MGR in Camp Nou

You might have heard of MGR, the first of many South Indian stars to graduate from an idol to a deity. But most of you might not have seen the fight sequence in his movies. In it, MGR would be beaten by the villain. He would collapse into a pulp of black, blue and blood. But it’s alright, since we know he is going to get up. He would rise, limping at first. Then he would reply blow by blow. MGR never failed to live up to our expectations. Being so used to that, I assume everyone can do the same. That it is probably an act and soon they will rise up. But I guess, MGR is MGR. And Messi is a loser.

Eight Rupees Per Day

That's all it takes to stop deforestation, save wild animals, destroy the noose of poor farmers, educate children - all at once. And who takes those eight rupees to do all of it? One of the NGOs. And through whom? New-age educated 20-somethings, who despite staying away from the newspapers have the galls to say that our government is no good. Hello, how dare you!

Today a girl from WWF tries to sell their membership form and what does she say - the government is no good. Well yes madam, thanks to us - bunch of idiots who have stopped reading newspapers, the government can do whatever it wants.

Sorry I stopped the story midway. Here is what happened. She kept on talking about poaching, electronic sensors, Sunderban, national parks and bad government. In the midst of our conversation I stutter the word Pachauri (Er... I also didn't know him until a more informed person told me about him. And then I happened to read about the Nobel Peace Prize, by chance). The girl blinks back in response. Can you beat it? She doesn't know the government department that is famed for its environment initiatives and she is out there selling WWF. Unpardonable!

I am happy to say that I am a lesser moron. Because I know the sins I do.

THE CLOWN RETIRES FOR A DAY

Today is my first ever last day at a work place. It must be an important day. Like the other important days. Those days that earn their importance, simply for the first, last or in-between attached to them. For example, the first day I switched on TV.
But hey, today is important. Because of a string of yesterdays which make it important. People, emotions, rains, railessnesses, winds and winter flash within. I cannot say I have learnt a lot in the last one and a half years. I am not that bright. And anyway, what would I do learning so much. All I know is that the bus was jerky, the road was smooth at times, there were few picture postcard scenes and it was good fun.
And now I have chocolates in my hand, which tell me, that the day is really special.

People do not come in formats. If they do, they don't come across as people.

Tawaif


I hate that woman on the other side of the mirror. That is not me. I don't lie. She does. She makes me believe false promises.
Ah love is such a tempting promise! Even if it comes from a drunkard. My eyes greedily look into his, as I pour him some sweet mead. He is greedy too. All for this love that wont survive a night. Then he goes, leaving me and the pitcher empty. Did you hear my sobs, when the song paused?
The singer is sleepy now. It is almost dawn, and there is another. No I have had enough. I wont look at him.
Let my door be closed. Let me not see him go away. Let the door hold the promise of my last love.
I pretend I did not hear him say "Ranth!" I listen to her, the woman on the other side of the mirror. She tells me I am a queen. I smile. Then I sleep in the soothing rays of the sun.

MADNESS

The teacher had a tiring day reading something. Three dreams later, the teacher woke up. Those were the kind of dreams, in which one fails to stitch in a reason. Still he was trying, in his stupor. A stupor that was to go on till long. In the breaks between his busy head remembered to get up, start brushing, stop brushing, turn on the shower and so on. Finally he reached his class.
“If you start vibrating at light’s frequency, you become light.” His students looked at him in disbelief. He scribbled a few Physics equations on the black board. His students stared on. The class has to begin with attendance call. And he is an English teacher!
Peter, the front-bencher, raised his hand.
“Yes Peter.”
“Our attendance?”
“Ah I was coming to it. So change your frequency and become little twinkling lights. Let’s begin our class afresh.”
If you were in Peter’s place, you wouldn’t have bought this philosophy shit. But Peter pulled down his hand, maybe just relieved to see the attendance register taken out.
The professor continued. He added bits of everything he knew to the class. He told them that the Periodic Table was a smaller theatrical stage. He told them that Jhalianwala was a blood smeared tear and not a place. He called Darwin a well-known figure in literature and Wordsworth a butterfly.
You see, he was making sense in parts. He was sincerely trying to. He was trying to bind his scattered thoughts with language. But language became a mere clown, forced to step to the backstage.
The children listened silently. They busied their heads trying to find a connection in what he said. All of them were exhausted and when the bell rang, the sighs came from their grey cells.
By day end, the school was talking about the teacher. Some called him a genius. Peter’s cheeks were glowing as he explained to everyone, how profound were the words that caused him to sit straight. His classmates were bragging too that they understood. In a month or so, the news reached teachers and the headmaster. The headmaster wished to listen to the teacher. The teacher obliged. Nobody could understand anything. But nobody admitted it.
Soon, it became known to the entire town that the teacher is a genius. The teacher was invited to give lectures and speeches. Half-witted men, caught in boardrooms, called him for discussions. And later in the evenings, he had parties to attend to. Dumb bimbos and the sexist wise men who named the former so, were equally ashamed to announce their ignorance. The days that followed had intellectuals talking about the wise man.
His questions were met with pauses. Who can answer anything they can’t understand? Thoughts flowed in complete disharmony. Applauded by the snobs of the town. The teacher was glad that everybody else could understand what he could not.
After a year, he was about to sleep. He remembered that he was reading something before the world discovered him. A book. Or rather a heap of papers. It was a will addressed to him. The end of it read “For these reasons, I bequeath to you my five cars, two bungalows and the only beach resort.”

Dripping jalebis! I mean all of you. Shah Rukh Khan and Karan Johar are but old culprits. Even Salman Khan! Ugh.

That Night

A she-he. But let her be a she. For she likes to wear silk saris. Her eyes are adored. She blushes when you compliment her. Her voice could be a harsh give away.
The backseat. Long. Silent. Helpless.
The man. I can’t talk much about him. His face was masked.
The driver. Probably a dog.

I met them late in the night, after a long working day. I had hardly walked some ten steps when I saw someone scurrying out of a car. It was her, hooking her blouse, adjusting her hair. In moments the scene was empty. Almost. I saw her slowing down, stopping and waving to another car. I wanted to wait till she was done and ask her name. I was also tempted to ask her how she became what she is. But the darkness weighed more with every second that went by. And I chose to move on.