He stirred his whisky, almost nonchalantly, even as his well-rounded face seemed to be drawn in overwhelming deep thought. 19 years of Pat Noyce’s extravagant career at the Los Angeles Police Dept. had the thick skinned stickler, seen a wide assortment of cases; some obtuse, few brilliant, others rudimentary, while some simply dumb-founding, and yet such queerness of tragic events that had transpired that eventful night had succeeded in baffling his trained eye.
He sipped onto his whisky, lit a cigarette and tried to gather his distorted overworked mind. On the16th of April,1954 Pat had arrived upon the investigation scene almost at the crack of dawn, and found the lifeless body of Arnold Saget, a slim jaded looking man in his early 20s, with a bullet pierced through his heart. Eerily, the body was found on a safety net hanging outside the window of the 8th floor of that very building. The safety net was installed to protect some building workers, which Pat discovered, that none in the building were aware of, including Arnold. Pat found a seemingly authentic suicide note undersigned by Arnold outlining his despondency, and aloofness to life. It was apparent to Pat from acute observation of the crime scene that Arnold had attempted suicide by jumping off the tenth floor. As soon as he jumped, even as he was crossing the 9th floor, he was shot at, and he landed on the safety net on the 8th floor. Further investigations revealed that at the time of Arnold’s death, an old couple was fiercely involved in a squabble on the 9th floor. When Pat entered the couple’s house, the old man fell to his knees and beseeched pardon. Weeping uncontrollably, he admitted to having shot at Arnold, accidentally. He also revealed that Arnold was his only son.
Upon questioning the neighbourhood, Pat found out that the old couple often fought, seldom resulting in the elder man threatening to shoot his wife with his gun. The elderly man sounded earnest when he told Pat that he actually never loaded his gun, that he merely used it to threaten his wife, and used hollow threats to stifle her. He never meant to shoot his wife nor his son, Arnold. It was an inopportune accident, one that the old man solemnly regretted. Pat had found him convincing in his version of the story, and sincere in his penitence. Experience had taught Pat much.
He was groping with his pocket looking for another cigarette, when he heard a slight knock on his door. Pat saw the wall clock that hung over his dinner table 1:26. It must be Sergeant Morgan, conjectures Pat. He opened the door.
“Ah.Good evening Sergeant. Surprised to find you at this infelicitous hour. I hope its good news that you bring.” said Pat, as he closed the door behind Sergeant Morgan.
“Care for a cigarette?” asked Pat.
“Thank you, but I’m good, sir. I found another witness to the Arnold Saget murder. A one Mr. Dave Hanson, the owner of a licensed gun shop on the east side. The 125 mm gun used by the elderly man was bought at this Mr. Hanson’s shop. He confirms that the old man never purchased bullets from him, at least not recently.” said Morgan eagerly, with a noticeable keenness in his voice.
“Ah. I’d figured it out. I have a feeling someone else has a hand in planting these bullets in that gun. Someone very…. “
Sgt. Morgan interrupted “Oh, yes sir. A few days earlier, a lean looking pensive man had dropped in at the gun shop, wanting to buy six 125 mm bullets. Needless to say, Hanson was surprised, considering how outdated the 125 mm gun is. Perhaps this man has something to do with this murder.”
“Could you find anything else about this man and his whereabouts?” quizzed Pat.
“No sir. We’re doing the best we can.” quipped the sergeant
“Okay. This case gets all the more entangled. Help run me down on this one, will you? First a man tries to commit suicide by jumping off a building. Midway through the fall he is shot. He lands on a shelter built by construction workers, which he was not aware of. The person who shoots him is his very own father. He never realized the gun had bullets and accidentally shot his son, who was in the process of dying anyway, but wouldn’t have died, because of the shelter. Something’s amiss. I still can’t figure out what’s going on?”
The sergeant added “This other guy buys bullets from a gun shop and is most probably the one who loaded the gun.”
“Indeed strange. I guess this man who bought the bullets will have a big part to play in this murder. I guess it’s pretty safe to say this mystery man who bought the bullets at the gun shop is indirectly responsible for Arnold’s murder.”
“I guess so.”
2 minutes of silence followed. Both men submerged in thought.
“Sir, I’ll take your leave now. I’ll keep you posted on any further news.” said Morgan .and bid good night
The next morning, Pat was greeted at the office doorstep by an invigorated Sgt. Morgan
“Good morning Sir. I’ve got some startling information. This morning we got the gun shop owner Mr. Hanson to help describe the man who bought the bullets. We got a rough sketch of him. The results are quite mind-boggling.”
The sergeant went on.” I questioned the entire neighbourhood again. The mystery finally seems to be coming to a conclusion, yet the coincidences seem thrilling to say the least. Arnold and his mother were apparently never on good terms with each other. She had cut-off all financial support to him, making him utterly despondent. He was vexed, beyond reasonable limits. He was so flustered; he would even dare to kill his mother. He failed at that, he also never managed to put bread on his table. So he decided to give up his life.”
Pat’s eyes lit up.” Okay. So who was the man who bought the bullets and ended up responsible for Arnold’s death?” he asked the sergeant/
The sergeant promptly replied almost half expecting the question. “There lies the irony sir. It was Arnold who bought the bullets and loaded it in his father’s gun hoping he would shoot his mother accidentally some day. Uncannily, he ended up murdering himself while committing suicide. How about that for coincidence, sir?”
“Ah! Murderer and the victim, both the same. Fascinating!”
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Parody of life
"Cheers" they said amidst voluptuous rattled roars, and the 2 most jaded men in the room gulped the vodka in a manner only they understood,straight to the throat. They gazed into each others eyes;their inner despondency masked by an outward presumptuous exterior. The vodka was inordinately outstanding, unblended and unscathed. Pure like a virgin, they thought. But incidentally, and tragically,they both knew,it might have been their last drink.
At the age of 17, Bob Marlo had decided that no dainty office job could do justice to his burning desire to live free-spiritedly. He had even done 6 months time for stealing a car and assaulting a cop. He made no friends, lived in a tacky attic in the suburbs, and had slept with 42 women in two years. He always loved to show off the scars on his forehead which was the result of an ill-fated mountain climbing expedition.
Kris Mantle was raised in a sophisticated and fastidious wealthy family who dreamt of raising a lawyer, and rub shoulders with the who's who of society. What they were not aware of,was the rebellion spirit that Kris possessed, a tinge of infamy daredevilry and a load of fire. Few days after he had turned 17, he brought home a guest for dinner, Katherine,and announced his love for her at the dinner table. His family vehemently deplored of it.So, he ran away from home and spent the night in communion with his fiance, and basking in his new found freedom. 4 months later, they were separated, with little remorse.
Everyone in the bar burst into deafening cheers. Both had apparently survived. There were 12 more shots of vodka on the dilapidated table. One of them contained 2 ml of Botalinium,one of the deadliest poisons known. The rules were simple. Each takes a shot. One spills his guts. The other walks away with 500 grand. If someone backs out midway, the other gets all of it.
Bob lit a cigarette.He made headway for small talk.
"You look like a decent man who's got a family waiting. Serves them right, eh?"
"Na, I killed them 10 years ago" said Kris, lighting a cigarette.Everyone applauded.
"The first one's the hardest. You get past the first shot, you begin to think 'maybe you can fool death'. You won't even have time to realise that you were wrong."
People started causing a raucous. They demanded another shot.
Bob raised his glass "May the best man win". Both shot vodka and vouched for the others death.Both stayed alive.Everyone cheered.Bob and Kris looked like nervous wrecks.4 more to go.The crowd was quietened.
"What you said is bullshit. The best man may not win. That's the beauty of the whole deal."said Bob with conviction.
"No. That's what you think. The best man wins everywhere. Luck is for the faint-hearted." Kris retorted.
Bob replied "No. Lucky is when the lesser man wins. But you only hope for the better man to win.Because everyone wants vindication and justice. We want it fair and square, for the world to work like an algorithm. I'm glad it does not work that way. One of the reasons you and me are seated face to face today is the lack of justice."
"Perhaps..So you think you can handle 1 more shot?" Kris asked hoping for a no for an answer.
Both raised their glasses.
"And yes. May the best man win."
Both shot. They looked at each other. They were panting, gasping for breath. Kris looked
into Bob's eyes and saw how lucky Bob felt to be alive. He felt the same.
"Lucky to be alive, eh? 2 more to go. You wanna go on?" asked Kris.
Bob sensed fear in Kris. He sensed a lot of uncertainty and a feeling of pessimism.He felt superior.Bob had always believed that laws of nature operate on how you perceive and negotiate what life offers you. He had believed that confidence inspires nature to conspire for you. And now,he sensed cynicism and pessimism in Kris. He had sniffed it. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of invincibility.
"This just feels like poker, ain't it? You flinch, you're out." said Bob.
" You don't have your brains on the table at the end of it in poker, do you? And no bluffing either. But the chances of dying or staying alive remain a constant, no matter what. It is simply your fate.Your charm and wits are of no value."
"You decide your fate, brother. I know I'm walking out with half a million. And you'll see how it is done. I'm in for the next shot." announced Bob.
Kris couldn't undermine his fear of death. His whole life, flashed before his eyes. An innate feeling of an irrevocable loss seemed to hit him in his face. He pondered upon all of his sins and pleasures. He felt like a dying man. He looked up at Bob. He looked at a man with half a million dollars.
He despairingly said " I'm in."
Bob looked up at Kris and showed inexplicable surprise. He thought he had him. Not to be. He was certain the odds were for him. He was not giving up.
"Say your prayers my friend. This place ain't big enough for the both of us."
"Cheers" they said in unison. One feebly, the other almost nonchalantly.
