Obelinux

Obelinux is a portmanteau of two rather guessable words, in fact the second word is already evident. 'Obelix' and 'Linux'. For me, Obelinux is a long forgotten self proclaimed nick name of a very dear friend, who surprised me by sending a mail after like a decade. This mail was to inquire about the progress of my book. Although I had nothing positive to share, it still made me very happy. This post, then, is dedicated to the one and only Obelinux.

Where am I stuck with the book? - Darn. I set myself a rather economical target of completing 5 stories in 2011. This was a sub point in my 2011 resolutions. Against this lilliputian objective my gargantuan efforts have yielded 2 complete stories. Pathetic. But this post is not to dissect the root causes of poor productivity in my writing, but to ruminate over an alternative course of action. Public opinion (read encouragement) is always a key determinant of my go-no go, so your comments (hope you have read the parenthesis afore) all welcome. Ok ok I admit I have stretched the usage of 'public' a tad too far, given my readership is only 10 odd ha ha.

What's the alternate course I am considering? - How about trying to write a full fledged novel instead? If I am struggling with writing those oh-so-unique short stories, would it work if I eliminate all this hassle by building just one expansive plot and then just write, write till the words swell into a volume worthy of a paperback. Seems plausible to me, all the more because I already have a plot in mind, just the detailing, sub plotting and spicing is required.

What is the plot about? - Unfortunately, there is only one direction that my mind works. I have come to believe that it is more of a incapabiltiy issue rather than lack of interest behind my sticking to the genre of the supernatural. I simply cannot write thrillers or anything else. Sad that makes me feel. But hark hark, there is one more genre which I absolutely loved while growing up which happens to be whodunnit murder mysteries a la the incomparable Dame Agatha Christie. So my novel will be a murder mystery stitched with the elements from the supernatural world. A supernatural crime fiction, how does that sound. Did someone say empty vessels make the most noises? Or was that proof of the pudding lies in its eating?

Bloody I write one story in 3 months, how will I ever write a novel? - Good question. (You see, I am in a alter ego mode right now). When someone says good question, it only means the answer is not obvious. In this case, it is also not forthcoming to me. But I have a hope that it may just work out. The assessment of my writing outputs reveals to me that, unlike other fellas around, I rarely ever leave a started story unfinished. I am a good finisher. The area where my chief struggles lie are in creatively thinking and executing stories under the preamble 'No two stories should be alike'. This SWOT analysis gives me confidence that maybe once I begin the end will come, later rather than sooner!

Still thinking... but one thing is certain. If I ever get around to writing this, the protagonist will be loosely modeled around the inspiration for all this - Obelinux!

The New Style

I have been reading some O Henry and Saki. The results seem immediate! Posting something I wrote in a surprisingly short time, albeit in a very different style to my usual way, a style which I so much called my original, pristine and true style. Regulars would notice how this story is 'different' from anything coming from my stable since over 2 years now!

Obviously, I am only sharing the first couple of paragraphs. Let me know if you liked it and what (if any) is new in this style? After all, the readers are the best judge :-)

~~~

It was only when he reached a fork in the road that he stopped the engine and got out. Having lost his way in the hilly, sylvan countryside for over an hour, he finally thought it wise to seek external aid; only there was none that would come his way. In the name of human imprints or vestiges, the only thing he saw was an abandoned checkpoint, which looked sullen remembering its functional years whence it harbingered the prized entry to the right hand road beyond the fork. Its ballast had disintegrated into smaller, humbler shapes and the alternating yellow, black striations on the bent pole were all but struggling to correctly convey their original hues. Still, with its archaic glory, it beckoned to him. Exasperation and impulse both found anchor in his faculties, and he heeded to the defunct checkpoint’s insinuations.

In a time lesser than what you would take from A to Z, he was in a tunnel and speeding. The subterranean conduit went on and on, it seemed to him, for eternity. Its unnerving silence, engulfing darkness and insalubrious dankness would have brought out the furrows on the most adventurous and feral foreheads; his was only a domestic, uneventful one. However, the sun did shine, literally, first as a small circle at the apogee of his vision, and then grew into that wondrous vista of verdant undulating landscape silhouetted by the tunnel’s dark walls. The exits of tunnels are always more exciting than their entrances, especially if it’s a long one and he felt relieved.

A signboard is to a lost vagabond what water is to the herbivores of the Atacama at the end of the dry season. When such a writing proclaiming ‘2 kms ahead – Brouhaha Amusement Park’ presented itself rather opportunely to the old man, one can only imagine the degree of happiness in his sigh. Even though the park was not his intended destination, its appearance in his hour of distress was more than welcome. It meant human dwellings, parking lots, hawkers, food, and people! Gladly, he dug his right foot a few inches deeper.

