FREAKDOM

Chapter 11 - Arsenal Just Beat Chelsea! This Calls for a Poem!

2011-10-29T19:05:00.000+05:30

Arsenal just beat Chelsea 5-3 in an incredible away game. Here's a poem as a small token of celebration. Gooners, enjoy, and show this to every Chelsea fan you know.

One day a man called Terry
Was lying flat on grass,
Asked why, he said, "The Gunners
Have shot me in the ass.

"We used to beat all teams
And life was fun and gay,
Alas; but times of joy
Were not forever to stay.

"This Saturday we thought all
Will go just as was planned;
But when that guy Van Persie
Got going, all hopes were canned.

Cartman in 'South Park'
Got an anal probe from Mars-
In a manner somewhat same
Arsene probed our arse.

"Before the match was up
They'd screwed us twice plus thrice;
Then left us here in pain,
To nurse our hinds with ice.

"And that's why here I lie
Beside the rest of the team;
All rendered fucked-up since
The Gunners crushed our dream."

Chater 10: WTF (The Revenge of Sexpyaar)

2011-06-15T01:59:00.008+05:30

For the last two chapters I've been on a roll, blabbering about stuff I wrote during some freelancing errands. And then I thought, since I'm just putting up stuff that I wrote earlier, why don't I just give them the Big One?

The piece I was thinking of, code-named the Big One in my undergrad college friend circle, is the biggest pile of dump I ever committed to paper. I've tried writing shit after this (hell, I've started this blog) but never quite matched up to it. It was one-off; kinda like my masterpiece... nay, mastershit.

It was supposed to circulate among my immediate friends. But photocopies apparently made it to neighboring colleges until one of my teachers got one copy and recognized my handwriting. Now, I thought I'd get in big trouble but he didn't tell on me. Instead, he met me in person, told me I had creativity but should direct it to stuff more "tasteful". As for the mastershit, he said, "It was like someone flushing a toilet. Only the flush just keeps on going." I took that as a compliment.

So, the shit in question is a one-act play. A poetic play at that. Based on Coleridge's Christabel; a very very nice iconic poem. Have you read it? No? You should, you know. Here's the full text. Anyway, so this poem is actually very nice, but taking an exam on it wasn't. You know what I mean? It had so many damn things going on that we, poor undergraduates, lost our sleep over it. So, to take out some steam, I mutilated it, threw in Shakespeare and supremely disturbing sexual innuendos. The result was "WTF: The Revenge of Sexpyaar".

So, here's my mastershit for you all to read. But beware, it's pretty fucked up. And it fucks you up. So unless you have the guts to see some great works of literature dissected by a lazy undergrad bum, don't read.

And oh, for those who don't speak Hindi, here's some words you should know the meanings of.

Bayle- Hindi for Bull.

Dayin- Hindi for witch, hag.

Pyaar- Hindi for love.
Sex- When I heard it's not a Hindi word, I was shocked.

So, here goes. Hold your breath. You might lose it. No, seriously.

W T F : The Revenge of Sexpyaar
A Poetic Play in One Act (although never really been acted)

Characters (in order of appearance)

Leoline: Father of Christa Bayle.
Chee: That's me. Hee hee.
Toothless Dog: The guard of Leoline's castle.
Christa Bayle: The captive lady of this play. Actually a bull.
Geral Dayin: The evil witch who has captured Christa Bayle.
Green Knight: Has had enough of fooling around with Sir Gawain. Is here to save the day and get the girl.

Steed: The horse Green Knight comes riding.

Romeo and Juliet: Biggest source of love-letter cliches during school life. Here to join hearts.

Sexpyaar: Great dramatist.

Graham Bayle: Inventor of telephone.

Ding Dong Bayle, Church Bayle and Calling Bayle: random bulls that have no dialogue.

Scene-1

[An empty field. Evening. Sir Leoline is sitting with his hands around his legs. Chee enters.]

Chee- Who art thou, a man so old,

Sitting and shaking out here in cold?

Leoline- ‘Tis not cold that shakes me, sir!

‘Tis for my Christa Bayle’s gone afar

From my eyes; it seems, he is, lost-

Nicked by someone who might make his roast.

Chee- O villain! That hath so gruesome a thought!

Who hath him such brutality taught?

Sit no while, sir, get thee up,

Search this land from down to up!

Leoline- I have sent my Toothless Dog

To cut through mountains, tear the fog

Yet look for Christa Bayle all the time

And bring me back any news of the crime.

Chee- No thought in my head hath ever been stranger;

What good is a Toothless Dog in times of danger?

Leoline- Speak not in that uncanny note!

Dare thou defy what Coleridge wrote?

Even with no teeth, he can speak

Though his voice is thin and weak.

None but I can follow his speech;

To others, ‘tis but a howling screech.

[Enter Toothless Dog]

Toothless- Bow Bow Bing Bow Ban Bong Bine,

Wow Wow Wing Wow Wan Wong Wine.

Leoline- He says the culprit is Geral Dayin

She’s who’s got Christa Bayle of mine.

Chee- Now now, good sir, let’s make haste,

Get to her in time we must!

[Exeunt]

Scene 2

[Christa Bayle and Geral Dayin]

Geral- Now art thou my captive bull,

Enjoy thee I will, to the full.

Christa- O send help, my mother’s oak tree!

She’ll destroy my precious chastity!

Geral- But now unrobe thyself, for I

Very soon’ll with thee in one bed lie.

Don’t waste time now, come on, unrobe!

Help will come from no part of the globe!

[Geral Dayin goes near Christa Bayle. Enter Leoline, Chee, Toothless Dog]

Leoline- Before things get nasty on stage

And this play tips over censor’s edge,

Here I am to halt thee still-

Don’t go ‘gainst the Writer’s will.

Toothless- Beau Bing Bow Bun Beo Beo Bee,

Weau Wing Wow Wun Weo Weo Wee?

Leoline- He says, “Years I’ve waited to find him free,

How can thou thus overtake me?”

[Toothless Dog attacks Geral Dayin]

Chee- Fie you, black hag! Serve thee well!

Being a Dayin thou lust for a Bayle?

[Geral Dayin throws off Toothless Dog who falls senseless]

Geral- May thy limited mind blast like pop corn!

For where Nature ends, Supernatural is born!

Later shall I fulfill my sexual desire,

First by magic I shall set thee on fire!

[Raises her hand. Enter Green Knight on a Steed]

Green [singing]- Platinum heart, iron wing,

Ol’ Greeney be here to make thee swing!

[Jumps from the Steed, sees Geral Dayin]

Green [mesmerized]- Who art thou,

So wither’d and so wild in thy attire,

That look not like th’inhabitants o’th’earth,

And yet are on’t? Live you? Or are you aught

That man may question? You should be woman,

And yet your beard forbids me to interpret

That you are so.

Chee- Good gracious, Knight! What thou speaketh?

Thou art quoting from Sexpyaar’s “Macbeth”!

Green- Ah, sir! ‘Tis sights of this kind

                That drive dialogues out of my mind.
  [Opens script, checks lines]
  So Coleridge writes thou art Geral Dayin

Who hath been a captive of mine,

And I have come to catch thee ‘gain,

To relish the Game of Pleasure and Pain.

Geral- ‘Long as these mine hands are free,

Thou shalt never enjoy me!

Green- I will catch thee, Hag! Come on!

You; yes, you; you Dayin forlorn:

Then with thee in thund’rous speed

I shall escape on my Steed.

Steed- Chew thy wish, thou heap of steel!

I have different plans, I feel.

[Steed goes and stands next to Christa Bayle]

Green- What, mad horse? Why, why art thou

Standing beside that male cow?

Steed- As the soldier chooses the sharper blade,

I choose the one who’s better in bed.

Green [goes green in the face]- I am Fortune’s Fool!

If for the lack of a horse I can’t elope,

What’s the point in being so cool?

[Enter Romeo and Juliet]

Romeo- We are Sexpyaar’s angels of love,

We serve everyone: man, rat, dove.

Juliet- When we passed the western gate,

We heard here be a one-way state.

Romeo- And one of my dialogue’s been misused. In fact,

That is a violation of the Copyright Act.

Juliet- We haven’t much time and have to go.

So say fast, who’s saying ‘yes’, and who ‘no’?

Green- I want her to lie with me,

But she’s stubborn like a mistaken key.

Romeo and Juliet- That will be put right for sure,

The bugs of love shall bite her to cure.

Geral- Ere thy cure, lo, comes my blow!

Romeo! Watch out! Here thou go!

[Geral Dayin strikes Romeo with thunder. Romeo falls. Juliet falls to her knees beside him]

Romeo [to Juliet]- Darling, kiss me goodbye! [She kisses him]

Thus, with a kiss, I die. [Dies]

[Enter Sexpyaar]

Sexpyaar- Fie thee, Geral Dayin! What hast thou done?

Thou hast killed off Romeo, thinking it’s good fun?

Pay for this thou shalt, once and for all,

As soon as I make just one missed call!

[Takes out cellphone and places a missed call. At once, Ding Dong Bayle, Church Bayle, Calling Bayle and Graham Bayle come in charging. Geral Dayin is chased off the stage by them. Moments later the Bayles return, victorious.]

Green [to Juliet]- Since that hag’s gone and thou, too, are free;

What thou think of eloping with me?

Juliet [thinking]- Lament and die for him, though I should;

A change of partner does sound good.

Leoline- Come, Christa Bayle, and thou, Steed, his mate;

We’ll take this dog back to the castle gate.

[Leoline picks Toothless (and senseless) Dog and leaves, followed by Christa Bayle and Steed]

Sexpyaar [to Graham Bayle]- Thy courage hath all outshone;

Nothing was possible without thy phone.

Graham- I’m adding features to this creation of mine,

Enabling partners to chat and date online.

[Exit in pairs- Graham Bayle and Ding Dong Bayle, Church Bayle and Calling Bayle]

Green- What did he say, o Lord of mine!

Dating and all while standing on a line?

Come, Juliet, let’s fly instead,

And spend nights on our feather-soft bed.

[Exit Green Knight and Juliet, hand in hand]

Sexpyaar- These strange happenings of this night

Have lit my mind with a bright bulb-light;

I have the idea of a tragedy,

Of a kind that’s never been, and never again shall be!

Though this one hag did overwhelm me;

For greater effect, in my play, there shall be three!

A kind of play that shall the critics please,

And feed on undergrads as if they’re geese. [Exit]

Chee- A minute ago, within ten feet,

All sorts of weirdos were in a meet;

And now, no Bayle! Not even a sheep!

All are gone; do I wake or sleep?

[Curtains]

Chapter 9: Freaklancing (Part 2- the Horror Stories)

2011-06-04T21:49:00.008+05:30

Now, I thought my rapid-fire writing capacities had demonstrated their best when I wrote two Shakespearean sonnets within two hours during a particular assignment as a freelance writer. But I was to surprise myself again, very soon.

This one time a school teacher asked for an "unusual ghost story" that could be read out to the children in class. So off I went; doing some quick look-ups (turning off the lights for creating a fitting atmosphere) and in about an hour and a half, I had a seizable amount of scary scribbles ready for dispatch. I uploaded the doc file and awaited verdict.

And it came within five minutes. The teacher felt this superb story of mine -worthy of a thousand heart attacks- was not suitable for 13 year olds. Now, I had a good day's worth of time left to the deadline but the customer had kinda insulted my genius so I decided to write another one immediately; choosing to work on one of the early ideas I abandoned for being too cheesy. The new story was shorter, was hardly taxing and zing; it was approved and sweet money showed up in my account. I went to sleep and dreamed of a skeleton hand reaching out from the laptop screen as I typed frantically. (I have done very little freelance writing after this)

But I'll be honest with something here. Next morning when I read those stories again, I didn't find them scary at all. In fact, I found their solemn seriousness kinda funny. But then, I find all serious things overly funny sometimes. At school, I got into trouble for finding the Arctic climates and the laws of Gravity quite amusing.

Me fact- I collapsed with laughter when the teacher tried to talk about Archimedes.

Well then; without further delay, I give you the stories in question; the first one being my ambitious thriller, the second one being the cheesy filler. Whether they are scary or not, you decide. And oh; if any of you get heart attacks, I'm not paying the bills. Fair warning.

So... here we go. Two spine-chilling horror stories, back to back.

Me fact- I'm wearing a helmet to protect myself from all the rotten eggs I'm going to be plastered with.

“So they’re called the Blue Moon Cult, and they make human sacrifices to Satan here in these woods every time there’s an eruption?” Jason asked nervously.

“Yeah, it’s something to do with the blue moon,” said Mark. “I mean, not the usual third full moon in a month, it’s when the moon really turns blue. Rare natural phenomenon; happens when the volcano puts too much sulphur in the air. Last time the mountain let up in 1983, the moon turned blue and many local villagers reported screams in the jungle.”

“So, is the moon here blue tonight?” Jason asked in a hushed voice.

“No idea, the trees are too thick.”

They tried to walk as fast as possible without making much noise. The darkness was thick, and Mexican forests made for poor jogging tracks.

They had met in the jungle by the volcano St Helena in a way nobody expected. Mark was a freelance photographer for an Argentinian tabloid who had come here to investigate the legend of the Blue Moon Cult, along with David, a journalist. By rare luck, they actually spotted the whole group during a communion. But their luck soon turned on them when one of the cult members saw them. They ran, got separated, and Mark lost his camera. And it was while fleeing the pursuers that he came across a bewildered Jason, who had no idea how he got there.

“You saw them up close?” asked Jason. Mark shrugged, “Not so close, had to use a lot of zoom. But what does it matter, the camera is lost! Damn, those pictures could’ve shaped my career!”