They shot.Kris felt extremely dizzy. His whole world revolved around him like typhoon had ruptured him.Immediately Kris's inner self felt a burning desire to live, not to let probability take a chance to decide on his life. He felt like he had more to offer to his and others' life. He spit out the vodka and in abrupt and pathetic coughs yelled out " You win, my friend. I'm out."
But,as soon as he looked up, he saw Bob Marley collapse to the floor, in pain, moaning, squealing,spilling his guts out. Bob fell on the stack of cash on the table, and enjoyed his 20 seconds of wealth, and let one melancholic cry of despair and gave in.
Kris never really regretted his decision. He was not rich, but he didn't go out of that bar not being taught a lesson or two in life.Bob himself had an algorithm to life, which stated that there was no algorithm. Every man thinks that he has algorithm to life figured out. They're always flawed. Some, like Kris realise that. Others like Bob, figure it out in the last 30 seconds of their life. 47 years later on his deathbed, Kris was to remember this fateful night and grimaced at the parody of life.
At the age of 17, Bob Marlo had decided that no dainty office job could do justice to his burning desire to live free-spiritedly. He had even done 6 months time for stealing a car and assaulting a cop. He made no friends, lived in a tacky attic in the suburbs, and had slept with 42 women in two years. He always loved to show off the scars on his forehead which was the result of an ill-fated mountain climbing expedition.
Kris Mantle was raised in a sophisticated and fastidious wealthy family who dreamt of raising a lawyer, and rub shoulders with the who's who of society. What they were not aware of,was the rebellion spirit that Kris possessed, a tinge of infamy daredevilry and a load of fire. Few days after he had turned 17, he brought home a guest for dinner, Katherine,and announced his love for her at the dinner table. His family vehemently deplored of it.So, he ran away from home and spent the night in communion with his fiance, and basking in his new found freedom. 4 months later, they were separated, with little remorse.
Everyone in the bar burst into deafening cheers. Both had apparently survived. There were 12 more shots of vodka on the dilapidated table. One of them contained 2 ml of Botalinium,one of the deadliest poisons known. The rules were simple. Each takes a shot. One spills his guts. The other walks away with 500 grand. If someone backs out midway, the other gets all of it.
Bob lit a cigarette.He made headway for small talk.
"You look like a decent man who's got a family waiting. Serves them right, eh?"
"Na, I killed them 10 years ago" said Kris, lighting a cigarette.Everyone applauded.
"The first one's the hardest. You get past the first shot, you begin to think 'maybe you can fool death'. You won't even have time to realise that you were wrong."
People started causing a raucous. They demanded another shot.
Bob raised his glass "May the best man win". Both shot vodka and vouched for the others death.Both stayed alive.Everyone cheered.Bob and Kris looked like nervous wrecks.4 more to go.The crowd was quietened.
"What you said is bullshit. The best man may not win. That's the beauty of the whole deal."said Bob with conviction.
"No. That's what you think. The best man wins everywhere. Luck is for the faint-hearted." Kris retorted.
Bob replied "No. Lucky is when the lesser man wins. But you only hope for the better man to win.Because everyone wants vindication and justice. We want it fair and square, for the world to work like an algorithm. I'm glad it does not work that way. One of the reasons you and me are seated face to face today is the lack of justice."
"Perhaps..So you think you can handle 1 more shot?" Kris asked hoping for a no for an answer.
Both raised their glasses.
"And yes. May the best man win."
Both shot. They looked at each other. They were panting, gasping for breath. Kris looked
into Bob's eyes and saw how lucky Bob felt to be alive. He felt the same.
"Lucky to be alive, eh? 2 more to go. You wanna go on?" asked Kris.
Bob sensed fear in Kris. He sensed a lot of uncertainty and a feeling of pessimism.He felt superior.Bob had always believed that laws of nature operate on how you perceive and negotiate what life offers you. He had believed that confidence inspires nature to conspire for you. And now,he sensed cynicism and pessimism in Kris. He had sniffed it. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of invincibility.
"This just feels like poker, ain't it? You flinch, you're out." said Bob.
" You don't have your brains on the table at the end of it in poker, do you? And no bluffing either. But the chances of dying or staying alive remain a constant, no matter what. It is simply your fate.Your charm and wits are of no value."
"You decide your fate, brother. I know I'm walking out with half a million. And you'll see how it is done. I'm in for the next shot." announced Bob.
Kris couldn't undermine his fear of death. His whole life, flashed before his eyes. An innate feeling of an irrevocable loss seemed to hit him in his face. He pondered upon all of his sins and pleasures. He felt like a dying man. He looked up at Bob. He looked at a man with half a million dollars.
He despairingly said " I'm in."
Bob looked up at Kris and showed inexplicable surprise. He thought he had him. Not to be. He was certain the odds were for him. He was not giving up.
"Say your prayers my friend. This place ain't big enough for the both of us."
"Cheers" they said in unison. One feebly, the other almost nonchalantly.
They shot.Kris felt extremely dizzy. His whole world revolved around him like typhoon had ruptured him.Immediately Kris's inner self felt a burning desire to live, not to let probability take a chance to decide on his life. He felt like he had more to offer to his and others' life. He spit out the vodka and in abrupt and pathetic coughs yelled out " You win, my friend. I'm out."
But,as soon as he looked up, he saw Bob Marley collapse to the floor, in pain, moaning, squealing,spilling his guts out. Bob fell on the stack of cash on the table, and enjoyed his 20 seconds of wealth, and let one melancholic cry of despair and gave in.
Kris never really regretted his decision. He was not rich, but he didn't go out of that bar not being taught a lesson or two in life.Bob himself had an algorithm to life, which stated that there was no algorithm. Every man thinks that he has algorithm to life figured out. They're always flawed. Some, like Kris realise that. Others like Bob, figure it out in the last 30 seconds of their life. 47 years later on his deathbed, Kris was to remember this fateful night and grimaced at the parody of life.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
His beloved audience
He had been an agonistic as long as he could remember, and despite his wife’s cajoling,even a visit to the temple across the road from his double-storeyed bungalow had remained a far-fetched thought. But today he stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. Life had presented its dreadful flipside, and ironically he was standing at the same temple across the road from his bungalow, but he was too perplexed to notice the irony.
Anil Yashwant had always cherished his 4 years at his alma-mater IIM-A, and the people at the new office of IBM in Vila Parle were only too keen to have him on board. People who had known him were not surprised to find him effortlessly climb up the ranks in his office, given the extravagant flair he had exhibited at his job. To vindicate his prodigal-like talent,he started a company of his own, that had scripted a stupendous success story in an outlandish fashion. The Deccan Herald wanted to showcase his imminent arrival at the worldstage and had commissioned Nivedita Gupta, a pretty vibrant journalist for a Page 6 interview. The interview had lasted for more than 7 hours, and a year later Nivedita and Anil had committed to each other 7 lives of holy matrimony in a succinct ceremony comprising of close family and friends. They had 2 beautiful kids together, and his miniature company had skyrocketed to scale new heights, proclaimed by many as the next big thing in the
markets. Life, it seemed, couldn't have been haler and heartier. But catastrophe was to befall Anil, for a storm wistfully always follows a calm. His company hadn't been faring well, and share prices had plummeted following the Internet bubble burst all over the world. On the 19th of Dec 2001, an emergency Board meeting was called for, which had concluded in a callous yet decisive vote to file for bankruptcy. His dear company, built from years of scrupulous pain-staking effort had collapsed right before his own eyes.Anil was distraught, but always managed to take heart in the fact
that atleast he had his health and and a caring family. On the 21st of February, 2 days before his son's 19 birthday, he received a call informing him that the Air Deccan flight from Delhi to Mumbai had killed all 78 on board, of which Nivedita, his wife; Aarushi, his 16 yr old daughter, and Rajdeep, his 19 yr old son were an infelicitous part of. It had left him agonizingly stunned for he now had nothing in life to claim as his own.
Anil was unable to bear this melancholic irrevocable loss, of wealth and life, of mind and soul, of kith and kin. He was inconsolable, drowned in overwhelming grief, aloof of life. He took to alcohol, severely wasting himself, abusing his body with drugs. He tried to find answers, he didn't know where to seek them. He was lost immersed in the nothingness of this universe sucked into it and dumped away. He craved for love, for pity, for affection. Lying remorsefully in his once lavish apartment, he remembered his mother's unconditional love, his wife's undying devotion, his children's affection and his dog's faithfulness. His dogged spirit had turned docile, meek. A once proud man now stood felled self-effacingly submissive.
His well-wishers had suggested him to several renowned psychologists, leading doctors and various ludicrous ways to overcome his resentment to life. All had miserably failed. He remembered his wife dearly, the conversations he had with her. She had trusted God so much. But he had failed her. He had cheated her trust, he thought. He had been an agnostic, almost an atheist all his life, and now he had brimming anger at God, an existence he hadn't believed in.
So he headed for the temple his wife had always visited, and stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. He was once again filled with simmering anger, and inconsolably wept bitterly like a lost warrior. And at once, fell to his knees as if in acceptance of His existence, not because he had realized God was omnipresent, but because he hoped he would be. He made a prayer, not because he wanted it answered, but because he simply wanted to pray,to confide his emotion within. All these years he had always beleived that a prayer was a sign of weakness, when a man demanded something from God because he had'nt been able to achieve himself. He now realised how woefully wrong he was. He realised, that a prayer was very personal, very subjective to each individual. Some confided, some confessed, some questioned, some bargained, and some argued. Each one was right in his own way. Facing the sanctum-sanctorum of the temple, he realised God's existence was immaterial, but he knew there was a higher force operating, a watchful eye that was always omnipresent. He at once felt a burden off his chest, felt consoled, like a crying baby is when its mother embraces it.And for a moment, the physical world did not matter to him, and the maelstrom in his own inner world was sanctified, by a divine feeling.