~~~

10 completed

I have recently finished my 10th story. Writing has been extremely difficult. The proverbial writer's block is somewhat accentuated in my case due to the genre which I want to specialize. Anyways I am halfway there. Need another 10 stories to take the process ahead. What process - The act of publishing my book and attaining authordom.

I shall leave you guys with a small teaser from the latest story. If you wish to read the full story you have but two choices -
1. Force me (on gunpoint, if required) to finish and print my book ASAP
2. Wait and sing Guns 'N' Roses 'Patience'

...That night, they spoke in hushed voices around the fire, almost expecting to see or hear something jump from the shadows. Gonjo had been spotted dancing on the railway station on last two consecutive nights. Such an innocuous act as dancing could surely have been ignored but the gravity of the matter lay in the chilling fact that Gonjo had died a week back. Those hushed voices were only adding more fuel to the fire, not the one which kept them warm, but the wildfire of ghostly hauntings by the Begunkodor railway station. What happened at the station this particular night, however, would clearly disabuse any misgivings towards the ghost of the dancing woman...

Flash Fiction

I have been away for a while from these lands. Have 'thankfully' kicked my arse and begun writing again. And for the umpteenth time in my writing life, 'I am serious this time :-)'

Firstly, I have decided to stop publishing my stories on this blog. For the simple reason that I know my audience extremely well. How their reader minds work. So I might as well save the thunder for a later day, when they all get to see the stories in print.

My style would mostly be flash fiction - very short stories (300 to 1000 words). Prolixity requires dedication, which I am short of. In a bid to meet fellow writers, I have joined the writers networking forum Caferati. Also have resolved to participate in all online story writing contests. A writer needs just one thing - audience. Further, I would be employing the services of a trusted friend to design, create and maintain a webpage, an online repository of all my writings. I shall purchase a domain name and since the larger idea is 'pay to read' it might well be a dot com.

So much for my grand plans. But didnt Kipling say 'All successful writers started as amateurs who did not give up'

Morals of the story

I wrote the Chronicles of Chamatka to vivify the learnings of my life in the past few months with simple examples which readers can relate to, or else it gets the treatment of gyaan. Let me proceed with my discourse. And let me confess, these learnings have been at the expense of one full litre of tears from the sum total of all humans crying them.

Chamatka: You, me, he, she anyone confronted with a difficult situation. All of us sometime in our lives have been scared, jittery and stopped thinking rationally. So empathize with that dear wily fox and replace him with yourself.

Doob Doob: I have introduced each character very thoughtfully. Now, Doob Doob is a part of the problem. He himself is lost in the forest and all he does is ‘define the problem’ for Chamatka. That we will die of hunger is only providing details of the issue at hand. Stay away from such people when you are in a fix. They are useless. Also please note such a person is invariably the first one would comes across and seek advice from, as happens in the story. Further, they are almost always best friends or family members like Doob Doob was to Chamatka. From the context of finding a solution to the problem, I vehemently re-emphasize, they are useless!

Kalia: Undoubtedly the best character of the story who is mistrusted. Chamatka is not wrong to mistrust him, coz he has had a history of trouble and bother from Kalia. However, the most critical insight about Kalia is that he is the only character in the story who can see the problem in its entirety, coz he is in outside the forest and not inside in!. He is in the air and from his position can see the whole forest. So dear friends, the best advice unfortunately sometimes comes from someone we don’t trust. Note how crisp and clear is Kalia’s solution to Chamatka’s imbroglio. And it often comes early so we tend to wait for better inputs. How to discern then??.. I don’t know honestly, it’s difficult.

Shikari Shambhu: The enemy who appears at the rather inopportune moment of an already messy situation. Such a moment marks the apotheosis of one’s state of gloom. It would naturally lead to the shattering of whatever resolve one has built up. But hark, I still believe that Shambhu is better than Doob Doob( although Shambhu is a problem in himself). Note carefully when he says ‘centre of the forest’ .. bang.. a alert Chamatka would have atleast known his co-ordinates. So even the person whom you hate, fear can help you unknowingly! Advice and help is always welcome, even if its unwarranted.

