Musing by Swapna May 2010

MUSING
Or
(In Search Of A Muse)
by
an unknown person
in an unknown place
sans form sans name

i’ll pass like a dream
or maybe
a nightmare
Swapna
May 2010
virtual hara-kiri
‘With pleasure...’
With my friend Arjun, it is usually more pleasing to place his answer before my
question:
‘If I were to perform hara-kiri , will you be my kaishaku?’
I really rely on him. A few weeks back, I asked him to read one of my blogs, a seriously
funny one. He read it carefully, hugged me tightly, whispered softly ‘Lovely...it is sad!’
Recently, on the topic of blogs once again, he surprised me with a request:
‘I want to feel a book...here, in blogosphere.’
‘What?’
‘I mean,
• go away from frenetic on-line activities;
• stay off-line with a collection of blogs;
• lazing over the cover, the preface, the table of contents;
• using old skills without tags, labels and search engines;
• having a bird’s eye view over a sea of gathered and discarded thoughts;
• swooping in on that blog which I feel like reading.’
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How can I refuse him? Anyway, with regard to time and effort, I found the task to
be only as daunting as the task of writing a single blog. This is the output.
A year has gone by since I wrote my first blog. This proved to be ideal to view and
arrange with a fresh perspective before moving on.
‘Hope other friends try it out too...and, let us know when their collection is ready.’
‘That would be nice.’ I really think so.
Arjun said, ‘Byeeee.’
‘Take care.’
‘By the way, what does this have to do with virtual hara-kiri?’
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Warning!
Can I claim a thought to be mine ? I must have read it or heard it somewhere - surely,
it can’t be mine. If not now, sometime soon, I hope there will be a few original lines.
I wish I could say for myself Seamus Heaney’s lines from ‘Digging’:
Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
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n.b.
Psycho(logists) might study patterns in the thoughts expressed.
Readers realize that the patterns (if any) are due to:
• lack of style/substance compounded by sheer laziness;
• limited vocabulary; and possibly, or rather probably,
• intentional choice.
p.s.
I used to read Byron and project his life onto his poetry. Before I tried Ted Hughes,
I remembered Sylvia Plath and a gas stove. But, whenever I read Wuthering Heights
or Remembrance, I realize that I do not know much about Emily Brontë.
Who knows what they wanted to say or what made them say what they had to say.
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Acknowledgements
For hosting my virtual existence, I thank:
• Blogger.com : Discarded Thoughts and Gathered Thoughts.
• Sulekha.com.
• Poetry Chain (India).
To those friends who helped me with their comments: I thank you for your time and
consideration.
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Contents
virtual hara-kiri ii
Warning! iv
Acknowledgements vi
1 Short Stories 1
1.1 Confessions Of The Lady Next Door (From The Scrap Shop I) . . . . 1
1.2 Diary Of A Stalker (From The Scrap Shop III) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
1.3 From Cargèse To Akathumuri . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
1.4 Kiss Of Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
1.5 Divorce . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1.6 One Night Stand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
1.7 For God’s Sake, Listen! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
1.8 The Scream Within . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
2 Poetry 39
2.1 If she knew... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
2.2 Suicide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
2.3 Madness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
2.4 On hearing a woman sob in Cargèse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
2.5 Scavenger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
2.6 Proposal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
2.7 (1999-2001) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
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2.7.1 Can you see the eyes- . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
2.7.2 A cage, ?, an idea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
2.8 (1993-1999) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
2.8.1 Love to murder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
2.8.2 The Oldest Trade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
2.8.3 Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
2.9 (1989-1993) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
2.9.1 To My Son - Beneath The Mushroom Cloud . . . . . . . . . . 54
2.9.2 Sailors’ custom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
2.9.3 The Story Of Swapna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3 Not Prose Nor Verse Probably Blog 60

3.1 A Tweet A Face A Blog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
3.2 Fraud in Science . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.3 Last Days At A KPO/BPO/... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
3.4 Emotional Trauma/Torture = Normal Wear & Tear? . . . . . . . . . 64
3.5 From Developing To Developed Without Being Nouveau Riche . . . . 66
3.6 Fare Thee Well (Or, After Reading Larkin Before Breakfast) . . . . . 67
3.7 Musing In Bullet Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
3.8 Avatar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
3.9 Blogalgia : 3 Examples Of A Growing Problem . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
A Movie Review 76
A.1 Paleri Manikyam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
A.2 Pazhassi Raja . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
A.3 Kayyoppu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
A.4 Aparan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
A.5 3 Idiots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
A.6 Ividam Swargamanu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
B Book Review 84
B.1 Crime As A Hobby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
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C More Short Stories 87
C.1 Just For The Weekend (From The Scrap Shop V) . . . . . . . . . . . 87
C.2 Before going . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
C.3 From Behind The Calm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
C.4 His Brother’s Wedding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
C.5 Simply Murder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
D More Poetry 113

D.1 Not Meant To Care, My Friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
D.2 48 hours to live . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
D.3 Soliloquy (Nearly) On A Honeymoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
D.4 To & From & In Transit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
D.5 Did I really love you? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
D.6 Wake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
D.7 Sketch...of you and me... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
D.8 (2001-) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
D.8.1 Thought of a walk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
D.8.2 To pen... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
D.8.3 When will I... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
D.9 (1999-2001) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
D.9.1 Sleep well, my love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
D.9.2 Sunday In Berlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
D.9.3 It Is i That Should Not Matter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
D.9.4 Tired? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
D.9.5 Trying company . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
D.9.6 There is a past... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
D.9.7 My pal Dodo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
D.9.8 Trust these words no more . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
D.9.9 I would like to chase the sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
D.9.10 what you want me to be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
D.9.11 Meaning of Life: What, How Or Why . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
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D.9.12 I see the world . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
D.10 (1993-1999) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
D.10.1 It hurts to see beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
D.10.2 Supper at Hotel Rajesh...by the window... . . . . . . . . . . . 139
D.10.3 14/03/97 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
D.10.4 Awakening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
D.10.5 Fading . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
D.10.6 Seasons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
D.10.7 To Eros : I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
D.10.8 To Eros : II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
D.10.9 To Eros : III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
D.10.10To Money . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
D.11 (1989-1993) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
D.11.1 The Garland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
D.11.2 Oddity I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
D.11.3 Oddity IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
D.11.4 Releasing Blood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
D.11.5 Wish I Could Say Something True, To Me... . . . . . . . . . . 152
D.11.6 Setting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
D.11.7 Going Insane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
D.11.8 His Epitaph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
D.11.9 in flight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
D.11.10Seeking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
D.11.11Black Ant & I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
D.12 (-1989) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
D.12.1 from My Long Lost Friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
D.12.2 from Thinking about the future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
E Probably Not Prose Nor Verse Nor Blog 160

E.1 What happened to the postman? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
E.2 4 points in the library . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
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E.3 10 People To Meet At The Coffee House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
E.4 Curious Case of BSE Sensex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
E.5 Lehman Brothers: Reporting to Work on Monday, September 15 164
E.6 It’s About Sex, Right? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
E.7 Freedom in China & Nilekani’s IUD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
E.8 Near-Death Experience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
E.9 Suspended Animation (From The Scrap Shop II) . . . . . . . . . . . 168
E.10 Found & Lost (From The Scrap Shop IV) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
E.11 Judges & Pontius Pilate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
E.12 Few Movies, a Book, a deleted Blog & Blogalgia . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
F Current Affairs 173

F.1 July 18, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo) . . . . . 173
F.2 August 1, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo) . . . . 174
F.3 August 17, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo) . . . 175
F.4 September 3, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo) . . 176
F.5 September 17, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo) . 178
F.6 September 30, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo) . 179
F.7 Slow & Silent Rape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
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Chapter 1
Short Stories
1.1 Confessions Of The Lady Next Door (From

The Scrap Shop I)
My house is on an island, half a kilometer in radius, in the middle of the city. To the
north and east, development took away the places that I used to haunt. To the west,
the graveyard is still there but the old mint is gone. I rarely go in these directions.
When I venture out, I go a kilometer to the south.
At the junction, there are a few shops with no names. Paalukkada (this milk-
shop is supposed to be one of the best-sellers in the city), the vegetable shop (the
old guy and his wife committed suicide and now it’s the son-in-law who’s there), the
hairdresser (‘All Hair Cut’), the grocery shop (owned by two Muslim brothers who
have always looked fifty-ish), the hotel and tea-shop
veg no-veg
meals ready
special beefu-
llathu
and then, the scrap shop run by a silent lad named Raman. His father was a brilliant
raconteur and people say that his stories were picked up from the scrap. This Onam,
Raman’s father would have been missing for twenty years. Some say that he ran away
1
CHAPTER 1. SHORT STORIES 2
with a heroine in a story; some say that he is in Poojappura jail for killing someone;
some say that they have seen him in Oolamppara mental asylum.
A few days back, I had a month’s load of scrap to sell: twelve kilos of paper, few
card-board boxes, bottles and so on. As usual, I could collect in kind or in cash. I
rummaged within the shop and found a Popular Penguin (2009) edition of ‘Farewell
My Lovely’ by Raymond Chandler with an introduction by Colin Dexter. Though
covered with stained newspaper, all the pages were intact, including the first page
describing Philip Marlowe ‘...I’m a lone wolf, unmarried, getting middle-aged, and
not rich...when I get knocked off in a dark alley sometime...nobody will feel that the
bottom has dropped out of his or her life.’ When I got home, I removed the cover and
within the folds, found a scrap of paper with this:
I am a woman. Thirty going on forty very fast, happy and successful. I am married,
twice rather. I do not want to remember the first. And the second is all that I wanted
to remem-ber. I have two kids, a boy and a girl. For a long time, I lived with the
superstition or belief that I wouldn’t have kids. A neighbour had read my palm and
said so. These days, I trust people much less and I feel less miserable.
I was a nice person then. Friends used to invite me for parties and I used to cook.
They used to think that I am a little kid waiting to be led by the hand. I did not
know how to say No.
Anyway, my main goal in life was to be successful. I did very well in school and
college. And now I manage a team and get a hefty pay. I had to struggle and fight
for everything to get there. My parents were poor and the priorities were different. I
still cherish the first luxury I got - privacy.
Now, I have the choice - even expensive holidays or costly gifts to please a world
too difficult to teach. But, we have a rule in the family: to give each other only what
we have made on our own. I get burned chicken, sauted vegetable without salt, poems
and sketches. I prepare mutton chops, give sketches or a bouquet I have arranged
with some meaning I forget with time or just secrets.
My little kids are turning out to be like their parents even though we have tried
not to impose our thoughts. My girl keeps diaries full of poems, essays and hopeless
longing. My boy needs recognition from time to time. I envy them at times: they
have no excuse not to love. Their parents do not have any social status to guard; and,
they are not poor enough not to take that responsibility. I think they have tried. I
can see the bruises once in a while. And the number of friends reduce day by day.
We try our best to remind them not to forget to laugh.
Recently, we were driving to the seaside (we had been to the hills in the last trip
and it was now his turn to choose). He was narrating a story, partly true probably,
about a son who had done some mischief on his mother’s birthday; his mother crying
for some reason; the son thrashed by his father for some other reason; and, the son
made to touch his mother’s feet and promise that he would never make her cry again.
Though he was not the cause for the tears, the son did not know and kept his promise
till he died and, of course, he died before his parents. What’s the moral of the story,
he asked the kids. My daughter looked at her brother and told us that mothers should
cry in private. Asked why, my son explained that otherwise such stories would bore
a few generations that come after. Thankfully, our kids have not caused us any real
grief - so far.
The situation is tougher at work. The bosses try not to be tyrannical and the
juniors try to stick to the schedule. They know that I am good at my work. None
have tried making a pass at me. There were a few who used to enjoy passing crude
remarks in my presence. Put an end to that when I told them to tell such stuff to
their mothers and sisters. Long time back, I used to cry. I have changed. Sometime
back, a colleague referred to me as a feminist. I do not know what it means.
Why haven’t I written about my husband? Well, it is simply because he hates
being talked or written about. He says that he wants to be invisible - unnoticed by
anyone. I like his crazy ideas though they are wrong. What is he like? He says he
is selfish, cold and just one of the masses. I laugh. And when I do that, he asks me
with a glint in his lovely eyes whether I am mocking him. No, I tell him, I trust you.
We still write letters to each other and leave it on the other’s table though we share
the same study room. He certainly knows how to touch me at the right places. There
are times when I like being told what to do and there are times when I tell him that
it is his turn. Most of the time, it is like being an anxious virgin who knows that she
might be pleased with new ways. When I am in some other world, he has this silly
but cute habit of pinching my bottoms. When I complain, he tells me that I should
not go away and that I should stay with him forever.
1.2 Diary Of A Stalker (From The Scrap Shop III)

It’s nearly been eight months since the last murder. Then, Kuttan had killed his wife
and two grown-up daughters with a machete before hanging himself from a ceiling fan.
We had expected the latter knowing about his rapid decline into depression. But, we
never expected him to kill his family members. He was a decent chap, hard-working
and a teetotaller, too. Some sniggered and said that a drop of arrack would have
cleared his head of such thoughts. Speculations about the motive varied with each
group - relatives, friends, acquaintances and so on.
This time, the murder happened in a house (named Saraswathy Villa) near the
junction. Kunju Swami is the alleged murderer. In the early hours of yesterday,
a neighbour saw him walking on the terrace of his house with bloodstains on his
mundu (dhoti). That neighbour woke up her family members and after an hour
or so for discussion and morning coffee, one of them informed the president of the
residents’ association about their suspicion. The president, after some deliberation
on the telephone with his coterie of committee members, called the police. When
the police arrived, knocked down the door and finally entered Saraswathy Villa, they
found Kunju Swami’s wife lying in a pool of blood in the kitchen and without any
doubt, dead. Some alleged eyewitnesses claimed that her head was bludgeoned to
pulp and that her torso bore multiple stab wounds.
This time too, we had expected this to happen. Kunju Swami is a rascal and
should have been treated like a mad dog long back. His name used to be Hari and he
is supposed to have made a fortune by smuggling - illicit liquor, gold, drugs, young
girls - even when he was in his twenties. He was twenty four when he met his wife,
then a pretty girl of eighteen who lived just a few houses away. They fell in love and
married with the blessings of both parents. Then, for a few years, he was associated
with a nearby ashram and assumed the current name. They have two daughters, the
eldest who is around twenty is married and the younger one is four years old. The
young kid is supposed to be the only witness to the murder.
One night a few months back, Kunju Swami had hit Raman (the guy running the
scrap shop at the junction) without provocation - with an iron bar and from behind.
Someone had told Kunju Swami that Raman had smiled at his wife. Three weeks
back, around eleven in the morning, he picked up a fight with one of his relatives
and smashed the latter’s legs and hands using a granite block. That took place right
here at the junction. People there at that time remained as spectators till the brutal
thrashing was over - some were his friends - and did not come forward to help the
injured even after the fight. It’s known that Kunju Swami is quite generous with
booze.
We knew that he used to fight with his wife quite often - sometimes, every alternate
night. And now, we have gathered at the junction trying to get every bit of news.
I am in Raman’s scrap shop, on my usual seat, assimilating the gossip but pay-
ing more attention to the discarded books. There is no discernible pattern in the
arrangement. I had asked Raman once but he offered a smile (probably the same
kind of smile that had got him into trouble before) and no explanation. For example,
on my right, I have a precari-ously placed pile with about ten books: the 3 volumes
of Feynman’s lectures at the top, hardbound edition of Lisa Alther’s Bedrock at the
bottom, then two books of Sophocles’ plays (Penguin edition), a thin brown diary of
the year 2003, K.G. Paulose’s Kutiyattam (minus the DVD), one of those museum
books on Rodin and handbook for Canon EOS 300.
I took the brown diary without disturbing the rest of the pile. No name nor
address. Just a few pages filled at random. I found a printout close to the end of
those notes - a low resolution printout of a black and white photo of a young woman
taken from a distance. She is wearing loose (cotton?) pants and one of those loose
tops (maybe, a pyjama top). Slightly built, seems graceful. The face is not clear but
looks attractive. She is standing on a balcony and not looking at the camera.
My curiosity was piqued and I flipped the pages:
Tuesday, February 18.
Two months back, I came across an article on the Net titled ‘Remembering John
Galt’ written by a person named Chandrika.
How long have I been haunted by (a) the question ‘Who is John Galt?’ and (b)
all that John Galt stood for - ever since I read Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand for the
first time eons back, I suppose.
Is that why I wanted to know more about Chandrika? I searched on the Net with
search phrase ‘Chandrika’ but there were too many hits and nearly impossible to get
further information regarding her identity. Then, I used ‘Chandrika Remembering
John Galt’ and I found that the article had appeared in a weekend edition of a
national newspaper. There, I found her true name and e-mail address. Let me call
her X.
I sent an e-mail to her, praising her article and explaining my views about John
Galt. She replied with a brief e-mail expressing her thanks. Around New Year’s Day,
I sent another e-mail wishing her all the best in the New Year. I never received a
reply.
Meanwhile, with a few more searches using her real name, I found that she would
be attending a conference, in this city, in the second week of January. For some reason,
the organizers had posted details of participants, details such as mobile number and
home address, in a PDF downloadable file on the website of the conference.
I saw her for the first time on the day she presented a paper at the conference.
Since then, it has been hectic. I had to shift to a new apartment - somewhere close
to hers. I was lucky and found one overlooking her apartment.
As I write this, I can also look at her.
Saturday, March 8.
Now, I know her schedule quite well. I also know that she has left a key with her
neighbour - probably because they share the same maid or maybe, just a precaution.
I like to look at her when she rests on a rattan armchair on the balcony late at night.
She rarely entertains guests at her place.
A few days back, I saw her opening the door to a guy - a young attractive chap
though he looks a bit wet behind the ears. She told him to sit in the drawing room
and went to her room to change, I think. Soon, they left together, walking close but
not holding each other.

Today around noon, I saw them together at the chic restaurant near our apartment
blocks. They sat outside under an umbrella. I chose to sit inside in the air-conditioned
area. It is tough to say whether they are intimate but the easy manner in which they
talked and their body language seemed to indicate a relationship based on mutual
interest. I quickly finished my lunch and waited at a bookshop facing the restaurant,
close to where my car was parked.
They left the restaurant around three. She stood on her toes and gave a brief
peck on his cheek, maybe just an air kiss. The lad watched her cross the road and
go towards her apartment; and then, proceeded to his motorbike. I left the bookshop
and went to my car. At that time of day, it was not too difficult to follow him. Even
on the express highway, I managed to stay behind him. We were now close to the
dangerous crossing on the expressway with the entrance to the arterial road leading
to the subway from the West to the East. Recently, a colleague had met with an
accident right there - a car had nudged his scooter by mistake onto the wrong lane
and he was mowed down by the oncoming speeding vehicles. The lad was in that
position and all I had to do was countdown and nudge at the right moment when the
lights are about to change. I watched the stop-watch on top of the traffic-lights.
Seven, six, five, four, three, two,...
one, zero. I am not a killer. I am not a killer. I was breathing heavily and I kept
saying that. I trust her to make the right choice.
On my way home, I stopped at a crowded public phone booth and called her
mobile for the first time. I nearly cried when she took the phone and said hello.
I listened for a while, hearing her repeat it, maybe even hearing echoes, and then
disconnected. I can’t say anything, can I?
I got home and saw that she was sitting outside. She seemed to have a puzzled
look on her face. She turned her face in my direction. If she could see my face now,
will she care about the tears?
I could taste bile in my mouth and swallowed. Even I was surprised with the force
of dejection and anger. I am not a killer, I am not a killer, I repeated.
Monday, March 31.
She gets up early to go to the gym. Irrespective of that, she is usually in a hurry
from seven till eight. I usually watch this routine of hers with kind amusement - at
least, when I can forget my anger. Before she leaves at eight, she usually boils a large
vessel of water on the gas stove.
This morning, her normal routine was disturbed by a series of phone-calls. Around
eight, I saw her rushing out. I stepped out onto the balcony and waited till I could see
her, thirteen floors below, getting into an auto-rickshaw and leaving. Then, I turned
to go inside. It was while closing the French windows of the balcony that I felt that
I had missed doing something. I adjusted the lenses and looked at her apartment. I
scanned from left to right, and it was on the second time around that I looked more
closely at the kitchen. I could not be sure but I was nearly certain that she had left
the gas stove on.
For a few moments, I froze with indecision. Maybe, the gas will just burn out.
Maybe, the water will boil over and douse the flames, and gas would leak. An image
of her entering the apartment and switching on the lights nearly made me cry out
loud.
I cannot call her.
Anyway, she is probably too far away by now. I did not want her to enter the
apartment. No chances to be taken.
I rushed from my apartment, onto the lift and outside towards her apartment
block. I was not too sure what I intended to do. Maybe, knock on the neighbour’s
door - the one with a spare key to her apartment - and tell her that I was passing by
and smelled gas from the flat next to hers. Will she forget my face?
As I approached the lobby of that block, I noticed that the security guard was not
in his place. Probably, doing the rounds or talking to some maidservant elsewhere.
Calmly, I walked to the phone on the deserted security desk. After referring to the
intercom direc-tory placed below the phone, I dialed the neighbour’s number.
When the neighbour picked up the phone, I spoke with a gruff voice and told the
lady to go next door and switch off the gas. I repeated the instruction once again to
the confused lady and left.

It is now just around half past nine and X is back in her apartment, followed by the
lady next door. Looks like the latter had called her after following my instructions.
She inspected the kitchen briefly and then she gave the neighbour a tight hug. I could
then see the neighbour trying to explain - maybe, about the call she had received.
X seems to be listening carefully. She keeps nodding her head - maybe, in a puz-
zled or bewildered way. After a while, the neighbour takes her leave and leaves X
alone. From the drawing room where she sits, she looks at the surrounding apartment
blocks carefully.
Saturday, April 26.
Two weeks back, I met an old acquaintance and he introduced me to his colleague, a
teacher in the English Dept. at the University - let me call her Y. His introduction
was embarrassing, ‘The person famous for intense crushes - the perpetual adolescent.’
I nearly blushed.
Meanwhile, in the last three weeks, X has been trying to solve her mystery. At
times, I can see her silhouette in the dark apartment, probably watching outside,
waiting to see. One Monday, she even left the apartment with the water boiling and
the gas stove on. But, she returned soon, and found no messages for her nor her
neighbour. She looks haggard these days. I have not seen the young lad in the last
few weeks.
This morning, I was busy packing my stuff. Y had promised to come over and
help me. When the doorbell rang, I expected it to be Y and opened the door saying,
‘Ready to carry the crates, love?’
It was X standing outside. ‘Sorry, thought it was someone else. How can I help
you?’ I said, quite breathless.
‘I am looking for my friend’s apartment.’ X said. At that instant, the lift opened
and Y walked towards my door, nodding towards X and raising her eyebrows. I gave
a small shrug. I think X saw that, turned around and looked at Y. This time, Y
asked ‘Yes?’
‘I am looking for my friend’s apartment.’ X repeated.

‘What’s his name?’ Y asked.
‘I don’t know.’ X said faintly. She looked as if she might collapse.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, yes,...’ she mumbled and turned towards the next door on that floor, ‘maybe,
I should check thereif I see him, I will recognize...’ and mumbled to both of us, ‘sorry
to have disturbed you, ma’am.’
And left.
(The characters and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events and re-
cent news reports is purely coincidental.)
1.3 From Cargèse To Akathumuri
Even He could have been more imaginative. Well, what else can I say about my July
vacation, the only one in a long time? Come on, give me a break. Being the chaperon
of religious girls in bikinis who talk to you about their boyfriend isn’t exactly a break,
is it? OK, I could have made the situation better without getting into a schizophrenic
frenzy, either the recluse or the talkative social bore. It is good to be in the arms of
Solitude before she changes her name to Loneliness.
At least, the flight is leaving on time. The crew is going through the drill. The
plane is half-empty (more mentally correct to say half-full) and I am stuffed in a
window-seat overlooking the wings. Across the aisle is a lovely lady and her kid. The
brat is hyper-active and she seems to be tolerating it quite well. She is fair, sexy and
young. Around my age, I think, if I were a few years younger. Blue jeans and white
blouse. Brown eyes, black hair and lovely lips. We have exchanged smiles, with the
help of the brat. He seems to have taken a liking for my comic gestures.
The choice of cheap beer and wine has come and gone. And I need to piddle.
Luckily it is not one of those flights in which I would have been locked in my seat due
to turbulence. And, there is not too much of a queue. I light a cigarette to suffocate
my lone companion.
‘Excuse me, can I borrow your lighter?’ It is the lady-from-across-the-aisle. Without

a word and with an idiotic smile, I hand her the lighter. She lights her cigarette,
twirls the cheap lighter on her long fingers and lets out the smoke.
‘He’s finally decided to sleep.’
‘Lovely child. How old is your son?’ Very clever.
‘He’s not my kid. You seem to like kids.’
‘Well...not exactly...’ I think I saw her right eyebrow rise a little. I could never do
that. She signaled that the loo’s all ready for me to escape. With cold water on my
eyes and the shirt tucked properly, I returned to my seat. The little one lies alone
across two seats. Poor orphan. Well, he doesn’t seem to know. I start counting the
number of flaps on the wing. Makes me feel intelligent.
‘Do you mind if I sit on this side? He seems to have taken my space.’
‘Sure...’
‘Were you playing with him because you thought I am his mother?’
‘I guess so.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘In reality or in dreams?’ I am getting smart. // ‘Which is better?’// ‘For whom?’
She smiled. What a smile. A smile with laughter echoing silently. And, she can look
straight into my eyes. Without blinking or rolling her eyes every other way. It has
been a long time. When was the last time? Who cares? I am resisting myself from
talking about myself. You know, the works. Books, music, film, places, names. A
whole lifetime can go by with such friendly stuff.
‘You are lovely, you know?’ Now, that’s original. My first time.
‘I know.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Lucky me.’ The same smile. No, not exactly. This is a gem that I have tried in vain.
A pregnant river shadowing its own depths, the clime above trying to let the smile
peep thro’.
‘I suppose you must have been told that a million times.’