Anil Yashwant had always cherished his 4 years at his alma-mater IIM-A, and the people at the new office of IBM in Vila Parle were only too keen to have him on board. People who had known him were not surprised to find him effortlessly climb up the ranks in his office, given the extravagant flair he had exhibited at his job. To vindicate his prodigal-like talent,he started a company of his own, that had scripted a stupendous success story in an outlandish fashion. The Deccan Herald wanted to showcase his imminent arrival at the worldstage and had commissioned Nivedita Gupta, a pretty vibrant journalist for a Page 6 interview. The interview had lasted for more than 7 hours, and a year later Nivedita and Anil had committed to each other 7 lives of holy matrimony in a succinct ceremony comprising of close family and friends. They had 2 beautiful kids together, and his miniature company had skyrocketed to scale new heights, proclaimed by many as the next big thing in the
markets. Life, it seemed, couldn't have been haler and heartier. But catastrophe was to befall Anil, for a storm wistfully always follows a calm. His company hadn't been faring well, and share prices had plummeted following the Internet bubble burst all over the world. On the 19th of Dec 2001, an emergency Board meeting was called for, which had concluded in a callous yet decisive vote to file for bankruptcy. His dear company, built from years of scrupulous pain-staking effort had collapsed right before his own eyes.Anil was distraught, but always managed to take heart in the fact
that atleast he had his health and and a caring family. On the 21st of February, 2 days before his son's 19 birthday, he received a call informing him that the Air Deccan flight from Delhi to Mumbai had killed all 78 on board, of which Nivedita, his wife; Aarushi, his 16 yr old daughter, and Rajdeep, his 19 yr old son were an infelicitous part of. It had left him agonizingly stunned for he now had nothing in life to claim as his own.
Anil was unable to bear this melancholic irrevocable loss, of wealth and life, of mind and soul, of kith and kin. He was inconsolable, drowned in overwhelming grief, aloof of life. He took to alcohol, severely wasting himself, abusing his body with drugs. He tried to find answers, he didn't know where to seek them. He was lost immersed in the nothingness of this universe sucked into it and dumped away. He craved for love, for pity, for affection. Lying remorsefully in his once lavish apartment, he remembered his mother's unconditional love, his wife's undying devotion, his children's affection and his dog's faithfulness. His dogged spirit had turned docile, meek. A once proud man now stood felled self-effacingly submissive.
His well-wishers had suggested him to several renowned psychologists, leading doctors and various ludicrous ways to overcome his resentment to life. All had miserably failed. He remembered his wife dearly, the conversations he had with her. She had trusted God so much. But he had failed her. He had cheated her trust, he thought. He had been an agnostic, almost an atheist all his life, and now he had brimming anger at God, an existence he hadn't believed in.
So he headed for the temple his wife had always visited, and stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. He was once again filled with simmering anger, and inconsolably wept bitterly like a lost warrior. And at once, fell to his knees as if in acceptance of His existence, not because he had realized God was omnipresent, but because he hoped he would be. He made a prayer, not because he wanted it answered, but because he simply wanted to pray,to confide his emotion within. All these years he had always beleived that a prayer was a sign of weakness, when a man demanded something from God because he had'nt been able to achieve himself. He now realised how woefully wrong he was. He realised, that a prayer was very personal, very subjective to each individual. Some confided, some confessed, some questioned, some bargained, and some argued. Each one was right in his own way. Facing the sanctum-sanctorum of the temple, he realised God's existence was immaterial, but he knew there was a higher force operating, a watchful eye that was always omnipresent. He at once felt a burden off his chest, felt consoled, like a crying baby is when its mother embraces it.And for a moment, the physical world did not matter to him, and the maelstrom in his own inner world was sanctified, by a divine feeling.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Love Story:2009
The unforgiving water from the newly installed shower thumped against her delicate frame,her silhouette worth a poet's pen. The shower always seemed to drain out her fickle emotions;which would have snowballed through her long day. She stepped out of the shower draped in a terrycloth towel and grabbed her favourite pair of Levi's lying on a chair and a stunning velvety violet top, which she knew her mom wouldn't have approved of. She reached out for the recently acquired Sheldon novel by her bed, which she suspected would remain unfinished, like several of the other books lying in her cupboard, when her phone broke the monotonous silence. She answered the phone not bothering to check the id of the caller when she was greeted by a husky hoarse voice on the other end.
"Hello. Ms.Stevenson?" gushed the voice, feigning concern, yet echoing a cold hollow feeling.
"Yes" she said in a meek voice,disbelief embodied.
"I'm afraid i have some bad news for,Ms.Stevenson. Your boyfriend, David Kennedy, was found dead in his Belmont house in a pool of blood.I suggest you come down here immediately." he said devoid of emotion, as if handing out orders to his subordinates in his office.
He could here her dropping the phone. She groped for the wall, like a child who was having its first fall.But it appeared that she could never manage to fully get up from this fall.
She hurried her way down the well lit stairs, with a look of despondent belligerence on her face, as she made her way through the crowded streets decorated with light and joy,amiable faces awaiting the carnival of Christmas. She frantically waved for a taxi , even as the carnival atmosphere around her only managed to make her spirit within demean further. She sat in the cab and shut her eyes and she could only muse about the time when she had first met David.She was a saleswoman at the local Armani showroom and David had ended up buying 6 suits in less than a week. On the eighth day, he had asked her out, and she had agreed; guilty of a sense of obligation to him. At first she thought he was those snobbish types who prided upon his wealth and flaunted his charming looks and bragged about the number of women he had slept with. She was exulted to discover how wrong she was.He was an instant hit with her and she was enamoured by his outrightly simple approach to life and the absolute absence of guile in his talk. A little more than a week later, he had seduced her right on the doorsteps of the staircase of her house. That night they had made love over and over again. She had later confessed to Suzanne,her best friend, that it was the best sex she'd ever had. It took them a month to realise that they were insanely in love with each other, and she'd confided in him at the turn of midnight on Christmas Eve. As she lay in her cab, she remembered that they were to celebrate their 1st anniversary that day.
The honking of the taxi disrupted her chain of thought and she came crumbling down to the harsh realities,as she got out of the car and rushed straight towards his house unmindful of the cordon that the police had built around his house. The police had instantly recognized her, and made no qualms of letting her in. David had been a wealthy businessman, and the pair was recognised by almost every household in Belmont that read the Page3 of the local newspapers. She made her way through his dimly lit stairs almost gasping for breath. She yanked the door and reached the living room to find David's sister sobbing relentlessly, with an uncontrollable fit of rage, that would have sent a cold shiver down any woman's spine. She made her way through to where David was lying, and just stood there in utter dismay and disbelief, with stifled emotions, looking like an epitome of disarray. She had not wept at all, perhaps such was her terrible shock;conjectured the officers surrounding his body. She stood there as if her soul was bolstered,perennially staring at David's dead body, as if engulfed in a timeless universe. He lay on the floor unmoved in a pool of blood sporting his dinner jacket wearing a pair of Fastrack goggles, that she'd gifted him. Even as she stood gaping at David's dead body, she knew how circumstances had made her celebrate their 1st anniversary and Christmas Eve in this traumatic fashion.She was left gazing at a lifeless David lying on the floor. Even in that state, she was looking stunning as ever, the equanimity on her face giving her an uncanny glow.The officers standing by, expected her to burst into uncontrollable tears. She started to make her way to where David was lying,almost apparently unfazed, with a serene look on her face. She bent down to come nearer to him. To every one's great surprise she took out the shades he was wearing, stood up, wore his Fastrack goggles, turned back, adjusted her hair, and made her way out of the house unscathed, indifferent, and unfazed, and quietly headed back to her house as if nothing had happened. She had moved on.
Fastrack.Move on.
"Hello. Ms.Stevenson?" gushed the voice, feigning concern, yet echoing a cold hollow feeling.
"Yes" she said in a meek voice,disbelief embodied.
"I'm afraid i have some bad news for,Ms.Stevenson. Your boyfriend, David Kennedy, was found dead in his Belmont house in a pool of blood.I suggest you come down here immediately." he said devoid of emotion, as if handing out orders to his subordinates in his office.
He could here her dropping the phone. She groped for the wall, like a child who was having its first fall.But it appeared that she could never manage to fully get up from this fall.
She hurried her way down the well lit stairs, with a look of despondent belligerence on her face, as she made her way through the crowded streets decorated with light and joy,amiable faces awaiting the carnival of Christmas. She frantically waved for a taxi , even as the carnival atmosphere around her only managed to make her spirit within demean further. She sat in the cab and shut her eyes and she could only muse about the time when she had first met David.She was a saleswoman at the local Armani showroom and David had ended up buying 6 suits in less than a week. On the eighth day, he had asked her out, and she had agreed; guilty of a sense of obligation to him. At first she thought he was those snobbish types who prided upon his wealth and flaunted his charming looks and bragged about the number of women he had slept with. She was exulted to discover how wrong she was.He was an instant hit with her and she was enamoured by his outrightly simple approach to life and the absolute absence of guile in his talk. A little more than a week later, he had seduced her right on the doorsteps of the staircase of her house. That night they had made love over and over again. She had later confessed to Suzanne,her best friend, that it was the best sex she'd ever had. It took them a month to realise that they were insanely in love with each other, and she'd confided in him at the turn of midnight on Christmas Eve. As she lay in her cab, she remembered that they were to celebrate their 1st anniversary that day.
