A Blast from the Past

I don’t remember the exact date but it must surely have been some day between 8^th and 12^th of December 1992. The Babri Masjid had been demolished in Ayodhya, and riots had broken out in various parts of the country. Some riots had broken out in the outskirts of our town, Jamshedpur and hence a curfew was imposed. That was some excitement the people got in the then sleepy town. The roads were deserted and during the relaxation in curfew at certain times of the day we would play cricket in empty streets.

Me, my two sisters, my younger brother, and two kids from the neighborhood, all we did the whole day was either play in our garden or on the streets. No schools, no home works. It was like an extended winter vacation for us. We used to live in a house which right across the street from the police staff quarters and the police station.

That day, at around 3 in the afternoon we were as usual playing in the garden. The curfew had been relaxed till the evening. Our neighbor, a man who must have been in his early 20s and used to occasionally play cricket with us, came up to us and showed us a huge sutli bomb that he had saved from Diwali.

He told us he would show us a technique of making time bomb. Being a bunch of kids who were used to watching movies like Tridev and Ram Lakhan etc on VCRs, we were excited by the idea of making a time bomb. He took an incense stick and tied it to the fuse of the bomb.

“Look now,” he said “after the incense stick has burnt for sometime it will reach the point where the fuse is and it will ignite it. So if we know how long exactly an incense stick burns we will be able to set the exact time when the bomb goes off.”

He placed the bomb on the boundary wall outside our garage and lighted the incense stick.  We were super thrilled. We all ran to the verandah and huddled together patiently waiting for the bomb to go off.

As the moments ticked by we realized that this was going to take longer than we had thought. The neighbor said he will go inside and comeback to check on the bomb later. The two kids decided to watch the bomb go off from their respective houses. My brother and sisters went inside never realizing what was going to happen. I being the eldest had a faint idea about the consequences. My father and my grandfather were both at home and were taking their afternoon siesta.

I stood in the verandah watching the incense stick getting shorter by the second. Now it seemed that the burning end of the stick was approaching the fuse faster than I had thought. Suddenly the fuse flared up and started to burn with a hiss. I ran inside the house with my fingers in the ears and threw myself on the sofa in the living room.

And then…… BOOM.

The bomb went off, it was a huge one. There were no decibel limitations in those days, so one can only imagine the noise today. Due to the curfew the town was almost dead silent before the blast so its effect doubled. The noise ripped through the silence and echoed for a few moments. Then everything around me seemed to come to a standstill. I got up, came out in the verandah and saw smoke rising from the boundary wall where the bomb had been kept.

Suddenly I was aware that I was not the only spectator of the scene of crime. Policemen armed with lathis and rifles had come out of the staff quarters. Some were still in their shorts and vests.

Ten or twelve of them, some dressed some semi dressed rushed towards the site of the blast, near our garage from where the smoke was still rising as if a gene was about to appear. They were followed by a throng of women and kids coming out of the police quarters.

“O Singhji bahar aaiye!” one of the hawaldars shouted from the gate.

My father came out followed by my grandfather, my mother and my siblings. I guess we were all confused which Singhji the hawaldar was calling to. Suddenly everyone was shouting, talking, looking. Somebody picked up and brought the charred remains of the bomb and showed it to my father. I stood at the back and looked at everything in horror.

“Who did this?” I heard my father asking me. 

I did not answer. The original culprit wasn’t in sight. His door was closed even after so much commotion right next door. I wasn’t surprised.

“Arey, it was your kid, he burst the bomb, I saw him lighting it.” Someone from the crowd said.

“No, no we don’t buy such crackers for our kids.” My mother retaliated.

Everyone started talking again. A lady who was from the police staff quarters and was also a friend of my mother took our side and tried to calm the crowd down.

A man wearing an inspector’s cap arrived at the scene. He came up to my grandfather and said something. Turned out he was an acquaintance of my grandfather. He brought the situation under control asking everyone to calm down.

“Arey bachchein log hain, khel rahe thein.” He said to everyone. “Jaiye aap log sab.”