‘Since my first boyfriend.’
‘In school?’
‘No, in school, all they wanted were my boobs.’
‘What did your boyfriend want?’
‘At 18, he wanted me.’
‘Noble guy.’
‘Ambitious guy.’
‘Oh, didn’t he get you?’
‘In the beginning, yes. At the end, he didn’t want me.’
‘Dumb.’
‘Is that consolation or do you pass judgements easily?’
Ooops. This lady is tough. She continued,

‘Small town kids with big city habits. To be seen and admired. In those days, we
couldn’t jump into each other’s arms and kiss every other moment. The game was
more subtle. Three years. Some time around the middle of our final year, it ended.’
I decided to keep my mouth shut. My hands made a steeple, my eyes heavy with the
load.
‘We were going home. By train. For a change, we were in an empty compartment.
Empty apart from the two of us and a gang of racist maniacs who we had not seen
when we got on. At first, they started abusing my boyfriend with obscenities. To
me, all they said was ‘Sister, why did you choose him?’ Then they started smacking,
punching and kicking my guy. And the poor idiot, believing in some inner strength,
kept trying to get up and look at his predators. This infuriated them even more.
Shattered, smashed, soiled he lay. Finally, too weak to think, and to pray, he tried
to look at me and them. They pissed on him and left. At the next station, I went to
the police and they took him to a hospital.’
‘Did he die?’ I asked.
‘No, he did not even file a case. Some stupid ideas. After that, he left the place. Got
married to a rich girl, I heard. Lived happily ever after.’
‘He must have been in trauma or something like that.’

‘Maybe. But not regarding me. Our time was coming to an end. Marriage was, is a
different business.’
‘It must have been awful for you.’

‘I don’t know. I got married within a few months.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. A successful rich businessman. Families liked each other. For me, it didn’t
matter as long as he allowed me to pursue my career. He is very supportive. That’s
how I’m flying around.’
‘Good it ended well.’
‘Ended? Well? I am married, yes. He is a good man. And I think I like him too.
At times, he is a sexual brute but I can’t have everything, can I? In the beginning,
priorities are different. When we were engaged, he asked me if I would have sex with
him. Later, he told me that it was merely a test. On the first night, I had fever of 104
and rashes due to a reaction to pills. He asked me if he could have sex. I undressed, I
bloodied the sheets, I vomited, he slept. With time, I realized that the hurt reduced.
After all, I did enjoy sex most of the time. Bolder, older, with a new list of dreams,
I went thro’ it all, buggered thro’ and thro’. I am a lovely woman, ain’t I? And, a
lovely woman has to keep her man, right? Yes, it ended well. I think I even love my
husband.’
‘But there could be...’ My steeple had crumbled, knuckles like gravestones jutting
heavenward.
She looked at her hands. I looked at her. ‘Other men, other people?’
Pauses are strange. In that void, there is little air to breathe. Not a charade. Not a
lie nor truth. Only time shrugs and moves ahead.
‘I am going back after one. A poet. Tender soul. It is nice to walk in strange cities
with him. To museums and cinema. History feeds him stories, the present’s a grief
and the future’s non-existent. He strives for penury. That is his glory. And for
freedom’s sake, his own emotions revolve around his words.’
‘But, wouldn’t life be better with him?’
‘No. He is gay and he needs me to know a woman and I need him to know a poet.
We are not lovers. We have others for that.’
She smiles. It is the old one this time. She likes my steeple and the heavy drugged
look. I knew that she would like it. I keep nodding my head. Slowly. Sieving thro’
the stuff. Understanding, people call it. It has the right appearance. ‘I have talked a
lot. First time I ever did.’
I nearly said ‘Glad to be...’
‘Do you always speak so little?’
‘You are the first to say so.’ Why did I admit that? She deserves it.
‘So, was this your dream or reality?’
‘Dream, I suppose. Reality never happens.’
‘Are you trying to be clever?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Oh no, lady, you don’t really want to get me started, do you ? ‘Well...’
The little one woke up. With a surge of adrenalin, he cried ‘Mama...’
‘Yes, love.’
The lady went back across the aisle. And I resumed making comic gestures at the
kid.
April could be the cruelest month but July comes pretty close. It is a long way from
Cargèse to Akathumuri.
1.4 Kiss Of Death

It is late at night, probably one or two, and she looks at the full moon. There is also
light streaming in from the street - maybe, from a street lamp or from some strange
neighbour’s house. Her nightclothes are drenched with sweat. The same dream has
been recurring frequently for the last three months: her husband waking up in the
middle of the night; having sex roughly with her cold body; and, it is when he slaps
her dead face that she wakes up.
She turns her head to the right and she can see the naked body of her husband in
the light, only partly covered by a thin blanket. There is a nauseating smell in the
room, of dried sweat and stale cigarette smoke. She can hear the drops falling from
a leaking faucet in the bathroom, the ticking of the bedside clock and her husband’s
heavy breathing.
She senses a movement in the shadows on the left, close to the almirah, but even
before she could turn her head, a damp cloth is pressed firmly covering her mouth
and nose; and she can feel the sharp blade of a razor against her jugular prompting
her not to struggle. Before losing consciousness, she hears the intruder whisper in her
ear, ‘Time.’
She regains her senses slowly, still feeling the pressure of the blade. She is now lying
on the right side of the bed and the intruder remains in the shadows. She sees her
husband in a semi-conscious state bound and gagged to a chair, next to the bed.
Slow silent seconds tick incessantly. Her husband wakes up with a start, struggling
uselessly against the rope and frantically looking at her and the intruder.
‘Stop moving. I’ll kill you.’ the intruder orders her husband and he complies im-
mediately. She and the intruder watch her husband choking and screaming silently
against the gag, scared and pleading with round bulging eyes. ‘...your wife can save
you...if she wants...’ she turns her head to look at the intruder, ‘...she should kiss me
well.’
The intruder moves her closer to the shadows, not touching her body or her face but
without removing the blade from her neck. She leans forward and her lips are close
to the intruder’s face and she can smell a delicate and musky scent. She glances at
her husband once more and in his eyes, she can see him begging her.
She stares at the intruder’s face. It is in the shadows except for the lips and the lower
part of the face. She wants to see the intruder’s eyes but she cannot. She looks at the
full lips ready for her touch. She moves closer nearly leaning into the intruder. She
pauses for a few moments, with her eyes closed and hardly breathing. Then, moving
away from the intruder’s lips, she gives an air-kiss near the intruder’s left cheek, not
even touching. Behind her, her husband watches this and faints.
The intruder moves away from her towards the door - without a touch, without a
word. Neither does she move or speak. Her eyes seem cold and dead in the night-
light, following with an unblinking stare till the intruder slips out of the room. The
lamp somewhere outside is switched off.
Now, in the moonlight, we can see in her eyes a look very common in places of worship
- defeated, forsaken, helpless and alone. Listening to time ticking into the past without
really bringing in the future, waiting for another God and in the near-silence we can
hear her cry softly, ‘Time? ’
1.5 Divorce
Today, the case might end. When it started, I dreamt of a grand courtroom ending- a
chance to explain the case, about justice and what should be right, why truth should
prevail and all that naı̈ve gobbledygook.
I am standing in the dusty courtyard of the Family Court. It is a leased house and
the courtroom is in the drawing room. I am hanging onto the front window, like
an untouchable outcaste, waiting for my name to be called. Proceedings started at
eleven and since my case is only three years old, I expect the call around half past
twelve. It is tough here, more so with the only urinal being the compound wall. There
is company, of course. Like Ravi (5-year veteran whose wife decided to be celibate
after the first kid) and Shajeeb (his case, only a year old, involving three kids). But
today, I wanted to think once more about my case.
I have heard people refer to my lawyer as ‘paatta’ (cockroach). I got him because
he handled my cousin’s case (alleged abuse, dowry, forced abortion and such). One
evening three years back, my lawyer asked me, ‘What problem should we say caused
it?’
I replied, ‘Incompatibility.’
He gave me a blank stare, shaking his head from left to right, his left nostril twitching.
‘She’s never there.’ I tried to explain. ‘And, that’s the best part.’
‘Separated?’
‘Yes - she comes and goes on some weekends.’
‘That’s not separated. Insane?’
‘That would explain everything!’
‘Infidelity?’
‘I wish!’
‘Not you...’
‘She...no...I don’t think so.’
‘Abuse?’
‘It’s mental...’
‘Have you hit her?’
‘No!’
‘Kids?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t she like it?’
‘She’s ok with kids.’
‘Not that...’
‘Oh...no, no...I mean, she likes it. But...she’s selfish...’
‘You...ok?’
‘Of course!’
‘Did you two fight?’
I laugh.
‘At first, it’s with her periods; then, whenever she’s there; finally, only when we
talked.’
He did not look convinced.

‘When was it? She called me outsourced coolie...that I’ve an inferiority complex...frustrated...When
we visited her Doctor Uncle, they talked about their U.S. relatives, about her trips
abroad. Then, he asked me about my trips and, she told him that I’ll be going for
training to Manchester. I said that that’s not true. It started right there...again...complex,
underachiever, even my folks, third-rate she says.’
He merely stared.
‘A few weeks back, she invited her boss for lunch. What started it? Maybe, when
I couldn’t talk to him in Hindi; or maybe...when I admitted that I eat beef. When
he left, she started screaming that I had sabotaged her careerthat I want her as a
servant. We have already got four, why would I need one more?’
He mumbled, ‘That’s normal...right...wear and tear.’
‘If there’s nothing to fight about, it’s about my old diaries, or the stories I write. If
it’s a love story, she accuses me with an affair. Always...anything, everything...some
freedom...respect...trust?’ Why did I present this weak stuff at the end? ‘I can’t
write!’
‘So? It’s just a hobby, isn’t it?’
Sensing that he could lose a client, he quickly added
‘Don’t worry. We’ll write the usual in the petition, ok? Not easy casenothey’ve all
the trump cards - you...we...don’t have anything.’
What he said turned out to be right.
It might end now only because she has better things to do - finally, an amicable
settlement. I am lucky. I lost only my career and some virile years of my life.
Recently, I tried to write. But...somehow...I have lost it.
I can hear them calling my name in the courtroom. When the judge asks me, all I
have to say is ‘Yes, sir.’

1.6 One Night Stand

I’ve always hated two things, deaths and marriages. These days, old people too. I
tried the second, long back, and got only the bad stuff. The other two are too close for
comfort. Death I can handle but not old people- with their selfish ways, bad breath,
farting whenever and wherever. I used to hate kids too but at eighty-two, it’s easy
to swat them away.
I’m usually not so cantankerous. But I’ve always been nervous before her visit.
This is only the second time she’s come to my place. The first time, she was in her
teens - an ugly duckling she was and how she developed since then! I usually met her
at her place, even when her nasty mother was alive.
I can hear the doorbell ringing. The maid takes her time but finally brings her to my
room.
‘Hi, kid! You look great.’ I wasn’t lying. She has aged but she looks good, even at
seventy eight.
‘Hi! Long time since anyone called me that.’ She didn’t bother to lie either. ‘Your
maid told me about your night in the gutter! Look at you! And, shuttling between
here and the town five times in a day, what were you thinking?’
‘I can’t carry much. Had to bring the shopping in small lots?’
‘Can’t you take someone with you?’
‘Do you?’ She didn’t reply to that. ‘It got dark a bit early. I got out of the bus, took
a few steps in the wrong direction and...’
‘She told me...how you were missed next morning and people finally finding you in
that gutter.’
‘It was a hole, not gutter! Anyway, leave that.’

‘How are you?’ she asked softly.
She sat on the chair next to my bed, looking straight at me- sitting the same way,
straight back, legs close, feet crossed at the ankles. She saw me looking and I said
the usual,
‘Geisha...’
‘How you wish!’
I reached for a cigarette, my companion these days. It helps to kill appetite and
nobody is complaining except the maid.
‘When did you start that?’ she asked me.
‘Recently...ten, fifteen years back.’
‘Do you mind not smoking? A bit sensitive these days, price of old age - the package
deal, aches and pains and breathlessness. Damn nuisance!’
I put the cigarette away. ‘So, are you married?’
She laughed. ‘Aren’t you abrupt? Why...are you going to propose?’
‘Well, I’ve always proposed.’
‘Whatever.’ She must have seen me frown at that word, touchy about being a matter
of no consequence. ‘You had your chance.’ Now, she was trying flattery.
‘Well?’
‘Still once married but...I wrote to you about him, didn’t I?’
‘Is it still that guy- some hot shot at your old Univ.? Isn’t he young?’
She raised her eyebrows, probably her way of telling me politely that the interesting
ones tend to be so in our current circumstances or that I should mind my own business.
‘Sixty. He’s now pushing for some commitment. You know me...not even in my good
days! What about you? Did you get around to searching...actively, I mean?’
‘Yeah, for a while I searched among the second-hand lot- the widowed and the di-
vorced. Nasty lot- they can’t forget the first one!’
‘What about the unmarried?’
‘Unmarried at this age, must be faultyknowing my luck, most probably a virgin, too.
Anyway, they usually have great expectations...the first time and all that...’
‘Come on...’
‘Didn’t you?’
She thought for a while before replying, ‘Strange. I can’t even remember the first
one. Now, I try to remember only the current affair. It wouldn’t do if I forgot any
detail, would it? People are waiting to pronounce Alzheimer’s on youfeel so insecure
at times. At least, I don’t have kids waiting to put me in a home.’
‘You wanted kids, didn’t you?’
‘Long back...and you...’
‘Kids...me?’
‘No...I meant, what have you been up to?’
‘Been reading the puranas...old-age readingmost of our gods had problematic love
affairs, you know. Loss of trust, need for desertion, illegitimate kidsSiva, Rama,
Krishna...thank God it was all written then...certainly would’ve raised some mad
dog’s hackles if written these days. When I’ve the energy...and the will...I try to do
that...’
‘Still anti-establishment...the maverick?’

‘I experimented too long...with my life...should’ve learned from othersand, experi-

mented on others. No...I...just lost.’
‘But...you would’ve done the same given a second chance, right?’ She smiled with her
cliché and for a moment, I thought it was because she could accept losers. Anyway,
I always gave women with a smile a lot of leeway, and hers is not the best.
‘Probably...my God likes losers, hates match-fixers. He’s a discarded God, my God!
You...still an atheist?’
‘I tried being agnostic...but it’s too much trouble. Whatever...should not matter now,
I think. I wouldn’t even trust Him...or Her...with my problems.’
‘You know what my problem is...lived a wee bit too long...most of the great guys died
at thirty three...imagine them middle-aged or old dealing with hypertension, prostate
problems, what-not...’
I reached for a glass of water, feeling tired but wanting more. I raised my glass to
her, ‘Here’s to looking at you, kid!’
‘Gross...be original...’
‘Let’s have sex.’
‘Yeah, right...’ she laughed a bit too heartily, probably trying to imagine the scene.
It hurts but I laughed with her. Wiping her own eyes, she asked quite seriously, ‘We
keep meeting once a decade or so, right...why?’
‘Something to smile about...like a one night stand...’
‘Will we have one more?’

1.7 For God’s Sake, Listen!

‘Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’...’
Arjun stretched comfortably on the back seat of his firm’s sedan and sang this first
line of the title song from ‘High Noon’1 . The driver turned with an amused look.
Arjun smiled back. He felt happy and quite contented with life.
The 10-day business trip to London was a success in the company of looters2 . And,
it included a great weekend with wonderful weather for shopping and walking. As
the car moved slowly from the airport to Saki Naka, he hardly looked outside while
recollecting the time at Canary Wharf, on the tube, on the Embankment, to the Tate
Modern, crossing over to St. Paul’s, the latest books and movies, classics too...what
a life!
A slight bump with another car shook him out of his reverie. He started making plans
for the rest of the day. He wanted to get back home, have a long bath, relax in his
armchair, watch the new DVD of ‘High Noon’...and, of course, spend time with his
wife Shanthi.
He saw the Chinese restaurant at Saki Naka. That is where they had gone, before his
London trip, to celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary: a cosy lunch and tender
loving care for dessert. The thought made him urge the driver to go faster.
Right then, he got a call from his wife. What a coincidence, he thought.
Arjun: I was just thinking about you.

1
For details about this great movie with Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly, please visit the imdb site.
A video of this song seems to be available.
2
This is with reference to investment bankers and the case of fraud filed by the SEC against
Goldman Sachs. Do you think financial reforms will happen? Please read Paul Krugman’s blog
titled ‘Looters in Loafers’. The SEC might lose the battle but that’s not the point, is it? Michael
Lewis wryly points out that GS ‘did nothing worse than live by the ethical assumptions of your
market – any money-making event short of obviously illegal is admirable’. GS suggests that the
case is just politics. Who was it who said ‘The word ’politics’ is derived from the word ’poly’,
meaning ’many’, and the word ’ticks’, meaning ’blood sucking parasites’.’ Does that mean politics
is a synonym for investment banking?
Shanthi: Have you reached?

Arjun: Yes. Just passed Saki Naka. Close to that Chinese place, remember?
Shanthi: Yeah. Arjun?
Arjun: Yupp, that’s me...don’t wear it out. Sorry, old joke, huh? Feels great to be
back and I’m waiting to be with you.
Shanthi: Arjun...I’ve moved out.
Arjun: What?
Shanthi: I don’t want to live with you...I mean...I want to pursue other interests.
Arjun: Interests?
Shanthi: I have to...separate...live...without you.
Arjun: Have to?
Shanthi: Damn it! Stop sounding like your Woody Allen movies, please.
Arjun: What do you want me to sound like? Rhett Butler? Frankly my dear and
$#%&ing crap...
Shanthi: Stop shouting, Arjun. Will you please, for once, for God’s sake, listen?
Arjun: Don’t tell me to listen.
Shanthi: OK...
Arjun: When did you decide?
Shanthi: I shifted 10 days back.
Arjun: Wonderful...did you wait for my flight to leave?
Shanthi: Arjun! It’s not easy for me.
Arjun: So...what’s next?
Shanthi: Do you want to meet? I thought it would be best without meeting.
Arjun: See you when I see you, is it? Fine.
Shanthi: I have taken the car and the microwave.
Arjun: The home theater?
Shanthi: Thought you might need it. I have left the fridge and the washing machine,
too.
Arjun: Thanks.
Shanthi: If there’s anything I have forgotten, could you drop me an email?
Arjun: Sure. A living-out relationship3 , is it?

Shanthi: Maybe...after six months or so, my lawyer could get in touch with yours.
OK?
Arjun: Hmm...
Shanthi: Take care, Arjun.
Arjun: (silent)
Shanthi: Bye. Love you.
Arjun: Me too. Good luck, kid!
The car had reached his apartment and the driver waited outside with the baggage.
Arjun stepped out, thanked and gave a generous tip to the driver, nodded at the
security guards and took the lift to 13D.
Shanthi had remembered to cancel the milkman but not the newspaper-wallah. Arjun
gathered the old newspaper and magazines lying inside on the floor. Just out of habit,
he started cutting out articles which caught his eye and made quick notes on post-it.
The IPL tamasha4 , the war between the Maoists5 and the government6 ...Arjun knew
what he was doing, procrastinating.
3
There seems to be a lot of debate about live-in relationships and pre-marital sex. Is it not a
personal matter? The debate seems to have dragged in even Krishna and Radha. Lesser mortals (like
social networking sites which require a herd mentality for survival) try to be mature and compromise,
build a proper ‘network’ of contacts, lead a ‘moral’ life and balance longevity and expectations. Is it
not true that idiots, heroes and Gods in every culture decide their own life- and, the masses follow?
4
Note 1: Has Shashi Tharoor stopped tweeting? Note 2: Does Tharoor represent Trivandrum?
Note 3: Tharoor will at least have his ol’ common room buddies but where will Modi go? Note 4: Do
you think this will lead to anything substantial? Why didn’t the government or the IT department
conduct normal checks during the last three years?
5
Note 1: Is Arundathi Roy OK with Maoists using kids? Aren’t there other representatives of
the tribals? Reference: Arundathi Roy’s article.
6
Note 1: The PM has asked the civil service personnel to fight Naxals with development, and
he has also pointed out that such underdeveloped regions and people are easy prey for extremist
organizations. Note 2: If the government had someone to talk to (say, a social worker among the
tribal people), what would they say? Will they prevent large-scale relocation of poor helpless and
voiceless people? How do they plan to include without imposing an alien culture? How do they plan
to educate and improve the standard of living? Will they bring in industries in a phased manner?
Ministers and governments will change but the plan for social reform should not change for at least
two to three generations.
He unpacked and had a long shower. It was late evening and he felt as if the four
walls were closing in on him. Claustrophobia, was it? He wanted to take a long walk.
But, that’s not a great idea in suburban Mumbai. He left the flat and nearly took
the lift to the basement car park before he remembered that Shanthi had taken the
(their) car. He took an auto-rickshaw and gave directions to a bar-cum-restaurant he
(they) liked.
Arjun took the usual table. Not sentimental, he reasoned, it’s just the best. The
waiter took his order: a double portion of crispy fried chicken (dry and spicy), Shan-
thi’s favourite cocktail and a cigarette pack. Shanthi used to be the adventurous
one while he stuck to single malt and cigarettes. Her cocktail was: iced vodka over
chopped bloody-hot green chilly. As he took the first sip, he had to blink back the
tears and gasp, ‘Fire-and-ice. Damn you girl.’7
It was after the waiter had placed the second glass of the same cocktail that he asked
himself, ‘Why? What was wrong with us? ’
What did she mean by ‘pursue other interests’- another man, career, hobbies? Arjun
had no clue about what she wanted to do in life. He assumed that she was happy
with her current job, to be his wife, partner, friend, philosopher, guide, $#%&-buddy,
whatever. What did she want? Is it something which she couldn’t do...with him?
A normal healthy, wealthy and lucky couple we were, Arjun thought. Vacations to-
gether, enjoying books and movies together, investing together, sharing responsibility.
They were a great couple, weren’t they?
Was it because of kids or rather, the lack of it? But, both had agreed to postpone
that- quite indefinitely. Arjun didn’t give a damn about propagating his genes. At
best, he could tolerate kids for a few hours at a stretch and that too, if they were
reasonable and mature. As for Shanthi, though she did talk about her biological
7
Statutory warning: cigarettes and alcohol are injurious to health and more importantly, injurious
to the health of those around you. If you are in solitary confinement and ready to take care of yourself,
go ahead at your own risk. Some also believe that eating chicken is also injurious to health. Of
course, it is probable that you might die sooner in a traffic accident or a terrorist attack.
clock, she never seemed too keen about kids either. At least, they never fought on
that issue, Arjun recollected.
Was it sex-related? But, they were ‘better than average’ as judged by most surveys8 .
According to the same journals, by way of frequency, choice of position and place,
what-not, they were supposed to be ‘great’. They were passionate most of the time
and quite often, at the same time. Didn’t they enjoy it? He did, didn’t he, and,
Shanthi? Well, they had never fought on that issue either, Arjun remembered.
Was it because of family? But, they hardly saw them.
Were there terrible fights? Well, nothing really abnormal. Like any maturing rela-
tionship, the fights were just getting meaner, louder and the stretches of post-fight
silence were lengthening, but it was never really unreasonable, he reasoned. As per
current fashion, they had had a few sessions with a counsellor. They discontinued
when they heard that the counsellor is an alleged paedophile. Maybe, it would have
helped if they had not discontinued, Arjun wondered.
And love? Arjun grimaced. For him, love was like God. When times are good, one
assumes that it’s there; when times are bad, one hopes that it’s there; and at other
times, who really cares?9 He respected her, he trusted her, he cared for her, isn’t that
love-or-whatever-in-action, Arjun justified.
8
A source (though not very reliable) once revealed that journalists have a software tool to ‘fill
out’ these surveys. In the first version, the tough questions delved on the missionary and who-on-top
and from then on, with each version, it was a test of the geeks’ imagination.
9
A comrade once said, ‘It’s just a sentimental manifestation of materialism imposed upon us by
crony capitalism’ or, some combination or permutation of the same. For capitalists, since multi-
billion dollar industries revolve around love, ‘anything marketable is certainly worth it’. For others,
the glorified four-letter word serves multiple purposes: (a) family love - used to be the cheapest way
to have a group of people to protect property and wealth; these days, it is advisable to restrict this
to one spouse and utmost two children. (b) patriotism - is there another way to recruit soldiers?
(c) platonic love - if either or both are repulsive or inconvenient. (d) romantic love - it is best when
the lovers, one or both, meet an early death; if Shakespeare had allowed Romeo and Juliet to live
happily ever after, he would not have been the Bard but a blogger. (e) etc. Some claim that humans
are the only animals capable of love. Of course, we are the only animals capable of creating nuclear
weapons and synthetic CDOs, too.
Why?
On the TV at the bar, an advertisement for some bike suggested, ‘Thinking is such
a waste of time.’ That sure helps10 .
Arjun left the place and returned to his flat. He reclined comfortably in his armchair,
watching ‘High Noon’ and singing along,
‘Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’...