Mooshik: Ahh the perfect character thrown in the tragedy of our lives. The stranger!. I have learnt to believe that the most practical advice comes from a complete stranger. Mooshik turns the problem around and presents it as a solution in itself! Only Mommies are allowed to say “Don’t talk to strangers”.

So, dear reader friends hope this small parable which I wrote in the form of Panchtantra stories has been insightful. In case it still doesn’t make any sense, 666 is always around for ye all.

Cheers and May God Blesss.

The Chronicles of Chamatka

Chamatka was a wily fox, but one day he got lost in a dense forest. He got scared and panicked. He kept running around trying to find his way out beyond the hills to his home. Hunger made him mad, he tried to hunt some hares but his fear and insecurity overcome his sense to prey. Very soon he met Doob Doob who was equally scared and nervous. “I am lost” said Doob Doob crying his crocodile tears. I cant find the river which leads to our home beyond the hills. “Boo hoo hoo, what will happen to us now, we will die of hunger” wept Doob Doob.


Chamatka sat down in the shade of a tree and licked his fur free from irritating flies. Just then, he saw Kalia the crow. Kalia sensing his friend to be in trouble came for his help.

“What happened, you are looking gloomy?” he said
“I am lost. I don’t know my way out of this forest” said Chamatka
“Oh its simple, keep walking straight and you will get out of the forest. Once you are in the clear you can walk around the periphery and find the hills.”
“Get lost, Kalia, don’t trouble me. I know you are making fun of me”
“Chamatka, trust me”
“I don’t”
“Take care and all the best”. Kalia flew away.

Shikari Shambhu was out in the forest doing what he did best – hunting. He couldn’t control his joy at the sight of a tired fox. Smug with having found one, he exclaimed “Got you, can’t run away he he”. Chamatka woke up with a start and pleaded, “I am lost in this forest and now this!”. “Ha ha” Shambhu bellowed, “This forest runs wide and you are in the centre. You can’t run away from me”.

It was a miracle that Chamatka ran away from the clutches of Shikari Shambhu. For the next one week, he kept running from tree to tree, valley to valley but couldn’t find his way out. He never saw his home ever again.

Moral of the story: to be continued in next post. However would like people to write in their morals. I have written this story after great thought.

Update (13th Feb '08) - story continued...

One month had passed and the deciduous trees in the forest had begun shedding their leaves. Chamatka was a emotional wreck. He missed his loved ones, his friends, the caves of his home. In this saturnine state did he come across Mooshik the rat. Chamatka had never seen Mooshik before, but felt like confiding his problems. After hearing his story, Mooshik laughed and remarked, "What will you do going back to your home. Look around you, this is such a beautiful forest. The water in those springs is sweetest in the entire country. And there are many young vixens around too he he, Mooshik winked."

Chamatka never saw his home, but he happily lived ever after.

Room No. 666 - II

continued from here..

Savoy Queen was built in 1956, but the top three floors had been appended only ten years ago. Now, among all the grapevines and scullery talks of the Queen’s staff the most celebrated mystery was of Room No. 666. They said it was haunted, and over the years the stories which thrived had only led credence to its queerness. Boarders had complained of voices in the bathroom, lights turning on and off, drawers opening and shutting however these had been brushed aside as illusions of the boarder’s nightmarish dreams. But what had prompted the hotel management to seal the room was one frightening occurrence. One morning, a bell boy had noticed blood flowing out from the keyhole. Upon investigation, the crimson fluid’s source could not be traced since the room had not been occupied since over a week. To such a macabre room did Michael nervously lug our dear lady’s bearings for the night.

“There Madame, two single beds here. The wind is chilly, so you should keep the windows shut. If you need anything, just ring the bell” said Michael
“And why would I need anything?” snapped our lady. Curtness and brevity in speech mademoiselle had learnt when she was a kid.
“Ahh, Indeed.. you shan’t”. Michael looked at this 25 year old woman queerly and blurted a gruff Good Night.

Not much has been said of Swati Twain, perhaps there was not much to be said. Attractive though she was, the utter disgust towards the Martian gender meant a celibacy for life. She slid off her stilettos and crashed on bed, her chestnut hair bouncing at the fall. The eyelids felt like lead, and in no time was she in a surreal peace which the day’s whirligig denied. She lay on the single bed away from the window, perhaps Michael’s words had been heeded to. Stacked suitcases, towels and accessories replaced in washbasin, the blinds up, strewn stilettos, a svelte figure on bed…Room No. 666 had been occupied.

to be continued...