The crowd slowly dispersed. My father thanked him for his co-operation. We all went inside and closed the door. My father asked me what happened. I told him everything. All hell broke loose. My father beat me black and blue. He was angry at me for not telling the police the truth. I had not lied either.

Independence Day. Really?

Independence Day. Really?, a photo by CellPhoneClicker on Flickr.

Just one day in the year we think about our nation, about the people who laid their lives for our freedom. And we celebrate the conquest of our freedom fighters by watching movies on TV, changing DPs on Twitter, Facebook or the more enthusiastic ones amongst us may stand and salute the tricolor at the flag hoisting ceremony taking place in their apartment complex.

Come 16th August and we are all the same again, cribbing about the politicians, the conditions of the road, the scams happening and the government doing nothing about everything. Why can't we celebrate Independence Day each day, just once each day?

Just once each day try to be a better citizen. I don’t think it’s much to ask for. While you are driving just don’t honk the horns of your vehicle unnecessarily or drive responsibly without jumping the lights or cutting the lanes. Just once each day, switch off the lights, fans and the water tap when not in use. Instead of pledging to fight corruption by signing online petitions, just once each day try to fight it by not paying the traffic hawaldar without any receipt, or not purchasing something without any proper receipt, or not paying the babu in sarkari daftar to forward your file.

Weren’t these things taught to us in our schools? Why did we forget them?

Remember the 80/20 principle, I don’t think more than 20% of our nation is corrupt, the rest 80% of us are good, indifferent to our situation but good. Just once each day, if each one of us took care of these small things our nation would not need a Lokpal Commission at all.

After 64 years this is our time, we are one of the strongest economy in the world today, the most powerful nations look towards us in the times of world crisis, let us not waste this opportunity. Let us all do our own one small part each day. As the equation of synergy goes the sum of parts is always greater than the whole.

How man started surfing porn on the Internet?

(1999 – some small town in Karnataka/Maharashtra/UP/Bihar/Jharkhand)

Those were the dark days of Internet. Those were the times when it took at least ten calls to the ominous VSNL servers (yes it was Videsh Sanchar Nigam Limited then) to connect to the Internet for a maximum of half an hour and at a speed of 32 KBPS. Internet at homes was a luxury (that’s an understatement). Internet at cyber cafes would cost Rs. 100 per hour and they also charged you for connection downtime. If a cyber café was able to clock one hour without any disconnections and a download speed of 12 KBPS, it proudly declared at its doorsteps in big bold letters “HIGH SPEED INTERNET AVAILABLE”, the only thing that was missing in those declaration was a statutory warning in font size eight:

“Please be careful or you might get hit by another speeding cyber café on the information superhighway”.

So as the nation was progressing on the information highway and would soon be taking on the world as an IT superpower, there was this kid studying Information Technology / BCA / Computer Engineering, dreaming about Silicon Valley where he would soon be headed to start his own multi-million dollar portal. But our guy had no idea that he would soon change the history of mankind forever.

So our guy who had just learnt about web browsers and HTML and left clicks and right clicks visited one of these “High Speed Cyber Café”, to do some research on AltaVista (yes Google wasn’t God then). After the initial hoopla of the modem and the phones the VSNL server finally gives way and gets connected. The other two computers were occupied by people who were sending e-mails to their kids in USA. The cyber café guy charged Rs. 50 for each email and Rs. 10 extra for typing. So our cool guy shrugged at the people who couldn’t even type and took a computer. Confidently he pointed the mouse on the Netscape icon on Window’s 98 desktop (yes he believed that open source will be THE thing in the future) and the hour glass on the mouse starts rotating. After some 500 rotations Netscape browser finally opens. Carefully he clicked on the dropdown button on the address bar and selected AltaVista from the options and hits “Enter”. The hour glass started rotating once again.

After some five hundred rotations he takes a look at the status bar (yes he remembers all the jargons and parts of the browser) it says “2 of 579 items downloaded”. He looks around him. Everyone is busy surfing the high speed internet. He looked at the rotating hourglass, he lost count. The rotating hourglass casts a spell on him, it hypnotizes him. His eyes turn bleary, the eyelids feel as if they have lead blocks hanging from them and slowly he goes into deep slumber. The hourglass continued to do its work.