“It’s just freaky,” exclaimed Jason. “I was coming out of the subway, and then someone hit me with something from behind! Next thing I know, I wake up in this creepy dark forest all alone! And now you think they kidnapped me and brought me here for sacrifice! But how is that possible? I mean then I’d wake up tied to a pole or something, right?

“I’m just saying there’s a chance,” said Mark. “Maybe their ritual includes hunting down the sacrifice, like that movie… hey, look!”

Mark had stopped dead at a spot where there was a tree with no leaves, and a part of the sky was visible. And there, visible through a network of dead branches, was the big, perfectly round moon, colored in a dazzling, almost alien blue. “Beautiful,” said Mark. Jason felt the rush of a sudden, shuddering wind, “Excuse me for being jumpy, but it’s scaring the hell out of me.”

“It’s the mystery that makes her so toxic,” said a deep voice from behind them. Startled, Mark and Jason turned to face four men in black, hooded cloaks. The owner of the voice raised an arm towards them, “You need not flee us. We mean you no harm.”

“Who… who are you?” Jason managed to ask, “Why have you brought me here?”

“We bring nobody,” said another cloaked man. “We are but keepers of the doorway. We but show the lost their path.”

“You’ve lost me there,” said Mark through his teeth. The man nodded, “Not just you, the entire human race have become lost. Your obsession over the apparently visible has cost you the deeper meaning, the inner significance. Today man has walked on the moon and learnt all the secrets of its soil, but has become incapable of learning the secrets of its soft, kind, inviting light.”

“For a group that makes human sacrifices, you sound quite learned,” said Mark.

“Contrary to popular misunderstanding, we are not a satanic cult. And we do not sacrifice living creatures. Our duty has always been to aid the moon during its weak hours,” said another man in dark cloak. Jason and Mark looked at each other.

“There are over fifteen hundred active volcanoes all over this planet," said the man. “All these fire-breathing mountains are portals to Afterlife, each taking its turn upon a vibrant full moon to transport all the newly released souls to the world beyond. The light of the full moon acts as the guide, its hypnotizing rays attracting the souls like they attract the bees, and then lovingly guiding them towards the door they are to take.

“But sometimes the moon’s light is rendered weak by nature’s fury! Sometimes when a volcano erupts, its ashes and other heavy substance cause the moonlight to go dim… go blue! This light, though majestic, is not enough to shepherd the souls! As a result, when the poor confused souls reach this forest, they lose their path and wander aimlessly. And that is when we, the Blue Moon Cult, help them through the last bit of their long, adventurous journey on earth.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jason. “You mean… you don’t mean…”

“Yes, son,” said the nearest cloaked man kindly. “You are dead, and lost.”

“No. It can’t be. It just can’t be.” Jason shook his head.

The man reached inside his cloak and brought out a shiny silver cross. He said, “See this holy symbol of our Lord. Let it settle forever in your heart, during these last moments you have on earth. There is another cross, identical to this, placed near the mouth of the eruption. Go to it. Then cross the door. Your destiny is down the volcano. Face it, embrace it!”

“No no no no no no no no… this is not happening! THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!” Jason screamed, in a loud, desperate cry that tore apart the silence of the forest. His body was going stiff. He could not move, and could feel his limbs losing mass.

A sudden horrid realization dawned to him.

“Wait… you said, down the volcano! Down the volcano! Am I going to hell? Am I? TELL ME, AM I GOING TO HELL? TELL ME! OH GOD… OH GOD… OH-”

Jason’s body vaporized right in front of Mark. And among all the chaos and confusion, there was only one thought he was having, “Only if I had my camera!”

The men in cloak turned to him. Mark was taken aback, “What?”

“This knowledge has to stay within the forest,” said the man who had the cross.

“Wha… what? You’re going to kill me?” Mark was frozen with fear.

“We shall not kill you,” said the man. “We killed you an hour ago when you were trying to flee. Your friend escaped, but he will be captured soon.”

Mark, overcome by the shock, opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Forgive me, son,” said the man before once more raising the cross.

The dry fallen leaves crunched under his feet as the man walked down the lane that led away from the village. The starlit sky featured half a moon, and its dim glow made the valley look like a shadow. The man did not carry any light; he stepped cautiously through the faint outline of a clay path that lay before him like a dead river. The man pulled his coat more tightly around him.

The wind was queer tonight. There was no constant flow of breeze, but sudden, random gushes of air, like a child running around a playground. The man came to stop at a point where the lane split in two. One of them went down the valley to the railway station. The other went through the woods to the river. The man stood there for a few moments, finally deciding to take the latter.

After a few minutes’ walking, the surroundings began to change. Trees grew frequent; starting with twos and threes, and then soon taking over the entire landscape. Wild and ancient, they stood like monsters with distorted limbs, rocking slowly with the wind. An owl hooted somewhere, its screech multiplied by the total silence hanging in the air. The man nervously increased his pace.

There were no clouds in the sky, and the twinkling stars made the man feel like they were eyes of countless unknown creatures staring down at him. The man felt a chill in the neck and pulled his coat even tighter. And then he saw something that made his feet- and heart- stop right on their respective tracks.

There, behind a bush to his left, were a pair of eyes; alight in the darkness, staring right at his direction.

The man stood petrified, not knowing what to do. The burning eyes scanned him for a few seconds, and then blinked; their owner had decided to run away in the opposite direction.

It was a cat! The man grabbed his chest and breathed for a while. He looked up; there was still a long way to go. “I’m getting old,” he thought to himself.

Another thirty minutes of walking later, he found himself at the end of the road; a mid-sized stream that ran across the valley. He approached the river and sank to his knees at its edge. He sat there for a long time, staring at the water, and occasionally murmuring to himself. Finally, he reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out a small box wrapped in colorful paper. He looked at it, then at the river, and lowered it to the ground.

He rose to his feet, and stared at the little box as silent tears streamed down his cheeks. Finally, in a broken voice, he managed to say, “Happy birthday, Emma.” Then suddenly, something made him turn and wildly look around. There was nothing in sight, but he could have sworn he heard a voice from behind.

The place was empty. The man was alone. The trees nodded as the presence of water added extra chill to the wind. The man nervously scanned the surroundings one more time, and then looked back at the box. He sighed and wiped his eyes. It was time to go.

But as he turned, he saw something that made him freeze. There, about twenty feet from him, barely visible in the darkness, was a human form dressed in misty white. The man looked in dumbfounded fear as the figure stood still, not moving a muscle.

He did not know how long this position of stillness lasted, and the figure finally moved. It walked slowly, making no sound as its feet touched the ground. Taking no notice of the man, the mysterious figure walked down to the river and stepped into the water.

The light from the stars and half a moon, flickeringly reflected by the water, cast a measurable amount of light on this mysterious figure and the man noticed, for the first time, the flowing blonde hair above the white linen.

“Emma!” He called out, “Emma, is that you?”

The girl in the water did not answer, and took a few steps forward. The man felt his limbs shaking. “Emma,” he pleaded. “Stop! Come back!”

The girl did not seem to hear him at all and went on, and soon the water level rose above her waist.

“Emma! Don’t go! Please!” The man pleaded, “The water’s dangerous! Come back!” The girl went further in.

“Don’t! Not again, don’t!” The man stepped into the water.

The girl reached shoulder depth and stopped. The man, calling out to her, struggled to reach her as soon as possible.

She turned. The man stopped, and a relieved smile appeared on his face. He had not smiled like this for years.

“It’s all right baby,” he said. “Daddy’s here.”

Junior Inspector Akins walked down the river stream, cursing his luck and his job.

In the afternoon the corpse of a London businessman was found floating in the river; some fifteen miles downstream. A tragic case; apparently the man’s teenage daughter had also died of drowning in this very river six years ago while camping in this county. Last night, which was her birthday, the father had returned to the spot she drowned and -according to initial reports- committed suicide. “Poor devils,” Akins shook his head in pity.

Now, this made for an interesting story, and the local media was bound to take it up. As a result, it became essential to have a full report ready before morning, which meant someone had to go take a look at the possible spot where the man made the jump. And Akins had the honor of being the junior officer.

It was unlikely he would have anything to report about. This was merely a formality, but one strong enough to spoil Akins’s evening making him look through mud and wild grass and…

Akins stopped. There, by the river, was a small box wrapped in colorful paper. He bent down and picked it up.

Suddenly, something made him turn and look around in a bewildered fashion.

He could have sworn he heard a soft, girly voice; immediately behind him.

---

Chapter 8: Freaklancing (Part 1- the Shakespearean Sonnets)

2011-06-01T09:05:00.006+05:30

In this chapter (and the next) I'm going to take a break from my usual storyline and tell you about some of the cheesiest stuff I've done during my brief spell of knocking things around in the world of freelance writing. Now, make no mistake, I can be a real handy one at that job, but there were some cases the customers struggled to handle my handiness. I don't blame them; most of them were college kids putting up their homeworks on freelance writing sites. But since almost a year has passed (and they have, with some luck, been promoted to the next class) I think it's okay to share some of my choicest works with you.

Now, I'm a real sucker for poetry. I know the lines of Twinkle Twinkle and Humpty Dumpty by heart. And my favourite is London Bridge is Falling Down. So when I saw that an undergrad student needed a "fun and easy" Shakespearean sonnet composed for a prosody class, I jumped at the opportunity to exercise my on-the-spot poetic skills. Also, Shakespeare was something of an idol for me; apart from being the biggest treasure of love-letter cliches during school life, his name was an amalgamation of my two favourite words in English and Hindi.

Anyway; there were only 2 hours left to the deadline. I decided to take it anyway and in 40 mins I submitted this-

How I Ducked an Evil Burger and Saved the New York Yankees’ Honor

I saw the fading sunshine brush thy side,

As mighty earth did perforce pull thee down;

And knew thy devious plan to hurt my pride,

By making people laugh at me, or frown.

The simple man had bought thee with some chips,

But thine intentions were to cause disgrace;

Thy voodoo soon made sure that his foot trips,

And from his plate thou leaped right at my face!

The man did groan, which woke me from my nap;

I saw thy cheesy bits, as close they came…

On my head I was wearing a Yankees’ cap,

Some sauce on that would put their name to shame!

But, lo! I ducked, and thou fell on the ground,

Thy hideous plan went dead with a feeble sound.

P.S. This poem is in iambic pentameter, with the rhyme scheme ababcdcdefefgg

Well, I remained online to see the spelling check and payment confirmation through. Within 5 mins, the customer cleared payment but messaged me, "I'm a girl+not an American+hate Baseball+hate the Yankees. The professor won't believe this is by me."

Now, I felt bad, so I sat down and came up with another one-

The Owl’s Visit

A starless night, and fleeting bursts of wind,

The street lamp was a lonely source of light-

I lay awake, all kinds of thoughts in mind,

Then thou flew in, which made me gasp in fright.

Thou looked at me, and I did brook thee back,

A big white owl, with something in thy beak;

Thy calm features showed no sign of attack,

Which helped me convince myself not to shriek.

I mused in silence, from how far thou came;

If thy nest rested in some rural parts,

Hedwig, Pigwig- what might be thy name;

Did thy beak hold a letter from Hogwarts?

I raised my cam-phone, but it caught thy sight;

Thou swung the beak-held rat and flew to the night.

P.S. I hope your room has a window and your country has owls that kill rats. Cheers.

It was still 20 mins to the original deadline :D

P.S. This is the third post-script in the same post. Goodness knows what humanity has come to. But if you are the customer who put up the order; take my advice and shut the hell up. You don't get caught for not doing your homework a year later unless you yourself make a hue and cry about it. Also, outsourcing your homework from India is a pretty fitting portrayal of your lifestyle. And you aren't even American!

And if you are my Facebook friend and have read about this in one of my notes, don't get wearied by this re-post in the public domain. The next chapter will deal with two ghost stories I wrote within three hours that I haven't told anyone about... yet ;)

Chapter 7: Crossing the River

2010-12-02T16:09:00.011+05:30

[We're now going back to the original storyline, continued from here]

“Much ado about nothing. That’s what I call it,” said Baz loudly over the cacophonic rattle of the auto-rickshaw engine. I pretended not to hear him, but couldn’t resist a mental agreement.

Since the moment we got down from the bus we had been overwhelmed by a series of misadventures. First off, though we were going to Hampi, the bus had dropped us at Hospet and left. It took us a full fifteen minutes to realize that Hospet was kind of a launch-pad for Hampi; you had to get down here and catch a ride to the real destination. Then, we mistook a bullock-cart loaded with hay for a potential means of transport. The driver, who unfortunately spoke only Kannada (the local language), thought we were thieves and gave us a good chase down the empty street. It seemed forever before we met an auto-rickshaw driver who spoke Hindi and agreed to take us to Hampi.

Baz was being extra-friendly since we came aboard the rickety three-wheeler. Not more than half an hour ago in a fit of rage he had happened to subject my jaw to a slightly painful upper-cut, and was probably feeling guilty. I chose to continue ignoring him for the time being.

The sunrise was still a good hour away, and all we could see of our surroundings were silhouetted trees. The setting seemed uncannily fitting for a murder-thriller, or worse- a horror flick. If I killed Baz now, his ghost was sure to make an immediate backlash.

There were steep ups and downs and we had to hold on to our seats. Baz grumbled, “These things have everything in common with helicopters… except the blades and fucking seat belts!”

There was a long, unnerving steep where the auto-rickshaw all but toppled over, and then we were here. A big gate laid half-open in order to prevent big cars from getting in. Beyond the gate was, evidently, the town of Hampi.