Wait, wait along...’
10
I guess I have to apologize for experimenting with footnotes on a blog even though I agree
with Noel Coward who said, ‘Having to read footnotes resembles having to go downstairs to answer
the door while in the midst of making love.’ Maybe, the person at the door is a better companion
than the one upstairs. I wanted to write a simple happy love story but it is tough to separate the
characters and the world in which they live. What do you think?
1.8 The Scream Within
Do you have a scream?

Caged within your mind?
Choking each breath?
Clogging life?
Don’t you have that scream?
Yesterday, when I walked past the graveyard, I heard her scream.
Didn’t I tell you, few months back, that my house is on an island, half a kilometer
in radius, in the middle of the city; and that, to the west, the graveyard is still there
but the old mint is gone? The old mint was not there even when she screamed in the
graveyard, twenty six years back.
That evening, I had gone for a party at a friend’s place. I had told my folks that I
would be dropped safely at home around nine. For some reason, I felt out of place and
making up some hasty excuse, escaped from that group at half past seven. With three
kilometers to my house, and one steep hill to climb, I estimated that I could walk
and reach home by eight. I walked quickly past the low-lying area near my friend’s
place, with the strong stench of the drainage canal in the air. The air cleared when
I climbed the hill. The streets were empty, as usual; barely lit by old low-wattage
street lamps. I don’t think it was safer then but I was young. At the top of the hill,
I followed the road climbing to the left, alongside the graveyard wall. Then, I heard
her scream.
It was not a loud scream and if I had not been near that part, I would not have heard it.
It bore pain, a brief tired protest too but then and now, it mostly said...nothing...neither
a cry for help nor rage nor lost hope...nothing.
I felt scared and I wanted to run. I do not know why I looked over the wall. I could
see the back of a man, brushing dust from his clothes, tucking in his shirt slowly and
carefully into open pants, adjusting his underwear, zipping up, taking a small comb
from the back pocket of his pants, combing his hair and mustache, spitting. I must
have slipped or made some noise. The man turned and saw me. His expression did
not change; in fact, he looked bored. I must have opened my mouth in fright. He
raised his finger to his lips and then, walked away quite leisurely. I recognized him
from photos in the paper and you might know him, too.
It was only after he left that I saw her lying still near an unmarked grave. I climbed
over the wall and went to her. For years, I have wondered why I did that. To
be honest, it must have been just curiosity. Her eyes were open, filled with tears,
unblinking. Recently, I saw a face like hers- that eighteen year old suicide bomber
in Russia, the one with a baby face. At that time, she looked old to me- at least a
dozen years older than me. I did not touch her or speak to her. After few minutes,
she slowly sat up, her young body shivering. Using a part of her sari, she wiped her
body, harshly wiping her thighs, her legs, her upper body, her face. She tore that
part of the sari and threw away the rag. She straightened her clothes, trying in vain
to fix her torn blouse. I took out the plastic raincoat from my backpack and held it
out to her. She took it without a word and covered herself.
‘Shall we go to a hospital?’ I asked.
She shook her head, not even looking at me.
‘Shall I come with you to the police station?’
This time, she looked at me. Again, she shook her head, smiling sadly, ‘O child...’
I must have stood there not knowing what to do, watching her shivering, tears rolling
down her cheeks, brushing the gravestone. I looked around and recognized the area.
This was that part of the graveyard- the place for the unmarked, the excommunicated,
the ostracized, the criminals, the immoral lot and all the other bad ghosts discarded
by my society.
‘Why did you come here?’ I asked hoping that it did not sound like an accusation.
I thought that she would not reply or that she might tell me to get lost. But, she
asked me,
‘Will you sit next to me...just for a moment?’ She must have seen me move back
involuntarily and she added bitterly ‘This is not contagious...’
I sat on the ground next to her. We sat quietly for a while but I sensed that she wished
to speak- being non-threatening, I must have fitted the role like how we confide to
strangers on a train, just someone together for a while.
She pointed at the grave,
‘Today is his death anniversary.’
Then she paused, breathing deeply,
‘The man you saw knew I would come here. For him and his cronies, it was patriotic
revenge. He didn’t even want to be the first...just watched, and waited till the others
were done and gone...they said that they felt justified doing this to me, like they were
lynching him once again, they said...’ she broke down, leaning against me lightly.
I sat there stiffly, hardly thinking about her...what if I had been the victim? For
years, I have tried to figure out the answer to that. I knew that she was terribly
miserable but to tell you the truth, I have no idea about the extent of her pain.
‘Who is he?’ I asked, tilting my head towards the grave.
‘Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?’
I tried to recollect the day’s headlines. I vaguely remembered a small article about
today being a black day. On this date three years back, a terrorist was nabbed- after
the terrorist entered a school and killed twenty three people at a primary school, three
teachers and twenty kids. One of those teachers was a distant aunt and two of those
kids lived in my neighbourhood.
I think I stood up and moved away from her.
‘I deserve what I got, right?’ she laughed and to me, it seemed like she was mocking
herself.
I went back, knelt in front of her, ‘Sorry.’ She must have realized that I was not a
child or an adult, and that I meant it. ‘Was he your husband?’
‘No...we knew each other...met when we could...’
I kept quiet.
‘I should have known that he was a time-bomb waiting to explode...we never talked
about ourselves...why waste time, we thought...I could rest my head against his chest
and sleep so well. That’s all that I wanted. I used to wake up knowing that he would
be there...looking at me, tenderly, lovingly...that’s all we wanted.’
‘I try to forget all that he told me...but, I didn’t listen well I suppose, even when he
foretold doom:
In the dark days to come -

With you,
Your words, your kiss, your touch,
To know peace,
To forget rage,
In this world -
In this damned world,
With you,
I might survive.
When I heard about what he did, I hated myself more than I had to hate him. I
knew that I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember.’
‘For three years, I stayed away from this city...unknown. I tried hard not to think of
him. But today...I knew that he was buried here...I thought I would ask him...why.’
Her words and her life did not mean much to me then. We parted that night knowing
that we will never see each other. I did not know that her scream would stay with
me forever.
In the years that followed, I kept hearing that scream. I heard it when I was betrayed,
when I felt lost, when I felt defeated- by the system, by my society, by kith and kin,
when even the judicial system destroyed my life...
When I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember...
With pain, a brief tired protest, saying...nothing...
I hear that scream...is it my scream now?

Chapter 2
Poetry
2.1 If she knew...
Lessons, near forgotten, guided my fingers:

at the back of the neck, a tense spot,
was that a murmur, or a sigh, or sheer comfort?
Down the spine, at the sides, up to the front,
a kiss here and there, a nibble once in a while.
How she loves it, certainly not an act;
her nipples rising to the touch, selfish ones,
forever seeking attention, ebb and flow of the tides;
down below, further and further, her eyes close.
Relax, relax, relax. Whispered words,
caressing touches, sucking, tasting, going on.
‘My masseur’, call me that I tell her,
but she does not wish to speak, not bothered.
In her mind, I suspect, thoughts far from that I wish;
In my mind, if she knew, she would cry rape.
2.2 Suicide
39
CHAPTER 2. POETRY 40
When Sylvia wrote

I-have-done-it-again,
You and I ooh-aah-ed;
Of what use is that
To dust six feet under?
In the good well he was found,

And his kid still quite fresh
Hanging from the new fan,
So was it with Sita and Sati,
Honour, despair, fine words.
Cowards, idiots at least;

With bulging eyes, bloated
Carcass, shit-smeared,
Not even a pretty sight,
Exiting with no encore.
Let’s be fair.
How long
Will I care
When you’re use-
Less, dead or alive?
But, you’ve nothing to kill,

By my hand or yours;
On a strange silent path,
Poor, alone and dreaming,
Hardly a page three dreary.
With a fine company of ghosts,

Madmen not so street-smart,
Worthless dead in worthy wars,
Faceless, voiceless, lifeless,

You live a suicide every day.
2.3 Madness
I’m not in chains, not yet,

room-bound, maybe;
With six windows
and the Net, I’m not really
Not free.
How did it start,

you ask, don’t you?
I didn’t do
what others did.
That’s it.
Then they whispered

and spoke in signs;
Interfered, controlled,
incapacitated, isolated.
It’s easy.
It’s tough to sit and talk,

to listen, not to judge;
It’s tough to understand,
we know it all,
Don’t we?
Threw it all away, they say,

spitting phlegm, excreting,
vomiting, sweating, crying,
Threw it all away, I say,

But me, my mind.
2.4 On hearing a woman sob in Cargèse
It is 7 pm. I am hiding in my hotel room.

Next to the road, on a thread-bare bedspread,
Thro’ cheap curtains, there’s no view but I’m OK.
Then I hear a woman sobbing. I repeat, sobbing.
This is not the place for a woman to sob.

There’s the sea to soothe (with a few irritants ashore).
It is scrub land (but city folks’ paradise).
One is loony to be alone (now you know why I hide).
But with savage tourist instincts,

In the land bereft of natives, with the French speaking English,
With the tired cleaning lady covering her bra,
To eat paella or burger? Who cares to be naked on a nude beach?
This is my first touch with life, hurrah!

I listen to the woman sobbing for 10 minutes,
Probably her dog has flu, or her bikinis are wet,
But for the rest of my stay I could think.
2.5 Scavenger
Loneliness has been the trashcan

To huddle around, to burn memories,
With the company of strangers,
Nothing new and nothing to get used to...
Found an old album in the junkyard

Useful to borrow kith and kin,
Even love, when noone looks,
For an hour, or a day, no more...
Quite rarely an old familiar peeps

From a distance,
Fearing the disease of need,
Embarassed too...
Craving any addiction

But company
Anything to hurry Time
But not to maim...
He’s no reason to live nor die

He’s no karma nor bhakti to guide
He gathers pain from every corner
Searching for some way, some answer...
When one fears not death

Can one be mortal
And love, and dream,
And live, and pray...
2.6 Proposal
Skeletons in the closet. Are there?

From the Neanderthal in animal skins
To cosmopolitan Mr. Anonymous.
Buried deep or loosely scattered,
I gather the fragments hoping
To capture the heart and the mind. Fool!
Can you guess who she is?

Is she praying or...?
Can you guess where I am?
Am I kneeling or...?
How do I mould her blush and my breath?
You know the answers.
The winter’s been long and harsh.

The fields like awakened graveyard
With lines of trees mere skeletons.
Escaping from palaces-or gaols?-
Across empty parks with long shadows
With the blue sky along promising hope.
I followed a lone cloud,

To a world of reflections;
I see a face in those waters,
Once shy, once sly, teasing.
Scared to reach and touch and disturb.
With a smile, she continues the chase.
It’s a journey through shades.

Ground rug-worn, grass crushed,
And couples in the distance.
In the light or in the shadows?
Under trees, behind bushes or in the open?
Choices. For then or now?
There are messages etched on trees,

And the velvet ground beckons.
Let’s rest for a while.
And listen to birds, our breath,
Echoes of the sounds of past lovers.
Let’s leave our mark. Shall we?
My lady, forgive this simple mind

For conjuring often used sights.
Is old love bad love? I wish I knew.
Material truths can be unkind.
Let fantasies make paupers knights.
Fantasies or love? I wish I knew.
Away, away from princely tales.

What does a man need?
From the edge of our land,
Over wild flowers and a silent vale,
Spying fog-laden mountains,
Whispering secrets, hand in hand.
Step out onto the balcony, my love.

Beyond those mountains, there’s a tribe
Racing for money, buying selling company.
Here, in little rooms in little plots
With prayers from lips to lips, lovers stand bare,
Watching this same serene sight.
Come back within and make me whole.

Should we step lightly on these floorboards?
And rest gently upon these sheets?
Feel the air pregnant with passion.
No more a captive. No more restraints.
Let’s follow His will- to live and to love.
2.7 (1999-2001)
2.7.1 Can you see the eyes-
of the mother, raped, refugee her identity,

head covered, baby suckling at bare breast, titled ‘Tragödie’;
of the newly-wed widow, confused, victim of a cause’s kill,
shielding the warm carcass, mumbling ‘kal ’;
of the soldier, booted, scared, confined with loneliness,
wondering if he is, labeled a hero in papers’ excesses;
of youths gazing nowhere, clinging to love long lost,
of women with empty cases, flowers for a ghost,
of the crazed, laughing, snoring, the pillow held tight,
of the sane, full of reason and purpose, lofty and might;
if you cannot-
enter the train leading nowhere, stacked neatly,

as in a slaughterhouse, cackle merrily,
the guillotine is not for you, suppose,
waited upon, sipping wine, a sight for windows,
gather the friends, for sex or serious talk,
ask not why the neighbour is of silent stock,
read the Book, be wise, learn the truth,
pray to God, pay and confess at the booth,
seek serene sleep, the race continues,
to be noticed, tagged, love, shackles to be cut loose,
do not see the eyes-
2.7.2 A cage, ?, an idea
I am in a cage with no eyes upon me.

I could escape, I could, but to a bigger one.

It is a circus outside. For them, too.
Inside, outside, within, without: mere semantics.
Chewing cud, reclining, let me watch those eyes.
I am a question mark with no question preceding.

Curved, promising, a trace of certainty in the dot,
But the symbol stays preserved, chaste.
Like the pretty girl whom I watch from far,
The question begs to be there; but I stand alone.
I am an idea He thought of- just an idea.

When He smiles, welts appear upon my skin,
At times I cry but I imitate His smile.
When He turns the hour-glass, like the sand I obey,
Trickling thro’ Time, entering a new vacuum.
2.8 (1993-1999)
2.8.1 Love to murder
Look at him -
The little bird that’s fallen off the nest:
do I gather him and care,
do I let him be,
and walk away?
Let me watch him grow

under my eyes - proud and a little selfish:
how he shall glance at me,
how he shall love
in helplessness!
He and I shall part for a moment

as it needs to be in natural ways -
will he stumble and starve,
will he fall prey
to the unloving?
Let him be in young abandon -

orphan, senselessly dying -
let him slip away unknowing,
let him know not
future despair!
2.8.2 The Oldest Trade
The trade be the oldest, they say,

By the street side, enticing,
promising, little maybe, but enough.
Bargaining in subtle ways,

Presents or gentle chatter,
never to hurt, never the truth.
The clock is set,

And the alarm shall ring,
Heed it not
But the sudden awakening,
Shall ache the head.
The same customer,

The same way,
The same time?
Maybe yes, maybe not,
Expectations nought.
But competition leaves

nagging Solitude...
Treasures in the attic-

affection (they said),
friendship-
That be the name of the trade...
2.8.3 Anonymous
Amidst the smile seeking scared,

Anonymous lingers bewildered;
Singed by the fires of uncertainty,
Shying from defining self an entity.
Fiscal pressures or moment’s interest,

Plagued by activity none too sure of,
Psychological integrity seeks the best,
And the world, so strange, to dorn or doff.
Anon’s biography lies undedicated

To parents, their tears. Or abandoned life,
To Eros who caresses, yet aloof instead,
To self who alone cares, or to life, this strife.
2.9 (1989-1993)
2.9.1 To My Son - Beneath The Mushroom Cloud
‘...lived happily forever!’ And now, sleep sweet son,

Though in darkness I’ll be. Kindle that flame at dawn.
With the frailty of this hard age, I’ll watch over,
Sentinel over hope’s tides, wary of the silence of the rooster.
Did you have your fill of ancient lore this night?

Or did you sight the charade of this modern knight-
While my breath match my hope, or my tear shorn eyes
Stare within the dark globes basking in the glow which arise?
Let these gnarled fingers cuddle you to my bosom-

A white rose never prey, I pray, to the awesome;
The self same fingers by morn bent over buttons
Ready to spear an invisible foe when another summons.
Your gentle breath and smile of peace,

Sweet nectar that flows- such sweet release!
What will I leave for you- a past you shall hate,
A present to hide, a future none or just too late?
What will you inherit- my son, cherub, love and heir,

When this clay’s shattered while your’s smoked in fire:
Charred earth, graves’ estate, or blind by what you saw,
Will you be dead, deaf or dumb by what I sow?
2.9.2 Sailors’ custom
The cold wind lashes my brittle heart,

My friend, I pray, don’t drift apart;
But it’s time for the rites of the high seas
When by lots we shall decide whom to cease;
You, me or the others, whose blood shall soak,
Whose flesh shall fill; let mind go senses broke.
If it’s me, feed on me
without a qualm,
If it’s you, shut your eyes
for they might break this lunatic calm.
There used to be a sailors’ custom when they are stranded on the high seas - of taking
lots to decide who to eat.
2.9.3 The Story Of Swapna

(Anon., 1991, From The Scrap Shop)
A Thought
I wonder:
Life appears good Enemies of no account Promises set alright

With no complaint Everyone nice As dreams
Along the line And no woe brought Or reality could wish
Of a past dream With hope unfulfilled; And no foul by Fate
But, with no joy. Yet, deemed a loner. Still without love.
Why?
Searching & Finding
Alone, wandering, searching in the vast expanse-

The air spoke past’s agony- the night before dawn.
I was not alone for I could hear a gentle sobbing-

Another lonely heart; breaking rules, the like did attract.
Away in a mansion- dark but for a single lamp,
Its flare flitting restless, drops of oil aflame fall as fiery
tears;
And beyond it lay a corridor, lit shadows treading a measure
Giving form to the moment’s tale to the rhythm of woeful passions.
This stifled light crept along the corridor,
And caressed a form lying by a shuttered window.
The striving eye has met its mark, the search is over
For there lay my dreams moulded in mortal clay!
But?...
This quill can never trace my heart’s treasure.

But with confessed cripple, let me say ‘O dainty maiden!’
Her dark hair straying across that beauteous fair face,

Those tear stained cheeks glisten as moonlit waters,
There were creases strange on her brow, selfish-sorrow-scarred;
The black eyes filled dim, but no power could mar that wonder,
The long wet lashes like reaching branches dripping dew,
Yet, through the full waters, there lay a light- from yore, or
hope of morrow.
Her bloodstained lips trembled, lucky breath to kiss her tender;
Her face rests on a step, flesh on stone, warmth on cold-
The rivulet of tears trickled till they dropped on her heaving
bosom,
The unfelt cold, for her heart seemed afire with passions too
fiery.
Why?...
There she lay still but for her straying eyes

Which looked out into the night, looking for...
How I wished to break that troubled repose!

And then, as if thoughts spoke, she turned, startled-
Our eyes met, questions not asked, answers known;
I stepped down and knelt by her, but not touching-
Not to harm her gentle self, but with yearning,
And as per heart’s decree, she set the password of the moment:
She smiled.
O love!
Epilogue: To Her
I need not spell your name, dear one,

I need not paint your form, my friend,
For my emotions and passions for you
May lie in vain in a chant or an idol.
Many a time have I stood mute as a praying nun,
Endlessly seeking words to suit my desire’s trend,
But what could this simple man review
In want of words true but unknown to any mortal.
Pained I am to be so far from your self,

Yet to be crushing near with our heart;
All I have to ease my ache and remorse
Are memories of your gentle smile and eager eyes.
Every time my senses lie blocked, your words awaken my self,
When the body is in wasteful repose, promises made fire me apart,
Doubly fueled to meet life- whether gentle or coarse,
To rush to the day when we meet- to a proud surprise.
So friend, beloved- whatever you maybe to me,

Know how much I love, I care- I owe my life to thee.
Chapter 3
Not Prose Nor Verse Probably

Blog
3.1 A Tweet A Face A Blog
Can I:
tweet a tweet
with 140
characters
when all I
want to say
are just 4?
face a book
with x
friendly pals
when all I
want to see
are with me?
mail or blog
60
CHAPTER 3. NOT PROSE NOR VERSE PROBABLY BLOG 61
with too many

doggerel
when all I
want to write
are to you?
Fare Thee Well.
3.2 Fraud in Science

Ref: Fraud in Science: Liar! Liar! (The Economist, June 3rd, 2009)
Are phrases such as ‘a code for integrity and responsibility in research’ and ‘the basic
rules of good scientific practice’ mere platitudes? Even at the start of this millenium,
scientific organizations were trying hard to correct the situation 1 . Fabricating data
(fantastical and low-level) is definitely a heinous scientific sin.
To prevent fraud, preservation of data and records of the investigations are es-
pecially relevant for large-scale (experimental or computational) projects since the
verification of results require resources and time beyond the scope of the majority.
Such projects are properly done when the supervisors and subordinates (usually stu-
dents and post-docs present for a short term) are equally responsible and if both
parties have hands-on experience with the work. It might help if each publication has
a footnote stating the role of each author in the publication. This is still anathema
to most researchers.
Unfortunately, fraud is not the only sin committed in both experimental (presum-
ably more relevant) and theoretical work. It should be noted that there is ambiguity
in the rules of the game and that it is a tough task to decide when or whether the rules
are broken. Consider papers in which a theory is ‘cooked-up’ (recipe including simple
analyses, a set of assumptions and convenient free parameters) to ‘fit’ experimental
results. The difficulty to disprove some of these ‘theories’ could be comparable to the
difficulty to explain the experiment. Doubt and criticism remain within an old-boys
1
For example, please refer to ‘Rules for Integrity’ (in MaxPlanckResearch 2/2001, p. 90).
network and does not become knowledge in the public domain. It is not uncommon
that even if a work is erroneous by way of calculation and concept, the paper still gets
cited by those who are unaware of the deficiencies and take the peer-reviewed results
for granted. By the time the errors are known in public, the publication would have
ceased to matter even though it proved to be useful for promotions and new positions.
It is usually a lucky day for Science when these errors are mentioned as inadvertent
errors in footnotes. Next, consider papers submitted for peer-review. Even if er-
rors are suspected (and probably because brilliant results are as rare as geniuses), a
paper could be accepted due to complicity in the network or with the unwritten com-
ment ‘it does not matter since it is going into that journal’. Meanwhile, the reviewer
could start simulations/experiments of their own on the same topic during the review
process. Are these low-level sins?
Scientists are definitely as human as everyone else. The job of a scientist is just
like any other job in a close community with ethically correct individuals being the
minority and rules broken by the majority - if not closely watched.
3.3 Last Days At A KPO/BPO/...

...(or, How To Make Your Employee Write His/Her Own Pink Slip)...
Yesterday, on the local train, I met a friend who had left his job. That is what
he told me though I suspected that he got the pink slip. He was with one of the
BPO/KPO/service centers of an investment bank (are there any left?) and this is an
extract from that conversation:
I : How was it like?

He : What was what like?
I : You know, recession, credit crunch, pre-/post-Lehman...
He : (silent)
I : Come on, you know, living with the threat of a pink slip, loss of job, money,...
He : (laughs) Heard that some pensioners in Japan lost some money and a few people
in US and Europe.
I : You are being insensitive.