(Picture source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Altavista-1999.png.)

Suddenly he was shaken wide awake. He opened his eyes to see the cyber café guy standing next to him, “Bhai saab aapka vyavsaay khul gaya”. “’Vyavsaay’, what the fuck is that?” he thought and took a look at the computer screen. “Oh ok the website”, he thought with a wry smile. He punched the air in triumph as he saw the oldies still struggled with their email typing. Then something hit him. “What was I here to search for”, he thought. He thought hard. He thought harder. AltaVista stared at him. “Fuck! What was I supposed to search for”, he thought again. Desperately he checked his watch. He checked with the cyber café guy, “Bhaiya kitna time hua?” “Adhaa ghanta ho gaya aapka”, the cyber café guy said looking up his register. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! How could I forget? Why the fuck did I sleep? Fuck!”

And then the light of dawn descended upon him. His eyes brightened up and he clicked on the search box of AltaVista. Rubbing his fingers he carefully pressed four keys on the keyboard. F U C K and hit enter. The hourglass started doing its job again. In a few minutes the browser became blank and then in another couple of minutes there were thousands of links on the page telling him about “Girls in bikinis”, “Hot Celebrities Nude”, “Lesbian Girls” and what not. He was taken to the new heights of pleasure as he read the names of the websites. His fingers started to sweat and he eyed the browser with lust. Rubbing his fingers again he pointed the mouse at the first link and clicked. Instantly the hourglass appeared and got down to its business of rotating, putting a spell around him, a spell which would satiate his lust. His eyes became heavy and once again he nodded off.

He dreamt that he was boasting about his virtual sexcapades to his friends, who on hearing his stories writhed in jealousy. He told them about seeing nude shots of Jenifer Aniston and Jennifer Lopez and even Madhuri Dixit making love. Suddenly he was jolted again out of the slumber land. The cyber café guy was yelling at him “Boss ye kya khol diya, ye family cyber café hai. Isko abhi band karo.” He rubbed his eyes and saw naked girls with larger than life breasts and men with larger than life penis on his browser. “Band karo usko”, the cyber café guy shouted again. The oldies strained their necks to take a look at the booty on our guy’s screen. He hit the close button. The hourglass rotated a few times and the Windows 98 desktop appeared. Dejected as if his newlywed wife has just denied sex with him, he rose from his seat and went to the counter to pay. With a heavy heart he fished out a hundred rupee note from his wallet as the two oldies came and stood behind him.

“Lagta hai computer seekhna padega”, said one of the oldies. “Haan main bhi soch raha hoon. Kal se hi typing classes join kar lete hain”, said the other.

The next day, after having remembered what he had to search for, our guy visited the same cyber café. He was amazed to see that each of the cubicles had a curtain which hid the computers from view. “Aapke liye special lagwaya hai”, said the cyber café guy with a toothy grin.

You have been Vuvuzelaed.

Come appraisals and people start talking about the torturous corporate life. Of many things that they talk one thing is common in all the offices and that’s the ‘corporate bamboo’ or as my ex-boss used to pronounce it ‘bumboo’. So everytime she got it up her’s she would very gratefuly pass it on to us or should I say up to us. But I have a feeling that after this FIFA World Cup the ‘corporate bumboo’ will be replaced by the ubiquitous Vuvuzela.

The Coporate Vuvuzela. The word itself is so annoying that it will make people shudder. When a boss will call an employee inside his cabin who had just missed a deadline, the people outside would be saying ‘Oh the guy’s gonna be Vuvuzelaed today’. I was even wondering since Mr. Obama isn’t very keen on outsourcing and now that India is not the only hub of outsourcing jobs, the phrase ‘your job has been Bangalored’ will be changed to ‘your job has been Vuvuzelaed’.