“Let’s get some tea first,” said Baz.

After that bumpy ride even my insides were crying out for some warm soothing drink.

So we sipped tea at a nearby stall and then, with lungs full of fresh morning air, stepped through the gates into the official territories of Hampi.

Immediately, a short figure wrapped in a blanket appeared out of nowhere.

“Hey sirs, you want room? Nice room, big small, single double, hot water, front view, room service?”

“You know, Chee, I think we could do with a couple of rooms…” Baz said. I, however, had my mind occupied with something else. The air, coming from straight ahead, had a particular aroma to it. I walked straight ahead, past everyone else.

Baz hurriedly followed my trail, as did the man in blanket, “Nice room, good for two, nice bed, very very pleasure…”

Both me and Baz stopped dead in our tracks and turned back. Baz gave me a puzzled look. I adopted my Morgan-Freeman-pissed-off voice and said, “We don’t need your blasted room! Get the hell out of my sight!”

The man immediately took three steps backwards. I turned and started walking again. Baz did the same; talking enthusiastically, “That was cool, dude! I never knew your vocal chords came with Martin Luther King-mode!”

Me fact- Even though I respect Martin Luther King Jr a lot, for some reason I have always felt that this remark of Baz justifies all my thoughts of strangling him with a leather belt.

Belt fact- Even though everyone keeps pointing out that his jeans are almost falling down, Baz never wears a belt and prefers pulling up his pants from time to time. He believes this act sends positive vibes to the fairer sex.

“These hotel guys have a creepy way of saying things,” Baz was saying. “What did he think we are? And whoa, what’s that huge thing in front of us?”

“Virupaksha Temple! Fifteen Ten! Made by Krishnadeva Raya! Very very holy! I give you good guide, you do worship, you do shopping, you do site-seeing, you do everything together…”

The hotel guy, apparently, was still following us. Baz cast a nasty look at him, “This guy is starting to piss me off…”

I had not stopped. Baz realized this and pondered for a moment. Then he ran up to me and blocked my path.

“Okay, Chee, you’re not talking… point taken,” he said. “I know I did a rash thing and I’m sorry… just… I don’t know… don’t be… aah fuck it… could we please just forget this?”

I was surprised. It’s not every day that you get to see Baz at loss of words.

“I’ll punch you back,” said I. “Very soon.”

“Deal,” said he. I started walking again. “Where are you going now?” Baz sounded worried.

“There’s a river down that way,” I pointed.

“I didn’t know you’ve been here!”

“No,” said I. “I can sense it.”

So we took a right turn from the gateway to the Virupaksha temple (which, pre-sunrise, looked like a silhouetted Godzilla) and sure enough, a few paces down the road we found a clear, lively stream.

The sun was about to rise in a few minutes, and the ghat was already half-filled with religious devotees whose dips were to coincide with the first light of the day. The ferry service- consisting of two boats that went back and forth between the shores- was gearing up for their first trip. We stood a little far apart, filling our eyes with the almost abstract glow that the water seemed to exude.

“Beautiful, I wonder what its name is… we should have got one of those travellers’ handbooks.” Baz said absently.

“There’s a signboard,” I said. “It’s Tungabhadra.”

“Weird name,” Baz said to the river. (in a tone that was more fitting for “I love you”)

“Yeah, it says the source is right here. And there’s something else on the board…” I said, but Baz pointed ahead. “Sshhh… Chee… look!”

The sun was rising. The horizon was illuminated with delicious orange effulgence that often made my heart cry for a glass of juice. Then, right before our keen eyes, the first solar ray of the day darted from the horizon like a laser beam from some alien weapon… and fell straight on the top of the Virupaksha Temple.

It looked as if the temple-top caught fire.

“It’s… fucking beautiful!” Baz said. I turned to him in surprise.

“You notice something dude?” I said, “I’ve heard a lot of f-words from you lately. And I don’t remember that happening ever in the past.”

“I am?” exclaimed Baz. “Oh fuck… I am…”

I laughed, which made Baz look even more worried. “This is your fault, too,” he said. “All those stories from you… it’s like you’ve put a bit of you inside me.”

“Maybe I’ve killed a part of your soul and planted a part of mine in there,” I said. “Congrats man, you’re my horcrux!”

“That’s one more good reason to smoke even more,” Baz replied. “But enough. This is it. I won’t say the f-word anymore.”

“Good for you,” I said. “But I’m having an idea right now.”

I pointed at the board. Below the river’s name, length and other stats there was a different writing. Five seconds later Baz went, “Noooooo waaay.”

It said; “NOTICE: FOR HAMPI HALL OF FAME, CROSS THE RIVER.”

“Come on, just for fun,” I said.

“No f… freaking way!” Baz said, “I have no wish to mortally endanger my life when we could just go to a restaurant and release the stress of an exhausting night-long journey!”

“But it says our names will be on the Hall of Fame!” I pleaded, “And maybe we’ll find better hotels and eating places on the other side!”

“All I know is that rivers that have the source nearby look calm but have strong under-currents, which with time cut into the rocky surface, making the river-depth extremely unpredictable. So when you’re stepping in the water, two feet away there might be a drop of fifteen feet. And once you lose your balance- no matter how many Olympic medals you have won for swimming- the strong currents will toss you around like a washing machine, .”

“Wow, man,” I was impressed.

“Geography,” Baz said. “Used to be good at it.”

“Come on…” I continued appealing. “The river-bed is full of rocks! We probably won’t even need to step on the water!”

“If this was so easy, there would be no Hall of Fame,” Baz answered. “And anyway, I’m too tired for anything right now.”

He turned to go. Immediately, the hotel emerged from a shadowy corner and glided to the middle of the road.

Baz turned back to me. I smiled. His face grew sadder, “Where do they put up the names anyway?”

The bathing crowd was increasing. We walked away from the charted territories towards an area that was deserted. The riverside here was full of thick wild grass, immediately faced by rears of numerous lodge-houses. (Hampi, being a world heritage center, so far has been protected from large hotels. Most of the local houses, however, offer great lodging facilities)

“I think if we go from that rock to that rock, we’ll find some land stretch in the middle to get to that rock,” I pointed enthusiastically.

“You’re sure we can’t just go to one of those lodges?” Baz was discouragement personified.

“Come on man,” I jumped onto the grass. “We’ll get to the other side, get our names on the Hall of Fame and retire to our beds; as heroes.”

Baz was still not sure. “We could score some tourist chicks with that tag,” I said. He jumped right in.

Soon, we faced our first problem.

I was jumping merrily from rock to rock, when calls from behind made me stop and turn back.

“Chee, there seems to be a ten feet stream here,” Baz was looking extremely worried. “How’d you cross it?”

“I walked, of course!” I said, “It’s only knee-deep!”

“But I don’t want to take off my shoes,” said Baz. “Besides, the water here is too muddy.”

“That’s because I walked through just now,” I said. “Come on, throw me your shoes!”

“Was it slippery?”

“A bit.”

“Then I’m not going,” said Baz. “My bag has the digicam, so I can neither throw it nor risk getting it wet. I’ll go along this way; I think the stream gets thinner over there.”

He strode right ahead, leaving me in utter disbelief.

Only seconds later, however, he returned with a face that I had seen before.

“That place is a human shit bank man,” he said bitterly. “It’s like the Hampi Pooping Plaza! I stepped on some!”

“Breaking news, you’re not throwing me your shoes,” I said.

“But if I throw them and you don't catch they might slide back into the water!”

“Your problem,” I answered. Baz shot me a tragic, disappointed glance; then took off his shoes and tied them to his backpack by their laces. Then, like an electrician testing a live wire, he touched the water with his toe.

“Are you kidding me?” I was getting impatient, “It’s not fucking Siberia!”

Baz stepped into the water. One of his hands was holding his backpack firmly, though it was already strapped to his shoulders and waist. And keeping balance on slippery wet surface with one free hand was never going to be easy.

He slipped. And the next three seconds became one of my most cherished memories; something I’d play over and over in my mind whenever I felt depressed. Here’s what happened-

Baz’s right foot slipped a couple of inches. Anyone with two free hands would have balanced it out, but again; this was Baz. His reaction came a fraction-second late; which was- in this case- a bit late.

Next moment, Baz was throwing his hands in all directions to regain balance and keep from falling. And I swear, even in the suddenness of it, each of his desperate gestures reminded me of a historical figure. There was Netaji with his raised hand beckoning all Indians to Delhi, there was Bhagat Singh throwing leaflets in the parliament. There was Jesus Christ too, (In his Crucifixion pose of course) and I think I also saw the likes of Abraham Lincoln and Shivaji. This history class slideshow came to an end when his legs stretched right apart; coming to a stop in a visibly uncomfortable position leaving him on the verge of losing balance and falling face-forward.

Baz fact- Baz was good at Dumb Charades, too.

My friend looked at me and said, “Little help, Chee?”

I doubled up with laughter. I knew this was wrong, but the moment was irresistible. I had just seen Baz call forth a dozen inspirational figures to keep from falling… it was almost metaphorical!

“Okay, Chee, you don’t want to help me; I get it,” said Baz quietly. “But I beg you, save my camera at least!”

This sent me laughing my lungs off. I stomped about holding my stomach, myself on the verge of missing a step and falling into water. Anyway eventually I calmed down and went down to help him.

Baz had somehow taken off his backpack with the shoes dangling from it. Legs shaking to keep balance, he held them out for me to take.

“Nope. I’m not touching your shit-laden shoes,” I said.

I stepped into the water, grabbed his arm and helped him get onto the next rock. Back on solid land, Baz looked as if his life had come back to him.

Baz looked at me gratefully, “Chee, I… WAURGH!!!!”

I had punched him right in the jaw. He sank to his knees, clutching the hot spot.

“Told you,” I said.

There was a long pause. Then Baz said, “Touché.”

We set off again; there were only a couple more big rocks to climb over, and then the shore would be within twenty feet. Probably another stream; but it didn’t matter. My shoes were wet already, thanks to my jaw-drooling friend.

It was, as I suspected, a stream. A wide one, and towards the middle the water looked suspiciously dark.

“I’ll go and check the depth,” I said. I left my backpack and went in.

The first few feet were fine, but then the rock got slippery with water mold. Not a good sign. There was a drop nearby. And sure enough, just a few steps ahead, I saw the riverbed disappear into a depthless slope.

I felt heart-broken. After such a long toil, I would have to go back from within a few feet of success.

Baz knew exactly what was happening. He called out, “They wouldn’t have put up a hall of fame for nothing, Chee! Come on let’s go back, I’m hungry.”

But my soul was repelling every word of his. I wasn’t going to just turn back like a loser. Not from this close.

There was still a thin chance of getting through. The drop- deep though it was- could well be a couple of feet in width. If I went a bit further and stood on its edge, I’d know for sure if there was any way to jump across. And if there wasn’t, at least I’d know. Some consolation.

So I went ahead; one careful step at a time. Baz was shouting something, but his words escaped my fiercely concentrated mind. One more step right there, I was thinking, and I’ll know if the grapes are really sour. It was a bad thought to have right before a fall.

Yes, I fell. Slipped and landed on my back. My head slammed against the rocky surface.

I must have blacked out for a few seconds. When I came around I realized my nose was submerged, and my feet were already inside the underwater ditch. I tried to push myself up; my hands slipped on the mold and my body slid further towards the drop. I gasped for breath and drank some really smelly water. Then finally, after a few tries, I managed to lift my head above the water.

Baz was making his way down to me, shouting my name at the top of his voice. His face was bloodless and his eyes were round with terror.

“I’m here man,” I said between coughs. “Don’t come any nearer, you’ll slip.”

“But I need to get you out,” Baz said breathlessly.

“Find a log,” I said.

“There’s no fucking log here,” Baz said. “It’s all rocks, man! Should I call for help?”

My face turned white with the realization that calling for help was no good. The undercurrents were catching on, and my body was sliding further by itself. And any attempt to move would only fasten the process. I looked at Baz helplessly, and he looked back at me.

What he did next, I’ll never forget.

He took off his shoes, tossed them on to the rock and took three bold steps towards where I was lying. Within seconds, he was within five feet of me.

He removed his jacket (muttering “I wish I had a belt”) and threw me one end to hold. Once I was ready, he started pulling with all his might.

By centimeters, my torso started sliding away from certain death. Baz’s face was red with exhaustion; but it was working. That is, until he slipped, too.

He fell into the water with a splash, and had any of us loosened hold on the jacket, I would have slid right into the dark depth.

Baz sat up, wet hair all over his face. There was water mold on his ear. “No quitting now,” he said. “Grab my feet; I’ll crawl with my elbows.”

I held onto his knees as he made the toughest six-foot crawl of his life. There was tough ground under my feet again, and I could stand up now. Drenched and dripping with foul water, we reached the place where we left our backpacks.

“Fucking ridiculous,” Baz shook his fist under my nose. “I should punch your nose ten times for this!”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Your head is bleeding, god dammit,” Baz kicked a pebble.

“It’s nothing serious,” I said.

“Your face looked like a half-peeled potato when it emerged from water.”

“A what?”

Baz opened his mouth to say something, but shut it midway. He stomped, walked a couple of paces, then suddenly threw his arms in the air and shouted, “You’re driving me crazy man! You’re freaking me out!”

“Quit dancing around or you’ll slip,” I said.

Baz gave me a cold stare, “There’s been enough slipping here for one day.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Right. Well… now… get back and find a place to crash?”

“I guess,” Baz swung his backpack over his shoulders.

We made the return trip; climbing and jumping across the same rocks we had come through. Only this time it seemed way less exciting and way more tiring. When we reached the grassy patch, none of us had the energy to walk back up to the ghats. So we decided to take a short-cut.