The honking of the taxi disrupted her chain of thought and she came crumbling down to the harsh realities,as she got out of the car and rushed straight towards his house unmindful of the cordon that the police had built around his house. The police had instantly recognized her, and made no qualms of letting her in. David had been a wealthy businessman, and the pair was recognised by almost every household in Belmont that read the Page3 of the local newspapers. She made her way through his dimly lit stairs almost gasping for breath. She yanked the door and reached the living room to find David's sister sobbing relentlessly, with an uncontrollable fit of rage, that would have sent a cold shiver down any woman's spine. She made her way through to where David was lying, and just stood there in utter dismay and disbelief, with stifled emotions, looking like an epitome of disarray. She had not wept at all, perhaps such was her terrible shock;conjectured the officers surrounding his body. She stood there as if her soul was bolstered,perennially staring at David's dead body, as if engulfed in a timeless universe. He lay on the floor unmoved in a pool of blood sporting his dinner jacket wearing a pair of Fastrack goggles, that she'd gifted him. Even as she stood gaping at David's dead body, she knew how circumstances had made her celebrate their 1st anniversary and Christmas Eve in this traumatic fashion.She was left gazing at a lifeless David lying on the floor. Even in that state, she was looking stunning as ever, the equanimity on her face giving her an uncanny glow.The officers standing by, expected her to burst into uncontrollable tears. She started to make her way to where David was lying,almost apparently unfazed, with a serene look on her face. She bent down to come nearer to him. To every one's great surprise she took out the shades he was wearing, stood up, wore his Fastrack goggles, turned back, adjusted her hair, and made her way out of the house unscathed, indifferent, and unfazed, and quietly headed back to her house as if nothing had happened. She had moved on.
Fastrack.Move on.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
All's well that ends well
He had intended to save the 23 year old scotch which lay beside him for a special occasion. It struck him that the vintage scotch and his perennially resentful grandson shared the same age. The scotch although, he thought, had aged gracefully. He lay stiff on his bed, even as the unforgiving rainfall thumped against the roof, bringing back discerning memories of his incoherent childhood, when the rain signified the arrival of joy.He was regretful it didn't mean the same to him any longer. He grimaced at the thought of how he always found that banyan tree by the countryside fascinating and found himself hours poignantly transfixed upon its rustic mythical beauty, which to him hadn't changed amidst in an otherwise rapidly changing world. The innocence of childhood had an uncanny tranquil power, he thought.He wondered, after 75 years, if it still stood by the rocks. Switching the lamp by the bedside he recollected how he always managed to retain this magical juvenile nature through his entire existence, amusing himself of the little nuances of life which always kept him kicking through the hard times. He recollected his days of learning in school, deriding farcical pranks on mates,being scared of elders,eventually breaking into gullible adolescence,and no longer being scared of elders, having the feeling of being able to conquer the world fumed by the youth in him. Ever since he remembered he always wanted to be a writer, one that wrote for artistic satisfaction more than intellectual. Looking back at his life, lying on the bed he felt vindicated. He also recollected how at the turn of 21 his parents had arranged his marriage to the 4Th daughter of a retired banker. He remembered vividly when he'd first seen her draped in a bright green Saree in his fiance he'd assessed her as 'beddable', worth spending a lifetime with. In course of time, he fell in love with her, her outright bright understanding of life in general having to contribute more than anything else to that. As the rain outside subsided, he could recollect those small eventful moments he had shared with his wife, laughing, talking. It brought more than a tear to his eye, of joy or of sadness, he was not sure. He remembered the time when he had 'danced the funky chicken' with her at their 25th anniversary, as his children had looked on in admiration. He reached out for the scotch beside him, poured it carefully into a glass generously. Over the years , he had developed an insatiable affection for scotch, a passion he'd picked up while working as a columnist with The Hindu, when he opportuned to brush shoulders with the elite; the condescending Delhite and the ostensibly sincere Mumbaikar. Times had changed drastically, he pondered, more in a manner of introspection than as being judgemental of others. He had slowly begun to realize that perhaps one of the reasons his grandson and him didn't meet eye to eye on several issues was perhaps because it was a universal truth that the old always found the young scornful, and these are some conundrums of life that are constant for any period. Or even the truth that when you look back at your life, you are always overridden with a feeling of having underachieved, of having been unfortunate, of having received the flak inordinately. He began to realize that, though as he lay still on his bed, that the memories left with him on that day at the age of 84, were those of cheer,of mirth, of laughter, of a celebration of life, that seemed complete, uncannily satisfying. Tears began rolling down his eyes, of joy, this he was sure of. And just what his grandson's favourite song had endorsed, 'he knew when his time would come he would be prepared for it. He drank, and said a prayer for it' and breathed his last.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Game on!
He fled past the intersection aloof of the pedestrians trying to squeeze in past the ravaging traffic. He switched on the stereo when it struck him how long it had been since he'd used the Pioneer Dolby speakers installed in his Corolla. He didn't care which song was on. He passed by the aristocratic high roads of Bombay, vainly wondering if perhaps; on that day his instincts could fail him that one time when he trudged on that familiar yet fateful path even as his eventful past flashed past him.
Sudeep's journey from the dreaded slums of Dharavi through the enchanting streets of Borivali to the extravagance of Pali Hills was an unlikely one, one that fairy tales are made of. He had learnt his lessons not from the inscrutable exhaustive books but from the squabbles of the underprivileged not from the lavish praises of the wealthy sycophants but from the constant bickering of an unforgiving society. But parallel to his mundane life was one that boasted of a class extraordinaire and a life humbled by unparalleled achievement, making Sudeep his ardent fan. Sudeep was only 17 when he first heard of his hero- then a young 16 year old Tendulkar who he rembered speaking with a meek voice but a noticeable stupendous poise in his eyes. Ever since he heard that Radio Broadcast about a baby-faced 16-year-old with one season of first-class cricket to his name facing upto Waqar Younis, Sudeep was fascinated by his mesmerizing rise - not too dissimilar to his own, he had imagined. They had both boasted of early modest living in Bombay to glitzy success in Mumbai. While Tendulkar excelled at cricket itself, Sudeep showed articulate flair for cricket betting, and he'd nurtured a natural instinct for it.
After 17 minutes of mumbling in gibberish to himself nervously, he found himself make a cumbersome car parking perilously close to a shiny Lancer parked in front of a gloomy grim looking broad building. Ajit was standing in anticipation in a pair of Versace’s and flashy shades, which had failed to make up for his graying hair and unflattering mid-riff. He gave a vehement look in Sudeep's direction pointing towards his watch and got out his mobile and engaged in conversation even as Sudeep accompanied his friend and partner Ajit unmindfully towards that building. Sudeep had been betting for a long time now, but he knew very well that this time it was different. It was a Sharjah final- India v/s Australia. Bookings would be rampant and Sudeep had decided to put more than half of his life’s earnings at stake. He nudged past the creaking door and they made their way to the bar where Ajit lit a cigarette and made a hollow pretence of being in deep thought. An awkward silence followed,which was broken by a roar from a group of people transfixed upon a 42 inch television set which showed Azharuddin and Steve Waugh enter the field. The gambling began. It is not unusual for people at gambling hubs to bet on the most vivid of objectives- from the coin toss to what Azhar's shirt number will be; from the result of the match to who’s wife would be sitting in the stadium. 12 of the 27 people there bet on an Indian toss win, 5 bet for Waugh. Sudeep only watched on. Amidst heavy groans and abated cheers Waugh could be heard electing to bat first. At the betting counter, Gilly and Ponting’s names saw heavy bookings for a century, someone even raising the stake to 7.25 lakhs for a Gilly century. Sudeep had done his home-work. He knew the routine way too well. MAking his way towards the betting counter, he glanced in Ajit’s direction momentarily and turning towards the bookie dauntingly said “ 75K for a 250 Australia all-out “as he thrust out a bag full of notes. The bookie had known Sudeep way too well. He was'nt surprised. The bookie replied back almost in a whispering tone “The odds are stacked 4-1 against you” .He had heard others whispering 275 and 300, and some even placing bets for a farcical 350. Ajit had tried to cajole Sudeep into betting for a Gilly half century the previous night but Sudeep was inexorable and adamant and reluctant. 27 minutes and delirious boos and inexplicable cheers later, Gilly and Mark Waugh made their way onto the lush green outfield. Ponting and Waugh- the stalwarts, fell early, and Gilly fell 5 short of the 50 run mark. And before anyone realized it, it was 121 for 5 and India looked good to bowl them out and Sudeep of making a neat 3 lakhs. Waugh and Bevan, both of whom who always had heavy bets placed for them had other plans though. They didn’t disappoint and did what they knew best- got Australia out of a pit. With a neat 70 from Lehmann, Australia pounded a daunting 270, which under the lights held potential to make the Indian batting look moronic.
Sudeep was already 75K down. He usually bet when India batted- more because its uncertainty, its unpredictability and its intricacies fascinated his vivid imagination. He immediately went to the counter amidst a maelstrom and checked out what the odds read. “14 to 1 for Australia” the bookie had said. Sudeep didn’t look surprised. Ajit, who was known for his reckless nature among his circles,inexplicably looked nervous and thoughtful. He came up to Sudeep and said in a jaded nervous tone “ Bhai. I think Australia will win tonight. Sachin aaj nahi khelega. Aakhir who bhi insaan hi hai. It’s a huge risk. India aaj shayad harega bhai. Phir se soch lo bhai”. Sudeep heard him. He always did. But always acted according to his own will. Even as he was talking a big man with devilish good looks draped in a black suit came up to the two and said in utter disdain “Listen to good advice. India ki haar to aaj pakki hai. Sachin kuch nahi kar payega”. Sudeep didn’t have to turn up to see who it was. He instantly recognized that hoarse voice of Abbas-an acquaintance he always loathe, yet a rivalry he fancied.