One must be thinking why should the notorious bumboo which has been there ever since the corporates came into being, be replaced with something as new as Vuvuzela? Let me tell you:

• Vuvuzela, as wikipedia says, derives its name from the word ‘zulu’ which in African means to make noise and was invented in 1965. So its not as new as one thinks it is.
  
  
• The Corporate Vuvuzela (due to its shape) can serve a similar purpose with as much ease as the Corporate Bumboo.
  
  
• And while its being used the victim is bound to make noises though the type and source of noise in the case of Corporate Vuvuzela will be a bit different.
  
  
• And last but not the least it can be used by anyone and on anyone without much training irrespective of their age, sex, qualification or communication skills.

So once again its appraisal time. Some of the companies are already through with the process and some, like mine are still at work. So one can see people huddled in groups during coffee breaks and lunch breaks discussing who will get the corporate vuvuzela.

So when the boss calls me to hand over the appraisal letter to me he would say ‘Dude I tried very hard but you failed to impress us this time. I was expecting a lot more from you. But if you perform well next time I promise you, you will get a lot better raise’. So along with the invisible carrot I see something written on my appraisal letter, something which cant be read by anyone else ‘You have been Vuvuzelaed’.

The Nation’s Enemy Number One.

Disclaimer: The names of characters and situations occurring in all of the stories in this blog are fictional and any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental. The stories in this blog are only for leisure reading and the author at any point does not mean to make fun of or degrade, any nationality, caste, religion or sex in the story. If you think so, it is purely unintentional and the author apologizes for the same.

The Nation’s Enemy Number One.

Mumbai, Khulgayipoll News Desk, May 3, 2010

It is a proud day for the country today. The courts of justice have finally delivered their verdict. Finally truth has won, injustice and lies have been vanquished. It is being hailed as the victory of the people of India. The number one enemy of the nation Khatmal Pasab has been found guilty for the worst ever terrorist attacks which happened in the economic capital, Mumbai, two years ago and the court has sentenced him to death.

The government has been very angry about the attacks since it had once again proved that the country’s Intelligence system, had no intelligence at all. Hence the government wanted that the perpetrators be sent to the gallows as soon as possible. And now they have made sure that justice has been done. The court today passed the verdict declaring that the number one enemy of India Khatmal Pasab should be hanged till death.

On this great day our correspondents caught up with some of nation’s well wishers to get their priceless comments.

Our correspondent Ragda Patties met Bagh Fakade, at his residence, he refused to speak in Hindi or English but this is what he said and we translate:

“It is a great day for the common man of Mumbai (an assistant whispered “Sir Maharashtra”) and Maharashtra that this devil has been brought to justice. And on this auspicious day we declare that we will start a new revolution. We will ask all the television channels broadcasting on each and every television set in Mumbai (assistant from behind again “Sir and Maharashtra”) and Maharashtra should have their logos and names displayed in Marathi only. That is our tribute to the victory of the common man of Maharashtra (assistant from behind again “Sir Maharashtra”, Fakade turns around and gives him a ‘tichyaaila’ type look). I will request everyone to start the revolution from today itself. Jai Shivaji, Jai Maharashtra.”

Our correspondent Pehle Aap Mishra caught up with Behenji Kalawati out side a statue shop in Lucknow, and this is what she said:

“Pasab is a black mark on this nation. He is the enemy number one of this country and I am happy that the court has delivered the justice. It is a big day for all the Dalits and other backward casts of India. To celebrate this victory of the neglected lower casts of the country not only are we declaring it as a public holiday in our state but I have also ordered 1000 life size bronze statues of myself to be made and placed all over, to make our beloved state more beautiful .”

Our correspondent Sattu Jha from Patna met Baaloo ji who was shopping for some Rabri (a sweet meat made of milk and sugar) with his wife Dhibri Devi and this is their reaction:

“I have heard the news and I think this is a very good verdict in favor of the minority community. I think that the government should have CBI investigate the whole Pasab case again, instead of wasting its time in trying to find out which brand of cattle feed I use for my buffaloes. I am going to ask the government to start the family planning program again to celebrate this verdict.”