The owner of this small house that doubled as a tiny restaurant was relaxing in his backyard when two individuals, soaking with water and wearing clothes decorated with dark green mold emerged from the riverbed.

I think he was too shocked to shout. Baz said politely, “Um… we’re looking for the exit.” The man slowly pointed at the front gate. We thanked him and walked right out.

An amused voice greeted us.

“Rooms? Nice good ones? I give you hot bath and place to clean your clothes! Good breakfast too! I bring them to your room! Coming? Coming?”

“I guess,” sighed both of us.

[Picture courtesy- Baz]

Chapter 6: The Jalebian Job (Part 2)

2010-11-22T00:41:00.001+05:30

[Part 1 is here. Just in case]

STEP 1: Assess the Surroundings.

Subhen Jethu was in his room, submerged in Tolkein. He’d just had an eye operation and was making full use of his newfound visual clarity.

My cousin had gone to the town and wasn’t going to return today.

Hemen Jethu was out to hang out with the village veterans.

Aunt and coz’s wife were chatting in the kitchen.

Coast clear.

STEP 2: Gain access to escape route.

“Aunty, I’m going to the market. Gotta recharge.”

“Okay!”

Technically, I didn’t lie to her. Eating jalebi would definitely recharge my stomach and spirits. Yes maybe an accompanying hand gesture had indicated a cell-phone; but that’s beside the point.

STEP 3: Get a plan.

The people here said anything was better and less tedious than farming, yet that’s what ninety per cent people in Hutmura and Ladhurka did for a living. The paddy fields were vast and unkempt, marked with a paleness trademark of this plateau. I often enjoyed wandering down these fields to look for those fascinating gigantic rats. Uncles say once I went too far and got lost but I don’t remember that.

But today my goal was different. I was here not to waste time thinking of rats and girls and infinity, but to come up with a foolproof strategy to get my way around the manifolds security arrangements the universe had planted to keep me from my jalebi.

The paddy fields always reminded me of chess boards, just that all the boxes were the same color here. I ran along the little dividers that marked separate ownership as well as provided a walk through the network of a productive enterprise unified by nature, divided by man.

It was creepy how these fields can divert your attention and fill your head with thoughts horribly alike your professor. Here I was musing about humankind and nature while there was a hot, sweet and juicy object of desire to be achieved. Now that description is hinting at some highly distractive metaphors to my brain. I shook my head and walked faster.

Besides brainstorming there was another reason I chose to walk through the field. This field, lying directly between Hutmura and Ladhurka, provided a perfect back-door entry into the market, which meant I wouldn’t have to take the crowded road that led to it; a welcome relief from the numerous possibilities of being identified by random people in the street.

I could see the back of Bhola’s shop some two hundred meters away. Maybe I could sneak in from the back, steal some jalebi and run for it; but no, getting caught would be the scandal of the decade. I wish I had my hooded jacket to hide my face, but this was scorching summer.

The summer sun looks yellower when you see it setting by a field. It appears more reddish when it sets by water. For a moment I got distracted again by this familiar spectacle. I had seen this before numerous times, each of which felt like the very first time.

To my surprise I realized I was not the only witness to this natural phenomenon. A kid, about seven, was also standing spellbound, his motionless face lit up by the sun’s last glow, his fingers absently twisting the few straws he was holding.

I was pleased. I was looking at a Stray. The field had spawned my successor. Subhen Jethu would be delighted to hear this.

Stray fact- The term “Stray” is used by the folks here to describe a human, cow or a goat that has lost itself in the paddy field. Animal or human, a Stray is always associated with waste. An animal Stray eats up the crops and a human Stray wastes his time, or life, in useless solitary thoughts. I am one of the well-known Strays of the present generation. My predecessors include my grandfather and Subhen Jethu himself.

A sudden breeze created Mexican waves among the plantation. I watched the ripple in the paddy come closer and closer, and it hit me nose-first with a soft nudge. The fragrance it had brought bowled me over.

There, in the air, I caught the unmistakable smell of hot, fresh jalebi’s coming directly from Bhola’s shop. It was almost evening and all the vendors from Hutmura would have at least one of these sweets before heading homewards. This meant it was a matter of minutes before the entire stock ran out. Unless I acted fast, I wouldn’t get any.

At loss of ideas I looked around. I had to get some jalebi’s out of that shop without revealing my identity and given the circumstances it seemed impossible. The last rays of the sun mocked my helplessness, and even the Stray boy seemed amused by my visible frustration. Damn, Suchi. I’ll never forgive you for this one.

And then it hit me. Out of the blue; a Stray thought.

STEP 4: Execution.

“Hey boy, come here,” I called out. The other Stray seemed to hear and not to care. Nevertheless, he came to me, his footsteps falling in random directions, choosing a zigzagged trail over a linear route. It’s true, I thought, all Strays behave the same way.

When he approached I asked, “Want a jalebi?” He nodded enthusiastically. This was another familiar sign; all Strays were slaves to their tongues.

I brought out a ten-rupee note from my pocket, which left me six bucks; just enough for tomorrow’s bus ride.

I gave him the money and said, “Get five jalebi’s from Bhola’s shop. One’s for you, the rest are mine. Deal?”

He was game.

So off he went, and in five minutes I had a packet full of four hot, sweet and juicy jalebi’s in my hand. I stood there for five minutes amazed at how easy the task had turned out.

Me fact- I always end up assessing situations prematurely.

I thanked my savior, the fellow Stray, who strayed further into the field munching on his surprise gift of the day, moving on in the quest for the next surprise. Now it was time to find a corner to sit and eat in peace.
And I knew just the place.

A brisk walk brought me to the edge of the field on the far end of the market where a small winding path began its journey towards a little village called Ladhurka. As I started walking towards my rival land, I guiltily admitted how I liked the coconut trees down here. I always fancied climbing them but never gathered enough courage to actually try it out.

My destination, however, was only halfway down the road. It was an abandoned brick factory- almost a century old- that remained deserted except for occasional gangs of adventurous kids. I however needed to fear no interference; it was getting dark and surely the children had all gone back home.

From a distance I could see the ghostly figure of the factory standing alone beside the road. Moving a little closer gave me the sight of the legendary signboard that once became the center of a particular activity for both the villages.

What happened was that the concrete walls of this brick factory provided the perfect canvas for drawing pee-graffiti for the people passing by. So occasionally a few artists used to practice post-modern, expressionistic fine arts on the walls. The factory owner, apparently, was not a huge arts admirer. So he put up the first ever painted signboard in the two villages’ history, and it read “DO NOT PASS URINE”.

What followed was obvious, really. The signboard became a banner for all pissers to rally under. Soon the farmers, the herd-boys, the kids returning from school- everyone took to peeing there every time they passed the place. And when the factory closed down a couple of years later, its premises became the first ever public urinal in the area. Grandpa often told us how people from villages twenty kilometers away would sometimes come over just to pee in that factory.

Legend says that around forty years ago, Girish Jethu (the old man who lives in the house next to ours and bites into guavas with his flashy false teeth), then a boy, picked up a stone and for the first time, tried to scratch out the NOT from the signboard. Others followed his example, and even now, when the rest of the ancient board is covered in mold, you can still make out where the NOT was by the sizeable hole all the scratching had made on it.

Board fact- this signboard, now popularly called the "holey sign", was an important landmark of Ladhurka. You often hear people saying, "I'll wait for you by the holey sign..."

Luckily the people had largely moved on to real urinals (except some random old timers taking nostalgic leaks sometimes) which made it the ideal place to enjoy a few jalebi’s in peace and seclusion.

As I merrily approached the now non-existent gates of the factory, a dhoti-clad figure marched out of it. Another old-timer, I thought to myself, a happy piss for the happy days.

But the figure seemed to have noticed me. He stopped on his track which prompted me to take a good look at his face.

It was Hemen Jethu.

“Chee, what are you doing here?” He sounded surprised and concerned at the same time.

“I… I was…” I was at a loss.

“Where were you going?” He asked.

I couldn’t think of an answer. My brain seemed paralyzed. So I asked a question instead, “Where you been?”

“Kanu invited me for tea,” said Hemen Jethu. “And what’s that on your hand?”

He came close and took a good look. And I saw his eyes light up even in the dark, “Sweets? From Bhola’s shop?”

I found myself nodding. Hemen Jethu sniffed the air. “Is that jalebi I smell? Are they hot?”

I nodded again.

“You bought jalebi’s for all of us?” Hemen Jethu’s voice was overflowing with joy. And I had no option but to nod again.

Next thing I knew, he was embracing me with full force. Instinctively, I raised the packet so that the jalebi’s didn’t get crumpled.

“You are a big boy now,” Jethu was all smiles. “And you look just like your father, too. But… why were you coming this way?”

“I was… looking for you,” I was thinking fast. “Yes, that’s it… I bought the sweets and someone told me you had gone this way so I was coming to fetch you so that we can have them together.”

“You have become so responsible!” Jethu almost cried out with pure joy, “And to think you were a little kid doing potty in the verandah… oh… it seems like yesterday!”

Gee, thanks. And to think I just sacrificed my jalebi’s to please you.

And so we walked back to our house where Hemen Jethu announced the exciting news to the rest.

“Look look what Chee has bought you all! Jalebi's! From Bhola’s shop! Hot ones, too! He’s bought them himself for us all!”

Subhen Jethu smiled and said, “To hell with blood-sugar for one evening!”

“He always used to like those so much!” Aunt said before she ran off to bring the plates.

Boudi (Bangla for elder cousin’s wife) went a level further, “He’s a big boy now! When he comes back from Hyderabad for good we’ll find him a nice girl to marry!”

Hemen Jethu had already opened the packet, “Hurry up they’ll get cold… hey, why are there only four of them?”

“It was like…” I was at a loss again, “Actually… I already had… at the shop. So I thought I’ll pick up one for each of you.”

“He’s grown to be so responsible!” Subhen Jethu said proudly.

Aunt had come back with the plates, “And he should be! He’s the only child; he has to take care of his parents all by himself!”

“Not alone,” chirped Boudi. “We’ll marry him off to a very nice girl who’ll take good care of him and his parents, too!”

This went on for the next twenty minutes as they, before my eyes, lovingly devoured each mortal bit of my hard-earned jalebi’s.

Suchi, next time I see you, I’m gonna kill you.

Me fact- I didn’t live up to this resolution.

I thought my torture was over with the jalebi’s. But it was not.

Next morning my time of departure coincided with Subhen Jethu’s morning walk, so he came to see me off. And guess who met us near the bus stop.

“Hey Bhola, you heard what our Chee did last evening?”

“What?”

“He bought jalebi’s! Hot and crunchy ones, from your shop! And he brought them to us! He’s a grown responsible man now! I was so happy I dumped all fears of blood-sugar and ate one, ha ha!”

I couldn’t believe my luck. This was not happening.

“My shop?” Bhola was smiling, “You must be mistaken. I was in the shop all day and I can positively say he never showed up. He must have bought it from Bhombol’s shop!”

“You’re joking,” Jethu was stunned. “No, you can’t be serious! How did you even think that someone from my family can ever go to that shop?”

“No seriously it’s all right!” Bhola insisted, “My brother makes sweets as good as mine! We both learned from our father! And it’s a good thing that…”

But Jethu had turned to me. His eyes spoke of shock, disappointment and betrayal.

I was done. Double-done. Fucked from both ends. There was no way out.

Fate showed some consolation mercy and my bus showed up. But the aftermath of this event lasted for months. I explained everything over the phone, and they were astounded by my lack of responsibility. Hemen Jethu told me how unlike my father I was, and Boudi postponed the plan to marry me off to a nice girl by at least five further years.

They, however, were happy that even in that extreme desperation I had not gone to the other shop. I was, at least, they acknowledged; a true son of Hutmura. It was a family thing, opined Hemen Jethu; some things ran in the blood, and none in our family ever grew up to be a blood traitor.

Little did he know only six months later his own son would bring an end to this whole practice of sweet-prejudice.

But that’s another story.

Chapter 5: The Jalebian Job (Part 1)

2010-10-29T22:32:00.002+05:30

[WARNING: Contains history. That too, local. I'm sorry.]

It was a stroke of luck at Hutmura to catch cell phone signals, more so if you have internet connectivity. This miracle of modern technology was made possible only a week ago when Airtel set up their tower in Ladhurka, the adjacent village. (Much to my fellow villagers’ fury, but more on that later)

So here I was, in July of 2009, visiting my old family house with intentions of lazing through the last week of my vacations. It was a sweet surprise to discover that my cell phone didn’t need to be taken to the roof or up the guava tree before it could catch a signal. It also meant that there would be no interruptions to my ritual of checking Gmail and Facebook before leaving bed every time after sleep.

Similar routine was supposed to take place following the afternoon nap on July 27th. I reached out for my cell and accessed my mail, which said I was tagged in a photo on Facebook. Curious, I clicked on the link. Seconds later, I was wishing Airtel had never installed that tower.

The person responsible for this unsettling experience was Suchi. Who else! She had to choose this particularly unfavorable day to upload a picture of a particularly happy moment of our visit to Numaish a few months ago. It was a food fest and the pic showed me happily devouring a plate full of jalebi’s.

Jalebi fact- Jalebis are sweet. I mean… sweet!!! Really really sweet and tangled and crunchy and dipped in some awesome sugar syrup! Oh the smell of hot jalebi when I pass a sweetmeat shop…

“Damn,” I thought. “I want a jalebi. Now.”