Abbas was quite the contrary to Sudeep. Born with a silver spoon, he knew of life only as a trade and a gamble. He was as wily and cunning as a fox; cold and calculated, arrogant and stone-hearted. He had set-up a casino in Goa’s hinterland and also ran a couple of brothels in the heart of the city. Inspite of his affluence and wealth; match after match he always found himself enticed to the gloom of that filthy building, gambling and betting for a sport he loved- not for its spirit and emotion but for its uncertainties and logistics.
He continued. “Anyone with little sense of logic and judgment can predict the result. Do so bees mein all out.. likh lena.”
Sudeep didn’t answer. He never did. Ajit retorted “Dekh lenge Abbas bhai. Aaj to is paar ya us paar.”
Sudeep did not place a bet. He waited. 16 minutes later the tested pair of Ganguly and Tendulkar made their way to the field as thousands cheered in the stands and millions at home. Tendulkar had just come of an innings that was already being described as one the great innings of all time. He also happened to be celebrating his 26th birthday that day. Sudeep sensed that he was destined to have a big birthday bash- one that would have given joy to a billion people.
Sachin came to the striker’s end on the last ball of the first over. Fleming was the bowler. Both Fleming and Tendulkar had a marvelous series;one with the ball, the other with the bat. Their contest would be sparkling, Sudeep thought. He didn’t place a bet. He waited.
Tony Greg in all alacrity “Sachin’s first ball would be something to listen to. His first ball….” Through covers off the middle of the bat. Hit supremely for a couple. The noise was deafening. 11/0(1.0 over(s))
This spectacle was all that Sudeep needed. His keen eye judged well. He went up to the bookie and checked out the odds placed for Sachin’s fifty. It was 2 to 1: against. He went up to the bookie “5 lakhs Sachin ki fifty ke liye “he said. The bookie noted down and collected the cash. Abbas immediately made his way to the counter placed a neat 3 lakhs for a Sachin fifty and 20 lakhs against the three figure mark and a handsome 5 lakhs for a Warney four wicket haul. Sudeep thought it wasn’t a bad call after all. One of Sachin and Warne definitely had to sparkle. They were champions; both of them; on their way to becoming legends. A contest to be savored thought Abbas.
21/0(3.5 overs) “Oh well played; that’s 4. Lovely elegant cover drive….” Sudeep cheered for his idol- his hero.
34/1(6.3 overs) “He‘s nearly hit his partner. What a sparkling straight drive. Right off the meat of the bat…” Sudeep’s instincts held him in good stead. He always waited for Sachin’s straight drive. That was his sign; his litmus test. He looked at Ajit as if seeking an approval, but he knew he had it; made his way to the counter , composed himself and confidently said to the bookie “ 40 lakhs for Tendulkar’s 100 and another 40 for India’s win” and thumped a bag full of cash as if it meant nothing to him. Eyebrows were raised. Abbas was in dismay. He gave a grin- a sort of grin which could have even qualified for a frown. “I gotta warn you. The odds are heavily against you. If Sachin gets out before 99 you lose your 40” the bookie said. Sudeep checked the board which featured the odds and quickly retorted “But if he does score I win a staggering 4.4 crores!” and made his way out of there towards the TV screen, with a smile on his face;a nervous smile.
Sudeep was right. Tendulkar was in his element that day. He lofted, chipped, drove, defended, smashed-leg side, off side- square, straight down ;cross batted, straight bat- every shot in the text and some out of it as well. Perhaps what had made Tendulkar special for all these years would have been his uncanny ability to read any game- to accelerate when necessary, and to be circumspect when it demanded.
Warne was introduced in the eleventh over and it had the makings of a riveting contest. Tendulkar gave Warne the respect he deserved, chipping for singles, not making too much headway into the run rate. By then they’d also lost Ganguly- one of the best players of spin. Nayan Mongia was the surprise no.3 batsman- causing a fair many to lose their money who’d put their money on Azhar coming in at 3.
86/1(17.2 overs) Tendulkar took a single and raised his bat amidst ecstatic crowds as he completed his 46th 50. Sudeep heaved a sigh. He was 6 lakhs richer ;Abbas was richer by 3. But Sudeep was worried about the bigger picture. 80 lakhs was at stake. Almost half of how much he’d earned in 4 years of ruthless gambling.
Warne came back into the attack in the 21st over. (105/1). Warne to Tendulkar. Sudeep was on the edge of his seat. So was Abbas. And another billion watching at home.
Ravi Shastri, the commentator. “Warne comes round the wicket.. A change in tactic here… And Tendulkar greets him by dancing down the track and hammering him over long on. This is amazing stuff….. “Lovers of cricket all round the world erupted into wild cheers by the dazzling spectacle, a six straight over Warne’s head and Warne looking despondent.
(167/2)In the 28th over Mongia caved in.. He had played his part.
189/2(36.3 overs). Delirious crowds chanting Sachin’s name as Sudeep sat on the edge of his seat in anticipation. Abbas stood by the door. He shot a glass of whiskey.
A deft touch square leg side.Shastri again.’ That’s it.. 100 no 16 for Sachin Tendulkar in ODIs. Tremendous ovation from the crowd.. What a player!!!..” Sachin raised his bat to his teammates in the pavilion in toast, in celebration even as Sudeep and Ajit lost their composure and began screaming deliriously. It hit Sudeep immediately that he was rich. Rich beyond what he wanted to be, even in his wildest dreams, those that haunted him when he had slept on the footpaths of Dharavi.
Tendulkar went on a rampage after he completed his 100. He was devastating, mind boggling, artitistic, magical and most of all splendidly entertaining.
217/2(41.1 overs). Warne to Tendulkar. 2 consecutive 4s. One bludgeoned straight down the ground, one caressing gracefully wide of cover. India were inching towards victory.
Sudeep was still anxious. Tendulkar loses his wicket and it could all collapse. He’d seen it happen so many times in the past.
228/2(42.4 overs) Moody to Tendulkar. Tony Greg commentates. “ Ohh! He’s hit this one miles. Great shot. Oh.Its a biggie.Straight over the top. The little man has hit the big fella for 6.He’s half his size and he’s smashed him down the ground. What a player.. What a wonderful player!!!....” People went nuts; endlessly dancing in the isles- man or woman, young or old; Indian or Australian!!.
235/2(42.5 overs) “Whack again.. Through cover this time. Picked up on the boundary. Back for the third. This is great batting. Wonderful cricket entertainment.”
240/2(44.0 overs) Kaspy to Tendulkar. “Ohh .. This is high.. What a six. Way down the ground. It’s on the roof. It’s dancing around on the roof. Kasprowicz is the new bowler. He’s smashed it down the ground for 6……….. Well this little man is the nearest thing to Bradman has ever been.. What a player he is…!” Even Tony Greg went berserk. He painted a wonderful picture with his vivacious commentary. A billion people back home could only be marveled by the magic they beheld.
Tendulkar scored 134 and eventually won the game for India. It still rates as one of the best innings in ODI history. Sudeep and Ajit – became rich and settled down gracefully. Abbas went about his life continuing his betting antiques and moved to Goa full time.
Sachin Tendulkar, today, is recognized more as a phenomenon; a legend, a dazzling story of making it big despite the odds against him, who can tantalize or disappoint a billion people.I was no exception, which is why, perhaps, as an 8 yr old kid I had realized that the healthy 20 year old Sardar from Punjab, and the Marwari girl from Rajasthan and the 80 year old sagacious Babu from Bengal all would pray and would desire what me, the young lad from Karnataka wanted- A Sachin century and a subsequent Indian victory. Perhaps, then for the first time it truly hit me that I was an Indian and stood proud when the tricolor waved after every Indian victory. Some may deem this nationalism hollow, but certainly may not rubbish the pride.As i see it,this national consciousness, fallible or otherwise was unequivocally unprecedented.
For more than a decade, a billion people would switch off their TV sets when Sachin lost his wicket. A country would sleep well if Sachin scored.Sometimes it didnt matter what the match result was. But, perhaps what would wrench the heart of a cricket-lover today would be the fact that one fine day; India will come out to bat at Wankhede and Sachin will be made terribly conspicuous by his absence. I suspect, for millions of cricket-lovers across the country, with his retirement, cricket would never be the same.
Sudeep's journey from the dreaded slums of Dharavi through the enchanting streets of Borivali to the extravagance of Pali Hills was an unlikely one, one that fairy tales are made of. He had learnt his lessons not from the inscrutable exhaustive books but from the squabbles of the underprivileged not from the lavish praises of the wealthy sycophants but from the constant bickering of an unforgiving society. But parallel to his mundane life was one that boasted of a class extraordinaire and a life humbled by unparalleled achievement, making Sudeep his ardent fan. Sudeep was only 17 when he first heard of his hero- then a young 16 year old Tendulkar who he rembered speaking with a meek voice but a noticeable stupendous poise in his eyes. Ever since he heard that Radio Broadcast about a baby-faced 16-year-old with one season of first-class cricket to his name facing upto Waqar Younis, Sudeep was fascinated by his mesmerizing rise - not too dissimilar to his own, he had imagined. They had both boasted of early modest living in Bombay to glitzy success in Mumbai. While Tendulkar excelled at cricket itself, Sudeep showed articulate flair for cricket betting, and he'd nurtured a natural instinct for it.