Jonathan Hargreaves

It was not expected. Mid summer days and humid nights there. But still the rain fell.

He parked his Merc on the highway and started walking, an occasional vehicle passed in vain attempt to bless his solitude. He wore his suit. It was only after he had crossed Penkets' Inn that he left the highway and headed towards the valley. The Valley of the Dead.

It had always been called the Valley of the Dead but no one knew why. In fact it was not a valley, it was a dense Aspen grove, and as with all aspens the trees were young but the root systems were thousands of years old. The local folklore said the aspen had grown with a purpose, a sentinel to uphold those who lay buried underneath it. People avoided the Valley.

He loosened his tie and let it limp around his neck. The rain had drenched him to his bones, the Armani suit only a soggy vestige of its dry elegant glory. The trousers stuck to his skin. He treaded slowly, dragging his feet on the sloshed grounds. The distant glare of headlights on the highway behind now comfortably escaped his ken. He fished around in his pockets and took out a grey metallic device. 12 missed calls. He looked up in the contacts and called. As it rang he smiled and tossed the device in the air with an air of nonchalance which would humble even the most pampered Persian cat. It fell behind without a thud, the earth was wet. Next, the wallet came out and landed in a bush. A silver card was dislodged from its pocket due to the impact. It read “Jonathan Hargreaves”. He plugged the earphones, flipped through the play list in his Ipod and played “A Tout le Monde”. The leitmotif was perfect, next came out the bunch of keys. The Merc, the front door, the locker… all bunched together in solidarity towards their owner. The bunch was not tossed, nor flipped, nor thrown.. just slipped away from his fingers effortlessly. He was now in the Valley.

The moon peeped behind the nimbus clouds, in a vain attempt to throw some light on that lonesome wretch below. It couldn’t. The rain continued. He was now barefoot. It didn’t matter. 4:31 mins of “A Tout le Monde” were over and the pod was soon discarded from body. Next the Armani, then the tie, and finally the shirt. He now searched around for it. He looked in front, to his right, to his left, bent his frame but still couldn’t see it anywhere. The Aspens left no space for such a thing. Still he searched. The rain made the search difficult.

Soon he found it. A dried bush with thistles dearly holding on that pearl of rain. The scratching of the thistles against his well sculpted torso was pleasant. Pain and Rain to cleanse his soul. And finally he lay snug in this small uncomfortable place called home for the rest of the night, weeping.

It was only morning when the last of his possessions was towed away. The Merc.

Inspired

I am happy :-) ... it happens sometimes

The ramblings of my liquid mind which crystallize in the form of short stories have inspired two brilliant efforts. First one was by Kanishka, a slapstick short essay superbly written replete with heartfelt emotions flowing like Captain Cook namak. Next was Equinox .. and what a story! Absolutely loved it. Strongly recommend.

Who's next?

Kiran and Kanishka - Part IV

Please read Part I, Part II & Part III for a quick recap

The world swam around Kanishka’s eyes and had she not been comfortably seated, she would have fainted. Gathering herself, she drank some water, cleared her throat and spoke. “Aunty… I am besides myself with shock, because I can’t make you believe that in the photograph which I have Kiran has been growing all these years while I am still 12 years old ”. I have never breathed a word about this to anyone. For 25 years, I have kept this photograph. Many times I wanted to destroy the photograph. It drove me towards spirituality and I learnt that there are many things around us which do not understand. Somehow I don’t know what to say, but we must let these things be as they are. Don’t ever disturb the order of the unknown, for the consequences can be far beyond human ken.

A silence now enveloped the two women. It was convenient. An abrupt end to its perpetuity was brought by Kanishka’s remark

“But I still don’t understand one thing. I have always seen Kiran ‘grow’ old in that photograph and over the years got somewhat comfortable with seeing him ‘grow’. However… he just stopped ‘growing’ in his young twenties. And there has been no change in him since the past ten years. I still can’t figure out why?

The old woman’s already white face had turned a shade whiter. A whisper ‘Do you want to you why?” did not elude Kanishka. She stared at the old woman. Why????

