brother, the low life that he was proving himself to be. Family were meant to celebrate each other’s triumphs. They were supposed to shelter each other’s faults. He wondered how insecure his brother’s mind was. And yet, Rama sat. He did not unlock his wings and soar away, to a land where family didn’t matter. He didn’t  pick his brother up and throw him from a point in the sky where his head would crack into small fragments if he was released. He didn’t leave and consider never being seen ever again. Rama was a good man and as the observer has frequently observed, nothing nice ever happens to a man who is good.
It was a bound rule of the clan to not deny a person celebrating his day of birth a gift. Rama was bound by family law. He sat in mute silence as his brother smiled to himself and locked his wings in the hinge blade, right at the joint. As he pressed deep, the blade went through the bone with a crunch, as blood oozed out. Rama screamed in pain, but the agony of sacrifice was worse, as he saw the remainder of his beautiful lying on the ground.

No sooner had Lakshman clipped the second wing, than Ram glowed white and returned to the human state he was in. The tight skin and muscle returned to flab. The cuts evened out. The gashes healed on their own and he became once again, what he was so famous for earlier- being absolutely average.

They were equals once more, but as a famous writer had once said – Lakshman was more equal than Rama.

The brothers continued to live together, but never spoke. They did not care about each other’s existence. They just continued to live.

Rama would often wake up screaming, and touch his shoulder blades, the ghosts of wings once present bothering him with their touch. His phantom wings would wince and his mind would ache with the thought of opening them and souring through the night sky with the bats and other creatures of the night.

One winter morning, Lakshman woke up to find out that he had transformed overnight. He had grown a beautiful pair of jet black wings, powerful and strong. As he flew his maiden flight, the cold winter air filled his lungs up like a drug, and he too, wondered what Rama had wondered – How did this happen to me?

As a quiet Rama opened the door to see his brother in the sky, Lakshman looked down at his brother and for the first time in two years, opened conversation with a smile. “Look brother, I can fly” he said.

All Rama could remember was that fleeting last image of Lakshman soaring through the sky, becoming smaller and smaller till he disappeared.

He would never come back…

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Originally published on Aniket Dasgupta’s dfuse.in

http://dfuse.in/fction/look-brother-can-fly/

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The Howling of the Wind

Originally published on thereader.in

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The soldier was waiting on top of the mountain. The wind was howling like he had never heard it howl before.

Where are the others, he thought. Why haven’t they reached! Run ahead, they had told him. We will meet you at the temple. He had sprinted up till his legs were slow-burning embers. He was sure he had made the distance before the clock screamed three. There used to be a time when he could do it in two, but those were younger days, fitter days.

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The wind was loud today. It seemed distressed. There was a sinister, dark tone to its screaming. Their unit of 50 men had been slowly reduced to seven. War had been going on for countless years. He had been reduced to a skeletal ruin of bone and the odd muscle after six sun rounds of blood battle. His father had died when he was six. His uncle when he was nine. He did not know how old he was, but was quite certain how old he would be when he too, would wave his farewell to the world that had given him so little.

They had all grown up near the mountain, but never climbed it at night. He knew each inch of the rocky mud like a part of himself, but it looked so different in the darkness. It was beautiful in the rains, but would scorch one’s eyes out in the heat of the summer. He loved the sun; the sun was a warm orb. He found the moon scary. It would hang lifelessly, with a glow that looked almost stolen from somewhere. He walked to the peepul tree opposite the casav‘s pond. It was rumoured that the dead came back to reclaim their debts at night. His father used to tell him that man is scared of the night because he cannot see what lies before him. The soldier would always smile at this memory. He was scared of the night because he did not know who could see him.

 

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The howling stopped his chain of thought. The wind slapped his face coldly. He wondered how the wind it would be if it turned into a person. A man or a woman? He thought of a man with long hair and a cold voice. He thought of someone who would coldly cut through flesh without emotion, without a war cry. Maybe even someone who would enjoy it. He walked up to the edge of the fort. He sat on the rusty cannon that had been sabotaged by the Janaasa tribe. It was a fine weapon when it was working. One could hear its roar leagues away. It had once torn a hole through the gut of an elephant.

He thought of his brothers who should have been sitting next to him by now. He had trained with them, fought with them, lived with them. He often wondered whether he would have been this close with any of them if it hadn’t been for the war. Men often grow common roots out of circumstance.

He had seen the fisherman take a last sip of water before he drew the final breath from the hands of the florist. He had seen the butcher lay at rest the passion of the priest using his hands and mouth several times after the priest lost his wife.

The wind had changed its tone. It sounded like the last few cries of the first woman who he had taken by force. He had slit her throat after she started screaming beyond his patience. He had finished spraying her just as her body violently shook to death. But the wind seemed to enjoy it. The woman had not.

His brothers were stronger than he was. He was a stealth fighter. He was used to the dart, the arrow, the crossbow. He preferred the touch of poison, not steel. He would aim to finish the strongest enemies at a distance, making the fight would be easier for the rest. He was weak in his hands. Age was slowly winning against him though his eyes were just as sharp as they used to be. He could still strike out a crow with a blow dart just by hearing the sound of its scavenging.