After 17 minutes of mumbling in gibberish to himself nervously, he found himself make a cumbersome car parking perilously close to a shiny Lancer parked in front of a gloomy grim looking broad building. Ajit was standing in anticipation in a pair of Versace’s and flashy shades, which had failed to make up for his graying hair and unflattering mid-riff. He gave a vehement look in Sudeep's direction pointing towards his watch and got out his mobile and engaged in conversation even as Sudeep accompanied his friend and partner Ajit unmindfully towards that building. Sudeep had been betting for a long time now, but he knew very well that this time it was different. It was a Sharjah final- India v/s Australia. Bookings would be rampant and Sudeep had decided to put more than half of his life’s earnings at stake. He nudged past the creaking door and they made their way to the bar where Ajit lit a cigarette and made a hollow pretence of being in deep thought. An awkward silence followed,which was broken by a roar from a group of people transfixed upon a 42 inch television set which showed Azharuddin and Steve Waugh enter the field. The gambling began. It is not unusual for people at gambling hubs to bet on the most vivid of objectives- from the coin toss to what Azhar's shirt number will be; from the result of the match to who’s wife would be sitting in the stadium. 12 of the 27 people there bet on an Indian toss win, 5 bet for Waugh. Sudeep only watched on. Amidst heavy groans and abated cheers Waugh could be heard electing to bat first. At the betting counter, Gilly and Ponting’s names saw heavy bookings for a century, someone even raising the stake to 7.25 lakhs for a Gilly century. Sudeep had done his home-work. He knew the routine way too well. MAking his way towards the betting counter, he glanced in Ajit’s direction momentarily and turning towards the bookie dauntingly said “ 75K for a 250 Australia all-out “as he thrust out a bag full of notes. The bookie had known Sudeep way too well. He was'nt surprised. The bookie replied back almost in a whispering tone “The odds are stacked 4-1 against you” .He had heard others whispering 275 and 300, and some even placing bets for a farcical 350. Ajit had tried to cajole Sudeep into betting for a Gilly half century the previous night but Sudeep was inexorable and adamant and reluctant. 27 minutes and delirious boos and inexplicable cheers later, Gilly and Mark Waugh made their way onto the lush green outfield. Ponting and Waugh- the stalwarts, fell early, and Gilly fell 5 short of the 50 run mark. And before anyone realized it, it was 121 for 5 and India looked good to bowl them out and Sudeep of making a neat 3 lakhs. Waugh and Bevan, both of whom who always had heavy bets placed for them had other plans though. They didn’t disappoint and did what they knew best- got Australia out of a pit. With a neat 70 from Lehmann, Australia pounded a daunting 270, which under the lights held potential to make the Indian batting look moronic.
Sudeep was already 75K down. He usually bet when India batted- more because its uncertainty, its unpredictability and its intricacies fascinated his vivid imagination. He immediately went to the counter amidst a maelstrom and checked out what the odds read. “14 to 1 for Australia” the bookie had said. Sudeep didn’t look surprised. Ajit, who was known for his reckless nature among his circles,inexplicably looked nervous and thoughtful. He came up to Sudeep and said in a jaded nervous tone “ Bhai. I think Australia will win tonight. Sachin aaj nahi khelega. Aakhir who bhi insaan hi hai. It’s a huge risk. India aaj shayad harega bhai. Phir se soch lo bhai”. Sudeep heard him. He always did. But always acted according to his own will. Even as he was talking a big man with devilish good looks draped in a black suit came up to the two and said in utter disdain “Listen to good advice. India ki haar to aaj pakki hai. Sachin kuch nahi kar payega”. Sudeep didn’t have to turn up to see who it was. He instantly recognized that hoarse voice of Abbas-an acquaintance he always loathe, yet a rivalry he fancied.
Abbas was quite the contrary to Sudeep. Born with a silver spoon, he knew of life only as a trade and a gamble. He was as wily and cunning as a fox; cold and calculated, arrogant and stone-hearted. He had set-up a casino in Goa’s hinterland and also ran a couple of brothels in the heart of the city. Inspite of his affluence and wealth; match after match he always found himself enticed to the gloom of that filthy building, gambling and betting for a sport he loved- not for its spirit and emotion but for its uncertainties and logistics.
He continued. “Anyone with little sense of logic and judgment can predict the result. Do so bees mein all out.. likh lena.”
Sudeep didn’t answer. He never did. Ajit retorted “Dekh lenge Abbas bhai. Aaj to is paar ya us paar.”
Sudeep did not place a bet. He waited. 16 minutes later the tested pair of Ganguly and Tendulkar made their way to the field as thousands cheered in the stands and millions at home. Tendulkar had just come of an innings that was already being described as one the great innings of all time. He also happened to be celebrating his 26th birthday that day. Sudeep sensed that he was destined to have a big birthday bash- one that would have given joy to a billion people.
Sachin came to the striker’s end on the last ball of the first over. Fleming was the bowler. Both Fleming and Tendulkar had a marvelous series;one with the ball, the other with the bat. Their contest would be sparkling, Sudeep thought. He didn’t place a bet. He waited.
Tony Greg in all alacrity “Sachin’s first ball would be something to listen to. His first ball….” Through covers off the middle of the bat. Hit supremely for a couple. The noise was deafening. 11/0(1.0 over(s))
This spectacle was all that Sudeep needed. His keen eye judged well. He went up to the bookie and checked out the odds placed for Sachin’s fifty. It was 2 to 1: against. He went up to the bookie “5 lakhs Sachin ki fifty ke liye “he said. The bookie noted down and collected the cash. Abbas immediately made his way to the counter placed a neat 3 lakhs for a Sachin fifty and 20 lakhs against the three figure mark and a handsome 5 lakhs for a Warney four wicket haul. Sudeep thought it wasn’t a bad call after all. One of Sachin and Warne definitely had to sparkle. They were champions; both of them; on their way to becoming legends. A contest to be savored thought Abbas.
21/0(3.5 overs) “Oh well played; that’s 4. Lovely elegant cover drive….” Sudeep cheered for his idol- his hero.
34/1(6.3 overs) “He‘s nearly hit his partner. What a sparkling straight drive. Right off the meat of the bat…” Sudeep’s instincts held him in good stead. He always waited for Sachin’s straight drive. That was his sign; his litmus test. He looked at Ajit as if seeking an approval, but he knew he had it; made his way to the counter , composed himself and confidently said to the bookie “ 40 lakhs for Tendulkar’s 100 and another 40 for India’s win” and thumped a bag full of cash as if it meant nothing to him. Eyebrows were raised. Abbas was in dismay. He gave a grin- a sort of grin which could have even qualified for a frown. “I gotta warn you. The odds are heavily against you. If Sachin gets out before 99 you lose your 40” the bookie said. Sudeep checked the board which featured the odds and quickly retorted “But if he does score I win a staggering 4.4 crores!” and made his way out of there towards the TV screen, with a smile on his face;a nervous smile.
Sudeep was right. Tendulkar was in his element that day. He lofted, chipped, drove, defended, smashed-leg side, off side- square, straight down ;cross batted, straight bat- every shot in the text and some out of it as well. Perhaps what had made Tendulkar special for all these years would have been his uncanny ability to read any game- to accelerate when necessary, and to be circumspect when it demanded.
Warne was introduced in the eleventh over and it had the makings of a riveting contest. Tendulkar gave Warne the respect he deserved, chipping for singles, not making too much headway into the run rate. By then they’d also lost Ganguly- one of the best players of spin. Nayan Mongia was the surprise no.3 batsman- causing a fair many to lose their money who’d put their money on Azhar coming in at 3.
86/1(17.2 overs) Tendulkar took a single and raised his bat amidst ecstatic crowds as he completed his 46th 50. Sudeep heaved a sigh. He was 6 lakhs richer ;Abbas was richer by 3. But Sudeep was worried about the bigger picture. 80 lakhs was at stake. Almost half of how much he’d earned in 4 years of ruthless gambling.
Warne came back into the attack in the 21st over. (105/1). Warne to Tendulkar. Sudeep was on the edge of his seat. So was Abbas. And another billion watching at home.
Ravi Shastri, the commentator. “Warne comes round the wicket.. A change in tactic here… And Tendulkar greets him by dancing down the track and hammering him over long on. This is amazing stuff….. “Lovers of cricket all round the world erupted into wild cheers by the dazzling spectacle, a six straight over Warne’s head and Warne looking despondent.
(167/2)In the 28th over Mongia caved in.. He had played his part.
189/2(36.3 overs). Delirious crowds chanting Sachin’s name as Sudeep sat on the edge of his seat in anticipation. Abbas stood by the door. He shot a glass of whiskey.
A deft touch square leg side.Shastri again.’ That’s it.. 100 no 16 for Sachin Tendulkar in ODIs. Tremendous ovation from the crowd.. What a player!!!..” Sachin raised his bat to his teammates in the pavilion in toast, in celebration even as Sudeep and Ajit lost their composure and began screaming deliriously. It hit Sudeep immediately that he was rich. Rich beyond what he wanted to be, even in his wildest dreams, those that haunted him when he had slept on the footpaths of Dharavi.
Tendulkar went on a rampage after he completed his 100. He was devastating, mind boggling, artitistic, magical and most of all splendidly entertaining.
217/2(41.1 overs). Warne to Tendulkar. 2 consecutive 4s. One bludgeoned straight down the ground, one caressing gracefully wide of cover. India were inching towards victory.
Sudeep was still anxious. Tendulkar loses his wicket and it could all collapse. He’d seen it happen so many times in the past.
228/2(42.4 overs) Moody to Tendulkar. Tony Greg commentates. “ Ohh! He’s hit this one miles. Great shot. Oh.Its a biggie.Straight over the top. The little man has hit the big fella for 6.He’s half his size and he’s smashed him down the ground. What a player.. What a wonderful player!!!....” People went nuts; endlessly dancing in the isles- man or woman, young or old; Indian or Australian!!.