He : (after staring at me for a while) Where I was, we made money. Yeah, we did
not get a pay hike but we got bonus. Nearly 30-40% of fixed pay. And for some, an
additional bonus to be paid in the course of a year - 100-200% of fixed pay.
I : Wow, if I am getting a lakh as fixed pay, I will get bonus of a lakh or two.
He : Yeah, if you are getting 20 lakhs, you will get as bonus 6-8 lakhs plus 20-40
lakhs. And that’s just for lower management. And, they can’t chuck you out without
paying - unless they can prove that you have been bad.
I : (a little dumbstruck ) Then...
He : Now, as for pink slips, there are smart ways to get the job done - and, without
paying bonus or any severance amount.
I : What ways?
He : Let’s assume that I am your boss, a non-technical manager, and you are a
conscientious employee who reviews/manages the technical work done in the group.
Now, what will I do:
• Divide & rule. Make you co-head with another less technical person; I will route
all communication and opportunities to that person and neglect your progress.
• To the others in the group, you are visibly not even a co-head. Even if the
junior associates abuse you in public, I will do nothing about it.
• Increase neglecting you to the extent that you do not get a chance to talk to
your technical manager for 5-6 months.
• Assign tasks/assignments to you that are low on priority, involves heavy work
and lots of time.
• I will assign to you associates (if any) for projects who are allowed to keep very
flexible timing (say, come to office at 11 am, leave for lunch at 1:30 pm, return
at 4:30 pm after siesta, etc.). If you still manage to make the associate do some
work, I will allow the associate to go for a long vacation - without even asking
you. When you have done most of the work and the associate returns after
vacation, I will shift you out of leading that project to completion and allow
the associate to take credit.
• I will do nearly everything without even talking to you - and further, assign you
to a new task rejected by others in the group.
• I will reject your request for leave - even for 2 to 3 days. If you manage to get
the leave application approved, you are assigned a task which has a deadline
clashing with your vacation.
• Now, if you are still around, you are assigned to a task in the London office for
a period of 3-4 weeks. And due to urgency, I will advise you (verbally and never
written) to take from India a business visa rather than a work permit. Recent
UK immigration rules are fuzzy about this - at least, fuzzy as far as you can
gather from local sources. You are going to work in London on your account or
someone else’s account on various trading platforms and systems but you will
state that you are just going for tutorials or training. Now, will you make it
through Immigration at Heathrow airport and will you return to work with me?
I : But surely there are people who take care of employees ... like HR ...
He : (laughs)
3.4 Emotional Trauma/Torture = Normal Wear &

Tear?
With reference to an article in the Times of India ‘Marital tiff not cruelty, can’t be
basis for divorce’, a few points come to mind:
1. How do you prove emotional trauma/torture in court?
2. When you fear to return to your house and spouse after work everyday, is it
normal wear and tear?
3. Does the court recognize the fact that certain couples are incompatible and
that incompatibility could be the reason for the absence of trust, respect and
responsibility?
4. How do you prove the absence of trust, respect and responsibility in court?
5. Why is it that the judicial system recommends that divorce be granted only
when people are ‘at fault’ and does not usually recognize that relationships can
suffer ‘irretrievable breakdown’ ?
6. The court considers marriage to be a sacred ceremony and worries about the
future of marriage due to the flooding of divorce petitions. Why is it so easy to
get married and so difficult to get divorced?
7. In marriage and divorce cases, should the court consider prevention to be the
best cure (unlike criminal cases where the court needs to act after the problem
arises)?
8. Should counseling and third-party mediation/certification be made mandatory

before marriage rather than before divorce? Maybe, couples who are getting
married should also visit the District Family Court and observe the proceedings
for a day or two, and understand the shoddy environment and situation, the
pain and agony and also, the prevalent deceit inside and outside court.
9. If the court assumes that the couple were adults at the time of marriage, should
not the court assume the same at the time of divorce?
10. Does the court recognize the fact that in lots of cases, couples have gone ‘through
hell’ and life could be on the brink of disaster without aggravating and destroy-
ing lives by prolonging cases and waiting for couples to reach some kind of
mutually agreed divorce?
11. Is there justice if it is delayed and can the court take a few years of life if not
all?
12. Does the court recognize ‘the stigma of being divorced’ and does the court
condone such a thought which seems to be similar to an old custom where
widows (and maybe, widowers) were treated as stigma?
3.5 From Developing To Developed Without Be-

ing Nouveau Riche
Hans Rosling says that income per person in India and China will overtake that of the
US and the UK by July 2048. Headlines in the print media never include error bars
associated with data points even though Rosling himself hints at probable sources of
error, for example, read the interview in the Economic Times. But, the common man
on the street knows that Rosling must be right. Give or take a few rupees, onions
at Rs 35/kg, jeera rice at Rs 50/kg, a sovereign of gold at Rs 14000, a cent of land
in a Tier II/III city at Rs 1000000, a 25-year old with a half-baked degree earning
enough to stay in a 1 bedroom flat and keep 4 servants (to wash the car, to clean, to
cook, to walk the dog or the baby). In most Indian cities, if you talk about the great
divide, the reply is ‘It trickles down’ and you hope that it trickles fast fearing the
birth of urban Naxalites. At least 100 years after independence, we should become
developed, right?
We have nearly 40 years and there is plenty to do - for us and the government.
The list is long and it is quite meaningless and too tiring to be complete here. As
far as the government is concerned, they should first stop devaluing the education
system. It is the most important infrastructure project and to stretch the metaphor,
relying on quantity rather than quality is like building a bridge without concrete.
Secondly, the government should listen to people like Enrique Penalosa (the former
mayor of Bogota - read this article from the Hindu in which he says ‘Footpaths make
all the difference’). Some time before we are developed, we will learn to walk, we will
stop wanting to be a manager and we will take a degree to be educated on a subject
we love.
Before we are developed, there are a few things we can do to be prepared. First,
consider the case of Rahul (name changed). He was a VP in an investment bank in

the US (graduate from IIT, postgraduate from an Ivy league school in the US). He
faced a slump in his career out there and was given an opportunity to relocate to the
Indian office and build a group or leave the firm. He made the obvious choice to be
the successful ‘expat’ in India. Within a year or so, he had nearly a dozen or more
IIT graduates working for him and he was on the ‘fast-track’. He came and went in
a posh sedan, with a driver who carried his bag from the entrance of the office to the
car in true British Raj fashion. Back in the US, he must have used public transport
along with his boss and probably his boss’ boss. Sure, there are snooty people out
there but they are usually pea-brained or super-rich and mentally challenged. With
more and more people becoming crorepatis (I am still a few zeros away from that
and do correct me if that is a low denomination these days), it is important to avoid
the problems of the nouveau riche (NR). In the old days, the NR were sent to prep
schools to be educated on how to pretend to be born with blue blood. These days,
the NR should learn from people like Obama (he might bow low to the Emperor of
Japan but none, with sense, will doubt that it is due to low self-esteem). The lesson
seems to be: try not to be nouveau riche.
Secondly, we should be ready for the pains associated with the developed world and
the list includes higher rates of suicide, divorce; fierce competition in a meritocratic
society; and, a view of being either a success story or a loser. Here, I would like to
recommend a TED talk by Alain de Botton on a kinder gentler philosophy of success.
He stresses that we should always allow for the haphazard in our lives - random events
that could make or break us (hopefully, just for a while). For example, on Monday,
if the Dubai debt crisis triggers the next wave of defaults and a black swan waddles
into our life saying ‘I am back.’
3.6 Fare Thee Well (Or, After Reading Larkin Be-

fore Breakfast)
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
(from Aubade)
I wish I had a hangover when I read these lines - not at four, but at a healthy six after
four hours of sleep. I do not have time to think of death. Each day, I procrastinate
and postpone my rebirth. A confirmed anti-social in social networking sites - I love it.
A click works faster than cyanide - I can vaporize from the Net into jumbled senseless
bytes.
The narcissistic Net! It is freedom for the middle-class - biggest revolution after
the all-purpose nightdress; cure for mid-life crisis, release of angst, to forget snail mail
to agony aunts and/or editors, to cook up news (damn it, the quizmaster says that
it is not North East West South but Naughty Entertainment Woolly Stories) and, of
course, to contact old best-forgotten pals and compare visiting cards.
Aubade means ‘A song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying,
or evoking daybreak.’ Or, ‘A poem or song of or about lovers separating at dawn.’
Enough of that, I flipped the page.
Sexual intercourse began

In nineteen sixty-three
(from Annus Mirabilis)
Each generation prays for paradigm shifts! But, it is usually as Yogi Berra said ‘It’s
dèjá vu all over again.’ Science and technology might have paradigm shifts. But,
in human thought? We will not allow Hussain and his naked goddess; fortunately,
we did not have to create Ardhanarisvara. It would have offended some manoos and
a gutless government would have been ready to ban. After all, for longevity and
success, it is better to be ‘nice people with commonsense’. If you take MBA (hurry,
you can still appear for the CAT tomorrow), they will teach you to be that minus
ethics. As for me, I vaguely remember Isabel Allende saying in a TED talk ‘Nice
people with commonsense do not make interesting characters - they only make good
former spouses.’
For those who really long for longevity and success, there are two things to do in
life: create a new word and compose a memorable epitaph. Nothing else will remain.
Learn from quantum, boojum, defriend, tweet, blog, skype. If the word is really good,
you can bring out an IPO. If not, you can always blame your parents with:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.
(from This Be The Verse)
I have procrastinated enough for a day. I have a version of the old Hindi song which
starts something like ‘angrezi mein kehta hai ke fare thee well’.
3.7 Musing In Bullet Points

There are days when one thinks/speaks/acts in bullet points.
It was so on Friday morning. Possible reasons:
• G’s call on Thursday
• India-Spain hockey match (till 22:00, right?)
• Schindler’s List (23:00-02:00???). I had forgotten that this movie has a scene
in which a kid jumps into a toilet/shit-pool as in Slumdog Millionaire, though
there is nothing comic here. I remembered watching this movie at the Plaza
theatre on M.G. Road, Bangalore. There used to be a grand old hall with
wooden floor at the Plaza (if I remember correctly)- and, during the interval
of that movie, groups stood silently, some with wet eyes, most looking down
puffing fags like it was their last breath.
• Who the %$#@ set the alarm at 05:30?
• Very Very Heavy Indian-cum-Continental breakfast (artery clogging cardiolog-

ically risky but yummy stuff) (06:30-07:15) watching the break of dawn over
Powai lake.
At Mumbai airport, I met an old pal Arjun who seemed to be in a similar bullet-
point-state. On his way to Ahmedabad in a somber two-piece and an extremely loud
tie, we talked
• Hi.
• Hullo, Arjun! What’s up?
• Thinking...there used to be a time when I used to think that I am special, that

the airhostess is smiling at me. She doesn’t even see me, does she?
• Huh...
• Byeeee.
• Take care.
On the flight, I read
• In the Indian Express/The-Economist-page, I read an article ‘Intellectual Fire-

works’ on Arthur Koestler: ‘Like many intellectuals who profess their love for
humanity as a whole, Koestler had problems dealing with real human beings,
especially women. He expected his girlfriends and wives to serve as maids and
secretaries.’
• I felt good because I am not an intellectual and I certainly do not love humanity
in any part.
• In the March 2010 edition of Jet Wings, the Tarot assured me: ‘Someone seri-
ously exciting is coming your way. Don’t miss them.’
• It must have been that gorgeous person standing behind me during check-in.
Trust my luck to miss exciting stuff. But, do I really want serious stuff?
I think I recognized a few people at the airport and in the flight:
• Harsha Bhogle (cricket commentator), was it? To Delhi? Maybe it wasn’t him.
I don’t particularly like his style of commentary.
• A.K. Antony (Union Minister, Defence)? Economy class to TVM. I have always
admired him, especially when he used to submit resignation letters to his bosses.
• Prakash Karat (CPI-M big honcho)? Economy class to TVM. Recently, after
reading his interview with Ian Rankin in The Hindu, I found that we are both
fans of crime fiction. I would have liked to talk to him about that and possibly
give him a copy of my books-review ‘Crime As A Hobby’. Well, he was lucky
and we stuck to our rows.
• As you might have guessed, I do not have any affiliation to the Left/Right/Centre/etc.
Isn’t it more fun to bash everyone?
• Anyway, there I was basking in the happy state of sharing Economy Class with
two VVIPs. But, every white cloud has a dark lining. When we deplaned, those
two pushed off in the bus reserved for people in the First Class.
• I know I am being childish but it would have been nice if they had come along
with the rest of us in the economy class, right?
3.8 Avatar
Once in a while, I decide to try out a new avatar. Nothing dramatic- far from
that actually- merely exploring the many universes I could inhabit with a few trivial
decisions. Let me give you two examples.
Job:
I got sick of seeing the same old faces and decided to attend a few interviews. And, I
got a decent job offer. For some reason, I rejected the offer. I think I gave the excuse
that I expected an indecent offer.
It could not have been the numbers that mattered. I started my professional career
with a paycheck of USD 60 (I repeat, monthly paycheck) but, I joined that institution
based on an irrational good feeling which turned out to be right.
I did not get a good feeling at this new place.
• Maybe, it was because I heard the Big Boss use the four-letter word with a very
junior employee. (Trust me, I am not puritanical but I believe in a fair fight.)
• Or maybe, I did not like the restrooms. (I do not know why they decided to
have thin walls in the restroom and the Big Boss’ office.)
• Or possibly, the HR person resembled my real-estate broker. (I am being unfair

to my real-estate broker but for some strange reason, all the HR people I have
known resemble my real-estate broker - all except one, but she left HR to become
a real-estate broker.)
Moral of the story:
Good feelings? (Use the four-letter word.) To accept good offers, forget good feelings.
Matrimony:
I joined one of the many online matrimonial sites. To those virgins who have never
frequented these online adult websites, let me say that the good ones cater to a wide
variety of fetishism in men and women: single, in the process of being single, divorced,
without issue, with issue but without liability, normal, disabled, etc.
I curbed my inclination to be verbose and along with the mandatory inputs such as
age, sex, misleading vital statistics (athletic, average, slim, etc.), entered my succinct
proposal: ‘Looking for a trustworthy companion.’
It started off well. I was informed, ‘Congrats! So-and-so has expressed interest in
you.’
The interested person turned out to be:

‘Caring, stable, upper middle class, well-employed, preference for partners working in
European countries, innocent divorce following marriage three years back which lasted
few weeks, with loving six-year old child not living together.’
Since I consider an ‘innocent’ divorce to be fictitious, I declined interest.
Then, the virus/bug/glitch occurred when I started expressing interest in suitable

characters. Strangely, in all cases, my interest was being declined before I expressed
it.
I contacted the administrator of the site. I received a quick (discomforting though

succinct) reply: ‘Time-zone problem.’
I have not figured out the ‘time-zone’ problem. One of my nasty friends offered
the explanation, ‘Probably, you have been blocked- trustworthy people do not look for
trustworthy companions.’
Moral of the story:
For company, do not look for fictitious characters. (Use the four-letter word again.)
That could have been the new avatar. With a few trivial decisions, one of my many
lives disappeared in a space-time worm-hole. Picture me with a companion, working
somewhere in Europe, earning plenty and whispering sweet loving four-letter words
to my boss.
(n.b. Any resemblance to fiction is purely coincidental.)
3.9 Blogalgia : 3 Examples Of A Growing Problem

Blogalgia is a type of pygalgia. While pygalgia (pyg=rump, algia=pain) definitely
means ‘pain in the butt’, there is considerable debate about whether blogalgia should
be taken to be any combination of ‘pain’ and ‘blog’. For the sake of generality,
‘blog’ here includes any channel of chatter and social networking using information
and communication technology (ICT). It should be emphasized here that the ‘pain’
relates to that experienced at a personal and psychological level and does not include
the distress caused by virulent attacks involving identity theft, virtual bullying and
hate-mongering.
In the last decade, the rapid growth of various channels of chatter via ICT has been
mostly viewed through rosy, though myopic, lenses. Business and charity organi-
zations, and even governments, have realized its immense scope. What began as a
means for virtual bonhomie has evolved into the proverbial Trojan horse- even ardent
fans raise the question ‘It feels good but what lies within?’
It is widely believed that the immense growth is a result of the desire for social
equality. The hoi polloi is able to ‘follow’ and communicate with the high and mighty
or, at least, the hoity-toity. For the first time in the history of mankind: anyone can
voice an opinion which, in principle, everyone anywhere could hear immediately.
Unfortunately, this seemingly benign desire for social equality is the root cause for
blogalgia. In this note, three examples or symptoms are briefly described and read-
ers are advised to contemplate on the same and take necessary remedial actions, if
necessary.
(1) There are numerous articles with the to-do list on how to get ‘visits’ that spans
a network. Some of the basic steps are:
• have an adequate number of friends (a theory even says that there is a unique
critical number);
• comment frequently on friends’ posts;
• post at an optimal time.
When one still faces nearly-zero viewers despite all such attempts, one rapidly decline
into a severe depression and decides to obliterate oneself from the virtual world un-
able to bear the pain due to the lack of success. It is even worse for that individual
who realizes that his friends or ‘followers’ are there not based on conviction, philos-
ophy or any meaningful attachment. Most are there for the same reason as serial
‘comment’ers, as described below.
(2) Serial ‘comment’ers are those who comment on everything and refuse to stop
even when their comment is not acknowledged. They attempt to ride along and the
prize that they seek is a visit to their own site (in the virtual world, Andy Warhol’s
expression should be ‘everyone will be famous for three seconds’). Strangely, they are
immune to any rebuke and it is those who receive their comments who suffer from
migraine, disillusionment and a total loss of words.
(3) When successful traits in these networks are carried over to other spheres, there is
usually painful chaos and havoc in the non-virtual reality of personal and professional
relationships. One of the root causes is the inability to write, speak or think a
well thought out grammatically correct sentence without emoticons whose substance
requires an attention span of more than three seconds. A colleague or a spouse is
usually not satisfied with byte-sized efforts or a comment but usually requires an
attempt to converse, preferably face-to-face. Even the judicial system is beginning to
wonder if the rising number of divorce cases can be attributed to such virtual causes.
The three examples respectively show that blogalgia could be pain suffered by an
individual, a network and even an external non-virtual network. A healthy discussion
of such and similar symptoms is highly recommended.
Appendix A
Movie Review
A.1 Paleri Manikyam

This movie by Renjith gets a grade of 7 out of 10. ‘What is the relevance of this
now?’ This question crops up in the second half and the reply starts with ‘It is a
reminder...’ That nearly explains the purpose of the movie.
The movie is based on a book by T. P. Rajeevan (which I have not read) and is
concerned with the brutal rape and murder (given away by the diffident subtitle Oru
Pathira Kolapathakathinte Katha or Midnight Murder Story) of Manikyam, a young
beautiful low-caste woman. This crime happens in a village called Paleri in 1957.
And now, 52 years later, a detective obsessed with this unsolved mystery reopens the
case.
Though the movie is supposed to be a detective story, the pieces of the puzzle
fall too easily into place, and it might be more appropriate and fulfilling to view the
movie without any expectation of suspense. In fact, the investigation is narrated just
like a documentary.
This movie unfortunately has only one main actor: Mammootty in a triple role.
As the detective, he does not have to do much. As the rich landowner and main
suspect Ahmed Haji, he is wonderful. In fact, the director seems to have done very
well in capturing the period of the crime rather than the present era. The same
might be said of the screenplay which is mostly good. Surely, the crime analyst if
76
APPENDIX A. MOVIE REVIEW 77
not the extra-marital affair is superfluous. Sreenivasan and Siddique put in a cameo
performance. The rest including Shweta Menon and Mythili try well and some if
not most are convincing. The photography and sound are fine - maybe, the loud
heart-thumping orchestra could have been replaced by something more subtle, edgy
and diabolic.
To my favourite question: will I watch the movie again? Yes. There are lots to
savour: a low caste woman watching her helpless husband being killed like you would
stamp and kill a centipede; the killing of the young woman with the command ‘go
and silence her’. It is ironical to hear the detective express a view about extra-marital
affairs and infidelity ‘to possess that of another’ and a villain exclaiming ‘why does
she have to cross my path and raise all kinds of bad thoughts’.
As mentioned earlier, this movie is an apt reminder. Does it matter whether it is
the 50’s or this millennium? The influence of power over the helpless and the weak,
sex crimes, willful suppression of facts related to a crime and the list goes on. Dèjá vu,
right? It is tough not to echo the words in the movie ‘I do not have ideology nor faith.’
(N.B. The quotes might not be entirely correct - I had to recollect from memory and
worse, I had to translate.)
A.2 Pazhassi Raja

‘Kerala Varma Pazhassi Raja’ the movie deserves a grade of 6.5 out of 10. It is a
movie worth seeing at least once. But, will I watch it again?
One should try to bear in mind the following: (a) it is based on history (b) it is
long (3 hours and 15 minutes) (c) before watching the movie, try not to be biased
and try not to compare (d) forget the Hariharan-MT-Mammootty legacy.
Mammootty and the Indian co-stars are good - restrained, powerful and quite
perfect for the role. Given the length of the movie, one wonders whether the characters
could have been more well-formed. Is that why one does not feel like brandishing a
sword at the end of the movie? Mammootty seemed a trifle stifled. Sarath seems to
have got the best role and he did very well with the little he had. The foreign actors
performed as if it was a school play. The women are unfortunately quite forgettable.
The second half of the movie is better than the first half. At times, the scenes
seemed abrupt. The fights could have avoided the touch of Crouching Tiger Hidden
Dragon. The orchestra in the background score seemed to lack a local flavour. The
photography and the location of each scene are beautiful and picture-perfect. Since it
is supposed to be Kerala, one wonders whether there is too much light and too little
mud.
Finally, can one compare this movie with Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha (OVV)? No.
OVV is loosely based on a folktale and twists the tale to the extent a much-despised
character (Chathiyan Chanthu) is the hero and much-adored characters (Aromal
Chevakar, Unniyaarcha) are shown in bad light. Filmgoers then protested about
such literary freedom but loved the product of Hariharan-MT-Mammootty. Female
actors like Madhavi and Geetha impressed with intelligence and beauty and not their
cleavage.
The cost of the balcony ticket is INR 40. Along with INR 40 for the to-and-fro
rickshaw ride and INR 15 for a packet of crisps, it is not too expensive. Since it
was a morning show, there was ample leg room. Quite a few elderly people kept me
company. Some elderly ladies came alone and some old men were guided by their
grandchildren. The man who sat two seats away in the same row reeked of alcohol.
There were just a few groups of college students. They hooted and whistled only a few
times; cheered when Mohanlal speaks in the beginning and when Mammootty makes
a less-than-grand entrance; and, they even shouted Bharat-ki-jai in the beginning.
But unfortunately, even they did not feel like shouting that at the end. As I left in
the auto, I tried to remember a scene. When I do, I might watch the movie again
with the rest of my family.
A.3 Kayyoppu
The movie deserves a grade of 7 out of 10. There are two main themes: (a) writing,
writer’s block and a Muse and (b) clarion call to end differences based on religion,
begging for human kindness and against cruelty such as terrorism. Here, I will not
let out any spoilers regarding the story or plot (available from other sources with a
simple Google search I am sure). Most probably, I have given an extra point because
I am biased towards writing. Also, I enjoyed the movie and I will watch it again on
another night when I want to relax and think alone.
The first theme is the dream of a lot of dreamers - from school kids to geniuses
in the creative world - of a Muse who crosses one’s path and inspires. At times,
the Muse might bring love and reciprocate one’s own affection; sometimes, without
personal attachment but with just their presence and the right words at the right
time, creativity breaks free from any yoke or block; and, for some the Muse remains
just an ill-defined spirit.
The second theme is about terrorism. It is now not just a headline about some-
thing that happens to others in faraway places. It happens to us and those close to
us. It has two main goals: to terrorize, cause suffering and attract attention; and, to
create large-scale friction in society via misunderstanding and labels such as religion
and to fragment the society. This movie tries to raise a voice against these cowardly
acts of terrorism and its goals.
This movie by Renjith is uncomplicated, pleasant and refreshing; and tries to
deliver the message without guile and through simplicity. The simplicity of the movie
might be its failing, too. I might be ready to excuse simple plots and average visuals,
but I need at least one full-blooded character. Maybe, I am just being cynical.
Mammootty and Khushboo have done very well on their own (are they too restrained
one wonders); with Mukesh, Mammu Koya and others giving excellent support. I
liked the background music and the discussions about writing.
This is not a new movie and thankfully, Moser Baer has brought out a CD/DVD
of this movie.
A.4 Aparan
This movie by Padmarajan gets 7.5 out of 10. With the dearth of decent movies
(released from any Wood - Holly/Molly/Kolly/Bolly/Tolly), a movie buff can either
sit and cry or rummage through old storage boxes for a CD/DVD of a classic - like
this one from 1988.