He wondered if there would ever be a time when he would see a sunrise at the beginning of a day where spilling blood wouldn’t be a necessity. He often questioned if his children would be free to roam around the towns regardless of their loyalty. That was where he cut himself short. He would never have children. The odds of him surviving the war and raising a family were against him. He looked at women now as a bed to end a bad day.

 

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He suddenly noticed a small fire break out in the valley below. What were they playing at! Who was the idiot who considered giving away their location? Why didn’t the others stop him! The wind made the fire burn a darker shade. It was deep crimson. It was definitely not wood. In the darkness of the night, he could not make out what it was. Perhaps they were setting up camp for the night and had caught a hare to roast.

A second fire started blazing alongside the firstborn. He could not believe his eyes. Something absolutely serious had to have happened for a second fire to be lit. He set a bolt to his crossbow. His heart started beating faster. His hackles rose. A third, fourth, fifth and sixth glow joined the company. Six separate fires could be distinctly seen in the valley. The howling wind soothed them, made them glow redder.

He wanted to ask the wind what his brothers were doing. The wind howled back, in a language he could not comprehend. The sky was beginning to lighten. He strained to see what was happening. Any moment now, he would see the distinctive blue cloth of his company in the distance. The sun always rose fast at this time of the year.

The fires had not died, they seemed to burn brighter with the passing moment.

The mountain began to move.

He was obviously hallucinating. The mountain could not have sparked life. He looked eastwards and saw juvenile streaks of light falling from an unseen sun in the horizon.

It was then that he realized that his brothers were being burnt.

They were all being burnt at the stake, after being impaled through the cut. The blue cloth that adorned them was charring along with their blistering skin.

He could see the blacksmith impaled on a spike. His eyes had been pushed inside before they bled him to death. He could see the butcher, who had fought till the last minute, his left arm being cut clean by the longsword. He saw the general prominently branded, his face a burnt, corroded mess.

The soldier remembered their last meal together. Flashes of memories seemed to strangle his urge to cry out loud. He remembered the time they had found a giant trout which had almost bitten his finger off. He remembered how they had castrated the captain of the first battalion they had conquered. He remembered the faces of the men who had left him and gone, the turncoats, the traitors and the lost. They would flash and leave before flashing and leaving again.

Now, they were coming for him.

He wondered how it would be to die. How would that one moment be, where life exits the physical form. He wondered what he had done to see his closest companions die with such perverted brutality just before his own life was going to be taken away. He wondered if all the tales he had heard of heaven were a big lie.

He could see the saffron robes of the climbing enemy get darker and brighter by the minute. They were a hundred foot-lengths away. The wind howled in his ear.

He pointed the crossbow at himself. He knew not what to do. Should he spend his last few moments on a battle that was futile and defend his honour? Or should he end his life on his own terms?

Helplessly, he looked towards the wind and felt it a last time as it continued to slap the outline of his face. It was a slap of duty, not loyalty.

Perhaps the howling wind would tell him what to do, he thought…

 

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Artwork credit – Rohan Kapoor
Website Partners – Lipi Mehta and Rohan Kapoor

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Growing up and losing with Roger Federer…

In 2008, when Roger Federer lost the best and most gargantuanly epic match that a tennis court has had the honour of witnessing, I shut myself in a room for 4 days and questioned what life was about. I even cried for twelve minutes.

Today, exactly six years later, I find myself in a very similar situation, but exhibiting an entirely different reaction.

I’ve been following tennis since 2003.  It was my first love and will always remain fiercely special to me. I would still leave everything I am doing to play, write about, coach and be connected to the sport in a professional aspect. It’s especially hard to see tennis the way I’ve seen it because I was and still am a terrible player. I’ve seen players gifted beyond belief throw their careers away to puff three cigarettes a day or catch those two extra hours of sleep. I’ve felt like shoving their noses in the ground and telling them to understand the value of what they’ve got. That’s where your basic talent comes in. You can’t be taught to see a 200 km/hr serve in slow motion, you either see it or not.

Love for sport, like any kind of love is cruel. It haunts you till you’re forced to break for closure and mocks you while it flirts with someone else. You have to take a call one day and tell yourself you’re never going to make it.

Most kids have an obsession for an atheletes as they grow up. In India, we have a defacto obsession for Tendulkar. It’s there. You don’t need to be told to have it. It’s inborn love. It’s like liking chocolate, everyone around loves the sweetness of it.

Appreciating Federer’s genius was something I learned on my own. It was like appreciating wine, to like an athelete playing a sport that’s entirely alien to the people around you.

I can’t possibly begin to list the reasons why I shamelessly adore Federer’s game, if one can call it that. I’d prefer art, or craft or something that doesn’t sound that mundanely boring. The list of exemplatives that would start from his forehand, the fluid golden whip that it is and end with his movement, that a ballet dancer would look up to in reverance continues to baffle me to date. The fact remains that he was my first real idol, someone who I knew I would never come close to emulating as much as I would like to.