Our correspondents spoke to the minister of Twitter affairs Mr Haanchee Suroor but he said, “You will have to follow me on Twitter to read my comments regarding the verdict.” Our correspondent is following him on Twitter now.

Our Mumbai correspondent Ragda Patties also caught up with the Bollywood super star Sukh Dukh Kaand for his reactions:

“I am very happy today that now even the Indian court agrees with me, that every terrorist is not a Kaand. If Pasab is willing to change his ways I am ready to teach him acting so that he may act in one of my movies and fulfill the mission that he came for or if he wants I can ask my Dadaji to teach him cricket so that he may join my cricket team. Because you know I am the star, I am the best and my movies are the best… ” Our correspondent had to snatch the microphone away from him.

Our correspondent Koyla Gundi found the missing ex-chief minister Gadhoo Roda coming out of a seven star spa in Mauritius and asked him what he thought about the verdict.

“Dekhiye hum toh gareeb kisaan hain. Humare babuji koyla khadaan mein kaam karte thein. Humare paas toh chawal khareedne ke bhi paise nahi hain. Toh Newspaper khareed kar yeh sab cheez kaha se padhenge. Humein toh Pasab ka ek hi matlab pata tha (raises the pinky on his right hand). Humein jhoothe aaropon mein fasaya gaya hai.” (I am a poor farmer. My father used to work in coal fields. We don’t even have the money to buy rice then how do you think we will buy newspaper and read about these things. The only meaning of Pasab we know is (raises the pinky on his right hand). I am being falsely framed.)

Our correspondent Gend Ball Gilli asked the tycoon who has changed the face of Indian cricket Mr. KhitKhit Godi, but he was in a hurry because his chartered plane was waiting and we could only catch him saying:

“I am still the chairman of…”

These are some of the reactions that our correspondents have collected from the well wishers of our country. We have also received reactions from Gayapapita, Churnanidhi, Moyaamji, Marmar Jhing, Garda Pahar and hundreds of others from all walks of life who have dedicated their lives in the upliftment of the poor of the nation. They have all hailed the verdict of hanging the number one enemy of our country.

All Fall Down.

All Fall Down.

There has been a blast!

Fire engines scream, ambulances sing, the souls are all bloodied.

Lives have been lost!

Men and women, young and old, everybody, everywhere scurried.

That’s not the name of my city!

The leader cries, dreams smashed, the swords have been drawn.

Beat that man, what a pity!

Men and women, young and old, everybody, everywhere, nothing but mere pawns.

That’s the man, over there!

The hands grope, the eyes search, the fingers they all point.

We’re the friends, they’ve massacred!

Men and women, young and old, everybody, everywhere, pained and are joined.

Oh, my daughter why do you cry!

Tears fall, the blood is diluted, smile turns into a frown.

Let’s stand again, let us all try!

Men and women, young and old, everybody, everywhere, all fall down.

In The Loop

I push open the glass door and enter what looks like the receptions area of an office. The area looks very empty, there’s a curved wooden desk behind which a lady is sitting and writing something. In front of her is a computer screen. There is a wooden panel with a brown heavy looking door on the opposite side of the door through which I have entered. The upper half of the wooden panel is made of thick glass panel. Through the glass comes in very bright light as if on the other side of the wooden panel lies vast expanse of brightness. And yet the reception area looks dark and gloomy. There is no chair in the room except the one in which the lady sits.

I slowly walk up to the lady. I am surprised at my shuffling gait. I am unable to understand why I am walking like this.

“Is she in”, I ask as if speaking to the shiny black hair on her head which is tied down into a pony tail with a black band.

“Yes”, she says nodding her head but doesn’t bother to look up at me with her spectacled eyes. She continues to write on the note pad lying in front of her.

I try to read what she is writing but I am unable understand a word. It looks like a foreign language to me. She gestures for me to take a seat with her right hand; a silver bracelet hangs out from underneath the grey sleeve of her business suit. I turn around, there is a black leather sofa opposite the desk. I am pretty sure it wasn’t there when I walked in. I sit on the left corner of the sofa.

“She will see you in a moment”, the lady says, her pointed nose still points towards the notepad in front of her.