The story revolves around a case of mistaken identity involving a decent youth
from a lower middle-class close-knit family and a look-alike who is an orphan and a
hardened criminal. Jayaram makes his debut in this movie - excellent performance
and I would not be too surprised if the great director had a big role to play in
that also. Along with Jayaram, we have a host of well-thought-out characters (with
Madhu, Sukumari, Parvathy, Soman, Mukesh, Sobhana and other excellent actors).
With this genre of suspense, one usually has the lurking problem/doubt: have I
seen this story elsewhere? It does not matter. In this two-hour long movie, there is
hardly any flab and there are many scenes you will remember for a long time: from
the play with shadows and reflections to the smile on Jayaram’s face in the last scene.
This movie comes from an era in Malayalam cinema when the heroes were men
and not supermen, and the Malayalam movie/actors/directors did not resemble their
counterparts from the neighbouring states. This movie could compete with some of
the best in the crime/suspense genre in Malayalam cinema, and to name just three of
my favourites: Yavanika (with the superb Gopi), Kariyila Kattu Pole, Ee Thanutha
Veluppan Kalathu (the last two also from Padmarajan as writer or director).
Keep these in mind when you want to watch a decent movie with your family
rather than waste grey cells and lots of money on trash.
A.5 3 Idiots
Eez aall vell ? This movie gets 5.5 out of 10. Based on a line in the movie: is this
movie a philosophy class or is it just an average slapstick comedy? Is it about a
faulty education system in which a brilliant student excels? Or maybe, geniuses are
untouched by the system and it is about the plight of lesser mortals in a faulty system.
What do we have - a tepid start, excess of male bottoms/underwear, resuscitation
midway with a twist in the tale, acts of a genius at regular intervals and then, petering
out in a little less than 3 hours. This movie revolves around Aamir - he is good (as
usual) but for most of the movie, he has to sport only one expression - that of a
wide-eyed imp. Madhavan and Boman Irani are thoroughly wasted. Kareena is nice.
Leaving aside the humour, the movie touches on two serious topics: one, the
aspiration of most parents - to make their child an engineer or a doctor (these days,
is it not MBA?); two, life and education in the premier institutions in this country.
With regard to parents’ aspiration, is it not the best bet for them - at least as an
investment decision? If you want to do something else, do it with your own money or
either prove your worth or get ready to have a tough time convincing your parents.
Sounds fair? Of course, some parents might try to achieve through their kids what
they could not achieve or worse, what their neighbour or relative has achieved. But,
for most parents the excuse will be - parents have to say what they have (or, are
expected) to say. Like, become a doctor or an engineer; marry within the same caste;
do not have affairs or sex outside marriage; do not have safe sex with your spouse till
you have the required number of kids, etc.. At the end of the day, you are the only
one responsible for your life. And, on the road less travelled, life is never easy.
With regard to the premier institutions, it might be true that the painful char-
acter Chatur might not be an exception, if not the majority. But, isn’t that how
it is like in the big bad world - corporate, academic or elsewhere? Also, the movie
got it right in saying that these institutions do not give much importance to inno-
vation/research. It is not surprising since these institutions are known mainly for
undergraduate education. To quote a professor in one of these places ‘the BTechs
are the products, the MTechs are the byproducts, and the PhDs the wasteproducts’.
Maybe, with increasing load, it is an impossible task to give the required one-to-one
attention or to stimulate thinking. But, at least, try to avoid doling out half-baked
degrees. Of course, students should remember what my professor used to say ‘don’t
expect me to pat you on your back and make you burp’.
After this movie, I was trying to recollect related stuff in music and movies. The
Pink Floyd anthem: teachers, leave them kids alone? Or, carpe diem (seize the day)
and the suicide in Dead Poets Society? Or, to bunk the system, how about the
comedy Ferris Bueller’s Day Off ?
Maybe, this movie deserves more. Maybe, I expected a comedy at least like
Munnabhai MBBS if not Dil Chahtha Hai.
Finally, about the two current controversies. I wonder what people are trying to
achieve by deleting the scene of ragging. Sanitizing history? Moral police - stay away!
As for Chetan Bhagat, if he wants credit for the story, I am glad I have not read his
books so far.
A.6 Ividam Swargamanu

This movie gets 6 out of 10. In God’s Own Country, it is usually with wry amusement
that one says ‘Ividam swargamanu (This is heaven).’ Along with that, in this movie,
there seems to be the message: if you have a heaven, guard it with your life and
more importantly, do everything you can to keep it a heaven. This is told through
the story of a small-to-medium-scale farmer trying to guard his land and family from
the stranglehold of the ‘land mafia’ who also manage to turn the gullible community
against him.
Rosshan Andrrews has used the same formula (nave and admirable protagonist
nearly defeated by the system striking back with an ingenious plan) that he used in his
first movie ’Udayananu Thaaram’ but with less success. Mohanlal is under-utilized
(surely, more is expected from the Gerard Depardieu of Malayalam cinema who gave
us Kireedam, Bharatham, Varavelpu, Devasuram, etc.?). The same can be said about
nearly everyone in the cast except Lalu Alex and he has performed extremely well.
The three ‘leading’ ladies make a fortuitous appearance.
This movie is worth watching for the theme and the setting. The theme resonates
with the common man who complacently or helplessly watches his state/land/heaven
being defiled by the land mafia (along with the sand mafia, the education mafia, the
liquor mafia, the Party and the unions, quotation gangs, paedophiles, terrorist camps,
etc.). When you see the setting (the farm-house), do you remember the acre of fertile
agricultural land you sold for a 1000 sq.ft. flat in the outskirts of a city? Along with
this movie, I have a prayer to make to you. It is definitely not easy to make profit
from agriculture (especially, if you are a small-scale farmer) but as long as you have
your basic needs, please do not sacrifice your farm for the sake of a quick buck, an
easy life and careless development. Each time you go to your farm, even the most
sincere amongst you might feel like quoting from ‘Digging’ by Seamus Heaney (like I
do):
By God, the old man could handle a spade,

Just like his old man.
...
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Finally, unlike most Malayalam movies of the 80s and 90s, the hero in this movie is
able to beat the system - through the judiciary. One can only hope justice prevails
in reality, too.
Appendix B
Book Review
B.1 Crime As A Hobby

Recently, I attended a job interview where I was asked to name my hobby. Reading
crime novels, I replied, and added that I specialized in reading an entire series and
that I focused on novels from UK/Europe written post WW II. Now, does that sound
like a candidate’s specialized topic in the BBC quiz program Mastermind? They
did not ask me for further details. Like some people with a hobby, I want to be a
persistent bore, convert a few to this path of crime and provide a short note - straight
from the heart, a clich to excuse errors, chronological confusion, completeness and
paucity of academic points - say, dummies’ guide to crime novels.
Similar to the classical pranamam, the foundation is laid with the works of
Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and bits of G.K.Chesterton,
Josephine Tey, Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham and, that is of course, just nam-
ing a few in the pre-WW II era. Then comes P.D. James’ Dalgliesh (personally, I
preferred the early books about this detective-poet who survived the loss of wife and
child rather than the later novels with more romantic sentiments) and Ruth Rendell’s
Wexford (the family man with his devoted wife, weight and heart problems, daughters
who reflect the changing times and the equally well-formed sidekick Burden). This
is one instance where my favourite novel of the latter is not one of the series but the
stand-alone The Chimney Sweeper’s Boy (writing as Barbara Vine).
84
APPENDIX B. BOOK REVIEW 85
Next, one should try the more contemporary (from the late 70s to the 90s) novels
by Colin Dexter, R.D.Wingfield and Reginald Hill with their respective detectives E.
Morse (working class background, never completed studies in Oxford, loves a good
drink, classical music especially Wagner and crosswords), Frost (people are more
familiar with the TV series but the books offer a better character though a less
politically correct one) and Dalziel & Pascoe (the gross Fat Man whose wife left him
and the refined assistant with a strongly opinionated loving wife). Like Reginald
Hill’s novels, Peter Robinson’s Alan Banks (divorced, two kids, likes rock & blues
but dislikes country music) series are based in Yorkshire. Minette Walters does not
have a series with a hero but her books which deal with contemporary issues, and
wronged misunderstood individuals are not to be missed. From Scotland, we have
Val McDermid and Ian Rankin. Val McDermid has three series of which I prefer
the Tony Hill & Carol Jordan lot (psychiatric profiler with lots of problems of his
own and a successful policewoman). Rankin’s Rebus is divorced, loves his daughter,
lonely, well-versed with rock music, drinks, smokes, abhors promotion and works best
alone. From across the Atlantic, we have Michael Connelly’s series with Bosch who
is similar and tries to come to terms with emptiness and hopelessness. We have less
misanthropic heroes in the series by Elizabeth George (Peter Lynley), Martha Grimes
(Richard Jury) and Anne Perry (William Monk).
Now, crossing over to the Continent and elsewhere, one should start with the
Swedish husband and wife pair, Per Wahloo and Maj Sjowall and the Martin Beck
series of the 60s and 70s. Beck (divorced, two kids, favourite pastime being miniature
ship building, methodical, hardworking) and the other interesting characters are used
to give a picture of the Swedish society and frustrations of that time. Following
that tradition, we have Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander (divorced, one daughter,
difficult relationship with father, struggling to control weight and relationship) series.
I started with the stand-alone novel The Return Of The Dancing Master where the
protagonist is trying to come to terms with cancer and mortality, and later got hooked
onto the series. With Rebus, Bosch and Wallander retired, the serial reader is left
wondering about future works of crime.
The atmosphere is quite similar in Arnaldur Indridason’s Reykjavik series. From
APPENDIX B. BOOK REVIEW 86
that part of the continent, and straying from series, we have Peter Hoeg’s bestseller
Smilla’s Sense of Snow. Here, I admit that I preferred his lesser-known non-crime
eco-related novel Woman and the Ape. Quite recently, volumes 1, 2 and 3 of the
Millennium series by Stieg Larsson have been posthumously released. These novels
are quite different from the other crime novels mentioned here and, the protagonist
is an oddity.
Moving to warmer climate, we have three interesting series from Italy. First, the
more serious and pondering Aurelio Zen series from Michael Dibdin who died recently.
Second, we have Andrea Camilleri’s hugely popular Inspector Montalbano series set
in south Italy. Third, we have the Commissario Brunetti series from Donna Leon.
Though I will not describe the protagonists here, I recommend trying out Brunetti
as appetizer, followed by Zen for main course and Montalbano for dessert. Now, how
can one leave Italy without ever trying Umberto Eco’s The Name Of The Rose?
Finally, shifting from Europe, one should try Qiu Xiaolong’s Inspector Chen series
which is set in Shanghai. Reading about certain Chinese dishes in Red Mandarin
Dress is itself an experience. Now, try these site from the Telegraph or TimesOnline
for a better list.
By the way, I did not get the job - surely, that was not a cliffhanger.
Appendix C
More Short Stories
C.1 Just For The Weekend (From The Scrap Shop

V)
An act of kindness and decency can happen outside fairytales. One day, close to last
Onam, I had to pay the bill twice at the hotel-cum-tea shop. The owner insisted that
I had not paid and since I could not remember either, I paid (again) and left hoping
never to return to that favourite place. Today, the hotel owner accosted me at the
vegetable-shop and told me that he has been looking for me for five months - he had
realized that he had charged me extra after counting the money in the till at the end
of that day itself. He did not apologize but insisted that I should have tea with him.
We sat near the counter. The bus-stop is just a few meters to the right. We
listened to Karnan, a college student, tell today’s joke to Jaya, an assistant bank
manager. The hotel owner whispered to me that it was the one about the drink at
Betty’s Legs that had been told two days back; yesterday, it was that about sex and
Martians; and today, it is about the kiss and 100 ants (99M,1F) in a box. Karnan
usually manages to finish the joke a minute or two before the arrival of the bus. We
know that Jaya will listen with rapt attention and smile at the end. Then for the
minute or two, till the bus comes to the stop, they enjoy the silence seriously. Even
we tried not to slurp loudly during those surreal moments.
87
APPENDIX C. MORE SHORT STORIES 88
After the two left together on the bus, the owner went to his position behind the
counter. While I was nursing the last quarter glass of tea, Raman walked in for his
morning tea and seeing me there, gestured to me to wait and he went back to his
scrap shop. He returned after a few minutes with a sheaf of paper stapled twice or
thrice. Raman gave me the bundle and went to another table.
On top, there were torn pages from a book and I recognized it to be Chekhov’s
‘The Lady With The Dog’ and below, some handwritten notes. I caught the waiter’s
eye and asked for one more glass of tea. On the first page of the notes, I saw a date
marked near the left margin ‘17/3/1997’. I turned back to the first page of Chekhov’s
story. There, in the same handwriting, a date was noted on the right, like in a letter,
‘3/1/2001’ and like mentioning the subject or reference, in the middle, the question
‘When did I read this before?’
I remember Chekhov’s story. Can I forget? I smiled to myself and turned to the
first page of the notes:
I watch her pack. I cannot assist. It seems that world is strange to me. An old green
and white churidaar laid at the bottom; a colourful Rajasthani one on top; then, her
underclothes and nightwear; a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a dull grey and brown shirt
and, a white transparent cotton one. I have never seen her wear any of these. On
top, she places a diary with old notes and letters, not too many I think but all that
really matters. She holds her stuffed monkey (‘Chikoo,’ she whispers), curls up the
long tail around her fingers and a mischievous smile plays around her mouth. She
keeps that on top along with a toilet kit; closes, locks and rests awhile.
‘It’s not for long. Just for the weekend. Do you mind?’ she had asked a few days
back.
I was holding her tight. The smell’s still lingering. She disengaged, got out of bed
and put on her nightdress.
‘You will come back...’ a question or a rhetorical one, I was not too sure.
She got under the covers, turned to her side, facing me and said, ‘Yes.’
We have been married for ten years. This was the first time she had asked me for
something. How could I refuse? What is a weekend, after all?

I left her at the airport, kissed and parted. Just like one of those business trips
of mine. Maybe, it’s reflection on the mirror - with no sighs of relief. Let everything
be well and such quiet understanding. Ten years have gone by without a thought.
‘O Sanjaya! Tell me everything.’ I pleaded.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Sanjaya asked.
‘Call it cowardly voyeurism, you idiot. I want to know about life.’
‘Why can’t you let her go?’
‘It does not matter if she goes or comes. It’s the reason that matters.’
Sanjaya then described:
The plane-trip is over and she is waiting for her luggage. She is wearing a churidaar
- wine red and looking very fine. Once in a while, she looks at the exit - at taxi drivers,
banners to pick up, exhausted relatives, dust and disarray. She wears a bindi.
‘Strange. She usually avoids wearing one. Sorry, please continue.’ I remark, only
partly to Sanjaya.
A tiny nose-ring and an old pair of ear-rings. Two rings on her fingers - her
wedding ring and one with aquamarine (her birthstone, right, her lucky one?). A
simple maroon leather sandals. She is hardly noticeable in the midst of affluence
and over-exertive foreign accents on local tongue. She doesn’t seem to mind her
insignificance there. She collects her suitcase and heads for the exit, confident, as if
among all those masses, she has an identity and a world of her own.
She walks to the end of the exit path, past taxi-drivers who try to grab her and
the relatives who glance briefly, discard and quickly revert to looking at the exit post.
A voice tells her from behind, ‘I’ll take you home if you will buy for me a cup of
coffee.’
‘Hi...,’ she says softly turning towards him.
‘You still walk too slowly. Come on, move... let’s go to the car.’
‘You walk ahead. I’ll catch up with you.’
‘No way, I want you right in front of me.’
For a while, they stood there. Barely a smile on their lips. Eyes searching each
other’s. He raises his eyebrows and she does the same. Echoes of silent memories.
‘What’ll you do if I grab you and kiss you?’

‘Try...’
‘Is that a challenge?’
Laughter, whispers in a loud world. They walk slowly to the car, a run-down blue
Fiat with clean, thread-bare upholstery. He edges the car out, nervous of touching a
world that’s crowding around them. Nervous, of touching, they sit apart. She turns
to look at him.
‘Look front,’ he says.
‘Isn’t that the driver’s job?’
‘Nope, never trust the driver.’
‘I trust you.’
‘I don’t trust the other drivers. Now, be a good kid...’
‘Ooofff...’
Not a touch. Not a glance at each other. Not even smiling. Watching for anything
that threatens. Watching a world of intimacy, of fulfilled dreams, of others. Scooters
whiz past with families of three or four. Rickshaws with couples huddled against a
corner.
They sit apart. Like two pebbles on a beach. Not wishing that they were waves -
to lash and command. Nor crabs scurrying towards each other. Two pebbles eroding.
But remaining there even when their imprints on the sand would be gone.
‘Why can’t we be like others?’
‘We wouldn’t be together if we were.’
‘But, look at them...’
‘Lucky ones - lucky not to know that they are alone. Or maybe, asking for no
more.’
‘But they survive and they are happy.’
‘Yes, strange, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe, it doesn’t matter.’
‘What?’
‘To survive and be happy.’
‘Then, what matters?’
‘Who knows!?’
God? Maybe. Why can’t they be like others? Two people sitting apart in a car.
Innocent and aloof, you might think.
‘Don’t put words in their mouth, OK? Be satisfied with mere appearances.’ And
I remind Sanjaya to continue.
‘How is your work?’ she asks.
‘Who cares! It does not matter.’
‘Every morning, I resist myself...to contact you. But then, I think that I will
merely bore you.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘No. But...’
‘A life of resistance, resisting to let go. Good for life, I guess. Or, good to live.’
‘Why did you send that letter?’
‘Which one?’
‘The only one. I sat there looking at it, in front of the whole class.’ Laughs. ‘I was
so surprised when I saw your handwriting on the envelope. I thought I was dreaming.
Swapnam.’
‘That’s the female. I prefer to be a nightmare - don’t we remember that longer?
Dusswapnam? Sounds more like me, the male. I scribbled something of no conse-
quence, right?’
‘Nothing about you. Nothing about me. Only about people that don’t matter.
Everything seemed to be between the lines. I went to the Canteen and cried a little.
It was one of my happiest days.’
‘Tears on the happiest day, that’s the story of my life.’
The car is now in a muddy lane with potholes and craters. Booze joints, with a
standing bar past a dark curtain, line either side of the road. These are filled with
losers seeking anonymity behind a hazy look. There is an open gate at the end of
this lane to nowhere and of noones, it seems.
The car turns in and parks in a shed with asbestos roofing. A few cents of land,
with two coconut trees and a mango tree protecting a small house. Mud, grass, green
and brown upon the ground. Jasmine, roses red and white, tiny blossoms waking, old
ones fading gently, wild. It’s her passion, he knows, and his endeavour, for her.
He opens the door. She enters. Silent. Too tired. To pretend. It is a small house,
clean and sparse. One waiting to be filled but will never be.
He places her luggage by the wall. Next to a creeper. Hidden baggage. Hiding
arrivals and departures. She places her handbag on the table at the centre. He takes
it and places that away on a side-table, along with his watch, his glasses, hers too.
He looks around as if he is seeing the room which she has created for him. She is
looking at him.
He asks her ‘You must be tired. Shall I get you something to drink or eat? Do
you want to take a shower? Or lie down? I will try not to disturb. Or do you want
to see our humble abode?’
‘No.’
‘Hmmm...’
He goes towards her.
‘Why did you stop, Sanjaya?’ I plead.
‘Let them be alone, you selfish brute,’ he replies.
‘No. They have been alone. For too long. She - with me. He - with himself.
Anyway, they do not care. Nothing can touch them. Just for the weekend...’
He goes towards her. Their eyes search each other’s, with smile-filled tears. Let
it flow. He takes her right hand in his. Raises it to his lips. Places a light kiss on the
back. She tenses. Tries to take her hand away.
But they let their fingers search, grasping, teasing, caressing each hollow and vein,
following the creases, the mounts and the valleys, racing, slowing, their breaths cooling
and blowing winds that ruffle all those layers which years have deposited; close but a
little away but closer than ever; no weeping willows, just tresses uncared but natural
above, laying shadows; tears as dew or rivulets dampen, soften, the smell of earth
ploughed fresh, each muscle straining to produce; landscape urging the farmers, as
they pluck, cut, dig deeper, harsh at times, kneading the flesh between fingers, feeling
the texture, sensing what it is, what it should be; weeds ripped, searching up, below,
side and over and over till the roots of disuse are gripped, mangled, strangled, shed
aside; little blossoms, tiny hair standing, trying, asking forgiveness, granted, growing
life, life, life; each finger feeling, each nerve awakened, kisses, little bites, pinches,
sucking tenderly; the morning over marshes of yesterday, the pasture of today, life,
life, life...
‘Just for the weekend...’
C.2 Before going

The restaurant at Charlottenburg was nearly empty. There was a family of five in
the middle of the room. And the two of them near the window away from the street.
Apart from the usual formalities, they had not said much till the dessert was served.
His eyes had a glazed look while he stared at the plate for a while. Then, he turned
his head away, looked outside at the sky, at nothing. She looked at his grey hair and
weary eyes. She was still looking at him when he turned his face to look at her. As
per habit, his eyes tried to adjust and change the expression quickly to the smiling
carefree one. But he gave up that effort and just looked at his companion’s dimple
and deep dark eyes. Companions in steady flight, with farewells that merge with
welcome, a relationship never defined.
A: Were you surprised?

S: Not surprised, just trying to figure it out.
A: What, Swapna? Figure what out?
S: Why?
A: I need a partner. I need a life.
S: Yes, I know that part. But that is not what I am thinking about. Why now?
A: Why not now?
S: Are you tempting fate? You know about your luck now.
A: Yes. If I fall, let me fall heavily. Is that what I am thinking? Am I being selfish
and not thinking twice about dragging a faultless girl with me down into the dumps?
S: What about having a job before marrying?
A: What if I have a job and got smashed by a truck?
S: But Arjun...
A: No, Swapna. Can’t you see what I am doing? Forcing a rebirth.
S: And, are you ready for the personal change?
A: Can one be ready?
S: Arjun, don’t change too much...
A: I have to, Swapna, I have to. The old style just doesn’t work.
S: But, I can’t picture you as the patient unperturbed insensitive lover.
A: Well, will you like a demanding excitable oversensitive guy?

S: I don’t know. And the rage and pain - all that which makes us?
A: Will I put up a charade? Is that what you are asking?
S: Will you stop asking for total loyalty? Will you stop yourself from giving totally?
Will it be just pleasant decent stuff?
A: If the woman is successful and free of trouble, does she need more? Will she ap-
preciate the look in my eyes? Will she want a letter or a call? Will she feel thrilled
when I kiss her hand? Will we hold each other and feel totally uninhibited?
S: Arjun, will I have to go?
A: (nodded )
C.3 From Behind The Calm
It is a beautiful day in February. While the plane readied for landing, I studied
the beautiful fresco - this city, laced by the light brown beaches, the blue-green sea
merging with the azure calm extending from those depths to the plains carpeted by
coconut trees and the green hills with the topi of grey stone.
‘It has to be so,’ he had said, ‘when you return...ready...’
His place is close to the city centre, a non-descript house with living quarters on the
ground floor and his room upstairs. During the taxi-ride from the airport, I tried to
remember the first meeting.
It was an April after the first shower with the smell of earth in the air, and I reached
his house just before dusk. His wife politely advised me to try the next day but I
waited outside the gate. Much later that night, I saw a woman leaving the house and
I watched her walk away.
When I looked back at his house, I saw him at the gate studying me. He must have
seen a sorry bedraggled figure. He is young, of medium height, fair, lean and when I
got closer, I saw only his eyes, tired, soft and caring, and totally focused on me.
‘Please come,’ he said. When we were inside, he asked his wife, ‘Is there kanji (por-
ridge) for us?’
I started to speak but he begged for silence, head lowered with his left forefinger at
his lips. We sat side by side on a bench at a long table within, finished the meal and
then, went upstairs.
It is an empty white room. He must have seen doubt on my face, ‘Did you expect
gods and demons? Aren’t they here?’
He added, ‘Before...there used to be symbols, each symbol with a storywhat are stories
for?’
I listened in silence.
‘To suit one’s needs, hopes, thoughts. A mirror’s enough, isn’t it? With me - the mind
will do...and uncluttered space, without distraction. Some call it insanity, someblack
magic...it’s just...the power of the mind.’
We talked the whole night. Close to dawn, he told me what I had to do. As I was
leaving, he said,
‘My part will work but remember...it could strike...you or them.’
I left promising to return only when he calls, living according to how he had pre-
scribed. I lived outside this state, in small flats in big cities, ready to shift with a
suitcase and light bedding, a plate and a mug. For lunch, I forced myself to have a full
meal and, water or coffee with biscuits for breakfast and supper. No sex, alcohol or
tobacco; no company of any sort; no contact other than a few phone-calls per month
to avoid unnecessary enquiries.
At first, I felt lost, defeated and disinterested. Then, I could barely sleep, always
feeling raw, bitter and frothing rage. Finally, I lost sense of time and space, and
stopped waiting for his call. Then, at all times, I saw themthe people who destroyed
meand, I started feeling that they had already ceased to exist.
He called me two weeks back. Today is the kind of day when I can return - a day so
beautiful, peaceful and calm.
We are in his room, leaning against opposite walls, silent and static, focusing on each
other’s eyes. I remember his words,
‘...it could strike...you or them.’
I could feel his eyes enveloping me and I heard:
From behind the tranquil calm,

In the guise of hope play their role,
They come to wreck and harm,
Not the body but the immortal soul.
C.4 His Brother’s Wedding