“Because Kiran died in a car accident when he was 24”

Update (18/05/07):

Obligatory Afterword:

Phew! What a response. The entire story got about 40 comments! Thanks dear friends, I absolutely loved reading your comments and speculation.

It might interest all that Kiran and Kanishka is just a draft version. My recent readings on M.R.James have inspired me to give his style a try. But that style can be attempted only on stories which have strong plots with ‘events’ happening. As all would reckon, we have in K&K a dream sequence to portray a past, a train setting, a car journey and finally a emotional tete-a-tete in an archaic bungalow setting. Such motley themes give me confidence to try out his style.

Some fine day I may retouch and begin re-writing K&K. The plot will not change, only the use of first person narratives to get a point across would be tempered. Solid stories never have people talking directly, the point has to be drilled ‘on a slant’ (wink)

So once again, my dear reader friends, thanks for your sustained interest in the ramblings of my liquid mind. An aspiring writer needs tons of it :-)

Kiran and Kanishka - Part II

Please read Part I for a quick recap...

Kanishka woke up with a start. She was sweating badly. She had never dreamt of Kiran in these twenty five years. His family moved away the very next week and that was the last she heard of her best friend. She clasped her damp face with her hands. Kiran. The photograph. All that she had was a photograph of her childhood friend. And the photograph had a story of its own. The photograph was her darkest secret which she had kept to herself all these years. Twenty five years since she lost touch of Kiran. Twenty five years she had kept the photo. Twenty five years she had never breathed a word about it to anyone.

She got down and saw the old woman staring blankly at the receding landscape. Kanishka had an odd feeling she had seen the woman somewhere. She looked hard at her but gave up and instead began looking for her slippers. One was sticking out from underneath a lofty V.I.P suitcase, the other was where she had left it. She heaved the slipper out and snaked her way to the wash-basin. Some local adivaasi women were squatting near the toilet. Kanishka looked at their torn blouses revealing all that they meant to dignify. She sighed and splashed her face with water. The train had slowed down and she stood at the door for a while looking at the lush green rice paddy fields festooning the countryside. Looking at them she recalled a phrase ‘The farther the grass the greener it looks’

As the Gitanjali Express gained speed, Kanishka abandoned her post and got back to her seat. She sat down, removed her slippers and stacked them neatly in one corner. Her attention now inadvertently fell on the person sitting in front. Kanishka thought, “How should I start a conversation” … “Well maybe I’ll make some movements or noise to draw her attention”. She did so but still could not solicit even a disdainful glance. The old woman’s deadpan countenance bore on it a troubled past. Kanishka was getting impatient. She blurted out, “You going to Kolkata?”

The old woman turned and looked at Kanishka. The eyes locked. A sense of déjà vu gripped her senses as she looked straight into the grey eyes. The old woman stared at Kanishka.. the grey eyes unblinking. The old woman’s face bore an expression which beggared description, was it astonishment, was it fear, was it neither? She began to tremble and grasping Kanishka’s hand gave out a hoarse whistle ‘Come with me, please’

Screaming Update: to be continued...

Kiran and Kanishka - Part I

The Benadryl had now reached her blood and she felt sleepy. Good for my cough, she thought. Kanishka climbed up the top side berth and lay down. The Gitanjali Express was running an hour late. The driver hooted the electric horn to clear the line, but Kanishka didn’t hear the horn. She was already fast asleep.

An armadillo walked up wearing blue trousers and handed Kanishka a Bible. She said, “Thank you Mr. Vajpayee.. that’s so nice of you”. The armadillo immediately turned and ran back, terrified. She laughed and put the Bible on her head and started walking on the Howrah Bridge. Her husband’s head popped out of a Honda City and he called out ‘What’s for dinner’. She smiled, “Chhole Bhature”. Suddenly the bridge collapsed and she fell into the Ganges frantically calling for her husband. The saline water burned her eyeballs and she raised her hand to

The train was on Rourkela Jn. An old woman slowly waded her way up to the lower side berth. She saw a middle aged woman sleeping on the top berth.

“Kannu tum kitni pyaari lag rahi ho iss dress main. Tumhara aur Kiran ka ek photo lete hain” Kanishka had won the fancy dress competition in school. She was dressed as a fairy and was waving her wand at Kiran who was runners up. Kiran was dressed as a clown with a red Popsicle on his nose. The ten year old winner and runners up smiled when the Konica camera clicked. Kiran and Kanishka. Best friends.

Kanishka turned in her sleep. The old woman below was silently staring out of the window.