‘How did she know who I had come to meet and that she would see me in a moment’, I think. I am sure she hasn’t seen my face, neither have I told her the name of the person I am here to meet, nor has she spoken to anyone on the phone since the time I entered. I look confusedly at the white round face of the clock on the wall behind the lady, but I am unable to figure out what time it is.

I look outside and suddenly notice that there is no door, but I am sure I opened a heavy glass door when I entered the room. The outside looks like a corridor of a mall. There are two more floors above the one that I am in and all the floors have shops with colorful merchandise hanging on their windows. I can see the sunlight coming in from the glass roof of the mall. The escalators are going up and down on both the sides. But I am sure I didn’t come to a mall.

I see her. She is on an escalator on the other side, going up, to the floor above mine. She is wearing a short, sleeveless dress with floral prints, which comes up to her knees. As it always is, her sunglasses keep her hair from falling on her face as they flirt with the nape of her neck. The hand bag on her left shoulder has shiny metallic beads, which shimmer as the sunlight falls on them.

I turn to say something to the receptionist. She is not in her seat anymore. I try to run out, but I only manage to move in a shuffling manner. I run as fast as my shuffling legs would carry me towards the escalator she is climbing. I reach the escalator but she has already reached the top and mingled with the crowd. I climb the escalator taking two steps at a time and reach the top but I don’t see her. I see people moving around. Everyone is walking. I see faces but I can’t distinguish them one from the other. I try to locate her by the color of her dress, but suddenly the whole ensemble becomes a jumble of colors.

I look down towards the door of the office that I came out from. She is entering the door her dress flutters as she pushes open the heavy glass door. I run towards the escalator going down to the floor below. As I reach the door I can see inside but the reception area is empty and everything inside is either black or white.

I push open the glass door and enter the reception again. I quietly walk up to the receptionist sitting behind the curved wooden desk she is still writing something.

“Is she in”, I ask the receptionist again. “Yes”, she says nodding her head but this time also she doesn’t bother to look up at me. She continues to write gibberish on her notepad. She gestures for me to take a seat. I sit down on the black leather sofa.

“She will see you in a moment”, the lady says, but she doesn’t look at me. I feel confused all the more.

I look at the clock and I am still unable to figure out what time it is. I look out and again I see her on the escalator on the other side of the mall. I get up to run. My mobile rings, its not there in any of the pockets of my black trousers. I check the upper pocket of my white shire, but it’s empty too.

I turn to say something to the receptionist. She is not in her seat anymore. The ring of my mobile has become louder now. I look outside again she is still on the escalator. I see a mobile kept on the railing in the corridor with lights blinking. I move towards it in a shuffling manner.

As I reach the railing I look at the escalator, she is still on the escalator. She is looking around her and is smiling. I look at the mobile phone and pick it up. The screen blinks and the sound is louder than ever. The screen says, “7:30 A. M. calling…”

Ek Choti si Ghost Story.

Disclaimer: The author does not expect his readers to believe that this story is true.

This happened when I was in sixth standard. We went to visit my aunt’s place (my mother’s sister) in Chas. It was a small village on the border of Bihar (now Jharkhand) and West Bengal. It was the month of June and I remember it was a very hot summer. My aunt’s family pundit had chosen this sultry month of June for the marriage for their eldest son. So the visit for the occasion was combined with our annual summer vacations, but I knew it would be fun as all our cousins will come and we will have the best of times playing in the mango grove that my uncle had.

So we reached there in the hot June morning and by evening all my cousins had arrived and the whole house was transformed into a mad house. The marriage rituals had started a couple of days earlier and the Barat was supposed to depart two days later to the bride’s place in the adjoining village.

Vicky was my age; he was more of a buddy than a cousin to me. We were partners in crime. Be it climbing trees or riding a buffalo he was better, stronger and braver than me. That afternoon when were sitting on the branch of a mango tree eating raw mangoes after lunch he told me the story that he had heard from the elders.