Do you believe in Fate? I try not to.
When the psychologist confirmed my suspicions about why I can’t (would not, he
said) have a baby, I didn’t say, ‘My Fate!’
When I was a kid, I used to play with my neighbour, a girl named Vasanthi. She
was twenty years older but played just like my cranky kid cousins. The elders used
to praise my patience and understanding. Such a nice kid and so mature; that too,
without even having younger siblings, they said. I didn’t tell them that Vasanthi was
OK; that my kid cousins were not OK, and any younger siblings would have been
definitely NOT OK.
After Vasanthi, there was Das, my uncle’s son. Though he was my cousin, he
called me maman (uncle). I never played with him. He was younger than me by a
few years and quite shy. More truthfully, I had other company. Like Kochumon.
Kochumon’s father Shanku-maman is related to my mother. Not exactly a first-
cousin or even a second-cousin, my mother used to tell me, but still like an elder
brother. Since his parents died when he was very young, Shanku-maman was brought
up by my mother’s parents. He married very late, that too, a shrew. Kochumon is
their eldest son. They have another son and a daughter. Even before his first birthday,
people referred to him as simple and no one even thought of giving him a name other
than the pet-baby name, Kochumon.
He is a few months older than me. Whenever I visited my mother’s village, I sought
his company. The other cousins used to thrash me in carroms, cards, kabbaddi and
worse, they could climb trees and eat raw mangoes with salt and chilly powder. They
seemed to know everything and I seemed sickly. Next to Kochumon, I was OK.
When Sathyan, the all-in-all helper, used to take me to the aaru (river), Kochumon
would come along. While Sathyan swam in the deep, we sat on the steps, usually
silent and happy in our own little worlds. A few years later, when the aaru did not
reach the steps after being spoiled by indiscriminate sand mining, I still went with
Kochumon. When I cried, he just stood next to me watching me cry, still silent. We
were still in our own little worlds.
I remember seeing him on two more occasions in the years that followed. He
disappeared from my world while I gathered degrees, joined great places to study and
work, made money. Even the person I knew as ‘I’ disappeared from my world for a
long time.
Last year, I started seeing the psychologist. I started rebuilding my world. I dis-
carded a lot (paper, photos, CDs, books, movies, money, job, friends, acquaintances,
relatives) and tried to gather only that which I wanted to keep (there is no list at
present). I thought about Kochumon. But, he seems to have been discarded. My
parents tell me that he is in some home for people like him, that he has been there
for a long time, even before his parents died. Why, I asked people. Who will take
care of him, people asked me.
A month back, I met his brother. Or rather, his brother had come home to invite
my parents for his wedding. And since I was there, I was also invited. Was that Fate?
It does not matter, does it?
I managed to find Kochumon three weeks back. It took some tact and deception.
I could not ask his siblings. Even my relatives in the village were not too keen about
discussing the matter. In my notes, for the next visit to the psychologist, I have
jotted, ‘Is it collective guilt? Or, just minding one’s own business?’ Anyway, every
village has loose tongues. I found two, at the Sivan temple and at the tea-shop. A
few queries about the wedding, the location of the hall, those invited and those who
are not and that discussion eventually led to more intimate details, grudges and the
skeletons started tumbling out of the closet.
I found him in a home for the retarded. It is run by a semi-government organiza-
tion. The warden helped me find him. I didn’t notice much about the place or the
facilities. I didn’t want to. Or maybe, it was just because I was too busy trying to
recognize Kochumon in every face out there.
He was having breakfast (or was it brunch?). I have changed too much and I was
not surprised when he didn’t recognize me during that visit. I could recognize only
his eyes. Still like a puppy. I didn’t stay for long during that visit or the other visits
since then. Just a few minutes, silent, just like old days.
On the day of his brother’s wedding, I got there early with new clothes for him.
I helped him dress. We got to the hall well before muhurtham. From the hall-gate,
we could see his brother standing outside, inviting friends and relatives, talking and
hugging.
Kochumon tugged at my hand. Come, let’s go in, I said. He shook his head. Ok,
we don’t have anyone there, do we, I asked. He shook his head again.
My gift, he said.
I smiled and wanted to hug him. I might be simple but you are definitely not, I
wanted to say. Once again we were silent and in our own little worlds.
I left him at the home. Maybe, I will keep visiting him.
You see, I can’t take care of anyone, especially people I love, like Kochumon. That
is why I can’t have a baby either. What if my baby is like Kochumon? When I am
not there, what if my baby is discarded? I can discard myself. But, no one should
discard my baby.
C.5 Simply Murder

Acknowledgement: based on the outline given in Bina Gupta’s Sulekha blog...since the
outline is not mine, I deleted the blog on Sulekha but just for the sake of completeness
of my records, I am including this here...shrouded in obscurity and relative anonymity.
:-)
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. It felt more like a
sledgehammer at work within my head. Groggy and snarling, I quickly wrapped the
housecoat over my nightclothes, tied a tight careless knot and went down the stairs
to the front door. A moment’s sanity made me do the habitual check through the
eyehole. There were two- one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door
cautiously, squinting at the near midday light and croaked, ‘Yes?’
The man in uniform stepped forward, apologized for waking me up and proceeded to
ask the customary to confirm my identity. Then, he introduced himself
‘I am Inspector Sid of the local police station.’
Sid- Siddharth, Siddique, Sidney? I have always hated this anglicized attempt of
whitening a brown man’s name. Who but an idiot would make Padmanabhan Paddy
or Krishnamurthy Kris? For me, Subrahmaniam is not Sub; maybe, Chuppramani.
Why would a red-blooded male want to present a castrated self? As usual, I could
not control my thoughts; but fortunately, it does not show on the outside. I smiled
sweetly at the tall clean-shaven handsome young man with no wedding ring and he
seems to be charmed. He continued,
‘This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes.’
The person in all black- jeans, corduroy top and boots- turned out to be an attractive
woman leaning against the wall, rolling a cigarette expertly and lighting it with
a match. She must be around forty, about five eight, with an athletic and tough
frame, dark unruly hair generously peppered with gray and the darkest eyes I have
seen staring intently at me. But for her eyes, I would have fallen in love with her,
desperately, passionately. I asked her,
‘Shoky?’
‘Not Shoky, Shokie - ‘ie’, not ‘y’. Everyone calls her that.’ the young man gushed
with great admiration.
‘I have heard about you two. Shokie the Sherlock and Sid the Watson in that famous
case...the case of Minister Twitter, right?’ The young man was blushing and the lady
kept staring. I remembered more details and I could not resist myself,
‘Shokie? Your name is supposed to be Sherlie Kockier, right?’
‘None of your business,’ the curt reply. The young man intervened,
‘We are here because of a crime.’
‘Here?’
‘Next door...’
‘Rosie’s place? What happened?’ Taking in their joint presence, I assumed that it
must be something nasty.
‘Rosie was found dead.’
‘Ohmigod! When?’
‘Last night...around eleven.’
‘Last night? You were here? And...I slept through all of it!’ I leaned against the
door, looking shocked and terribly disturbed, even feeling guilty for sleeping too well.
‘We would like to ask a few questions. Can we come inside?’

‘Please...of course...please come in.’ I replied and took them to the drawing room.
‘Can I get you coffee? Please join me...I need a strong brew...’ They nodded and
asked for black with no sugar, just like me. I went to the kitchen, ground coffee-beans,
placed filter paper in the coffee-machine, added water and heaps of the fresh powder.
Standing at the doorway, taking in the aroma, I tried to listen to the whispering in
the drawing room,
‘Feed nearly all the details...let’s get the story right...slip up...’
I went back to the drawing room with three mugs of coffee.
‘Sid’ started with the preliminary questions, confirming that I have lived in this
exclusive locality for the last three years; and, been the only neighbour of Rosie, the
movie icon, who shifted here two years back. Our two houses feel even more exclusive
in this large estate because it is in a well-shielded cul-de-sac, with hers against the
steep cliff and mine situated at the entrance, nearly shielding Rosie’s house.
Then, I felt as if I needed to know,
‘How did she die?’
‘Apparently suicide,’ Shokie muttered and continued, ‘Where were you last night?’
‘Here.’
‘Anyone to confirm that?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Come on, Rosie is an icon...I mean, was. Ohmigod! I still feel shocked.’
‘Did you know her personally?’
‘Me? Of course not. How will I know her?’

‘Well, you live here.’
‘Courtesy of a rich impotent uncle.’
‘I know.’ Shokie, still staring, was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. ‘He
died suddenly, didn’t he?’
‘It’s usually so, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe...’ Shokie shrugged.
The young man must have noticed that I was beginning to feel terribly insulted and
he tried to divert the flow,
‘I am actually quite perplexed. She was found hanging in a locked empty room...’
I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, ‘Was there a suicide note?’
‘Some crap suicide note from the internet...worse, rubbish poetry at that.’ Sid said.
‘Can I see it?’ I asked.
Sid handed me a printout in a plastic cover. I read the first two lines, ‘When Sylvia
wrote, I-have-done-it-again...’
‘It’s from a blog...it won’t be difficult for us to find the author’s identity. Maybe, a
little bit of hacking.’ Sid informed me.
‘There’s an easier way,’ I tried to suggest.
‘What?’ asked Sid.
‘You could just ask.’ I felt quite naı̈ve.
‘Are you familiar with that note?’ Shokie asked.
‘Yes...I wrote that blog.’ I replied feeling rather guilty.

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ asked an exasperated Sid. ‘Who the hell is Sylvia?’
‘Sylvia Plath.’
‘Let’s leave that,’ Shokie suggested. ‘Sid, why don’t you continue with the murder
scene?’
‘Ok...Rosie was found hanging in a locked empty room, locked and bolted from the
inside and without even a stool for her to stand on. Shokie checked if there was
water on the floor- just in case Rosie had used an ice block for some funny reason and
which melted before we got there. Supposedly, it’s an old idea in some pulp fiction.
Anywayeven the key’s inside and the windows were locked from inside. It must be
murder but how did the murderer get out?’
I blurted, ‘Must be through the window.’
‘Simple, isn’t it?’ Shokie added. Was she trying to goad or praise?
I tried to explain, ‘I assumed that Rosie has the same type of window lock like here.’
‘You reported a burglary a year back, didn’t you?’ Shokie asked.
‘Yes, when I came back after a trip, there were some valuables missing.’
‘Insured valuables, right?’ Shokie persisted.
‘Yes, of course! Are you trying to suggest something?’ I nearly shouted. Were they
trying to frame me?
Shokie ignored my outburst. I decided to continue from where I had left off.
‘All the locks were undisturbed. Someone helped the police at that time and said
that it’s easy with this type of window lock- an old type which can be nudged open
from the outside with a small blade and closed in a similar fashion. Was it you who
helped the police?’ I asked but Shokie merely shrugged. I turned to the young man,
‘When did she die - you mentioned that you found her at eleven. I am sure I saw her
outside around half past nine.’
‘Did you? Was she with someone?’
‘Yes.’ I hesitated and then added, ‘With that son of the Industries Minister.’
‘She was supposed to be hisyou know, mistress, keep, right?’ Sid asked.
‘From what I saw, he looked like the toy boy.’ I replied with distaste for sullied
reputation. ‘But...how was she found...could you tell me?’
‘We got a call...around ten fifty. When we managed to open the door, she was in
the throes of the last struggle and then died. The hangman’s knot was cruel- it was
a slow strangulating death. We think that the killer must have set it up for us and
then, called us.’
‘But why...that sick bastard!’ I looked horrified. ‘Did the killer call from her place?’
‘That would be too easy, right? No, it was from a mobile.’
‘Have you traced it?’ I asked.
‘Yes, to a shop outside this enclave. Do you know the blind paanwallah?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘You were there last night, weren’t you?’ Shokie’s accusations irritated once again.
‘Yes. Last night and nearly every day, I have gone for my half-pack for the night.’
‘True, people there said so. It also seems quite a few people make use of the paan-
wallah’s mobile without his knowledge.’
‘Did the people there also say that they saw me using the mobile?’
‘No. They wouldn’t, would they?’ Shokie taunted. I clenched the cushions and held
back my desire to hurt, by word or action. I turned to Sid, ‘Do you know if there
were other visitors?’
‘Yes, it was enough to check with the security person at the gate. From eight to eight
forty, her fiancé; from nine to ten, the minister’s son; at ten past ten, a taxi came
with two men and they left at ten twenty. So, we have a very narrow window of
opportunity...about thirty minutesfor the crime.’
‘Who were the two men?’ I asked.
‘We managed to find the men. Do you know Rosie’s history?’
‘No.’
‘Luckily, she kept a diary. Reshma till ten, pills and steroids for development of the
child artiste, from then on the era of Rosie, stage-managed by her wily mother. No
father to talk about...Well, that man was her long lost fathernow, on scene for her
riches...maybe, she told him to get lost.’ Sid informed.
‘Jagratha!’ I exclaimed.
‘What?’ both of them queried together.
‘Jagratha- an old Malayalam detective film...it’s nearly the same plot.’
‘Who was the killer?’ the young man asked.
Before I could speak, Shokie said ‘The father. He was the father of the fianc/’e, too.’
Sid replied ‘Bull-crap!’ and added, ‘Well, novels and movies are usually based on real
crime.’
‘Here, it seems to be topsy-turvy, right? Was that the intention?’ Shokie asked me.
‘How would I know?’

‘Don’t you?’
I could not hold back my anger any longer. ‘Have you been told to frame an innocent
to save some bastard- like one of those V.I.P. visitors?’
I asked to be excused for a moment. I gathered the mugs and went to the kitchen.
From there, I tried to eavesdrop and only caught the following,
‘I am sure that’s the murderer...but...what’s the motive?’
I returned to the drawing room. They were standing. Sid asked me,
‘Do you mind if we search?’
‘Do you have a warrant? Just to be correct, you know. Anyway, what do you expect
to find?’ I asked.
Shokie entered the fray, ‘Hopefully some drug or chloroform used to sedate while Rosie
was being hanged? Maybe, the light-weight step-ladder, too? How about footprints,
shoes, clothes? But, we won’t find any, will we?’ I kept quiet.
At the door, Shokie turned to me and asked,
‘Just for fun...if you were the one who committed this crime, what would be the
motive?’
I stared back for a while as if I was thinking hard and then said,
‘Simply...murder...without motive...just because I could.’
I stared at those dark eyes. Those dead eyes, dead after seeing too many dead
murdered people. Dead like mine.
Those eyes will keep on staring, prying, violating privacy, till there’s some evidenceor,
till I die...or maybe, I will be the Moriarty for this Sherlock.
I woke up, thrashing against those images of dark depths, my nightclothes drenched
with sweat,
‘What a nightmare!’
But, was it the dream that woke me up?
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. There were two -
one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, ‘Yes?’
The man in uniform stepped forward,
‘I am Inspector Sid of the local police station. This is Shokie, our consultant for
difficult crimes. We are here because of a crime. Rosie was found dead.’
Appendix D
More Poetry
D.1 Not Meant To Care, My Friend
i wish i could be the one

to carve your tombstone,
my friend.
the final deed to speak of your worth,

your life, all that, o crap, you know that.
as it was, let it be, all the way mere mirth,
with a clown’s mask at an ol’ jester’s death.
while you suck in last life breath,

let me whisper the pleasant truth;
for we are mature, to bear even that,
salt upon wounded life, bleed not that.
a joke it was, between you and me,

when we did time, timed it didn’t we?
so engaged in life, with so little love to part,
two stories, two storytellers, two worlds apart.
113
APPENDIX D. MORE POETRY 114
when you pass on:

shall i comfort you,
that i will think of you,
i wish to be with you-
but surely, why lie?
it would hurt my intelligence

to feign ignorance of your need
for my love, but we are friends.
not meant to care, are we,
my friend?
D.2 48 hours to live
48 hours to live, that’s it.

(He, God Dr Sahib, said.)
Cried and begged, I did.
(Wasted moments,
He shrugged.)
For a moment I thought-

(Reflection does wonders, they say;
Not mine, an old fat mug face I see)-
48 hours isn’t too short,
I do realize.
I felt alive, so-dead-alive.

Similes, metaphors et al
Marched past-
But there’s no time
For prose or verse
In this last role;
A few snaps,
That’s all.
I can’t show you all.

(O don’t you wish, you cheeky buggers.)
In a train, by the window;

Crowded, touched, territory invaded;
Sweaty armpits, lush greenery,
Same ol’ sand bank, a river preserved pickled,
Strange, the village kids don’t wave no more.
Opposite, a dirty oldie, another hirsute brute,
Two loud couples hormones and all.
Next to me, a young mother, her mother,
Two more bottoms filling every space.
She turns to me, behind her shawl, feeding
Her baby, that gurgling sucking brat,
With my arm shielding her, my eyes without,
Hiding the pain within, no time for my own,
She smiled, when she left, the young mom;
With the uncaring brat bawling still.
Upgraded, for a change, to a seven-star hotel,

Far separated, antiseptic, sterile,
by the pool,
in the spa,
on white soft bed,
I crushed the side
next to me,
Alone and crushed.
It wasn’t all dismal.

Just censored
By your govt.
With few hours to live
You don’t give a hoot
For what’s right & wrong.
Now, on the flight

(still in style)
back to the grave.
Stuck-ups mostly
Maybe shy;
A Brit lady next to me
Scratching her leg,
Reading lonely planet
Without a word;
If we did,
Maybe, it would be like old days-
great hosts and lucky guests.
With just an hour left that’s not a worry,

I can’t waste anymore on you.
What shall I do?

For fun,
Shall I bungee-jump
without the rope?
D.3 Soliloquy (Nearly) On A Honeymoon
Is this world I see, with you, today

Same as that I saw, alone, yesterday?
In stealth did it come that thought

Like that childhood game ‘I see - I see not’.
Was it by the sea? Then, the weeds were

Ghosts’ tangled tresses, with frothy gurgle
Of death from dark depths with white above.
With you, the ebb and flow of pregnant tide

And my passion tread the same measure,
From green shallows till the azure faraway.
In the train? The past’s already vague-

Inert, staring blindly through grills; now,
Pressed against you, heart’s chugging along.
Around the lake? Then, with self’s company,

With blank verse to fill blank life, mute;
Now - walking, holding, living - silence speaks.
I had to tell you, it’s late I know.

I had to see your eyes when I told you.
Tired you must be, it’s late I know,
When you turn away with ‘Whatever’.
D.4 To & From & In Transit

The clinical psychologist placed three photos on the table and asked me, ‘Tell me
what you see.’
At breakfast,
I tilted my head,
Slowly,
To the left and the right;
By lunch,
I gathered my thoughts,
On paths of subjective loneliness,
On certain objective materialism;
For tea,
I stalled time’s direction,
Without disorder,
Without To-From-In transit;
There’s dinner,
I will pray for love, farewell, etc.,
With mounting insecurity & faith,
I will fear & forget to live.
I placed the three photos on the table and, told him what I saw, ‘Nothing.’
D.5 Did I really love you?
Did I really love you?

Were you just a creation
of a moment’s fancy?
But I did care for you.

But I did worry about you.
But I wanted you helpless and mine.
No! I did not love you.

I did not rejoice
in the moments of strength.
You were just not clay to right mold.
Then why do I think of you?
There’s nothing else to do.
D.6 Wake
Reading news a week old,

with old music stirring the stifled air;
having supper of coffee, salami

and dead bread with no spots of green;
fresh and free of yesterday’s phlegm-

I am here, with you, safely with you.
There’s time to tell stories, to listen.

There’s no race, no desires, no needs.
Nothing that death can remove.
D.7 Sketch...of you and me...
How blank this appears:

Each word seems to mar
the empty depths of truth.
From this crushed cursed cushions,

Her eyes seem to spy upon the hidden.
Image of my reflections, shy away,
Bring not shards of memory to mould,
as life prances on razor’s edge.
An apparition she certainly is?

Why do you leave your abode
of banished silence
to be by my side, to whisper, to soothe-
how it aches,
how it pains,
don’t you know?
Maiden, how careless, your hair

seems as if a thousand hands
have caressed,
tenderly tousled tangles,
wishing the one would fondle;
as early light casts a million shades

but never seems to rise,
to remove the shadow that lingers
ever growing
upon your brow-
Bruised, scarred vast expanse

that never hides
the mental torture;
each line faint upon the gentle skin,
each throb pulsates a measure-
which balm will ease you,
which hand refused,
the sacred silence shatters,
a single word would be enough
but none seems to bind
the mind
that wishes no longer
to be whole.
Cool these cheeks,

such fires burn life’s embers;
hurt not your lips so,
so swollen, so expectant;
this beauteous mould,
erase such a grimace-
sorrow by the right,

smile by the left,
place it not upon such a rack,
would understanding set it right,
would a few words do,
but what reason
could have blinded him
of this sight
of blossoming love-
how he should have plucked
and let it not wither.
There’s no place, but there

let me linger awhile-
Your hair I cannot caress,

the brow seeks balm I have not,
these cheeks I dare not hold, they burn,
these lips are not for me to kiss,
the mould of mortal clay is not for me
to mend,
to set aright;
For I am the child of your glance,

it is these depths that lure,
that which sketches more than you can tear,
Blink, little one, hold on no more,
let the tear slide along,
from furious rapids,
from scorned depths,
from discarded abandon,
from deafening silence,
from restless rest,

from love unrealized,
from innocence raped,
from time that speeds by,
from shattered mind,
from barren womb,
from bleeding heart,
let the tear slide along-
it may not mend,
it may not erase,
it may just carry
a little pain.
I shall not look further,

Blurred vision
or
hastened departure
but for sure you know,
that I will be
by you-
In mirth, let’s cast eyes;
who is within,
who is without?
D.8 (2001-)
D.8.1 Thought of a walk
Thought of a walk
To those green hills
Behind those clouds.
That was a morning thought.

I knew what the day brought.
Vanishing clouds,
Slum scarred slopes.
D.8.2 To pen...
To pen a new line.

To edit by the rules.
To erase the spirit.
To succumb to readers.
To forget senses dead.
To pen the last line.
D.8.3 When will I...
When will I write the line-

When my fingers tremble-
When feelings shall pour
Over parched land,
The drought’s been long;
When the mind is awake-
When the chains are broken-
When the long labour’s done
And I can rest, then I will write.
D.9 (1999-2001)
D.9.1 Sleep well, my love

Sleep well, my love,

tonight you and I
are safe together.
Let me watch you,

in child-like trance,
caressing lightly.
Do you wonder
why I am awake:
it’s too dear, this sight.
Do I wish for this,

every night:
just one night, I pray.
The parting should be

when we are sure,
we are close forever.
D.9.2 Sunday In Berlin
Above,
the young couple tease-
a scream, laughter, tender murmur,
Thud, bang, cleaning, rapping, loving;
my apologies to them when I vacuum
away the resting load.
Yesterday,
they were kind, truly,
they listened with me to an aria;
labourer, waitress, gigolo, stripper,
Whatever,
Whichever,
Mine never.
This morning,
I left early,
breaking Sabbath,
dry nose bleeding.
looked at the mannequins in a caf,

tempted, resisted, feeling princely;
queued with the rich and the free
to see photos, in vogue, trash porn art,
checked a great whosoever’s nonsense.
There I was,
alright, uneasy,
Scared
to look but I did,
vague, old video.
Imagination
seemed better.
Tried,
but there was no tale-
the Lover, the parents,
in cashmere, being chic.
Love, it could’ve been us-
Yawning.
returning to less regal address-

on the escalator
with a lady
from church,
weary, hurrying home;
a lady of the night at the light,
pretty, jeans frayed, leaning against
Me,
no, the pillar;
my day’s over.
D.9.3 It Is i That Should Not Matter
to whom, for whom,

shall I write?
it does not matter,
I would like to think.
silence is a shroud
but pinpricks of light
do enter if I sense.
sweet whispers of nothing

through walls that fortify,
sight of lovers kissing
through lacy curtains.
but once unleashed, I reach far

to the hearts
and the heartless.
if only for a moment:

in shelters’ muddy cold,

with mother and child,
eyes blinded by death;
mother, hold tight,
deceive your child;
let him or her not believe
that your womb
is the cause for evil.
how easy it seems

to write, wishing.
but the pain of death

and the joy of life,
which is which,
do not wonder.
I do not matter,
a sip of love
is enough.
it is i
that should
not matter.
D.9.4 Tired?
Tired, can I be? Hoping for a wish.

Staring at scrap - old photos, old life.
Scream, shall I? Mourn, maybe.

I won’t cry, mourn, seek love stupid.
O poets, I can love. And fight wars.
Brood about a world going waste.
But the traitors, where are they?
They will say it’s an old story.
Tough they are with no hope.
With wise words to soothe or sting.
Do you know the rotten cuckold?

Or the poor guy who died poor?
And the usual death and love?
Or the tale of one with no tale?
Mortals’ usual woes, not so new.
Then, is there reason to write?
I am tired. Tired being tired.
D.9.5 Trying company
I watch the clouds, and fit company they are.

Hesitant, wondering whether to part, to yield to that above,
Or, to remain, in a sullen pout with dark cheeks just a little
wet.
But there is the whole world to see, I have been told,

Without.
And so I watch.
Like the clouds above me,
But no, not in that vein again.
At first, I try out the reflections but I see myself and I do
not wish to, not even I.
It is no crime to look, I am told,
But one never knows when it will be.
Across the aisle, in my row, is a blonde whose tresses cover her

study.
When she came, relaxed, letting go of the load, sighing,
Her legs stretched and apart, fingers strumming her knees, eyes
closed.
But she had to sit up, cross her legs, and from a black bag came
notes to save.
Before me, by the door, stand a couple, close but closer they
can be.
Whispers, kisses and looks well-known. They even give zwei marks
to a beggar.
She has a dark line carefully drawn on her lips, thin they are
but enough for him.
The station arrives, he pats her bottom, to push off to another
scene.
A bunch of kids block my view. With earphones on, before they

try louder giggles.
A petite nymph for a boy, pimple in one hand, the other lunging
for her flesh.
There is the usual company, a lady in a brown coat, hair in careless

girlish scatter,
Forty or fifty, who cares, she could be twenty for me, but wait
a moment,
I wonder why she stares out, blank to the world, hurt and licking
her wounds.
I am tired with company, for they make my loneliness pain even

more.
No, I am told, try for a little longer.
It gets better with time.
A woman, grey-specked hair, but with no wrinkle upon her face,

a mother,
I suppose, with a bag but nowhere to go, and there is a smile
on her face. So peaceful.
And how did I miss him? A lad, little jerky, munching on a grey
sandwich,
Glancing at me, others, everyone, interested, amused, and with

a smile on his face.
I am scared. I turn to my clouds. Scared to smile. Or cry.