Now had I been at EFLU or in Purulia this wouldn’t have been a problem. I’d have taken a stride to the nearest shop and appeased my appetite. No question asked. But here, cookies crumbled with a different crunch.

To understand how things work at Hutmura you must know how it came to be. So here goes.

Hundreds of years ago a young priest from Darbhanga (now in Bihar I think) came to Manbhum. (The plateau my district Purulia is a part of) He became the royal priest of the King of Kahsipur and was given a chunk of land as a gift. Soon his brother joined in with his family and the two divided the property between themselves. Their descendants proliferated on this Promised Land and eventually gave rise to Hutmura, a village where every damn person is my relative.

But this is only part of the scenario. When independence happened and the eastern side of Bengal was made East Pakistan, a bunch of our relatives from Chattagram (now in Bangladesh) crossed the newfound borders and came to our ancestors. Grandpa used to describe the situation as the “biggest family fiasco ever”. There were disputes and clashes. Eventually everyone agreed to allow them to settle in an adjacent area, which has now become the Ladhurka village. The fights ended, but the rivalry persists to this day in various (and supposedly friendly) ways. For example, everyone in Ladhurka is my relative, too, but not the way everyone in Hutmura is. They are my “other relatives”, relatives my ancestors almost went to war with. I am supposed to eat as much as possible whenever attending a feast in Ladhurka (a mutual practice to try and make the food run out, never successfully accomplished) and swim faster than any Ladhurka boy when bathing at Ram Baandh. No political party has ever managed a majority from both villages in the same elections, and the two villages support rival football clubs. (Mohun Bagan for us, and East Bengal for Ladhurka)

Bengal Fact- Every Bengali is born to support a football club. There is little room for choice. The criteria is simple- if your folks were living on this side of the border before independence, you support Mohun Bagan. And if your family migrated to India when partition happened, you are a “Bangal” and have to support East Bengal. No question asked.

I know this is way too much history, but believe me all of it matters to understand why it wasn’t so easy for me to go out and eat a jalebi.

Me fact- I don’t torture people unless absolutely necessary.

This brings me to the first part of my problem. You see, my Grandpa maintained a number of strict rules in the house. Many of them became obsolete after he died. But one of the still-in-practice laws categorically denied any of us the right to have sweets alone. The house belongs to everyone and everyone eats the same food. So if you wanted jalebi the legal way was to go and ask an aunt (there is only one aunt left there now) who would take a consensus from others and send someone to get jalebi’s for everyone in the house. I could go for that but this would take a long time and I needed jalebi now.

The second option was to go get jalebi’s for everyone. Now this was out of the question too (I realized with a pinch of guilt) since I did not have much cash with me and Hutmura, for all its progress, didn’t have an ATM to its credit.

The third option- I could always sneak out, get some jalebi and eat them somewhere outside. Because of the strict regimen at home many from my generation had to resort to this method for various purposes. Support and cover could be bought from cousins by sharing the prize, but things went haywire if a parental figure got wind of it. For me, they wouldn’t be mad, but get hurt which would be worse.

Nevertheless this was the only way I could do this, which brings us straight to the second part of my problem.

In Hutmura, every-freaking-one knew every-freaking-one; from the guy selling vegetables in the market to the retired peon who sits fishing in the Ram Baandh all day. And everything was potential gossip; especially when a town-bred son of a village boy goes around eating jalebi all alone. (Obviously, everyone knew about the rule in our house)

Yes, though I hardly knew anyone they all seemed to know me… it didn’t help at all to look like a carbon copy of your Dad. Right now this meant a serious increase of risk factor in the mission.

And even if luck did bear with me and I somehow escaped the general attention, there was one bigger hurdle to cross. The sweetshop owner, Bhola, was a close friend of Hemen Jethu. (Jethu=uncle, Hemen=name) If I turned up in his shop there was no way I would go unnoticed, and the matter would be elaborately discussed when Hemen Jethu turns up for a chat tomorrow morning.

Now there was another sweet shop in the market but there was no way I was setting my foot there. Here’s why.

There used to be only one sweet shop in the market both Hutmura and Ladhurka shared, which belonged to the legendary sweet-maker Haradhan. His sweet-selling network supposedly extended as far as North Bengal. Quite the pride of the village, he was. But when he died there was a dispute between his two sons, Bhola and Bhombol, about the ownership of the shop. It ended with Bhombol leaving the family house with his wife and kids, settling down in Ladhurka and opening a different shop in the same market.

This caused a huge furor. This was the first time someone left his own people and joined the Bangals. The whole village was enraged. In Ladhurka, however, Bhombol became a hero. He became their official sweet-maker and people from Ladhurka stopped visiting Bhola’s shop. People from Hutmura, in return, kept from ever visiting Bhombol’s shop and upheld Bhola as their own sweet-maker.

The brothers had stopped seeing each other’s’ faces. But their enmity was to end soon. What started with one tragedy ended with another. Bhombol’s seven year old son drowned in Ram Baandh. Bhola ran to his brother’s house and fainted when he saw his nephew’s corpse. He loved his nephew. My dad calls this the saddest time the two villages have ever seen. Hutmura and Ladhurka mourned together for a long time.

The two brothers since then became kindred souls once again, but the two villages never wavered from their bias regarding the sweet shops. Till date no one visits the “other sweetshop”. Even in feasts where both the villages participate, separate supply has to be brought in from both the shops, and the raging debate of the day is invariably about whose sweets were better. (Although no one can be sure since nobody dares to “cross-feed”) In fact, an old man from Ladhurka, who in his deathbed had asked for some rosogolla, famously rejected the sweet when he learnt that Bhombol’s shop had already closed for the day and his son had bought them from Bhola’s shop.

And that was why going to the “other shop” to get jalebi safely was not an option for me. Spoilt though I am, I’m still a son of Hutmura. And proud of it.

So, this was it. The universe had conspired for centuries to put me in this situation. All those twists and turns in the events surrounding my village had been but a huge build-up, and now Suchi had served to pull the trigger. I was facing a challenge; the universe was putting my allegiance to my tongue to the biggest test yet.

I know this has been long history lesson for you, but it took me about ten seconds to assess the situation and make a decision. I looked at the picture again, and delicious memories of various Numaish dishes flooded my inside. My insides turned and my tongue began to water so much that I feared the next great deluge.

Jalebi, I’m coming for you.

All I needed now was a good plan. I decided to make it up on my way to the market. The view of paddy fields and faraway forests were good for brainstorms.

It was going to be exciting, and dangerous. A true adventure. When Spielberg makes a thriller out of this, he’ll call it The Jalebian Job.

But for now, it was Showtime. Chee to the challenge!

[The Quest Continues Here]

Chapter 4: Trainspotting

2009-12-11T01:39:00.000+05:30

I suddenly became aware that I was aware of nothing. No sight, no sound, no sensation of touch. No sign of hands or legs being anywhere around. I wondered what had gone down the black hole; the universe or me.

It lasted long enough to give me a vivid idea of what it meant to exist in nothingness. And then something started to ache.

It was my head, throbbing in a circular fashion like the red bulb on a fire engine. Soon something else came into the picture with a stinging pain- my left knee. Next thing that assured me of its soothing presence was my stomach, making me wonder what could have made me drink half a bottle of hydrochloric acid diluted in feline piss. My body had come back to existence with an ample amount of existential angst.

Then my eyes appeared out of nowhere, that too with auto focus. Within seconds my vision was clear as ever. I was standing directly under the Sitafal Mandi flyover, a few paces beyond the railway station, staring blankly at a couple of waiting auto rickshaws.

“Go somewhere?” One auto driver waved at me and tapped the back seat. I was too confused and stared at him.

Yes, even though I had regained all (hundred percent) of my physical existence, I had lost a large chunk of memory; I had no idea how, when and why the hell I was standing there dwindling on the brink of dodo-ism.

By this time the people around had started taking notice of me. In ones and twos a crowd started to form to see this extraordinary event unfolding in the middle of the street. A couple of guys waved in front of my eyes, another shook me by the shoulders. When I noticed a man approaching with a water jug I decided it was time to rise to the occasion.

“It's okay, no need... I'm all right.” I lifted a hand to insist on my argument.

Splash! I clenched every muscle of my face as two litres of hydrogen monoxide crashed all over the upper part of my anatomy, soaking me from hair to shoulders. Bewildered, I opened my mouth to curse. But next moment I realized that the ripple of the chilled liquid actually felt good.

I blinked and looked around for a place to sit. An auto driver guy sensed my need and ushered me to a nearby tea stall. After three glasses of water I regained strength enough to thank them, and everyone around me immediately launched into detailed analysis of the situation.

“He was just standing, like... standing!”

“Like someone pressed pause button...”

“He moved like in slow motion...”

“Opened eyes only after I threw the water...”

“Hello brother, what is your name? Where are you coming from?”

“You want a doctor?”

“Should I get some more water?”

The last comment forced me to respond. I stood up and said, “It's okay I just felt weak. I'll go now. Thanks all of you.”

The water guy didn't want to give up. “But you still look weak!” He exclaimed, “Maybe just one more jug...”

“No!” I rolled my eyes in warning. Last thing I wanted at that moment was some freak aquarian imposing his wet fantasies on me. “I'm going now,” I dragged myself away from the slightly disappointed crowd, conscious not to betray my still-spinning head or slightly shaking leg.

On the way back to university one has to walk across some railway tracks. Normally people are not supposed to cross it on foot and there are high railings on both sides to ensure it. As a result people bent some rods to make a small passage for people to walk through. (India fact- in India if you want people to do something, pass a law and make it illegal) As I crossed these tracks, fatigue claimed me. I wasn't going to make it to the campus like this. And there was only one way to prevent myself from fainting on the road itself.

I walked into the next building and somehow made it to the second floor. Praying that my legs don't give up, I cautiously walked to the door labeled “Taapti Kumar” and knocked.

When the door opened I only managed to say, “Sorry... can't stand...”

* * *

Taapti belonged to the rarest species found in EFLU- a cool senior. She completed her Masters the year before and joined a publishing house. But due to her hearty attachment to the campus and the people it holds (A common symptom of the EFLU hangover) she rented an apartment in Sitafal Mandi, walking distance from campus. This provided us with the ultimate prized asset- a place outside the campus. Soon her double-room flat became our favorite venue for long jams and special drinking sessions.

Right now, however, it was nothing less than an oasis in the middle of fucking Sahara for me. I lay flat on Taapti's bed, unable to sleep because closing the eyes brought eerie memories of the void.

The doorbell rang twenty seconds ago and now Taapti returned with Baz, Van and Amigo. They all lowered their sad faces on my abandoned anatomy. “I'm not dead,” I clenched my teeth.

“Trust me, you look like you are,” said Van.

“Now you're one level up in being a complete dodo,” smiled Amigo.

“What exactly happened?” asked Baz.

“Let's see, I have a burning stomach, a tornado inside my skull,” I counted off my fingers, “ I feel weak like I haven't eaten in days.”

All three boys extended their hands. Amigo said, “Welcome to the club, man!”

“What?” both Taapti and me said at the same time. Van flashed us a ear-wide grin and said, “We all have that Chee!”

“How come?” Taapti said with an I'll-be-damned surprised look.

“Hangover,” said Baz simply.

“But I didn't drink last night!” Taapti protested.

“You have the EFLU-hangover, so you count,” said Amigo.

“It's okay Chee,” Baz tapped my shoulder.

“Oh, did I remember to mention that I don't remember anything?” I raised my eyebrow. The boys took a few seconds to download this info to their hard drives.

“That's a problem,” said Amigo. “What got deleted?”

“If I remembered that, it wouldn't be such a problem would it?”

“Okay, okay,” Baz shifted into a more engaging posture. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“Hangover club,” said I.

“No no, before you forgot everything, what is the last memory?”

I thought for a moment, “I don't know.”

“You remember going to Sardarji with me to get booze? You remember getting drunk?” Asked Van.

I shook my head. Baz frowned slightly, “Try to think... what's the last memory before blackout?”

“No idea.”

“You remember us, don't you?” Taapti asked in a tense voice.

“Of course I do,” said I.

“How many fingers?” Amigo flashed his palm. “Fuck you,” I said.

“What's the date?” Van asked.

I pulled out my cell and read from the screen, “Thirty-first of August. Two thousand and nine, four twenty eight post meridiem. Now can we skip random questions and do something? You guys have been with me all the time, why don't you fill me in with what happened? Maybe that'll trigger something?”

So, fifteen minutes later, we were seated on plastic chairs outside Taapti's flat door in the spacious corridor-cum-balcony, sipping steaming black coffee courtesy Taapti's nescafe stock.

“So, jump to the point,” said Van. “You don't remember getting drunk. Do you remember why you got drunk?”

“Why, was it someone's birthday?” I scratched my hair, “No offense if I forgot to wish, you see I don't remember.”

“It's hard to remember them anyway,” Taapti said, and everyone smiled.

EFLU Fact- A major necessary evil in EFLU is the large number of midnight birthday “surprise” parties which everyone is supposed to attend without fail. While on the positive side they provide a legitimate excuse to skip studies and drink up, their obscenely large number sometimes make them impossible to remember.

“No it wasn't,” said Amigo, “We drank because of you. You wanted to unwind and we joined in.”

“Me? Why?” I was surprised. It wasn't like me to drown something in alcohol.

“No idea,” Amigo shook his head. “Last night you came all pumped up and said you wanted to drink. So we complied.”

“What might have been the reason?” I wondered.

“Um, may I say something here?” Taapti raised her hand. We turned to her.

“Tiju,” she said. “She knows.”

“What?” Baz, Van and Amigo said in unison.