235/2(42.5 overs) “Whack again.. Through cover this time. Picked up on the boundary. Back for the third. This is great batting. Wonderful cricket entertainment.”
240/2(44.0 overs) Kaspy to Tendulkar. “Ohh .. This is high.. What a six. Way down the ground. It’s on the roof. It’s dancing around on the roof. Kasprowicz is the new bowler. He’s smashed it down the ground for 6……….. Well this little man is the nearest thing to Bradman has ever been.. What a player he is…!” Even Tony Greg went berserk. He painted a wonderful picture with his vivacious commentary. A billion people back home could only be marveled by the magic they beheld.
Tendulkar scored 134 and eventually won the game for India. It still rates as one of the best innings in ODI history. Sudeep and Ajit – became rich and settled down gracefully. Abbas went about his life continuing his betting antiques and moved to Goa full time.
Sachin Tendulkar, today, is recognized more as a phenomenon; a legend, a dazzling story of making it big despite the odds against him, who can tantalize or disappoint a billion people.I was no exception, which is why, perhaps, as an 8 yr old kid I had realized that the healthy 20 year old Sardar from Punjab, and the Marwari girl from Rajasthan and the 80 year old sagacious Babu from Bengal all would pray and would desire what me, the young lad from Karnataka wanted- A Sachin century and a subsequent Indian victory. Perhaps, then for the first time it truly hit me that I was an Indian and stood proud when the tricolor waved after every Indian victory. Some may deem this nationalism hollow, but certainly may not rubbish the pride.As i see it,this national consciousness, fallible or otherwise was unequivocally unprecedented.
For more than a decade, a billion people would switch off their TV sets when Sachin lost his wicket. A country would sleep well if Sachin scored.Sometimes it didnt matter what the match result was. But, perhaps what would wrench the heart of a cricket-lover today would be the fact that one fine day; India will come out to bat at Wankhede and Sachin will be made terribly conspicuous by his absence. I suspect, for millions of cricket-lovers across the country, with his retirement, cricket would never be the same.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monotony of a close-cut lawn
The classifieds were the first he reached out to. Politics, he was impervious to, Sports, was beyond him, Classifieds was a compelling necessity.He scavenged through the papers , the unassuming not so ostentatious ads, when a strange little ad caught his baffled eye.
NO SKILLS REQUIRED
EXTRAORDINARY COMMITMENT EXPECTED
PAY NEGOTIABLE AT ALL LEVELS
Such uncanny ads always founds a way to entice him,inexplicably. Nevertheless, 2 years of waiting at long queues at the unemployment office had made him innately desperate.
The next morning, he arrived a couple of minutes before the time mentioned in the Deccan and found himself waiting for the next 90 minutes with a couple of men, he'd often seen at the unemployment office. He mysteriously felt like he was being watched. Beautiful women and jobless men have this uncanny sense, he thought. He felt important; after a long time . A man clad in a tight suit, seemingly in his mid forties led him into a shabby little chamber where 3 men awaited,all with a look of morbid senility showing a long discontented past life. They were neatly clad in finely pressed and meticulously tailored suits. The interviewee felt intimidated and vulnerable,yet unassumingly secretly confident. "Have a seat " said a stoutly balding man, pointing with a cigarette to a cushioned chair. "So tell us about yourself, Mr....."
"Mr.Desai " he quickly retorted,shifting nervously in his chair. " Well there's nothing much to tell really. I finished my schooling in Nagpur. My grades were neither too high to be noticed nor too low to be conspicuous. decided to pursue sciences which i dropped realizing it is not my calling. I moved to Mumbai seeking a job. And just yesterday , I noticed this queer ad in the newspapers and thought i would check it out." A pause later " OF course, the commitment wouldn't be an issue. I have no family, few friends and no bindings. As of now i have no job and no fixed income. " A pause later and with an embarrassed yet curious look on his face he asked " I beg your pardon but i 'm not quite aware of the job description.What sort of skills are expected? What's the scale of payment? All this has not been mentioned at all?"
"Why then are you here Mr.Ravikant Desai?" asked a man in a firm tone giving an impression he did not seek an answer.It sent a chill down his spine because never once had he mentioned his first name.
"That shouldn't be a problem Mr.Desai" the big man said in a hoarse voice. He cracked his knuckles. " You are required to leave behind your entire life for a minimal period of 2 years and stay in a house provided by us and do simple ordinary things told to you. Things an average man on the street is capable of." The bald man intervened " The pay is an extraordinary 12 lakhs per annum which i am sure you would certainly find appealing and pleasing. If you may; regard this as a sort of an experiment, which is rendered to cause no foreseeable harm physically, and perhaps every other which way. This affair, assuming you will agree upon it, will go on for 2 years by when a sum of 25 lakhs will be credited to a bank account opened in your name." He was stunned and dismayed by the change of events in the last minute, the inanity of which gripped him as much as the fluency of the interviewers. He noticed that a small looking man was intently staring at him, failing to utter a single word through the interview. A bell was rung and the man clad in the tight suit outside entered the room and led Desai to a secluded room that looked abandoned for days. They passed through the waiting room where he noticed that the 2 men waiting outside were made conspicuous by their absence. Desai was told by him that he had an hour to decide about the "job offer" and was strongly advised not to trust reason and logic and not bear instincts. In solitude,Desai mulled over the dramatic turn of events which he sensed held a potential of immeasurable peril. But, Desai was a gambler, a risk taker, a believer of destiny and fate , and hence was not reluctant to take up the offer, which he acknowledged not with much delay, to the interviewers great surprise and delight. He was told that he would immediately be deported to the house and instructions will be provided which were to be followed strictly. Lest a day, a moment, should arrive that he failed to obey, an immediate collapse of the agreement would effect.
The house he was to live in was perhaps the most extraordinary he had ever seen. It boasted of a large living room, a filthy bathroom and 2 bedrooms, although only one of them had a bed. But what surprised him most was the presence of an inexplicable colossal ground right by the house. The terrain,mysteriously seemed familiar to him, but Desai couldn't quite place it in his head. His instincts warned him and his conscience. And yet like so many of us,in dire need, he suppressed them. The instructions given to him were succinct and precise. He was to awake at 730 every morning, was to eat the same meals everyday at the same time at the same place. He was made to sleep at a precise unaltering time. His whole life seemed to be programmed and controlled,every moment of it, even the time he would empty his bowels. But perhaps seemingly the focal point of the extravaganza was that he was made to enter that bizarrely placed ground by the house at 10 in the morning every single day and a life sized portrait of a discerningly familiar figure appeared in quick motion. He was given instructions in immense brevity to lift a gun placed by him and shoot the portrait with precision, and was warned of slackness . It hardly bothered his intelligence and he went about life;if that's what one can call it; as per the script. The frequency of exercise of shooting the life size portrait was gradually increased to several times a day, which never went beyond 5 in the evening.In gore loneliness, it hardly mattered to him and he remained impervious of the consequences, if there were to be any. This bizarre monotony perpetuated for 2 years, at the end of which he was offered a deal "he could not refuse". His agreement was to be extended for 2 more years, with an increased pay, with the same exercises perennially undertaken, which he would gladly accept. His life became an epitome of monotony,and slavery. At the end of the fourth year, his employers thanked him amiably for his services,the purpose of which still baffled him; and offered to show him around the town, since he had totally remained aloof of it for the past few years. They rode him into a car,which surprisingly had no windows, eventually led him to a ground which he instantly recognized,which was strikingly similar to his previous home. The atmosphere gripped him and he felt a sense of hypnotism and submission that he had felt so many times in the past four years in the house. It seemed to be a political rally, but it didn't seem to bother his intelligence. After a few minutes, as the clock struck 10, entered a person whose portrait he had shot countless times for the past 4 years. And ironically, Ravikant Desai, the lad from Nagpur,a firm believer of destiny , was scripted and handed over his destiny, as he picked up the gun pre-arranged, pre-ordained, and shot him several times in the chest like the way he had done so many times in the past, because he knew not a life without it. The Prime-Minister of India after enjoying power in corruption for 3 years was shot down in broad daylight even as Ravikant Desai was shot in the head several times by several snipers above him. His destiny, he discovered, was monotony, of subservience of thought, of living in a closed box, in absolute slavery, to an automatic life he was programmed to live, not too unlike from our monotonous lives which we have blindly accepted.
NO SKILLS REQUIRED
EXTRAORDINARY COMMITMENT EXPECTED
PAY NEGOTIABLE AT ALL LEVELS
Such uncanny ads always founds a way to entice him,inexplicably. Nevertheless, 2 years of waiting at long queues at the unemployment office had made him innately desperate.
The next morning, he arrived a couple of minutes before the time mentioned in the Deccan and found himself waiting for the next 90 minutes with a couple of men, he'd often seen at the unemployment office. He mysteriously felt like he was being watched. Beautiful women and jobless men have this uncanny sense, he thought. He felt important; after a long time . A man clad in a tight suit, seemingly in his mid forties led him into a shabby little chamber where 3 men awaited,all with a look of morbid senility showing a long discontented past life. They were neatly clad in finely pressed and meticulously tailored suits. The interviewee felt intimidated and vulnerable,yet unassumingly secretly confident. "Have a seat " said a stoutly balding man, pointing with a cigarette to a cushioned chair. "So tell us about yourself, Mr....."
"Mr.Desai " he quickly retorted,shifting nervously in his chair. " Well there's nothing much to tell really. I finished my schooling in Nagpur. My grades were neither too high to be noticed nor too low to be conspicuous. decided to pursue sciences which i dropped realizing it is not my calling. I moved to Mumbai seeking a job. And just yesterday , I noticed this queer ad in the newspapers and thought i would check it out." A pause later " OF course, the commitment wouldn't be an issue. I have no family, few friends and no bindings. As of now i have no job and no fixed income. " A pause later and with an embarrassed yet curious look on his face he asked " I beg your pardon but i 'm not quite aware of the job description.What sort of skills are expected? What's the scale of payment? All this has not been mentioned at all?"