She slapped Kiran and started crying. He screamed ‘I hate you’ and started crying.
Kanishka: I hate you double.
Kiran: “Why did you steal my pen?”
Kanishka: “Why did you hurt Lucy?”
Kiran: “Because you stole my pen”
Kanishka: “I didn’t”
Kiran: “Then I also didn’t hurt your dog”
Kanishka: “You did, Saurabh told me”
Kiran: “I hate you”
Kanishka: “I hate you double”
Kiran: (crying like a baby) “I will never talk to you again”
Kanishka: (crying like a baby) “I will never talk to you again”

to be continued...

On writing ghost stories

I have read quite a few ghost story writers .. and writing a supernatural short story primarily falls in two categories. This is entirely my observation

First style is the very simple standard XII english like that used by Ruskin Bond and Roald Dahl. It works beautifully. Second is the Grub Street/Dead Poets Society english used by Mary Shelley, Henry James (Turn of the Screw), Edgar Allan Poe. It also works beautifully. I try both styles but naturally fail miserably! I have almost completely given up the second style more out of incapability. I recall my writings were at their grotesque best during engineering now I prefer being simple and straight.

One author which I am currently reading is M.R.James. He is a class apart. I am actually very impressed by his writings primarily because I know how difficult it is to write a ghost short story (any short story for that matter). Strongly recommend.

PS: This might come as an expected shock to many but I have had this habit of reading one ghost story every night before going to sleep ha ha .. talk of lullabies! lalla lalla lori bhoot ki story

Update: Hate to disappoint my dear reader friends, but I unabashedly refuse any explanations to my persona non grata which includes my writings. Readers are free to interpret, contort, distort, misconstrue, abuse, praise, dignify, genuflect, mudsling, sympathize, empathize with all that is/shall be published on this webpage. Live and please let live. Simplio! . Thanks and Best Regards.

The Blue Maruti - III

Please read Part-I, Part-II for a recap...

The cell phone rang again. With one hand on the steering, Kawal removed the vibrating grey device from his pocket. Suddenly, the engine coughed, spluttered and died. His car slowly rolled to a stop just 10 mts ahead of the blue Maruti. The tune of ‘Kal Ho Naa Ho’ continued ….

The man who sat in the blue Maruti was motionless. His hands were on the steering. His head bent forward a little, eyes staring blankly at the car which had rolled to a stop in front. The color of his skin was white. He looked like a ghost … really.

Two minutes passed. If silence were a goddess she would have chosen this moment to be born on earth.

The man in the blue Maruti had now started the engine. The first gear smoothly synchromeshed into the teeth and the car started moving. The man drove effortlessly with the same deadpan expression. First gear then second then third then fourth the blue Maruti sped away. It was almost two hours later that the brakes burnt the rubber. The checkpost of Mandrail.

He got out and ran to the pot-bellied hawaldar sitting inside a very small room. He spoke with fear, his face still white . “Saheb .. just two hrs ago my car broke down near the Niphaad turn. I was about to get out when a car turned around the corner from the opposite side and stopped some metres ahead. There …there … was no one in the car”

The hawaldar spoke, a little shaken “But no car has passed towards Hindon since morning and there is no way any car could have entered the highway without going through this checkpost”

The man was now shaking and the hawaldar offered him a chair and a glass of water from his earthen pitcher. Putting a reassuring hand on the terrified man’s shoulder, the hawaldar spoke slowly

“The car which you saw, which stopped in front of you, which no one was driving …” there was a pause “that car .. was it a blue colored Maruti ?”

The man replied, “Yes”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bibliography & Acknowledgements:

Most of the characters and places mentioned in this story are real, however the events are entirely fictional. I wrote this story about a year back.

Hindon-Mandrail road: There actually exists a very very weird road between these two towns. I have done my best to describe it. This is till date the most scarry road I have ever travelled on. As I stood on the back of the Tata pick up, the wind blowing in my face, I felt like I was on Mars. While returning it was late night, and my! we saw foxes crossing looking at us. We had decided mutually we will not stop till we reach Hindon, come what may.

Kawaljit Ahuja: Ha ha.. an absolute character from my college.. In my stories, I always immortalize people whose company I have enjoyed, people who I may never meet again in this life. This is my small way of 'giving back'

Nokia cell - 'Kal Ho Naa Ho tune': During my three months in North Rajasthan (circa 2004), I had a Nokia phone with that ringtone :-)

Tata 207 DI: My first girlfriend! :-) I was selling this vehicle back in those days and used to take sooo much pain for its 'well being' that my sales executives used to call it my wife. Miss you dahling!