“You got another crush?” Baz asked, trying hard to suppress a grin. “When did that happen?”

“How do you know?” I asked Taapti, intentionally ignoring Baz.

“Sree told me last night,” she said. “Wow,” I observed. “No wonder.”

EFLU Fact- Within the EFLU alumni, the second fastest thing in the universe is light. The fastest- take a guess.

“So, how long has that been going on?” Baz pressed on.

“A week,” Amigo said, “And this time it's pretty bad. He mutters in sleep and all.”

“So do you,” I snapped.

“No my boy,” Amigo smiled, “You mutter yourself and in your sleep you think its me.”

“Since when I started to have deliriums in Nagamese?” I said.

“Ok ok calm down you two,” Van raised hands. “You remember falling for her, which means you have a week-old memories intact. That's a good start.”

Yeah, a hell of a good start, I thought. Now she knew, and that ruined my chances of hovering innocently around her and steal glances.

“Your pants,” said Baz. “They're wet.”

What the fuck? I said, “No they're not.”

“Your left knee,” Van pointed out. “Looks like blood.”

“I always thought there was a funny feeling,” said I, lifting my pant to expose a cut freely bleeding. “But I thought it was part of the hangover.”

“Shit,its deep!” Amigo said.

“You must have made it worse by picking, it wasn't bleeding that much until now,” said Taapti before going in to get the first aid box.

“What the hell is happening with me?” I said, “My knee is bleeding, head is spinning, stomach is aching and memory is missing! What the fuck did I do last night? And how on earth did I end up under the flyover?”

Baz turned thoughtfully to Van, “Did he call someone last night after we got drunk?”

“Negative,” said Van. “He didn't.”

“Hey I vaguely remember him blabbering away on phone,” said Amigo.

“No he didn't,” said Van.

“Well that's easily solved,” said I, pulling out my cell to check the dialed call records. Next moment my heart stopped. “Oh no.”

“Tiju? I thought so,” said Baz.

“Dude, what did I say?” I was positively scared.

“Happens, man!” Amigo slapped my back.

“No, what did I say?”

“No idea,” said Baz. “We all drank, Chee! We all lost some memories or the other.”

“Yeah, I don't remember going to the toilet last night,” said Amigo.

“How do you know you went at all?” I asked.

“Because this morning I found his underwear on the flush tank,” said Van.

“Ok but I lost a huge chunk,” I said. “I don't even know how I got under the flyover!”

“Check your pockets,” suggested Baz. I complied. In my pocket was a ball pen, a Cadbury Diary Milk wrapper (Which I remembered having consumed last afternoon), my room keys and purse. My purse had about seven hundred rupees in cash, and an ATM recipt.

“It seems I drew six hundred bucks from the SBI ATM this afternoon,” I said. “Why the hell would I draw so much money and decide to stand under a flyover?”

Taapti, who had come back with a small first aid kit, suggested, “First figure out which places around where you woke up is likely to be visited with so much cash.”

“A doctor maybe? Because you cut your knee?” Van mused.

“I don't think so, I wouldn't leave my comfy bed to go and see a shitface injectioneer,” I said. “Besides, we have a health centre inside the campus.”

“May be someone hypnotized you to abduct?” Taapti suggested, “And you snapped out of it before he could get you on a train?”

“Possible,” I frowned.

“Kidnapping Chee? Hak-hak!” Amigo laughed, “He'll give them heart attacks with his Bengali songs! I think he went to get more booze.”

“With so much acid already inside? Not a chance,” I said. “What else is possible?”

“Chee, the prostitute quarters?” Baz whispered as if saying something highly confidential.

“Eeeeeww,” Taapti exclaimed. “There's one here? In Sitafal Mandi?”

“Directly opposite the booze shop,” said Baz. “Chee showed me one day.”

“Nice man,” Amigo pushed his lips to the extent of their elasticity. “I had no idea you were so informative.”

“I knew about them because last sem I worked in a short documentary on sex workers in Hyderabad,” I said. “And no way I was going there.”

“So what could have possibly been the reason?” Taapti said. And at that precise moment, my cell phone rang. “Mom,” I said, getting on my feet.

“Ha Maa,” Amigo mocked me. I cursed him, walked a few paces and pressed the handset against my ear, “Ha Maa?”

“Did you get the ticket?” Mom asked.

“Ticket?”

“Your ticket back home at the end of the semester! You booked it?”

I let out a huge, huge sigh, “Oh that... no. I forgot.”

“I knew you would! I've never seen a boy so irresponsibly fickle-minded in my life! You beat your father in forgetfulness!”

“It's okay Maa, I'll do it tomorrow!”

“You've been saying that for the past three days!” Mom got angrier, “You think the tickets are going to sit there and wait for you? A little late and you won't have any way to come back at all! And how long do I have to monitor if you're doing your work or not from this far? When will you grow up? You're twenty-one for God's sake!”

“Sorry Maa! I'll do it tomorrow, promise! I'll do it first thing! No mistake this time! Promise!”

It took me some ten minutes to calm her down. By the time she hung up, all four of my fellows,who were hanging on to each word I uttered, were on all fours, banging their fists on the floor while shaking with silent laughter. “Ha ha very funny,” I remarked.

“Little Mama's boy,” said Van.

“Ha Maa?” Amigo poked me.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said angrily.

“Okay peace peace,” said Baz. “So Chee was going to the railway station to book his tickets togo home at end-sem. Congrats, another puzzle solved. High five!”

He raised his hand and turned to me. I high-fived him, casting threatening looks at Van and Amigo.

“But that only makes it more complicated,” said Taapti. “It means he was perfectly fine in the morning. He woke up, took his Mom's call, withdrew money and was going to get the ticket when he suddenly woke up with all memories gone.”

“Something happened, something big that triggered it all,” Van said. “But the question is, what.”

“Maybe he realized he was gay, hak-hak!” Amigo laughed again, and this time I launched myself on him. I knocked him over and held him down, saying, “Enough from you!”

“Hey hey calm down,” Van tried to pull me off.

“Chill man, I was only joking!” Amigo sounded like he was sun-bathing on the deck of a pleasure-cruise.

And at that precise moment, my cell rang again. I left Amigo and got on my feet. “Ha Maa,” Amigo said.

I looked at the screen of my cell and froze, “It's Tiju.”

“Take the call,” said Baz. My hand shook slightly as I lifted the phone to my ear, and held breath.

“You're late, sweety!”

Okay, now I was losing my mind, too. No, I needed to stay conscious. Think. Mount Everest has Tenjing Norge. Arsene runs Arsenal. Vista sucks Bill Gates's ass. Wingardium levi-dosa.

“Hey, you're there?”

“Hum... hello?” My voice quivered.

“Hmmm, you forgot your first date? Not the best of first impressions, Mister!”

Her voice was so god damn intoxicating. I shook myself up. Wake up bugger, it's true. You're not dreaming. She is talking to you. Suddenly, an overwhelming amount of joy flooded inside me. And within a second, amidst all the heightened emotions, somewhere a hundred-watt bulb lit up.

Hey, this has happened before!

And next moment, I saw a reel playing backwards in my head. On the screen, a mirror that was lying broken on the floor re-assembled itself and jumped back onto the table. Immediately I noticed that it was not just any mirror; it was showing moving images. The Magic Mirror!

And there I saw, on the mirror-screen inside the movie screen, myself as I walked sideways down the railway tracks, pleased to get away from the campus for a while and eager to have a couple of egg-chops in the shop by the station. I saw myself with horror as I stopped midway between the tracks to take a call. Move rascal, I thought, you're standing on a bloody rail line!

But the me on the mirror was far from paying attention. He was in the middle of perhaps the most important call in his life.

“Tiju?”

“Hey listen... can you meet me at five?”

“Wha... why?”

“I've been thinking about what you said last night and... and I think...”

“Yes?” I felt my pulse quicken, and knew that the me in the mirror was feeling the same.

“I think... well... let's give this a chance.”

“Ah...” I was at loss of words.

“Ah well, (God damn, is she nervous too?) I was up almost all night, thinking, and I thought...”

“Um... okay!” Dumbo, that's all you have to say to that?

“Yeah, ha ha,” she said. “Listen, can you meet me? Around five, near Sagar's? We can have tea and... you know...”

“Ya sure,” I was positively on my toes.

“Okay then... yeah... see ya in a while!”

“Yeah, bye!”

The mirror me lowered the phone and stood rooted to the spot like a banyan tree. A minute passed without any movement; not even a twitch of the muscle. Then I heard something; whistle of an approaching train.

Move you fuck, I thought desperately, you're gonna die!

The mirror dumbass chose to play statue for another ten seconds, and then he suddenly woke up with a jerk to find a train breathing down his neck.

And he sprinted, like I had never seen him sprint before. He darted out of the railway track and jumped right over the iron fences. Well the latter act wasn't perfect; his knee touched the sharp edge of the fence in the process, causing a pinprick. He landed on the other side, wincing in pain, and stood with clenched teeth.

Then, at that moment, he felt it, and so did I. The sudden surge of boundless emotions. I just got my girl, and almost lost my life. Two contradictory shock waves hitting every corner of the brain, creating an overwhelming flood of blues; too much for one brain to handle. CPU overload, serious processing error occurred, windows is crashing. Black screen of death. Data loss probable.

“Chee? Hello, Chee? You there?”

I came back to senses, “Yeah?”

“So... explain your inability to show up at the decided time.” She demanded.

“Er... I hurt my knee, getting some first aid.”

“Oh... is it bad?” Damn, I thought, she is sweet.

“It's fine. Listen, I'm sorry. Will it do if I meet you in... say... an hour?” I asked.

“I agree for the time being, but saying sorry isn't going to make up for what you did.”

“Sure not,” I smiled. “I'll fully apologize when we meet,”

“Can I expect you to keep your word this time?”

“Sure,” I said. “ And... hey Tiju.. last night I called...”

“Yes,” she said. “You were drunk, and it's okay.”

“No... yeah... I mean...” I wondered how best to put the question. I decided on straightforward. “Last night when I called, what did I say?”

“You don't remember?” She sounded amused, “ Wow, that's interesting!”

“Yeah, you know... hangover and stuff...”

“And you can't wait to hear what you said that did the trick for you?”

“Well...” I did not know what to say to that.

“Depends on my mood,” she said playfully. “And a convincing apology is necessary as well,”

“Sure, I'll see you,” said I.

When I hung up and turned to the others, four jaws were hanging low enough to accommodate dvd's of all four parts of Jaws.

“What,” I said. “I have a date in an hour.”

“How, man?” Amigo managed to say, when the minute-long shock-spell was finally broken.

“I'll find out,” I said. “Hopefully.”

“Wow this is great,” said Taapti. “Congrats, Chee!”

“Yeah, congrats man,” said Amigo. “I'm waiting for the booze treat.” I smiled and we high-fived.

“I'm very happy for you,” said Van.

“Thanks man,” said I.

“I'm very happy too,” said Baz, “but it's confusing.”

“Yeah I know,” I said.

“It's not that, Chee!” Baz said, “It's the story! Wasn't this blog going on about our trip to Hampi last semester?”

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed, “I forgot!”

Chapter 3: The Flying Broomstick

2009-06-17T17:28:00.001+05:30

“Stupid jobless brain-dead gits. 2 good u going. Dont come back for a week. Happy humping in Hampi.”

Baz leaned back in his seat and smiled, “Sweet Amigo… I love his texts.”

“But how did he know it’s Hampi we’re going to?” I asked.

“I messaged Van a while back.”

“Shit, I wanted to keep them guessing,” said I.

“It’s okay Chee,” Baz said reassuringly. “I’m sure they’re eating their fingers in jealousy.”

“Or drinking another crate of booze with one man less to share with,” I said. This put Baz off.

It was past midnight and we had adjusted ourselves into a super-lazy existence on a couple of bus seats. We had finally finished a large packet of peanuts after more than four hours of continuous munching and staring at the dark outside the window.
Baz put his hand inside the packet- now full of broken nutshells- hoping to find a survivor, but in vain. He grabbed the packet and chucked it through the window, “Man, these nuts are driving me nu…”

“WHAT THE FUCK…”

A healthy gentleman sitting two rows behind us had jumped onto his feet, shouting at the top of his voice. The left side of his neck as well as t-shirt was richly decorated with bits of broken peanut-shells.

“Oh Jesus,” whispered Baz.

The next ten minutes saw quite a classical orchestra unfolding inside our bus. The gentleman raining curses on the unknown culprit, the conductor trying to pacify him, people all around waking up with different disapproving noises, a baby starting to cry, and an elderly person’s pointed remarks about mannerisms in India… the whole thing got pretty high on octave.

When all was quiet again except the steady rumble of the bus engine, Baz sighed in relief and turned to me, “How the hell did the nuts get in?”

And that did it. I stared at him stupefied by the familiarity of the remark and the peculiar memory it brought back. Without knowing my lips twitched.

Baz gave me a puzzled look, “What are you cracking that smile at?”

“Something weirdly similar but even more weird happened last semester,” I said.

“What? I don’t remember anything like that…” Baz looked hopelessly lost.

“It happened on our second Sunday in EFLU, before I knew you well,” said I. “In fact this incident was the reason I became close friends with Van.”

“Tell me,” Baz turned his entire torso towards me.

“I’m not sure if I should” I said. “It’s pretty scandalous and involves a number of our friends. In fact, almost every MA participant we know in the Old Ladies Hostel.”

“Wow, that makes it even more interesting,” Baz flashed his irritating teeth. “Tell me now or I’m gonna tickle you in the tummy.”