Before I tell you what happened let me first give you some details of the landscape. The mango grove must have been as large as a foot ball ground and in all there were around twenty mango tree. My uncle’s house was on the border of the orchard and faced the rising sun. At the very centre of the ground was a very old temple. Uncle had told us that it was there even before his great grandfather had won the orchard from the local zamindar (landlord) in a match of Chuasar (a game played with dice). The temple had an idol of a Godess sitting on a burning pyre. The temple was called Sati Mata Mandir. It was only later at school while reading about Raja Ram Mohan Roy I learned what the Sati meant.

I asked Vicky what story he had heard from the elders. “People say that they have been hearing strange sounds at night”, said Vicky. “What kind of sounds”, I asked. “As if a girl wearing anklets was walking around singing some song. The anklet rang as she walked”, said Vicky. I listened to him wide eyed. “Look, your face is white already”, he laughed at me. “No, no I don’t believe in this nonsense”, I said trying to sound brave. “No, my mother says this happens every time a marriage takes place in Durga Mausa’s family”, said Vicky. “So why doesn’t every one stay awake at nights and look for the source of the sound”, I asked. “Well, they say that if everyone is awake at night the sound doesn’t come. Just one or two people each night hear the sound and if they try to raise an alarm the sound stops. They have sent search parties several times but each time they have returned empty handed”, said Vicky. He looked at me, I was wide eyed once again, he began to laugh, I looked away embarrassed.

“Look, I have a plan”, started Vicky again. “Let’s do our own investigation tonight. Everyone has been sleeping on the terrace at night we will get ourselves a bed at the corner near the stair case and try to stay awake and listen to any sound that comes”. “And then”, I asked. “Then when the sound starts we will sneak out of the house and investigate the source of it”, said Vicky. “But you said that the noise stops when people wakeup”, I asked trying not to sound scared at this proposition. “I think whatever the source of the sound is, it gets scared when there are too many people, I am sure it won’t mind two kids. What say!” said Vicky extending his palm in a five. I didn’t take it, I had my own doubts, my mind was racing, what if it was some ghost or chudail or pishaach, and all kinds of ghost stories came into my mind. “I hope you are not scared”, he said. “No I am not but what if it’s a ghost”, I said. “Darpok (coward), I knew you were afraid. There is no such a thing as a ghost”, said Vicky teasing me. “Of course I am not a coward, we will do the investigation tonight”, I agreed trying to keep my voice steady.

All that evening I tried avoiding coming in direct contact with Vicky and during dinner I believed that he must have forgotten all about our expedition. But as I was washing my hands in the verandah with a jug full of water, after a hearty meal somebody caught my shoulder, I turned around, it was Vicky. “Ready”, he said with a smile. “Yes why not, but will there be enough space for us on the terrace? I think most of the beds have already been occupied”, I said. “I have kept two bed rolls for both of us, we will put them near the stairs so that we don’t wake up anyone when we sneak out, I have also got hold of a torch see”, he said showing me the torch and turning it on and off in my face, I dropped the jug.

When all the lights had been turned off and the last of chitter - chatter had died down I lay in my bed covered till head waiting for the time to come. I hoped that there would be no sound that night, I hoped that the sound maker would have forgotten his or her anklet at home or lost or broke it altogether. I didn’t realize when I dosed off, and I woke up with a jolt when I felt my body being shaken violently. I removed the sheet from my head and looked, it was Vicky who was shaking me. When he saw me awake he gestured me to keep silent.

“Listen”, he whispered, his index finger on his lips. I tried to listen, but I couldn’t hear anything. I looked at him confusedly. He looked at me, his finger still on his lips. And then I heard a faint sound. I thought it was a rustling of the leaves. But then it came again and again and then it continued in a rhythm as if someone was walking. It was unmistakably the sound of a pair of legs walking with anklets on. I started to sweat like a hog. I stared at Vicky wide eyed, this time I couldn’t hide my fear, but he was smiling at me mischievously. “Let’s go”, he said, took out the torch from underneath the pillow and started to move stealthily towards the stairs. I had no option but to follow him. I wanted to wash off the tag of a ‘Darpok’ from my forehead forever.