The Blue Maruti: Bang on Moi! I needed a color which went with the quaint feel of the story. Incidentally when I was writing this I had joined a driving class. I used to drive this primitive Maruti 800 model which was blue colored. So that was the inspiration.

The Blue Maruti - II

Please read Part I to recap..

Kawal was having a good time by the stream. He emptied the contents of the Mirinda bottle, washed it many times smelling it each time. Satisfied, he finally held the narrow head of the plastic bottle upstream and the clear water smoothly flowed in the bottle. He drank it slowly, his legs moving slowly in the water. The lingering taste of the orange carbonated beverage only made the water sweeter. He gulped full 500 ml. Then he got up and filled his bottle one last time. He didn’t care to straighten his sleeves or jeans, as he made his way back to his wrongly parked vehicle. It was a hot afternoon. He turned the key and the engine spluttered to life. In neutral he revved up the engine. With the engine running, he got out, walked up to the hood and raised it. The radiator cap was hot but he managed to unscrew it. Carefully he poured the water. The viscosity of the green coolant had increased due to loss of water and vapours came out hissing as the water mixed with the coolant. He waited for a few minutes. Now man and radiator, both had quenched their thirst. It was time to move on. It was time for the breakdown.

Kawal coasted along swerving left, right to avoid the broken road. Second gear then third. He was almost there, midway between Hindon and Mandrail. The wind had picked up slightly. He swerved right to avoid a dead cat which was mincemeat, but he managed to hit a crow which tried to unsuccessfully evade the oncoming vehicle. It broke its wing and fell down screaming with agony. The other black avians jumped in the air and croaked with fervor at their maimed brethren’s assaulter diminishing in size down the road. The road had a bend ahead, a rather sharp and steep one. Kawal slowed down, blew the horn and neatly negotiated the turn. As he looked at the straight stretch of freshly laid tar he spotted a car standing some 50 mts ahead.

It was a blue Maruti.

to be continued...

The Blue Maruti - I

It was a very odd road which linked Hindon with Mandrail. The road ran through nothing. This road was built only a few years ago and certainly made driving avoidable; it snaked, it shrunk, it expanded, it ascended and it was strewn with holes. Certainly, the 80 km drive from Hindon to Mandrail was odd. There were no villages on the way, no trees or mounds or remnants to human life to look at. But the strangest were the breakdowns which had only just begun. Jeeps, tractors, trucks, cars, motorcycles all broke down at a particular point on the road. After a few minutes they would be on their way again.

It was a Wednesday and Amaavas: no-moon night in the Hindu calendar. Travel on Amaavas was usually avoided in these parts of the country. Only 15 kms on the drive Kawaljit Ahuja felt thirsty. The thirst would have to wait. The sun was scorching in the May sky and there was no wind. Today there was hardly any traffic which was again odd as Mandrail, being close to Bhopal, was an important linking village between the states of Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh. Kawal was an inexperienced driver and the engine coughed everytime the gear box engaged with its shaft. The lack of traffic was no respite to Kawal’s inexperience as the road wasn’t particularly pleasant. The radiator was thirsty too, but the thirst would have to wait. The AC was not working and the open windows weren’t any help either as there was no wind.

Half an hour passed. The Nokia cell started ringing. The ringtone was the latest Bollywood hit number ‘Kal Ho Naa Ho’. The cell rang again but no one picked it up. Kawal had spotted a stream and his parched throat could bear it no longer. He had rolled to an imperfect stop, again botching up with the gears. He was walking down to the stream just when his cell phone had rung. He rolled up his sleeves and his blue jeans. The water looked clean. The 500 ml Mirinda bottle never found a better use than before. He took off his shoes and socks and gingerly entered the water. The water wasn’t still but the flow was steady. The feel of cool water on his hot fingers and soles was pleasant. He waded up to a rock and sat down.