"Why then are you here Mr.Ravikant Desai?" asked a man in a firm tone giving an impression he did not seek an answer.It sent a chill down his spine because never once had he mentioned his first name.
"That shouldn't be a problem Mr.Desai" the big man said in a hoarse voice. He cracked his knuckles. " You are required to leave behind your entire life for a minimal period of 2 years and stay in a house provided by us and do simple ordinary things told to you. Things an average man on the street is capable of." The bald man intervened " The pay is an extraordinary 12 lakhs per annum which i am sure you would certainly find appealing and pleasing. If you may; regard this as a sort of an experiment, which is rendered to cause no foreseeable harm physically, and perhaps every other which way. This affair, assuming you will agree upon it, will go on for 2 years by when a sum of 25 lakhs will be credited to a bank account opened in your name." He was stunned and dismayed by the change of events in the last minute, the inanity of which gripped him as much as the fluency of the interviewers. He noticed that a small looking man was intently staring at him, failing to utter a single word through the interview. A bell was rung and the man clad in the tight suit outside entered the room and led Desai to a secluded room that looked abandoned for days. They passed through the waiting room where he noticed that the 2 men waiting outside were made conspicuous by their absence. Desai was told by him that he had an hour to decide about the "job offer" and was strongly advised not to trust reason and logic and not bear instincts. In solitude,Desai mulled over the dramatic turn of events which he sensed held a potential of immeasurable peril. But, Desai was a gambler, a risk taker, a believer of destiny and fate , and hence was not reluctant to take up the offer, which he acknowledged not with much delay, to the interviewers great surprise and delight. He was told that he would immediately be deported to the house and instructions will be provided which were to be followed strictly. Lest a day, a moment, should arrive that he failed to obey, an immediate collapse of the agreement would effect.
The house he was to live in was perhaps the most extraordinary he had ever seen. It boasted of a large living room, a filthy bathroom and 2 bedrooms, although only one of them had a bed. But what surprised him most was the presence of an inexplicable colossal ground right by the house. The terrain,mysteriously seemed familiar to him, but Desai couldn't quite place it in his head. His instincts warned him and his conscience. And yet like so many of us,in dire need, he suppressed them. The instructions given to him were succinct and precise. He was to awake at 730 every morning, was to eat the same meals everyday at the same time at the same place. He was made to sleep at a precise unaltering time. His whole life seemed to be programmed and controlled,every moment of it, even the time he would empty his bowels. But perhaps seemingly the focal point of the extravaganza was that he was made to enter that bizarrely placed ground by the house at 10 in the morning every single day and a life sized portrait of a discerningly familiar figure appeared in quick motion. He was given instructions in immense brevity to lift a gun placed by him and shoot the portrait with precision, and was warned of slackness . It hardly bothered his intelligence and he went about life;if that's what one can call it; as per the script. The frequency of exercise of shooting the life size portrait was gradually increased to several times a day, which never went beyond 5 in the evening.In gore loneliness, it hardly mattered to him and he remained impervious of the consequences, if there were to be any. This bizarre monotony perpetuated for 2 years, at the end of which he was offered a deal "he could not refuse". His agreement was to be extended for 2 more years, with an increased pay, with the same exercises perennially undertaken, which he would gladly accept. His life became an epitome of monotony,and slavery. At the end of the fourth year, his employers thanked him amiably for his services,the purpose of which still baffled him; and offered to show him around the town, since he had totally remained aloof of it for the past few years. They rode him into a car,which surprisingly had no windows, eventually led him to a ground which he instantly recognized,which was strikingly similar to his previous home. The atmosphere gripped him and he felt a sense of hypnotism and submission that he had felt so many times in the past four years in the house. It seemed to be a political rally, but it didn't seem to bother his intelligence. After a few minutes, as the clock struck 10, entered a person whose portrait he had shot countless times for the past 4 years. And ironically, Ravikant Desai, the lad from Nagpur,a firm believer of destiny , was scripted and handed over his destiny, as he picked up the gun pre-arranged, pre-ordained, and shot him several times in the chest like the way he had done so many times in the past, because he knew not a life without it. The Prime-Minister of India after enjoying power in corruption for 3 years was shot down in broad daylight even as Ravikant Desai was shot in the head several times by several snipers above him. His destiny, he discovered, was monotony, of subservience of thought, of living in a closed box, in absolute slavery, to an automatic life he was programmed to live, not too unlike from our monotonous lives which we have blindly accepted.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The God of small things
The mind always found solace in that morbidly disoriented setup. Discerning thoughts somehow found a voice amidst that bitter scent of tobacco, that under-rated addiction and perhaps that dishevelled background . Me and KG happened to be the first ones there. The amiable man at the shop lays out 3 cigarettes for us.The new year's resolution of quitting, jointly agreed upon at the drunken carousal the previous night had gone out the window and failed miserably. Nevertheless, it was assumed to be an unwritten law in the male code of conduct that abysmal, fragile agreements made between shots of vodka were redundant when subsequently rationality was restored. We lit our cigarettes and KG scavenged through the ruffled newspaper by him, and bore an exaggerated look of belligerence. He tosses the paper aside,takes a drag and opens the conversation.
" This Mumbai thing was terrible,dude. So many casualties? I was actually kinda disturbed when it happened ."
"Really?"
A pause and a few drags later he remarks "Maybe not.But I would have been, had i been a different person " masking what little sophistication and articulate skill he possessed, evoking a laughter.
"No dude. But seriously, think about it. Security and governance,even today, are as pathetic as it can get. I mean" (pause,2 drags) "terrorists could just barge into our college and bomb all they want and no dog would even realize it".
"Ya!, right! I am sure terrorists are scheming right now to bomb and exterminate the likes of you and me,coz we're such hot-shots.That seems very likely. Besides, why you worried.We can talk all we want, but nothings gonna change."
(pause/1 drag) " Forget this college. Forget you and me. Isn't it a little obvious that things have to change in this country? I mean, you cant get more bullshit governance than this. 200 people die and a state minister says trivial issues like 26/11 happen in cities like Mumbai. You have ministers giving site-tours to directors over our misery. Its pathetic." He hangs on to his cigarette and takes inexplicably longer drags.
I ask the personable owner for a coffee. He obliges. We both start walking back even as i sip onto my coffee. KG is done with his cigarette,not with the conversation yet. He goes on.
"And you have these human rights freaks, that seem hell-bent on saving terrorists' asses. Its ridiculous. You remember that Batla house encounter. That Sharma took 6 bullets in his chest fighying valiantly and Arundhati Roy and Amar Singh come out and claim that the encounter was staged and call him a traitor ruing over freedom of speech? " in an appalling tone accompanied by a slight shake of his head. I am awe-struck at his unprecedented outburst of poignancy and patriotic fervour. I don't express it.I give an air of nonchalance.
I fling the coffee cup to the side. " Its the system dude. 'm telling you. Me and you can debate all we want but nothings ever gonna change. We should learn to accept that whatever change we seek is gonna happen despite the system, least because of the system"
"The system? You know, this term has been used far too much to cover up for our incoherence in dealing with issues. You can reproach the 'system' all you want and demand for change, and yet you'll never stop chucking coffee cups onto the streets, wont you?"
" Come on dude. How's that gonna help? You think me doing that will actually help?" I say garbling up something in my defence pleading innocence.
" Its a start, ain't it? Perhaps something not lacking in this country is scope for improvement and opportunity. You feel somethings not right, protest it. Democracy gives you power like no other."
" Perhaps.. But, realistically it ain't gonna happen. 15 years down the line, me and you are gonna be on the 16th floor in our cushy air conditioned offices licking our bosses ass and at least one of us trying to save a failing marriage. All this razzmatazz trash talk will seem pretty mundane in our rambled lives then. Its impractical,illogical."
" No dude.. I actually wish people elsewhere in fag shops are having this kinda conversation. Somethings gotta give dude. I really wanna do something." he says feebly, pretending to be absorbed in thought.
Even as we walked back to the block, I realized that KG, someone who wouldn't so much as change his jeans regularly,today staunchly talked about changing and challenging a disfigured hideous system,confined and crippled by crooks like you and me; for the country he took a certain pride in.I could rubbish his dogmas and chastise his theories,but it had to be accepted that he was in some way right.
Perhaps, it seems to be lost in oblivion that patriotism is not enunciated when we deliriously tear our clothes when Sachin hits a century,but when we make sure that, that coffee cup belongs to the dustbin, not when Shilpa Shetty 'bravely fights' racism, but when we fight poverty grabbing it by its horns, not when we perennially reminiscent Kapil Dev lifting the cup, but when we reminiscent the unnerving sacrifice made by a youthful Satyendra Dubey, an IIT-grad, who was found brutally murdered trying to blow the whistle over a few corrupt bureaucrats.
But even amidst decaying apathy and clothed in relentless cynicism breeds hope across the country, not on 10 Janpath or Race Course but in insignificant coffee houses, in sleazy bars, in tacky fag shops, in high end restaurants, in cozy homes, deceptively meek slums,people who listen to angels within them, trying to brew their own little revolutions. Perhaps, at the risk of sounding ridiculously extravagant it has to be said that the street side torn-in-strife chap in rags whose portrayal of celebrating life unconditionally in all its hardships, which was hitherto mistaken for subservience,was indeed a face of defiance,of resilience, of hope; in hope of a better tomorrow, which now rest upon us.
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