That’s the beauty of supporting an athelete or a club as a kid. They grow with you. You look at their victories or defeats as a personal win or loss. I remember crying like a baby when Federer lost to Nadal in 2008, and I was strangely proud I did. Men cry without shame over sport and war. For me, it was a mark of real atrachement. I had invested everything I had in an individual that would never know of my existence, but would dictate my day to day life so much. I feel sad for people who don’t follow sport, because they will never know what it means to have that nightmarish feeling of your heart pounding at match point for a tournament you have no physical connect with.

Some of my strongest memories are attached to Federer’s matches. I remember lying in tuition class, citing stomach ache to watch him beat Nadal on clay in Hamburg for the first time. I remember my father and I resolving a two week fight by hugging it out after his win over Roddick at Wimbledon. I remember, (and this happens to date) some of my best friends asking me to swear by Federer because they know I’ll never dare to put his life on the line for anything at all. I remember watching him live in Dubai, which remains one of the best experiences I’ve ever had my entire life.

I was broken after the final at Wimbledon then. I was equally gutted after the final today. There’s a difference in outlook though. Back then, I hated the opponent with every small bit of childish rebellion could gather. Today, I respect Djokovic. I acknowledge his presence as the superior player of the day. And I thank him for a being a part of a spectacle I will never forget my entire life.

I think more than the exuberance of the wins, the grace of losing respectfully is a trait that you learn in sport. Because mind you, it takes all the mental strength you have to walk up to your opponent after a five hour match, smile at him and say “Well played”. It’s learning how to lose with someone as invincible as Roger that has been one of the greatest learning experiences of my adult life. He taught me that despite perfection, life can get the darker part of us sometimes, and if it does, we look it straight in the eye and try again, and keep trying again. And again. And again.

A day will come when Federer will retire, and I’ll sit down and think about how it would be to not seeing his familiar brush strokes on TV, and seeing him weave out winners out of then air. But what I will have is a storehouse worth of golden memories.

One day though, I hope I meet his kids. I’ll tell them how their Father made the world dance without music. All he needed was a racquet and a court.

It’s my pleasure to have been a part of the audience while he conduced, for ten straight years. Tonight’s loss wasn’t a negative. It was one of the most beautiful sporting moments of my adult life. I’m happy, and even more fortunate I was alive to see it.

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“I’ll buy her”

There was a merchant who came home one night with a sad feeling in his heart. He did not understand why he felt that way. He had every small comfort one could want. His house was palatial, with an army of servants ready to cater to his every whim. He had recently found huge success in a trade which would assure him abundant gold for the next many years. He had no health problems, and no vices to routinely distract him.

“Perhaps you should find yourself a woman”, advised his Khizar.

Yes, maybe that was where his unhappiness came from. He had no one to share his bed with. He was told that having a woman in one’s life was a daring experience. One would begin to feel strong emotions of attachment, lust and a queer thing the others called love. No one could really explain him what this love was, but all agreed that the potency of this drug was very strong. The merchant could not wait to try out an intoxicant that did not have any physical form.

Being a rich and powerful man, the merchant organised an auction to find himself a woman he felt would suit him. The most influential middlemen brought along with them a variety of women, each was sure to catch his eye. They were dark and fair, intelligent and witty, slim and full, aromatic and pungent and skilled in an assortment of areas the common man would cringe for.

The merchant narrowed his gaze to three women whose physical shape he found very pleasing. He would decide his pick based on what his astrologer would predict about their future.

“How will we be together?” he asked about the first.

She will guarantee you a full and healthy life ahead. She will seal your fame in society and make sure you reach the heights of glory you were destined to reach. She will bear you three children who will honour your name and be the caring the wife and companion you seek. Besides, she is well gifted in the art of lovemaking, and will round up your every physical desire. You will complete her. But…

“But what?” demanded the Merchant.

She will never keep you happy.

“What about the second”, asked the disheartened merchant.

The second woman is the most beautiful woman in the world. You will be on the plate of envy of every man around for being her other half. Other women will throng to have you as a part of their bed. You will be known as the most recognisable couple for miles and miles around and have your names etched in stone as the most compatible couple around. But…

“But what?” asked the merchant again.

This will all be an illusion. You will never desire her as much as she desires you and more than anything else, she will never keep you happy.

“How about the third?”, the merchant resignedly asked.

The third woman is meant to be your better half. She will not improve your life in any way. She will not stimulate you in anyway. She will always be inscrutably mediocre. She will be cold in bed, and colder to be with after a tiring day. She will not cause any jealousy to any other woman, and will not arouse desire in other man. Her averageness will haunt you. Yet, she will steal your heart for the rest of your life. She will cast a spell on you and make you see the world in a new light. You will feel what love is around her and dote on her. But…

“But what?”, asked the merchant, a final time.

You will never keep her happy…finished the astrologer.

Deep in contemplation, the merchant walked to the auction floor. He walked up to the third woman and smiled…

“I’ll buy her”, he said.
He lived happily ever after.

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