Scared to be crazy.
D.9.6 There is a past...
There is a past
when the future
was known to me.
I had a dream.
I said,
I have a dream;
she looks
with a sad smile
knowing of the parting;
I watch beauty
and call it love;
life is a night sky
with her eyes
my guiding stars.
I say,
I had a dream;
she looked
with a sad smile
knowing of the parting;
I know;
her eyes like stars
hide behind dark clouds,
life is a stormy sky
with none to guide;
I watch beauty
and still call it love.
I have no dream.
There is a future
when the past
is all that I know.
D.9.7 My pal Dodo
My pal Dodo is a weirdo.

Own boast. Used as epitaph.
Two n’ half ’ll be the crowd
at my grave, he used to say:
Him, his buddy the beggar,
the half the worms won’t touch.
Looking at trees, leaves, thrown fags,

smiling at the sun and blue skies;
glassy eyes searching among shadows;
trying to be a gent with clown’s rags;
till the day he was on the blind spot.
Did we put him in the coffin, my pal Dodo?
D.9.8 Trust these words no more
Trust these words no more,

my dear. Without you,
merely to kill time,
strangely I decay.
Alone
with sense of reflections
that is marred by breath,

wishing it were not so
but then, there is nothing.
D.9.9 I would like to chase the sun
I would like to chase the sun.

But each step on the icy ground
gets shorter and slower.
Till there’s a still longing.
There’s the company of trees.

Shorn of leaves, with green mossy sides,
age-old wisdom, helpless fate.
Call it, maybe, His ways.
It is tougher still, not to let winter in.

Within where there’s no cover
but faith which reason shuns.
Nor assures another summer.
Is that all? To survive?

Darwin says it’s easy: one to the other,
a smile, a laugh and in bed together.
Possibly not when life is a routine.
He had a choice - to let them live or love.

There’s no reason actually, in either;
a whim, like the seasons that please or not.
He did not know about the faith.
D.9.10 what you want me to be

There’s a guy who speaks French,

as a rule, to his kids;
his wife searches,
in old romances, for a word.
There’re two girls, one in bikinis

hates the other for wearing a headscarf;
conform, she says,
the silent reply hides thoughts far ahead.
Who am I? I am. I am. I am.

A murderer of love, faithless in lady luck;
a beggar, for some a loser, a loner?
Alive, I ain’t what you want me to be.
D.9.11 Meaning of Life: What, How Or Why
Have you heard about dead great men

And their quest for a way?
To them, in times of mirth,
I too find something to say.
With the rest, it’s why, O why. Or,

A train of how, how to live.
Trading bread and pride, lost,
Nameless with nought to give.
That’s not the truth, maybe.

Most likely a passing fancy;
If you ask what, how or why,
A half-wit’s smile’s a clever lie.
There’s a purpose, I suppose,

For faith to walk on hot coal,

There’s a whisper ‘nothing there’.
I laugh. My feet feels plenty there.
D.9.12 I see the world
I see the world in a reflection.

People reading the book
the epilogue the preface
and the climax a catchy start.
These people seem so close,
close enough to touch.
Shall I? Oh, let them read,
if they wish, which they do, I think.
I see the world through a peep-hole.

People with strange shapes, but
still a form to invisible footsteps
and like the tide, my hope.
These people too come close,
close enough to open my door.
Shall I? Oh, let them go away,
If they wish, which they do, I know.
D.10 (1993-1999)
D.10.1 It hurts to see beauty
It hurts to see beauty

with eyes that run dry.
A blood-stained collage envelopes:
a fettered body below azure calm,

tormented by sunset, scared for a while,
you by my side with bindi -
strange calmness between us, forever.
But darkness will rescue-
from feigning, from laughter,
(it is strange that there are no smiles)
from this madness called life.
It is beauty that hurts.
D.10.2 Supper at Hotel Rajesh...by the window...
By the pane, behind the pillar,

Away and near, a forgotten ghost.
With the usual thali, the usual waiter,
Rupees the same for the same minutes.
You might be away,

But your cheek rests against me,
And the hair still...
A couple, traditional, certainly wed,

Hand in hand, maybe they know why;
An afterthought or aftermath
Or strangely close or foreplay?
A fight below, close to the paan-wallah

With stained fingers ready with the half-pack.
The fight, the young, so shamelessly alive.
After drowning Ganapathy? Now, what?
A mother nearby feeding her child,

In everyone’s way - but not so, they say;
She glances at the kind gentlemen,

Her brother unconcerned - with reflections.
Outside, a mother guides her daughter,

From the youth, from any hand, for later.
A couple again, apart - is it the same-
No, there is merely a child in between.
The meal’s over, the time’s up,

Leaving ghosts for what’s left to look.
You might be away,

But your cheek rests against me,
And the hair still...
D.10.3 14/03/97
The beach-
lonesome, it seems-
apart from this little girl
and the eyes that watch.
She
glances awhile,
searching
for the helping hand.
Gentle sand,
playful ebb and flow,
caressing breeze-
company for the child woman.
Sand castles,
tear washed as they crumble

but the sparkle lights
as she tenderly builds.
The beach teases,

extending
her stay-
in embrace forever.
Patience anew, and

hope, the only support,
within her bosom
there’s love that binds.
There is the hand

that awaits
for a mortal grasp-
not knowing how.
The moment of birth

lingers
awaiting joy-
an immortal child.
D.10.4 Awakening
Say not, again, ‘...it’s but your choice...’

does any mortal choose doom?
And never ‘...you never understood...’
let me laugh at such mirth, may I?
Speak not ‘...but you are...’
in your ignorance let me be deaf.
Simply selfishly say ‘...stupid...’
How so ... I know ... you utter so well!
D.10.5 Fading
Eyes peered
forever,
at his
blooming rose;
but how
lonely
he feels;
for now,
petals,
they have
withered
away;
senses
fade, for
it hurts
otherwise...
D.10.6 Seasons
Summer’s heated passion lingers over,

Among sweat soaked sheets, like Past -
All alone. Could it have been better?
Shriveled residue like a shrunken raisin,
Awaiting morning dew to fill and cry.
So light is the air, it cares not to caress,
As in winter’s cold, wrapped and fondled.

Spring and Autumn - awaited lovers:
To break the fidelity to lonely extremes.
D.10.7 To Eros : I
Memory tarnished
by time’s
inconsequences.
The lady piously sheltered

Beneath her sari’s hood,
So young, yet with child
And for that matter, a bald grey husband.
Does she not wish to glance
With timidity, or adolescent curiosity,
Does she not wish me to stare
And let my fingers stray
Beyond the bus-seat’s bar
Onto her sheltered slender neck
And below, I guess, to caress her heart?
O look at that pregnant woman

In straining kameez
And bulging protuberances, so inviting,
Yet with a child (never there be none)
And a bucket, straining above a water tap.
She knows not I exist
But the reaching hand
In silent prayer
For the tap to transform into a helping hand,
To hold the bucket and the child,
And another still clasped at her waist

(to the many-handed One),
Sharing the ten months’ weight (or is it wait?)
And togetherness, as at ecstasy
Or was it mere release
Of a disinterested mortal?
Alone upon the hotel’s white sheets,

Wishing they were rumpled, stained and wet,
Is there such reality across the flimsy wall
Or another soul probably pounded
Wishing for another’s company,
‘O why don’t you see how we are,
The tremors and the surge restrained,
And in realization of its cause, use me?’
Does she not cry so?
D.10.8 To Eros : II
The fair back, tense and straining,

The brown blouse bravely exposed
Was it so in front
An enticing dcolletage?
Sheer flimsy bodice
Or straining jeans about her hips
Swaying maybe in artificial effect.
Is it an effort to be smart
Or to create an itch in the crotch?
Brave couples in open embrace

Rather smothering
As if the senses fail to reason
With just a touch.

How frail or encouraging or caring
Does she look at the theatre steps
A hand firmly gripping
Her partner’s arm ’Touch me so’.
That middle-aged woman

And her translucent sari
Encapturing the glance
At her bulging bosom
Straining and above
Her fair blouse upon fairer skin
And how dark would it be
At the mount, flaccid or tense,
Does she seek pleasure
In such curiosity,
And the chapter closes
With hereditary proof,
Her daughter too,
Promises such beautiful holds,
With purchase of clips or bags,
I purchase them too.
D.10.9 To Eros : III
She stood so close,

With fear
So far.
A lover turns a stranger
With new future
And stranger thoughts.
Why has she never been so,
Was it chastity’s masquerade

Or restraint by the unsure
And a life’s misconceptions?
And now she stood so close,
At desperate fingers’ length,
With her thighs near my knees,
Was I in an eternal crouch
Stooping to passions anew?
She laughs, seeming ignorant,
She talks, as nothing’s occurred
While I contemplate.
Maybe, that be the whole truth.

She, in nature’s stride,
Me adrift in thoughtful meander.
Is this the beginning,
Or the end,
None seems clear,
But
The fact:
She shall no more be that of the past.
D.10.10 To Money
Pale grey turning green-

Ever turning the world,
Controlling the mirth,
Dishing out anguish,
Defining relationships.
Yesterday’s lovers,
Today’s friends,
Tomorrow’s strangers.
Shylock’s grace
Was openness;
But here,
Deceptive generosity
Marks your path, O Money...
D.11 (1989-1993)
D.11.1 The Garland
Behind wrinkles her merry eyes twinkle,

Weaving the low-down string through jasmine;
And I to weave another tapestry - a travesty,
Weariness to be dust and the day’s disgust
From the armour well worn, of self-assertion.
The garland’s wrapped and it’s time for the parting chat.
For the expecting wife she prays, and me she praises-
To have each detail is her part till I depart.
A boy or a girl? A baby - the reply to please, maybe;
Of trying trivial troubles, of morals, money, mortals;
Ration, labour, savings, in-laws and to-be-siblings.
Forward she stretches, and closer attention she fetches:
‘A grandchild! You are now man enough for them?
Your ancestors arrach-dealers, hers by royal stealers;
And now by no coconut grove or royalty, but in the ministry;
Do they now complain of the miscast match?’
Awhile in pregnant hush, I spot a blue scar she masks in a rush;
Queries are not for me to utter, of her mate she dare not mutter.
It’s time to part, and she nods at my pining heart;

And hands me the love-pack, the saviour from the rack-
A husband’s tensions of how to please; she mentions

Of how it differs, from those of early customers
For greedy monetary gods, and here to love, the God.
Here, at my walk’s endis the lover, father and husband;

The padlock never oiled creaking, the door never open, complaining;
To sit on the floor of cold stone, to count the moments alone,
The garland still in my clutch, dreams before decay are such.
D.11.2 Oddity I
I am bound to act by another’s whim-

A little puppet! But who is Master - a mortal or Him?
Or Mistress - if it is laconic Lady Luck?
Ever in silence - but with fanciful and secret touch

Coyly nudge me on from joy to pain with not even a hunch,
And leave me with not a mutter uttered!
A gentle caress and a soft whisper: ‘Life! Awaken!’ her only

call,
With a vision splendid, a hopeful heart, an unfettered soul:
Azure deep, blossoming fringe and chirpy clime.
And with not a dark cloud the glory fades,

The day creeping ahead in unnatural shades-
Waxing and waning till midnight chimes.
But that be a rarity - for Sleep stealthily shies

From the tortured depths that beg - be fair, only till it dies-
Much like a maiden well-versed in life’s chicaneries.
Teased with little joys and taunted by endless nightmares-

‘Life! Are you awake?’ What a state of affairs!

Fit for a mortal - creatures of paradox - born unasked to die
unasked.
D.11.3 Oddity IV
A canvas for the mind - that be life-

No marred margin mourned and gilded edge shorn;
Labour be so, too - through joy or strife-
By whim or intent it’s coloured, shaded or torn.
Much could be philosophized on the above-

Much with ignorance, much for comfort thought;
How could the defeated and rejected in love
Engrave what he knew not and what he was not?
But with surety could he fill a moment of repose

Looking at the workings of the mind - his sole guide-
In loneliness company made, in silence a tune to rouse,
In gloom a smile to blossom, in dying life to be astride.
A wayward dream to be structured, sans sense, a soulmate;

A mate who merely smiled made a rack - of torture and pain;
In pain did descend dearly into depths too black - reason too
late-
Too late - fiery lines slash upon lighter blue as a growing strain.
The jasmine bought do not bring a gentle sight

Nor the dying aroma a few borrowed pleasures,
The bed is cold with sweat on this winter night
No tinkling anklets, no soothing caress nor measures.
If it’s reality to be marked upon the canvas:

Weary mind, take the leave for long you sought.

The white should speak for itself, honest, unless
It would be better suited to mark the predestined dot.
D.11.4 Releasing Blood

’A poet’s work,’ he answers, ’To name the unnamable, to point at friends, to take
sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it from going to sleep.’ And if
rivers of blood flow from the cuts his verses inflict then they will nourish him.
from ’The Satanic Verses’, Salman Rushdie.
Listen to me while I suck my own blood.

Release of that which weighs me down-
life blood!
Remember...
Her dark hair straying across that beauteous face,

Black eyes filled dim, alight yet through the full race,
Tear stained cheeks glistening like moonlit waters anew,
Long wet lashes as reaching branches dripping dew,
Blood stained lips trembling, lucky breath to kiss her
tender,
Yet not touching, harming her no more but silent yearn
render.
O lover! What remains of that but a jester forsaken, tear torn

tear-
A letter unfolded tracing creases to be folded again - does life
bear?
Fools’ fate foretold - ’Curs’d be a lover - to tears, one on one,
to pain.’
And again...
Wrong mind setting thoughts right, leaders behind the masses

led,
Patient pained pawns wait for death, pray gently be bled;
Deafened by clamour, he hears not the heavy tread of Death,
Blinded by tears, he seeks solace in frightful sight’s
dearth;
Laid inert by gloom, he begs his brethren to swing the
sword low,
But a last hope to quench life’s thirst - a manna of love
from below.
Ah hope! Where was the brother - which eye did he close: that
to you or his pleasure?
Images to images, rock to rock across a river, each tread to this
fancied measure-
Learn for once, survival’s silent password: ’Do unto others as
they do unto you.’
Alas...
Enmity, jealousy, agony, torture - of self and others -

life a row,
Blasphemy, thraldom, hopeful - salvage of a wreck sunken
low,
To little capsules: shadows flitting by, enticing gestures
in misty night
Whence senses may seek repose sans alarm, darkness to tunnel
of light;
Intoxicated in the dark, arm in warm waters, the other
for the dagger,
Release to bonded dreams - refreshed breath, life at stake,

soul to stagger-
What would this life be - in the promised hundred - if this be

the remembered one?
Born to be one, the heart to pound alone - betrayal, pain, illusions:
none!
Any company but solitude be folly, any thought but oneself is
just to be sorry.
Yet, one dances on the razor’s edge,

Forsaking reason, hope on love’s pledge,
In a path in the wilds, round and round,
Losing, realizing the right path - yet nowhere bound,
That be the fate of souls mould in mortal clay,
Bruised or hurt, seeking unknown pain each day.
Releasing blood, sucking one’s in,

Hither to thither, but to abide within;
There’s no release, by one’s self.
D.11.5 Wish I Could Say Something True, To Me...
If the words do come from within,

If the hand that writes is mine,
If the thoughts spelt make sense,
If my heart pours into each mark,
If all that I do were truly, truly
For me, then I could say with cheer
‘I am not alone’. But the tragedy
Is in the final dot, for it speaks
Of the loss of clarity, hope and care,
For these scattered dregs of sweet life

Seem to be for another’s - not mine.
D.11.6 Setting
Cursed be this son - victim, vandal or voyeur?

Each fleck of ash from the pyre be sin’s attire!
Blame the brother - of bondage - that be the mortal excuse!
But seeking no reply - each cry, tear and look forever accuse!
Gentle vines, dew tipped leaves, tender branches fanning over,

As waving tresses, joy laden lashes, caring limbs to reach forever;
My face laid against Her - past’s pleasure pains present - to
hear,
A lullaby, of Life lingering about Mother’s womb for solace dear.
The gentle breeze brought songs from them in flight - like Heaven’s
rite,
For a newborn era - as I gazed at my love in yonder hills clad
in white;
Across green vales - bejeweled, fluttering like a dainty maiden
- to meet,
Did we not walk together hearing the river ripple like whispers
sweet?
And here I watch! Those tresses by the roots shorn of a mute

mangled prey,
Limbs scarred, pained bosom heaving, shattered within - and I
merely pray?
Clarion calls as dreadful dirges deafen, the river gutted, black
- Death’s haven,
Poisoned air to rupture sight; my love gone, gaunt, grey - and
silent heaven...
D.11.7 Going Insane
See the star and the fire within.

A drum
With no drumsticks
But throbbing beat.
Tearing me down.
How long does it go on
As long as the stars
Or just
Till
Death...
D.11.8 His Epitaph
By my grave they all stood,

As per post, they did brood;
My parents alone in pain-

I didn’t wish so, but in vain;
She who I loved yet declared not,

Ah, a tear! I know not her thought;
Ahoy lads! How well you do look,

Surely, you count the time I took;
Pity I couldn’t extend my charade

Of crazy tease, mirth and hopeful cheer;
But move on, wash not the broken clay,

You who stood by my grave. Or did they?
D.11.9 in flight
With selfish reason

is youth seasoned-
locked within oneself
grasping the bars
of another’s philosophy-
ever in spurious flight-
amidst hazy nicotine
or smirking inebriety
or inflicting jabs-
for a lapse from conflict
in murky ennui.
Thoughts merely placed-

in parenthesis-
which is within or without
which is in light or in shadow
which is to barricade or to escape-
is a matter of mirth.
Waking to the alarum of resolution-

a clarion call or a swan song-
love or skeptic, live or die?
Sisters raped- scores shock scarred

or is it hundreds hunger hacked
or unto dust thousands torn tortured-
numbers forever seem blurred-
but the black and white is raced through

onto Garfield and invested shares
divested of doubt-
share life with lifeless

in worlds so far away-
or not so?
D.11.10 Seeking
Looking at the mirrors-

image on image of a dead image,
i’ve searched for simple words

to tell myself and everyone.
The brain numbed-

forbids that-
by endless fears, tears, losing

clarity of what i am.
Determination after insult,

strength ahead of necessity,
joker among those sure of life,

stupid - foolishly fought for right.
Free, inspired, respected, interested,

worthy, loved or hated, happy;
not all virtues - spiteful, threatening;

also - naughty, seeking, desirous.
Wronged at times, cynical always,

flirting with lonely hopeless void;
choices came, chosen;

paths splitting, taken.
Forsaking advice,
threatening surety,
fondling thrill,
facing danger.
Danger, where i am untaught,

that’s the source of my life-
not love nor victory nor respect-

Interest, that selfish desire.
D.11.11 Black Ant & I
The black ant crawled along, for so long and so slow,

Crossing barricades towards other barricades;
A champion of its race, victor of life’s battles;
Held within so minute a space- expendable?
There is a way out, the Overlord knows.
Shall I direct it to freedom and let it live,
Or should it be allowed its time in gaol?
Uncertainty shall follow certainty;
But pray, to be followed by certainty.
Death shall be there and so shall life.
If all’s certain, where’s the fight?
Lessons, lessons, lessons- games of the Overlord.
To be made mightier- than you are, black ant!
D.12 (-1989)
D.12.1 from My Long Lost Friend
It was a gloomy place.

That is the place
Where my friend lies.
And I don’t know
Why my happy friend
Should go there.
To such a gloomy place.
We can do a lot of things.

Why did you leave me
Without telling me anything?
‘I will come with you.’
‘When can I join you
At your place - soon, I hope.’
And with tears I left.
Bye! My friend, bye!
D.12.2 from Thinking about the future
Thinking about the future

Not knowing what will happen
Waiting for something to happen.
Lying and wasting
Precious time.
Something is bound to happen

Something exciting
Something interesting.
With pleasant thoughts
Of the future
Thinking of great things
That is not
Going to happen.
Just thinking about the future

What a waste of time.
Appendix E
Probably Not Prose Nor Verse Nor

Blog
E.1 What happened to the postman?

A few days back, I was at my friend’s place watching an old Malayalam movie called
‘Midhunam’. In one scene, the hero who is trying to cope with grave problems
concerning business and family is exasperated with his wife-cum-childhood-sweetheart
who reminds him of his promises mentioned in old letters all of which she has saved.
My friend and I exchanged guilty glances. No, we were not thinking about any
promises made to old sweethearts or anything embarrassing, and definitely not scan-
dalous. No, we were not in the habit of going through those searching for nuggets
from the past knowing that most of them were less than flattering. No, though those
letters are not lost, we do not remember touching them in the last ten to twenty
years. But yes, we still kept old letters.
I studied in an obscure college in an equally obscure village hidden in the innards
of this country. It took two to three days to reach that place from my hometown.
It took a letter a little more than that. We got access to telephone in the final year
but it was not a viable option since a call was as expensive as a cassette of Doors or
Jethro Tull.
I used to know how many sheets of paper I could stuff in an envelope without
160
APPENDIX E. PROBABLY NOT PROSE NOR VERSE NOR BLOG 161
requiring extra stamps. Life was usually boring then but some transient selfish desire
for attention with a modicum of affection and care managed to fill up those pages in
that age before cynicism - with music in the background along with the rustling of
paper and the scratching of an ink pen. Then, the agonizing wait and close scrutiny
of the reply - reading between the lines and trying to decipher those words which
were blackened or crossed; finding more meaning than there ever was in those letters.
In the course of a semester or a few semesters, one could see the ebb and flow of
each relationship in those letters. With some, the letter degenerated to a compilation
of tweets written at various places and times, just fillers; some who erased or were
erased without reply; and, there were those which were special and will remain so.
The postman used to come to the hostel around one o’clock. These days, the
postman delivers tattered annual reports and pristine monthly bills. But, even though
my inkpot is nearly empty, when the postman does not turn up I still ask ‘What
happened to the postman?’
E.2 4 points in the library

Each time, it is a different route in the library. Along with the familiar, I try out
random selections. I usually start and stop near the beginning. Wish I knew what
takes me further at times.
Match the following...
1. Introduction:
...(devotion) is defined as ’absolute love’...to distinguish devotion from the sev-
eral shades of relativistic love, such as in the cases of conditional appreciations,
sentimental affectations and blind infatuations or various kinds of obligatory
relationships that are cultivated between people of the same family, tribe, clan
or other closed groups.
2. Epigraph on the title-page from A Tale of Two Cities:
‘You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?’

‘Long ago.’
‘You know that you are recalled to life?’
‘They tell me so.’
‘I hope you care to live?’
‘I can’t say.’
3. Introduction:
...philosophy of enlightened laissez-faire...liberty which was based on self-knowledge
and responsibility.
4. Introduction:
No index has been prepared for this book...as treated here is so entirely a matter
of combination that no index which would be of value could be compiled. It is
for this reason that it is omitted.
with the right book...
(A) Letters to Penthouse
(B) The Laws Of Scientific Hand Reading by William G. Benham
(C) Love and Devotion by Nitya Chaitanya Yati
(D) Recalled To Life by Reginald Hill
E.3 10 People To Meet At The Coffee House

• Ingrid Bergman
• Caravaggio
• Pierre-Gilles de Gennes
• Nadine Gordimer
• Aung San Suu Kyi

• Vanessa Paradis
• Ayn Rand
• Arundhati Roy
• Erwin Schrodinger
• Oscar Wilde
These are not people I revere (if there is such a list). These are the people who
affected me - maybe, with character, with elegant writing, with an image or a style,
with their philosophy or the way they pursued their philosophy. I might not agree
with them but I would like to sit across a coffee table, to have a brief discussion and
to recollect that which shaped my life.
E.4 Curious Case of BSE Sensex

If you had Rs 100 on August 17, 2007 (2 years back) and then by some passive means
(say, index fund or portfolio of stocks mimicking the Sensex) let the money grow
till August 18, 2009, you would have in hand Rs 106.30. Thus, the profit would be
Rs 6.30 (please see Figure E.1). Now, consider two periods with 99 days: the first
starting August 17, 2007 and ending on January 8, 2008; and the second starting
March 25, 2009 and ending on August 18, 2009.
Then, follow the same investment strategy but just for 99 days. Rs 100 invested
on August 17, 2007 would give Rs 147.60 on January 8, 2008; and, Rs 100 invested
on March 25, 2009 would give Rs 155.50 on August 18, 2009. The difference in profits
between the two 99 day periods being (Rs 155.50 - Rs 147.60), i.e., Rs 7.90 which is
reasonably close (given the volatility of the market) to the profit made if invested for
the entire period of 490 days.
Summary: If you invest Rs 100,
Profit if invested for entire 490 days: Rs 6.30

Figure E.1: Growth of Rs 1 invested on August 17, 2007 till August 18, 2009.
Profit if invested for first 99 days: Rs 47.60
Profit if invested for last 99 days: Rs 55.50
Difference of profit between last 99 days and first 99 days : Rs 7.90
Disclaimer : Please do let me know if there are any errors. Of course, I am not
predicting the future (just a curious case).
E.5 Lehman Brothers: Reporting to Work on Monday,

September 15
This evening, Lehman Brothers Holdings Inc. announced it intends to file
a petition under Chapter 11 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code with the United
States Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York. None of
the broker-dealer subsidiaries or other subsidiaries of LBHI will be included
in the Chapter 11 filing and all of the broker-dealers will continue to
operate. Customers of Lehman Brothers, including customers of its wholly
owned subsidiary, Neuberger Berman Holdings, LLC, may continue to trade

or take other actions with respect to their accounts.
We will be open for business on Monday, September 15 and we will have more
information to communicate at that time.
E.6 It’s About Sex, Right?