Now I didn’t really feature much of stomach fat, but still the idea of being tickled while sitting on that tight seat wasn’t a welcome experience. Hence I agreed, and Baz shifted to a more comfortable position to listen to the story. The bus kept rolling along the seemingly endless highway, occasionally reacting to broken or uneven surface with gentle jerks.

I began to relate my tale.

“It was our very second Sunday in EFLU and special lunch was being prepared in the Mess.”

“Delicious start,” said Baz.

“It’s gonna get better,” answered I. “Well, I was still quite overwhelmed by the freedom and fun-filled life there and was starting to come out of my rural-boy complex.

“I went to meet Kebo and Doel in the Old Ladies Hostel; partly because their room was right above the Mess kitchen and you could smell the chicken being cooked from there, and partly because I wanted to try my luck with the chocolate cookies Doel had bought the previous evening.”

“You greedy soul,” Baz shook his head.

“Whatever. Well, there I went, up the stairs past the Deadly Room where the inmates Mundi the Creator, Bhagi the PM, Diva the Diva and Sasha the Sunshine were all nose-deep into their laptop screens.”

“Ah… the very thought of them fills my heart with warm, warm delight,” Baz closed his eyes.

“In the corridor I met Tiju and Ruli giggling and whispering to each other. I looked into the room next to them and found the reason; Sree was sniffing at seven different small jars of spice dusts with a lost expression. Apparently she had forgotten to label them and was now confused which was what.”

“I can very well imagine the scene,” said Baz with a smirk.

“Dude, it’s rude to interrupt.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Okay,” I shifted into a more comfortable position. “So then I went to Kebo and Doel’s door, and guess who almost collided with me?”

“Me!” Baz exclaimed, “I was there with Van to meet Zeinam and Liuliu!”

“Spot on,” said I. “And in the middle of your chit-chat with the other two inmates of the room you remembered some business and left, thus missing all the action that followed.”

“Poor me,” said Baz. “So, what followed?”

“Well, I wasn’t much familiar with Van and the other two girls, but that didn’t stop me from having a go at Liuliu’s peanut butter. And the chocolate cookies were there, of course. I fell chatting with Van and that was the first ‘talk’ we ever had.” I continued, “Soon it was quarter to one and we needed to have a bath to be in time for lunch so we left, me and Van.

“But on the corridor we met something never anticipated. Suddenly the door to Sree’s room opened with a bang, there was a shrill screaming noise and next moment Tiju and Ruli were pelting at us; eyes wide and mouth gaping like they’ll gobble us alive.”

“Uh oh,” said Baz.

“We jumped out of their way just in time and they rocketed past us. And next moment, both of us looking back at the runners, we heard that horrible scream advancing towards us.

“It was Kesh, our Kesh. But bet you anything you wouldn’t recognize her if you were there. She was all flames. Loose hair flying behind, she charged with her shrill battle cry that turned our livers into jelly. Both of us turned tail and ran.”
Baz’s jaw was dropped to elbow level. After a while he managed to ask, “But what made Kesh do that?”

“It seems Tiju and Ruli weren’t giggling at Sree after all,” I said. “Kesh was sleeping in that room and they were planning to sit on her, as soon as Sree left for Sagar Stores to buy glue for labelling.”

“WHAT?” Baz exclaimed, causing nearby sleepers shift disapprovingly.

“They sat on her and hopped on their backs,” I said.
Baz looked outraged, “But that’s… bad!”

“I know,” I nodded. “That’s why I don’t blame Kesh.

“So, where were we? Yes, sprinting away from Kesh like crazy. Well, soon we caught up with the frontrunners but there was no room to overtake, so we slipped in through the first open door we saw.

“And the moment we went in both of us were petrified. It was the girls’ bathroom.”

“Ow how,” Baz said. “O dear o dear o dear.”

“Thank goodness it was empty,” I said, going red in the ears.

“The door was open, what did you expect?” Baz looked at me with an evil smile.

“Yeah, then…”I tried my best to suppress the overwhelming urge to place a loving punch in the right spot to frame Baz’s lower jaw into a cosmetic pose, preferably the Cameron Diaz angle. “Then Kesh zoomed past and we jumped out into the corridor.

“Now we got a good view of the chase party advancing down the rectangular corridor. Ruli and Tiju in the front, and Kesh almost catching up with their heels by now.

“And then, the hunted duo made a mistake. They suddenly ran into the maintenance room and tried to lock the door. But before they could, Kesh crashed at the door, knocking it open by sheer force. Then she advanced, slowly, towards her cornered preys.”

“I don’t believe this. Kesh? Our sweet Kesh?” Baz looked like an emotionally challenged soul.

“Yeah,” I hated to agree. “Even she herself couldn’t believe it afterwards.”

“No wonder. What happened next?”

“We heard a growl, and the three girls came running out. Kesh in the lead this time, clutching one of those shorter floor-dusting broomsticks. Tiju and Ruli were behind her, and at their heals- Frisky.”’

Baz looked at me like all of a sudden I had become some stranger. “What?” I asked.

“I’m not buying that,” said Baz. “I will not be tricked into believing that Frisky chased or even barked at the girls. He’s the single-most friendly dog in the university!”

“Well, he wasn’t being hostile actually,” I said. “What happened was that when they entered, Frisky was happily munching at the twigs of that broom. Kesh unknowingly pulled at the broom to use it on the culprits, and poor Frisky was lifted off the ground, hanging by teeth. In surprise he let out the growl and fell off.

“But when he saw familiar people around he thought it was some game, so he merrily started jumping and snapping at the twigs, eager to hang again. This set the girls’ already tantalized nerves off and they ran. And Frisky, refusing to miss out on the fun, came chasing after them.”

“Gosh,” said Baz.

“By now the chase party had almost completed a round of the rectangular corridor and was coming back to the point where it began. Meanwhile, the inhabitants of the Deadly Room had been attracted to this series of noises, and four heads were sticking out of the door, wise enough not to step out to the corridor. But one poor individual committed that same mistake.”

“Who?”

“Suchi.”

“No!”

“Yes,” I said. “She had heard the noises and came out of her room unaware of all the advancing chase party. When she saw them she stopped dead. And Kesh almost collided with her.”

“Noooooo…” Baz sounded as if he’s been kicked where it hurts.

“Hold thy breath, for they didn’t actually collide,” said I. “Kesh chucked the broomstick and got hold of a window grill to stop right short of the petrified Suchi.”

“Thank God,” Baz was earnestly relieved.

“And then it happened.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll explain. Stay with me,” I commenced. “Apparently, the broom Kesh chucked was a little bit, you know, aero dynamic.”

“You’re kidding,” Baz said. I ignored him.

“First it went straight up, angling towards heaven. Then it slowed down, turned ground wards and launched into a spectacular dive. It rocketed towards the ground and crashed into the guava tree in the middle-yard like a Boeing 747.

“But that wasn’t it. It had hit a solid branch; and it simply bounced off into air again, turned 180 degrees as if it was doing a somersault, and hung there for a moment, suspended in the air.

“And then, the gee force, conflicting with the broom’s air-suspension, created an angular force that took it straight through the nearest window- into the Mess kitchen.”

“Argh,” Baz was at a loss of words.

“Me and Van were in the best viewing position,” I said. “We were the only ones who saw what it did inside.”

“What did you see?” Baz asked in a feeble voice.

“We saw it sail clear past the window, and landing splash into a large container holding our celebrated chicken gravy.”

At this, Baz lost his expressions as well.

“A chef saw this and drew the attention of another,” I continued. “That other whispered something urgently to him, and the chef pulled the broom out and took it to away to wash before anyone else saw.”

“And they served it?” Baz asked desperately. I nodded and continued,

“And then, at that profound moment, Van did something that he would repeat time and again.”

“He farted?” Baz asked. Apparently so many shocks had problematized his mental condition.

“No. He said exactly what I was thinking,” said I. “He turned to me and said, ‘How the hell did that broom get in?’”

“What a stupid question,” Baz looked further tantalized. “You saw how it got in!”

“Fuck the logic,” I said wisely, “and try to understand the magic of the moment! All this had happened in about one single minute, and everyone was too bewildered to make any sense.”

“Point,” nodded Baz.

“And the bewilderment continued as we walked over to the girls,” I said. “Everyone seemed dumbstruck at first, but Tiju broke the silence by saying, ‘Wow, that was Firebolt!’

“It was Bhagi the PM, as always, who kicked the sense into the scene. She asked, ‘Where did it go, yaa?’

“Van and I exchanged looks. Then he said, ‘Don’t eat the chicken.’

“It was something like the ultimate shock. Everyone was dumb, yet again.

“’What?’ Sasha, apparently, was still missing something. Mundi said to her, ‘I’ll explain later, baby.’

“Suchi advised us to inform some close friends about this and keep it at that- a secret. We’d look funny trying to explain this weird incident to an assembled General Body meeting. So we agreed on that and parted. Me and Van went back to inform Kebo and gang; whom we found ear-plugged to their individual laptops, sunk in music and blissfully unaware of the happenings outside their door. None of us had the special dinner that day. I told Amigo, we went to the Mess to take a look at the eaters, and had a good laugh about them while gorging on Korean noodles and pork momo at the Kim Fung restaurant.”

“Wait, I saw you two at the Mess,” Baz scratched his eyebrow. “You were staring at the eaters as if they were zoo animals!”

“You saw?” I asked, “But what were you doing there?”

“Me? I was…” Baz stopped dead.

I half-rose from my seat, “Van didn’t tell you anything?”

Slowly, Baz’s eyes grew larger than ping-pong balls. And suddenly, like communication satellites, they began to broadcast visuals into my brain; fast forward, and somewhat hazy.

I saw, through Baz’s own eyes, how he stood in the line, took his plate, argued with the serving guy for extra meat, sat in table, said his Grace, took his spoon and…

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO……..” Baz cried, in the broadcast, with outstretched arms, as a deadly hurricane rose behind him.

In real life, however, he remained still as a statue.

“Hello Hampi goers, your stop’s here,” called the conductor from the door. The bus had stopped in some dimly lit, clumsy little bus stand. I nudged Baz out of his stupefied state and he followed me like a zombie as I grabbed both our bags and hurried to the door.

The bus left immediately after we got down. I put down the bags and turned to Baz. He was standing like a psycho in drugs. I grabbed his shoulder and said, “It’s okay man…”

He turned and punched me in the lower jaw. The unexpectedness almost knocked me out. I fell to my knees, clutching my mouth, praying it hadn’t acquired a Cameron Diaz angle. “Awww fockk-kinnn…”

“From now on every Sunday when I sit to consume the special lunch, I’ll have disturbing visions of dirty broom twigs sticking out of the pieces of meat,” Baz raised his finger. “And I blame you for that, Chee!”

I looked up in extreme anger, and then I saw it; right behind his head, glowing against the late night sky. After a few seconds Baz followed my petrified gaze and exclaimed, “Fuck!”

There above the narrow ticket counters, in large neon letters, was the name of the place we were standing (and kneeling) in; where the bus had left us and, well, left -“H O S P E T”.

[We finally reach Hampi here]

Chapter 2: "Dude, where's our bus?"

2009-04-18T09:40:00.009+05:30

It was a crowded corner of a crowded part of a crowded bus station. Baz and I stood mesmerized, faced with this overwhelming ever-jobless sea of people. There were people left right and centre; people lining up in front of the ticket counters, people crowding around food and fruit stalls, people thronging the sitting area making it look similar to an Auschwitz-bound unfortunate gathering. And there, lost in this ocean of time… no; people… Baz uttered the most practical question he or any human has ever managed to come up with.

He looked at me and said, “Dude, where’s our bus?”

I returned his puzzled-panda look with point-blank accuracy to himself and completed our little Hollywood tribute, “Where’s our bus, dude?”

All over us the crowd continued its unrestrained efforts to beat the clock. (Though in all probability they were all way behind their schedules) One guy jumped over a pile of rice bags on a trolley to tear through the long stretch between him and a particularly over-crowded bus that blossomed people like a magnolia in spring. The guy threw his bag over his shoulders and jumped forward to catch hold of some exterior part of the bus. As he became one of the numerous souls hanging out from the moving bus, Baz commented, “That bus… it’s a microcosm of our earth. It represents, in an expressionistic way, the excessive burden on earth caused by the massive human population.”

I looked at him with blank eyes. He smiled at my ignorance, “But the interesting factor is that while earth is suspended in the unending vacuum called space, this bus is running its half-shattered tires on typical Indian roads.”

“Our bus better not be like this,” said I. “Not after we paid some two hundred bucks for each fucking seat.” I took out my ticket to re-check the confirmation of reservation. And then I saw it.

“Dude, this is god damn fucking crazy,” I said.

Baz looked at me with joined eyebrows, “Ufff Chee… do you have to punch that dirty word into every third sentence you say?”

“Look at this,” I waved the ticket under his nose. “It says, ‘Platform number zero.’”

Malfunction fact- This was not unusual. Half the government machines in India are either outdated or do not work. And since the printer that vomited our tickets at the counter was making deafening croaking noises, this was more or less expected.

Baz took a quick look at the ticket and pulled out his own. “Yup,” he said. “So says mine.”

“Jeez, this is crazy,” I shook my head. “Now we don’t even have the proper platform number. God’s plenty, but all confusion.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find out,” said Baz. “Let’s ask that ticket-checker guy over there.”

We approached the nearest guy in khaki uniform and a leather bag. I said, “Sir, I think there’s something wrong about the platform number printed on our tickets, sir…”

The guy did not appear to hear anything. Baz said, “Speak louder.”