A Tata 207 DI crossed, the driver cursing “Baap ki sadak hai kya kutte, ***** raasta chhod ke gaddi khadi kar ”. Kawal had left the radio on and the keys too. A young woman’s voice was now echoing in the car, but there was no one in it. ‘And now… something spooooky haha .. whose’s afraid of ghosts. Since the past few days village folk from a border village called Mandrail are talking of a haunted blue colored Maruti. Many drivers have reported their vehicles breaking down at almost midway on the Hindon-Mandrail road. And then is sighted this blue Maruti which stops a few metres ahead. Nothing happens and suddenly their vehicles respond!! .. Wow that’s cool aint it?… Wish I could see this blue Maruti myself ’

to be continued...

JBTRB - concluding part

...continued from here

It was the only damp spot in the sweltering heat which they could have found, their snug hole destroyed by an earth excavator. Signs of industrialization in Jumhuri.. hardly. The preparations for the MP’s visit. The podium on which he would stand to pontificate would need a flat strong foundation. So they had ensconced behind the water tap, coiled around each other in a love wrap. This was the mating season for the cobras.

The male hissed and tasted the air with his forked tongue. He spread his hood and raised himself up to full height, dragging up his female along. The gathering at the house just before the road bent stepped back in fear. For once, let us recognize who was the king around. The men in the crowd started arguing,
“Kill it, kill it”
“No! don’t Mutthu is on the way”
“What will he do? Release these monsters nearby. They' ll come again”
“I agree. Kill them.”
“Yeah yeah.. finish them off”
“I’ll bring the lathis, keep them cornered”
“No, stop, please please”

Such was the debate ensuing when Mutthu turned around the bend in the road and rode ahead laboriously. Clearly fate had taken this day in the serpents life to go for a stroll around the park. But, as we shall soon find out, it had invited Mutthu along!

The breeze had dried up completely. The road had narrowed and Mutthu was now its sole companion. His left pedal had slipped and fallen, leaving only the inner steel bar. A couple of times his foot slipped and the metal endings cut into the flesh. It was only a sense of duty which kept the snake man chugging along on that lonely Jumhuri Road. By now twenty minutes had passed since he had negotiated the turn by banking his vehicle obeying the laws of gravity. He had reached the road’s end. To his dismay, the road just ended abruptly, some 100 yards away from the river. “Just before the road ends..” he muttered under his swollen breath. He leaned forward and dropped himself limp on the cycle’s handle. Suddenly, a voice from behind spoke

“Your leg is bleeding. Let me put some bandage”. He turned. She looked up. Beside the river, beneath the azure sky, under the sweltering sun Mutthuswamy Venkataraman’s eyes locked with Revathy Narayanan. A strange, unexplained, unblinking lock. Fate crossed his hands, grinned and turned back to attend the unfinished business at the house just before the road bent.

Let me leave you with these two moments. One just before the road bends. Grotesque. One just before the road ends. Tender. Both celebrating the bonding between opposites. One in life and one in death.

Crows and their droppings.

Afterword: All characters, proper nouns and even events are entirely fictional. I always acknowledge otherwise.

Just before the road bends

Mutthu took some water from the nearby hand pump and wetted the area where the crow had dropped. Soon there was a dark circle on his shirt near his right elbow, from the moisture which had dissolved the corvine excretion. He muttered under his breath and got back on his cycle. The road to Jumhuri was a long straight stretch with small shacks arranged alongside here and there.

Mutthu was a snake man. The reptilian craze had bit him when he was a boy. Childhood passion had become manhood profession. He helped nearby villagers catch Nags and Dhamans which posed potential threat to man and animal. Today was just another call.

The flies were now irritating him. He pedaled fast. The sky was a scorching hot, June month in South India, just not the time when crows would be flying past relieving themselves. In these parts it was a bad omen if it dropped on your right side. Mutthu pedaled fast, bending forward with the restlessness which the dropping had brought.

He had woken up to the harsh hissing of his cell phone. Like man like ringtone. The voice which pierced the stillness of Mutthu’s reverie was filled with alarm and fright. ‘Mutthu ghar ke aangan mein, paani ke nal ke peeche do saap chhupe baithe hai. Mera ghar Jumhuri road pe hai..aakhari ghar..road mudne se pehle’ Mutthu’s just woken brain captured the keywords only .. saap, Jumhuri road. He understood only Tamil and some broken English. He replied, ‘Where you house?’ The voice responded ‘Jumhiri Road, just before the road bends’

‘Just before the road ends, that’s what the man had said.. but where the hell does it end? thought Mutthu. The cool breeze blew his grey hair, fanning the forehead where tiny beads of perspiration were joining into a rivulet.

to be continued...