When did she ask me that - fifteen years back? Or, is it twenty? A few days back,
I saw a clip of the movie ‘The Unbearable Lightness Of Being’ which is based on the
book by Milan Kundera. And yesterday, I picked up that book from a lending library.
Probably that triggered this chain of thought.
I had given that book as a birthday present to her. Two years later, I gave her
‘Love In The Time Of Cholera’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It was when we met a
few years later that she asked me the question ‘It’s about sex, right?’. I did not know
how to reply. That year, I got her an omnibus edition of Daphne du Maurier’s novels.
I did not know then that that would be my last gift to her.
The next time I heard that same question was nearly half a decade later, and from
a friend from erstwhile Soviet bloc. A mutual colleague had given to her Philip Roth’s
‘Sabbath’s Theatre’ which I had read around that time. And by sheer coincidence,
we were reading the latest from John Irving ‘A Widow For One Year ’. Must have
been around 7:45 on a winter morning, temperature well below freezing point, while
we warmed our hands with a cup of hot coffee and before we got on with our work,
and we were discussing the books we had read recently. And she asked me ‘It’s about
sex, right?’. I did not know how to reply.
Even now, I wish I knew/know how to reply.
E.7 Freedom in China & Nilekani’s IUD

‘When the Chinese get freedom, this depression will end,’ my great-uncle Hosappan
paused with a dramatic sigh, shifted the home-rolled beedi from the left to the right
molars after relighting it with his ancient Zippo lighter, and continued, ‘and that’s
why Obama met the college kids in China and told them that information should be
freely available. Which information? Whose? Glasnost. Perestroika.’ He chuckled
and refused to say more on the topic - every story has to stop before the end, that
being his ambiguous motto.
Till the Cuban missile crisis, everyone in my village used to call him ‘Fibbu’ for
some now-forgotten reason though his name was Jose (pronounced with a J). Around
the end of October 1962, he told everyone that he should henceforth be called Jose
(pronounced as Hosay). Decades back, he baptized me by whispering roughly in my
ear ‘Call me Hosappan.’ He seemed a nonagenarian then and still does - bald head,
clean shaven, strangely black hair sticking out of his ears and nostrils, thick mat
of white hair on his chest, wizened face with deep-set unblinking dark brown eyes
peering through bushy black eyebrows. In my worst nightmares, I see him as the
Grim Reaper.
He was a communist then - in 1962. Two shelves on the left side of his library
store his collection of those days. When I was a kid, I borrowed two books from that
side: the first called ‘Relativity and dialectical materialism’ (mistaking dialectic and
dielectric) and the second, a censored version of ‘The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer’
sent to him as a wedding gift by a Jana of Brno, signed and sealed by a Party
member (which I assumed then to be a sign of authenticity). It was much later that
I discovered the I-love-you scene with Becky Thatcher in an uncensored copy of the
book. Though Hosappan might still not know about that scene, I doubt whether that
stunted his love life in any way.
He converted to capitalism in 1973 - before his second marriage. It was after he
saw Godfather, some claim. The postmaster of that time confided in many that it
was after the twelfth letter (without reply) to a Jana of Brno. All I know for sure is
that his second wife was a spendthrift. He changed his wife once more but remained
a capitalist.
During my last visit, he expressed to me his displeasure with Nandan Nilekani
with hot-blooded capitalist fervour ‘Social security. Healthcare. My arse. It’s going
to be like during the Emergency if not as in concentration camps. All names will be
deleted and instead, everyone will get a unique number. It has something to do with
contraception - man or woman, everyone will get an IUD.’
E.8 Near-Death Experience

I never thought that the way would be like this: a clean brightly lit tunnel - decent
mixture of metal and concrete. There are red lights on the ground. I wonder why
they are there. The urgency that had lasted life-long is now a soothing patience till
eternity. The air’s flooded with pleasant music - violin and organ. It did not make
me sad nor happy, reflective neither; just peaceful. Life-long habits do change with
death, I guess. I do not notice the others that walk by. At least that habit stayed.
What if she walked by? No, I would sense her presence.
I am nearing the end of the tunnel - the destination? I come across the musicians.
They seem to be unaffected by what they produce - mechanical and a little unnatural.
There is even a begging bowl in front of them. Here too? I reach for my wallet. I
leave the wallet in the bowl - why will I need that again? I want to sit over there and
keep listening. Maybe, there are other pleasures further ahead. She - certainly?
I climb the steps to the platform. It is darker here. I search for her but she is not
around. I do remember that we had not promised to meet here. All the promises were
mine alone and that too, quite unconvincingly made after she had left. But surely, I
had told Him to pass on the message. Maybe, He had not. Maybe, she found other
company. Maybe, she had to meet someone else on their way down or up.
I ask a woman standing nearby ‘Where is He?’ She looks at me blankly, not
comprehending my language, I presume. I stand there waiting; waiting for something
or someone to come from the dark tunnels on either side; waiting for an answer.
The U-Bahn arrives on time.
(P.S. I can’t recollect the name of the U-Bahn station in Berlin; strangely, the photo
in my album is also missing. But, you do know how that place looks like, don’t you?)
E.9 Suspended Animation (From The Scrap Shop

II)
I found this on a scrap of paper between the pages of ‘Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam’ by
Edward Fitzgerald:
It is tough being on the middle of the road not knowing and not wanting to cross to
either side because it is a stranger world out there. It is better maintaining status
quo, waiting to be crushed between two speeding trucks - preferably the huge ones
and I will be splashed on both like a cheap advertisement ‘End of someone, end too
late.’
While I stood there precariously balanced on the barricade against loss of senses,
I started losing memory of time, space and possibly everything unknown. Damsels
walked past sure of flitting their skirts at the right moment, gays displaying boldness
and promiscuous taunts, the old behaving like young, the young borrowing strange
attire, lovers, dogs and the like strutted past. I held onto my territory. This was the
last guarantee.
Forever in the middle. Never the child and never assuming full-blown maturity.
Not the untouchable nor lynched by a sacred thread. Not poor nor rich to think
about money. Wish I was an idiot and lived like a veggie in an asylum rather than
being not-so-intelligent or not-so-talented. If I was pessimistic, I could have had
deep furrows on my forehead or preached boldly about philosophy or communism
or freedom if I was an optimist. If I had borrowed Western culture, I could have
pretended not to have any and be happy. But I have been branded by a tattoo which
I wish I could scratch off my body. If I was complaining, I could have been at least
the anti-establishment guy but I am too happy for that. If I was a total virgin, I
could have dreamed of being a saint but I know my sins do not even have the power
to scare me with nightmares. I wish I did not have friends so that I could be a loner
but I hang around on the fringe of parties hating the crowd. Any kind of music or
story or poem thrills me but I am deaf, dumb and blind.
Should I cross?
E.10 Found & Lost (From The Scrap Shop IV)

Found:
tears on the Gita,

old words-
Rumi,
Shakespeare,
Anon’s notes-
and,
Ophelia’s madness.
Lost:
a blank page
that speaks a lot-
Notes:
Bhagwad Gita, II.45

Rumi, The Lover And The Beloved
Shakespeare, Hamlet Act IV, Scene 7, lines 166-183
E.11 Judges & Pontius Pilate

There are times when you have to listen.
My relative G called me on Thursday, around 7:30 pm. She had been at a Family
Court that whole afternoon and I knew I had to listen (even though I was in an
autorickshaw doing hop-skip-and-jump on the link road between L&T and Powai).
To state her case briefly: she has been in an abusive (physical, mental, etc.)
marriage for nearly 22 years, period.
She tried to explain all that to the judge but the judge said that it’s minor stuff.
Try it (marriage, not abuse) once again under the supervision of the court, he said.
G asked me what he meant. After getting hit, should I go and show the bruise,
she asked. And, what can I show when he tortures me mentally, she cried.
I asked her whether she had explained how her husband had never taken any
interest in bringing up the kids.
Yes, she said. When she told the judge that her husband did not know anything
about the kids’ education, the judge said that he didn’t know about his kids’ education
and such petty affairs either.
I tried to tell her the cliché that the judge is trying to save the marriage at any
cost.
Her reply before hanging up was, ‘Yeah, like Pontius Pilate, the judge can wash
his hands and claim to be innocent of the blood that will flow.’
E.12 Few Movies, a Book, a deleted Blog & Blo-

galgia
Alexander the Great is a landmark cosmopolitan Malayalam movie without any ref-
erence to Kerala. The story is a shoddy mixture of Rain Man and something very
forgettable. If you would like to see glimpses of Dubai and Mumbai (Powai, Marine
Drive, etc.), please see this movie. At the end, one asks: in how many days was this
movie completed?
This is not a review of the movie. The comments made above should be read like a
play within a play or the frustration should be viewed in the context of what happened
before.
Like most typical Kerala families, mine is divided into the Mohanlal and the Mam-
mootty camps. Last night, at eight, the first camp won the battle and the whole
family went for the second show at half past nine (the presence of actor-politician
Ganesh and family in a row ahead soothed some frayed nerves). The second camp
lost because Mammootty’s Pokkiri Raja ‘definitely looks non-Mallu’. No one wanted
to be a traitor and suggest Jayaram’s Katha Thudarunnu. For the last decade, we
have come to expect very little from Malayalam movies but yesterday, the bars were
raised because we saw Yavanika (with the Bharat Gopi) on TV yesterday morning.
Rewinding further, there is disappointment of being let down by a crime novel, Fever
of the Bone by Val McDermid. This book might be the last in the Tony Hill-Carol
Jordan series (also made famous by the TV series Wire in the Blood). The book
started off well (the danger of virtual social networking used as the crime plot along
with McDermid’s humour and the reader is goaded to accept ‘non-mainstream’ rela-
tionships). Why was I disappointed? My rule for crime fiction is: if you want to end
the series, kill the hero but please do not domesticate. They should remain weird, or
better, get weirder. Can you imagine Holmes married and with a child or two on his
knees?
Then, there was the blog that I had to delete. In that blog, I made a school-boy-
or-girl-ish attempt to write crime fiction. I dreamt of reviews like ‘spine-chilling’,
‘page-turner ’, ‘creepy’, ‘u r a monster ’. My polite and stoic friends endured bits and
pieces and tried to encourage me with ‘luv ur umor ’.
Sometime around then, I visited my psychologist. He hum-haw-ed, said that I am

doing well with NaSTy (Narcissistic Self-Destruction Tendency). He also added that
I should stay away from blogs to avoid blogalgia (for details, please click here).
Appendix F
Current Affairs
F.1 July 18, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il

brutto, il cattivo)
I keep searching for news/columns that I want to read.
This week nearly belonged to Goldman Sachs and the second quarter earnings (in
these times of recession, I turn to the financial page after reading the sports news
instead of trying to prevent Alzheimer’s with the Sudoku puzzle of the day). The
estimated average compensation at GS touched roughly USD 600,000. I am informed
that USD 600,000 is still a huge paycheck in those parts of the developing world.
Everyone seems to be unanimous in admitting that the GS guys are great at what
they do. To reflect (and, possibly dampen over-enthusiasm), it is worthwhile reading
Paul Krugman’s ‘The Joy of Sachs’ and to remember taxpayers (who?) with Allan
Sloan’s ‘Goldman Sachs bites Uncle Sam’s hand’.
It seems like it was yesterday when Dick Fuld said ‘Until the day they put me in the
ground I will wonder’.
Next, I raced past the madness of the Jakarta bombings (I suppose the bombers are
trying to be media savvy by targeting 5-star hotels but irrespective of whether 5 or
173
APPENDIX F. CURRENT AFFAIRS 174
500 are killed, whether it is the rich or the poor, it is still madness).
Then, Cherie Blair caught A(H1N1) flu and there was the fury of the monsoon in
God’s own country. You might call it insensitivity but I preferred reading about the
feast of 46 jumbos described in The Hindu ‘The heavier the rain, the merrier they
were. Waving their ears, they raised their trunks to sniff the air as the scent of food
wafted up towards themAbout 500 kg rice was mixed with ghee and honey to prepare
a delicacy for elephants. Turmeric powder was thrown in as a digestive. Organisers
had garnered more to tickle the jumbo palate. The elephants avidly chewed up loads
of sugar cane, cucumber, pineapple, bananas and corn.’
F.2 August 1, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono, il

brutto, il cattivo)
More than 20 people have died in a series of blasts in Baghdad. Most probably, it
might appear in tomorrow’s edition of the local newspaper. Maybe, I should classify
the dead or the alleged killers. But, for now, let it be just people. A long time back,
I was involved in a personal project - creating a collage using the headlines on the
front page. I chose the wrong time. On February 13, 1991 (if I am not mistaken), it
was about a bombed bunker in Amiriyah. I do not remember the details (100, 500
or 1000 killed?) but I stopped the project.
This week I read about 5 women. 3 deaths (Cory Aquino, Gayathri Devi, Leela
Naidu), an adjourned trial (Aung San Suu Kyi) and a book review in the Economist
(Arundhati Roy). It is definitely impossible not to admire these Women.
Finally, for comic relief, news from the world of finance. The CEO of Deutsche Bank
says that bad loans are next wave of crisis (see Bloomberg). Meanwhile, the Cuomo
report says that there was ‘no clear rhyme or reason’ for pay (see the BBC report).
3 weeks back, the Economist had an article about the integration of Nomura and
ex-Lehman and this week, the two were back in the news following reports that seem
to suggest that Jesse Battal might be leaving soon (see the following from the New
York Times).
I still keep searching for news/columns that I want to read.
F.3 August 17, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono,

il brutto, il cattivo)
In this part of the world, today is New Year’s Day. Wish you a very Happy New
Year.
In today’s paper, H1N1 is already competing with SRK for attention. For more
information regarding swine flu, please read the article in the Economic Times titled
‘What India should do to combat swine flu’. Also, please check the Ministry of
Health site which seems to be dedicated to this (I presume the homepage is still
being connected to this - on the top there is a wobbling title ‘Influenza A (H1N1)
(SWINE FLU)’ but I could not find any links when I last visited the site). As for the
SRK episode at Newark airport, I am trying to imagine the scene: an immigration
official at Newark facing a computer screen with the list of suspicious names - Jane
Doe, John Smith, Quick Gun Murugan, Khan, Obama, Singh, Swapna,
Hurrah! Dravid is back in the team. I have stopped counting the number of times
he has had to return or be considered once again. I do not believe in heroes and the
old order has to change yielding place to new. But, with some people it seems safe
to assume that they will hang their boots when they know their time is up. Till that
time, let’s enjoy their art. It was so for people like Steffi and Sampras and I believe
it will be so for Federer, Tendulkar and Dravid.
It is tough not to comment on the world of finance. The latest FOMC statement
says ‘economy is leveling out’ - now, what is the nature of the apparent fixed point:
minima or inflexion point? If you have not heard about the guy who gets a nine-figure
salary in USD (will you settle for a nine-figure salary in JPY?), please read the article
in WSJ about Andrew Hall. A few small banks have started closing shop, some are
guessing that commercial real estate might cause the next crisis and there is just old
news regarding big banks like Goldman Sachs and Nomura from Rolling Stones and
Times Online respectively.
F.4 September 3, 2009 : Morning News (Il buono,

Is it the same ’to be just’ and ’to prevent injustice’ ? Does justice have any meaning
if it is not absolute/perfect but relative/comparative (at least, at any point of time)?
To wake up with these thoughts is to get out on the wrong side of the bed. Like most
bad dreams, it is a result of recent reading and to top that list would be Amartya
Sen’s The Idea Of Justice (I have stopped after chapter one - I need to breathe and
assimilate). What else?
Today, there is an article in the Hindu titled ‘Divorce can be granted even if consent
is withdrawn: court’. It says:
‘Writing the judgment, Justice Kabir cited Supreme Court judgments and said no
purpose would be served by prolonging the agony of the parties to a marriage which
had broken down irretrievably, and the curtain had to be rung down at some stage.’
I do not understand how the court works and recently I asked a few questions in a
blog concerned with ‘prolonging the agony’ and ‘the curtain had to be rung down at
some stage’. I wanted to suggest that divorce should be made as easy as marriage -
probably the number of cases in court might actually come down when people cannot
use the judicial system to trouble and torture others.
For those laypersons like me, I did a Google search for Article 142 and came up with
the following article (if you have other useful references, please do let me know).
On the global stage, there was the Lockerbie case (refer the Guardian’s page). One,
I am totally against capital punishment and therefore, the culprit should be incar-
cerated till the day he is of no harm to society. If a person is a mass-murderer or
Hannibal Lecter, when would that day be? Two, if the culprit is terminally ill, should
he be shown compassion? What do we gain by keeping him in person - some sense
of revenge or justice? Another tough one, right?
Then, there is Jaycee Dugard (now 29 years old) who was held captive for 18 years.
How did a society allow that to happen? What failed? It is interesting to read a
related article in the Economist titled ‘Sex laws: unjust and ineffective’.
On a lighter note, we have a head-hunting firm’s dispute with an investment bank

(refer Times Online for details regarding this ’David and Goliath’ fight). And, what
kind of stakes are we talking about? Approximately, 90 million pounds only. There
is something in the air which tells me that someone is going to get really rich soon.
An article in the Financial Express about the ASEAN FTA agreement suggests that
Kerala should:
‘...wake up to the global context from the present home market insularity and recognise
the wider national and international economic imperatives.’
And I thought it was because people in Kerala ’woke up’ that it is nearly impossible
for a medium/small-scale farmer to harvest paddy or tap rubber due to shortage of
feasible labour. With the cost of coconut picking rising (in the cities, it is about Rs 30
per coconut tree), I hear that people are looking forward to the coconut tree climbing
robot. Of course, it might be sufficient if the farmers learned how to tap rubber,
climb coconut trees and harvest paddy (if you know about training institutes, please
do let me know).
Finally, there is the case of the Mashelkar report on patent law issues. Please read
the article in the Business Standard (of course, if you have other useful references,
please do let me know). The experts’ report seems to have quoted another expert to
support their contention but unfortunately, the latter says that his views have been
misinterpreted.

Kerala has always lamented on being the Johnny-come-lately in IT in the company of
the other southern states. But now, they have Mister (oops, sorry) Minister Twitter.
Can anyone predict the ending of this Twittergate scandal which started with the
question ‘Can a minister pay from his own pocket for a room in a five-star hotel?’
and might end with ‘Can you call a holy cow in the party holy cow?’ If the people who
voted for him in Trivandrum are not complaining (please do remember that they have
been quite busy with quotation gangs recently), why should anyone else complain?
Unfortunately, India might face problems due to the bad monsoon; there are lots of
people below the poverty line; there are other elections to think about; and, it is not
only those taxpayers there who pay for the various government guest houses and his
salary in the Ministry of External Affairs. And, I always thought that that Ministry
taught ‘a weapon lost from your hands or a word (tweet) from your mouth (fingers)
cannot be taken back’.
Twitter reminds me of the other networking wonder, Facebook, which has managed
300 million users in 5 years. It is now supposed to be profitable and there could be
an IPO in the very near future. Please refer this for some statistics. Roughly 300
million active users (50
Sticking to financial news, the equity markets everywhere seem to be doing quite well
- though noone is really sure why. People seem to think that the recession is probably
over and that we might have hit the plateau at the bottom with no reason to expect
a double dip recession. Please refer to ‘Macro situation notes’ from Paul Krugman
which states ‘...There’s a tendency to treat worries about a double dip as outlandish,
as something only crazy people like the people who, um, predicted the current crisis
worry about...’

A tsunami with about 15-foot waves and an earthquake measuring around 8.0 on the
Richter scale have hit Samoa islands. More than 100 people have been killed.
Elsewhere, there is talk about climate control; about creating a world body to monitor
and reduce risk/greed; and, about trying to figure how if not when to reduce fiscal
stimulus assuming foreclosures or defaults or unemployment will not escalate.
The tsunami and the earthquake have happened and the rest are on paper.
In the last two days, the government (Centre) has posted in the local paper notices
from the Ministry of Commerce to placate the people of Kerala concerning ASEAN
FTA. Yesterday, the government (State) called it ”eyewash” and raised issues regard-
ing the same. Tomorrow, one political party will blockade the AG’s office. The day
after tomorrow, another party will form a human chain across the state to protest
against the issue and not to show the strength of the party.
Meanwhile, in the last week or so, magazines and newspapers have wasted precious
space wondering about the state of the Indian funny bone, and in particular, pertain-
ing to Tharoor’s tweet/joke. Some claim that it would have been understood only
in the common room of St. Stephen’s. Is there anyone who has not got the joke
the journalist played on Tharoor? As for the masses, it is just embarrassing when a
minister allows a scribe to put words into one’s mouth. It is also embarrassing for
the same masses when their representative has to start explaining about the source
of income for one’s expenses - whether he, his boss and his underling paid out of their
pocket, whether the government paid, whether a private party sponsored or whether
the hotel gave special rates. Quite seriously, the masses want ministers who do not
get caught on the wrong foot most of the time. Do we expect ministers to be one of
the masses - surely, you are joking!
The holiday season brought a few new movies. New movies typically get released on
Friday; and by Saturday, decent newspapers are supposed to have an independent
movie review. If the system had worked properly, these movies would not have lasted
till the end of the long weekend. To be fair, the second was not bad - when compared
to the first (names are not required - just pick any two running in the theatres).
Frustrated, I visited a movie store and Lady Luck gave me the DVD of ‘The Verdict’
for INR 299 - Paul Newman, Charlotte Rampling, Sidney Lumet. The evening and the
month came to a fine close after reading Shirley Jackson’s short story ‘The Lottery’.
F.7 Slow & Silent Rape

APPENDIX F. CURRENT AFFAIRS
Figure F.1: 30 years back, I could take bath at the steps where I stood to take this photo. On the left side, you
can see a boat which is being loaded with sand.
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MUSING

(In Search Of A Muse)

sans form sans name

‘If I were to perform hara-kiri , will you be my kaishaku?’

Recently, on the topic of blogs once again, he surprised me with a request:

‘I want to feel a book...here, in blogosphere.’

• go away from frenetic on-line activities;

• stay off-line with a collection of blogs;

• lazing over the cover, the preface, the table of contents;

• using old skills without tags, labels and search engines;

• swooping in on that blog which I feel like reading.’

‘That would be nice.’ I really think so.

Arjun said, ‘Byeeee.’

Between my finger and my thumb

Psycho(logists) might study patterns in the thoughts expressed.

• lack of style/substance compounded by sheer laziness;

• limited vocabulary; and possibly, or rather probably,

For hosting my virtual existence, I thank:

• Blogger.com : Discarded Thoughts and Gathered Thoughts.

• Poetry Chain (India).

3 Not Prose Nor Verse Probably Blog 60

D More Poetry 113

E Probably Not Prose Nor Verse Nor Blog 160

F Current Affairs 173

1.1 Confessions Of The Lady Next Door (From

1.2 Diary Of A Stalker (From The Scrap Shop III)

Tuesday, February 18.

not holding each other.

Monday, March 31.

the confused lady and left.

Saturday, April 26.

‘I am looking for my friend’s apartment.’ X repeated.

1.3 From Cargèse To Akathumuri

‘Excuse me, can I borrow your lighter?’ It is the lady-from-across-the-aisle. Without

‘I suppose you must have been told that a million times.’

Ooops. This lady is tough. She continued,

‘He must have been in trauma or something like that.’

‘It must have been awful for you.’

1.4 Kiss Of Death

‘Yes - she comes and goes on some weekends.’

‘That’s not separated. Insane?’

‘That would explain everything!’

‘She...no...I don’t think so.’

‘Have you hit her?’

‘Didn’t she like it?’

‘She’s ok with kids.’

‘Oh...no, no...I mean, she likes it. But...she’s selfish...’

‘Did you two fight?’

He did not look convinced.

He mumbled, ‘That’s normal...right...wear and tear.’

‘So? It’s just a hobby, isn’t it?’

Sensing that he could lose a client, he quickly added

What he said turned out to be right.

Recently, I tried to write. But...somehow...I have lost it.

have to say is ‘Yes, sir.’

1.6 One Night Stand

‘I can’t carry much. Had to bring the shopping in small lots?’

‘Can’t you take someone with you?’

‘It was a hole, not gutter! Anyway, leave that.’

‘How are you?’ she asked softly.

‘How you wish!’

‘When did you start that?’ she asked me.

‘Recently...ten, fifteen years back.’

I put the cigarette away. ‘So, are you married?’