I took my head closer to his ears and half-shouted, “Sir… our tickets… platform number… something wrong…”

The guy turned round at me faster than a raging hurricane. He clenched his fists and shook them under my nose, shouting away in terribly broken Hindi, “Who the hell are you, shouting at my ears like a god damn father-in-law or something? I punch tickets; don’t sell any god damn forms… if you want a job go bribe the deputy supervisor! God damn hooligans creating disturbances all over the place…”

We ran till we reached the other end of the bus station. Baz, breathing faster than an asthma emergency, rolled his eyes, “Weird people man!”

I was trying hard to control my breathing, too. I bent down and caught my knees, “I actually pity this guy. Hazardous life; having to face this place every single day…”

“Idea,” Baz suddenly stood up with a glittering face, “Isn’t there the service number printed on our tickets?”

“Yup,” I held up the ticket and took a closer look. “Four-three-six-nine. I hope to hell there’s no mistake in this one.”

“Let’s go into the parking area and find the bus before it reaches this mass,” said Baz, tugging at my backpack.

We wandered into the area with numerous parked buses, separated from the jostling crowd by huge iron fences with one huge gate. We went through rows of red-and-white government-provided public transports, checking out their service numbers. “Remember,” said Baz, “the service number on the windscreen, not the number on the plates.”

After a while of vain search, I said, “I wish we could just Google it… look at this heap! The service number’s all blurred! It might just be the very bus we’re supposed to board and we can’t even know for sure!”

Baz turned around with a glint in his eyes, “Chee… Dude… what if it’s a Hogwarts kind of thing?” He smiled like a heavenly angel who still had not experienced earth, “Some secret platform or something? Chal, let’s go find out!”

“Fuck that shit man!” I had got quite a cultural shock this time; this was degradation beyond my anticipation, “You carry on like this and we’re sure to miss the damn bus!”

“Okay let’s be serious,” Baz suppressed a smirk. “We split up and look for it and the moment one finds it he calls up the other and tells him the location.”

“Deal,” I said. “You go that way.”

We started off in opposite directions. The empty buses and the fading light made the setting sort of spooky, now that I was alone.

But before I could check the number of the seventh bus, I heard hurried footsteps behind me and turned back in alarm. Baz was coming towards me with a very embarrassed look in his face.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I ran into a guy shitting behind a bus. He gave me such dirty looks…” his ears were bright pink by now.

I looked at his face for six full seconds, and burst out laughing. Baz shook his head, “Dude it’s not funny… imagine the kind of picture this presents of India…”

I doubled up with laughter. Baz kicked me so hard I almost got thrown off my feet. After a while I somehow controlled my laugh and looked up to his saddened face. “There’s one way we can keep this from defaming India, you know. We don’t tell this to anyone,” said I.

Baz smiled and we high-fived. Then we set off again, together this time, in search of our precious bus. But minutes later, however, Baz stopped dead again.

“Who’s shitting now?” I whispered urgently, looking around frantically.

“It’s not human shit dude,” Baz sounded like a zombie. “It’s holy shit.”

I followed his gaze and stopped dead as well. There, just beyond the iron fences, was an identical or even bigger parking area with at least twelve rows of buses standing still as if waiting for Godot.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Okay man, this isn’t going to work,” said Baz. “Let’s go back to the platforms and try to find out.”

I agreed, sacrificing a trillion non-existing choices. We hurried back to the horrendous hustle of the main bus station.

“Okay, now where do we go from here?” Baz looked thoughtfully at the sea of people.

“That ticket checker over there,” said I.

“No. No. No more ticket checkers.” Baz raised his hands in protest.

“He doesn’t look like the deaf type…” I said. “Okay, you stay here. I’ll go talk to him.”

The guy already saw me coming and watched me walk up to him with his head bent sideways like a parrot. I had a feeling he could not see in one eye. Now, this was not a good sign at all.

“Excuse me sir,” I said politely. “My ticket seems to have a printing mistake about the platform number…”

The guy took a close look at the ticket I held up for him, and suddenly grabbed my hand.
Before I could come out of this sudden shock he said, “You’ll have to come with me to the police.”

“But… but why?” I got scared like a trapped rabbit.

“It’s a fake ticket you scum,” the guy said through clenched teeth.

“But… but…” I looked frantically around for Baz but could not see him in the crowd.

The man now let go of my arm and grabbed my t-shirt collars. “You little rich kids from somewhere,” he hissed into my nose. “No patience for standing in the queue for half an hour for a bus ticket, eh? But if it’s a movie ticket, no problem at all! I have seen dozens like you. Taking the country to heights of corruption and blaming it on us!”

“But it’s an original ticket!” I pleaded.

“You think I’m a fool? These kinds of mistakes are common in fake tickets!” He chuckled, that epitome of self-confidence.

“I got it from a counter!” I half-shouted, causing the people around to halt and look.

“A counter, you say?” The guy’s eyes narrowed, “Which one?”

“Zero… NO… I mean six!” I panted.

“Six, is it?” His lips curled, “Okay then. Tell me about the printer in that counter.”

I looked in surprise. He was chuckling, waiting for a response. I said, “It was… making noises. Like toads in a pond.”

The man let go of my collars and rubbed his cheek, “Well, I think it’s rather like elephant fart, but I guess you’re telling the truth.”

I looked at him with mouth hanging out. Delighted, he broke the matter to me, waving hands to make an effective speech. “You see we often need to verify if a guy is telling the truth or not, so I came up with separate questions regarding all seventeen counters in this station. Like for number two I’ll ask what does the man there chew at all the time; and for fifteen I’ll ask how many chairs the woman there needs to sit on…”

Relieved beyond measure for being let off, I nodded enthusiastically at whatever he said.

“Oh yeah,” the guy said. “Which bus were you supposed to catch?”

“The one to Hampi”, said I.

“Oh ho, four-three-six-nine,” said he casually. “Go over to platform number nineteen. Hurry up; it leaves in less than two minutes!”

Like a pure dumb ass I thanked him and walked away. A couple of steps later Baz suddenly appeared before me.

“Where the hell were you?” I demanded.

“What was that guy holding your collars for, dude?” Asked Baz, “Was he trying to kiss you or something?”

“Shut your fucking mouth tight and follow me,” said I; taking a step forward.

Chapter 1 - The Jobless

2009-03-26T09:22:00.000+05:30

“So, what’s the plan?” asked a brain-dead me for the eighteenth time. It was a dull Friday afternoon and weekend was just round the corner. Usually this saw our spirits soaring, with two days of no class and unlimited opportunities to demonstrate our expertise in the art of laziness. Often we would go wandering around the Osmania campus or watch a movie to kill the time in a more innovative way. And weekends meant the usual excuse for my friends to wet the night with booze (I was still an alcohol-virgin back then).

But this time it was all so different, all so dead! It was early Feb and somehow many of us chose to bunk most of the classes of the week. On top of it we saw over a dozen movies (Most of them being certified substitutes for sleeping pills). And as if that was not enough only the night before my good people had a bad overdose of Kingfisher Strong and the shadow of the hangover still hung all over their disillusioned faces (Two of my three companions woke up with the usual vow of never to be drinking again). And just out of solidarity, or maybe it’s just the way I am, I felt compelled to feel as brain-dead as them.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Baz the Intel looked up, and – “Phew!”- made a weak attempt to express his appreciation for the joke of the day. Next moment his neck gave up and his head fell like an uprooted large mushroom onto my roommate’s bed with a thud. Amigo, my dear room partner, said, “It’s a shitty day man!”

We were all lying abandoned in our room, wherever the jungle of empty booze bottles became thin enough to lay down our anatomy. Amigo was sitting on his bed with my laptop, logged onto the Naga Chat Room, chatting away in his unique typing style.

Amigo fact - Amigo has this typical typing fashion that closely resembles gunfire from a light machine-gun. It’s something like this- he can type really fast, something he has achieved without any professional training. But when he’s not typing direct quotes from books his brain does not come up with words fast enough to provide a smooth typing. As a result he types a few words very fast- patrrrrrrtrrrrrr…- then comes to a sudden halt, as if his fingers have disc-breaks. Then after five to six seconds he is off typing again- patrrrrrpatrrrr…- only to stop again before you finish scratching your ears.

Baz the Intel was on the floor, resting against Amigo’s bed, his head crashed on the edge as the weight of his brain was too much to bear. I was on the floor as well, but resting my legs up in my bed; something only I could do having the longest limbs around.

Me fact – As a child I fell into a drum of urea (A common substance found in urine used across rural India to accelerate the growth of plants).

Van the Body, who in many ways is almost like an elder brother to me, was stretched all over his almost younger brother’s bed, trying to read a five-year-old battered car magazine.

“Hak-hak”, said Amigo (Here you need to understand he is having one of his short-lived laughters and not repeating some ancient tribal war-cry). Apparently one of his friends in some part of the world hunching in front of a computer just like him had just cracked some good old joke.

“This place is dead,” said Van. I nodded in support. Baz repeated one of his widely uttered elemental headaches in response, “I wonder what we are doing here.”

“Doing M.A., what else? We got to show the nice shiny certificate to the world!” I said sleepily, aiming a slap at a fly circling my nose. The slap was lazy as ever, and the fly easily escaped and sat on my favourite poster on the wall, saying “Do not put off till tomorrow… what you can possibly do THE DAY AFTER.”

“It’s not so totally bad,” said Van. “Sunset on the terrace or midnight walks around the campus?”

I really adore this guy. He says words of my heart, before I even think of them. I quickly chipped in, “Yeah, and the late night chai, the Osmania ground, and Super star biriyani…”

“And the freedom we get here,” continued Van, “you think we could even stand in front of the Ladies Hostel if this was somewhere else? Or go out anywhere any time we like?”

“True, true,” said Baz thoughtfully, as if he had just learned to see the world in a new light.

“But this construction man, it’s killing me!” said Amigo, pulling his face to make every single cell express its individual detest. This time we all reacted with fierce support.

After some fifteen minutes of continuous cursing of the bull-dozers, the iron rods, the cutting of trees and the ever-flying dust we got bored of that too. Amigo and Van left for Amma’s front yard shop for a fag. Baz and I lay in the same abandoned way, too lazy and spaced out to move or talk.

“This can’t go on,” said I, after realizing Baz had actually found this state of plant-like inactivity quite convenient to his thinking prowess and silently conformed to it. “This just can’t go on like it.”

“It’s ‘it just can’t go on like this’,” replied Baz. “Chee… what’s wrong with you suddenleeee?”

“This place is what’s wrong with me,” said I. “The same place I wake up in, same room, same people, same classes, same fucked-up courses, and on top of it the campus is so bloody-fucking small!”

“Issshhhh you foul-mouth,” Baz tore open his lips horizontally to reveal two full rows of perfect, waiting-to-be-broken-with-a-punch teeth.

“I just wanna leave this place, at least for a little while,” said I, rising so that this boring floor of the boring room that is part of this boring place does not touch my posterior. “I’ve just got to go somewhere.”

“Where?” said Baz.

Now that was a question. Where on earth could I go? I couldn’t just tie my shoelaces and start walking; not in Hyderabad. The city crowd and pollution would probably give me a nervous breakdown. And even if I go to some random tourist spot it would not be helpful in my state of mind. I needed nature, beauty and seclusion (In short, everything Buddha needed to achieve salvation). Such a place was rare to find, especially when you need them badly.

Baz’s phone rang. He took out the world-weary cell from his pocket and took a look at the message.

“Shabaash!” he said. “Bhagi the PM has made it to the Conference in Trichur!”

“Conference?” I ran a search in my head for a couple of seconds, “Conference! Oh yeah! Great! Isn’t Suji the Neighbor also going over there with his Calvin and Hobbes paper?”

“Yup,” said Baz. “The glorious people… taking EFLU to places!”

Suddenly, this eureka thing happened. I felt an overwhelming rush of unrestrained energy running all over my veins. I clenched my fists and hit hard at the side of my skull really hard (And regretted the very next moment).

Baz stared with his mouth full open, as if expecting a herd of rosogolla’s to descend from heaven. I busily rubbed my head, cursing myself for possessing such a destructive energy.

“Wha-what happened?” Baz looked puzzled. He always suspected that one day I would snap out of my happy-go-lucky way of life and kill myself out of disgust for the US dadagiri.

“Bhagi,” I answered.

“Pardon?” Baz sounded damn diplomatic whenever something missed his hyper-active brain.

“Bhagi went to Hampi some weeks back,” said I. “So can we.”

“Well,” Baz looked thoughtful. “I wonder when I’ll have time enough to go…”

My lip twitched, “Now…?”

Baz looked at me, I looked back. We stayed in this melodramatic entanglement for a long time. Now, this could happen in only two occasions- the first sight that in Hindi films precedes love (And a song); and the state of mutual agreement looking for the best-suited outburst.

“This place is screwed up!” Baz threw his arms in the air.

“So let’s screw it and leave!” I followed with an identical gesture.

“And never come back!”

I stopped midway of an enthusiastic response. “Okay, we’ll come back after a couple of days,” said Baz apologetically.

“Put a couple of trousers and chaddis in your backpack and let’s LEAVE!” I shouted the last word and jumped at the handle of my cupboard as Baz ran out of the door towards his own room.

* * *

Van and Amigo walked in through the open door. The room was empty, but carried a strong air of recent hustle. A cupboard stood half-open, and a small pile of discarded clothing lay on the bed beside it. Amigo sighed,

“Okay, so what did we miss?”

Van picked up a note from Amigo’s bed and read, “Going off for a couple of days- Chee and Baz. P.S. Shut down the laptop every time after use.”

“Jobless people,” said Amigo in utter disgust, “ I always suspected they’re gay!”

----------