Very cautiously we opened and shut the front door and came out into the mango grove. The sound was very clear now. Someone was walking around with a pair of anklets. Vicky pointed towards the Sati temple, the noise was undoubtedly coming from that direction. He signaled me to follow him. We moved quickly, Vicky leading from the front because he had the torch. The night was bright as it was a full moon night and the moonlight cast weird shadows of the mango trees on the ground in front of us. I gathered all my courage and followed Vicky but strangely I wasn’t feeling afraid anymore but was excited about the adventure.

After running for sometime we came near the temple and hid behind a mango tree. Vicky switched off the torchlight. The sound of anklets was very clear and appeared to be coming from very close distance but there was no one to be seen. We looked hard all around us but there was no one. And suddenly from behind the temple a dark form appeared. The dark form was that of a woman. She moved gracefully and in the moon light we could see her jewelry shining around her neck and on her head. She was wearing what appeared to be an ethnic wedding dress. “Who is she”, said Vicky and before I could say or understand anything he came out from behind the tree and walked towards the figure. “Hey! Who are you?” shouted Vicky at the figure. The dark figure raised her face towards Vicky and in a moment disappeared, and at the same time Vicky collapsed in a heap on the ground. I was standing solidified behind the tree watching Vicky’s audacity but when he collapsed on the ground I ran to his aid.

“Vicky! Are you all right”, I shouted as I shook him by his shoulder. He was breathing heavily. Slowly he raised himself and sat up on the ground. He opened his eyes. “Vicky, are you okay”, I asked again. “Let’s go back”, I said. “Have all the guests arrived”, asked Vicky in Bengali and in the voice of a woman. I jumped as if I had got an electric shock. I knew what had happened to him, he was possessed by the Ghost of the Sati temple. I got very scared and wanted to run away but how could I leave Vicky. I mustered up all my courage and asked, “Who are you?” “Who am I? Don’t you know anything kid”, said the voice again in Bengali. “I am Shakuntala, don’t you know the girl whose marriage you have come to attend”, said the voice. “Yes, yes I know you Shakuntala Maasi”, I said and slowly started to back off. I knew it was no use trying to talk to a ghost in a dark night I should rather run home and get some help. Vicky turned Shakuntala started to look towards the ground and started humming some tune in low voice. I thought the opportunity was right, I turned around and ran for my life.

I didn’t stop until I crashed the front door, entered the house, and began to shout at the top of the voice from the verandah itself “Vicky has been possessed by a ghost.” My alarm woke up everyone in the house all my Mausas and Mamas and Maasis and Maamis and cousins and servants everyone came down in to the verandah. After getting a quick account of what had happened they armed themselves with laathis and torches and started towards the Sati temple. I followed them feeling guilty for what had happened to Vicky. When we reached the spot we saw Vicky lying senseless on the ground, he was breathing normally. They picked him up and took him into the house. The doctor was called and after sometime Vicky came back to his senses. The next morning when I asked him if he remembered anything he said that all he remembered was calling out to the figure but could not remember what happened after that.

The Smile

Everyday he made sure that he was there standing across the street at the tea stall by the tree, to see her come out to put the clothes on the line to dry in the sun. Each day she would notice him standing there at the same time, sipping tea.

Sometimes their eyes would meet and he would start talking to the rickshaw puller sitting there. Sometimes their eyes would meet and she would turn around to pick up the clothes from the bucket.

One day he gathered all his courage and as their eyes met, smiled. She quickly lowered her eyes and turned away pretending to squeeze water from the wet clothes so that he could not see her face and smiled shyly.

After that, everyday when she came out the first thing that she would look out for would be the usual place where he would be standing sipping his morning tea or talking to a friend. He would now smile ever so often whenever their eyes met. She never responded. She would simply lower her eyes or pretend to pick up the clothes from the bucket. But she never smiled back at him.

And then one day just like he had appeared below the tree sipping his morning tea he disappeared. She kept looking back at the spot every few seconds, half expecting to see him there chatting with his friend, but he wasn’t there, neither was his friend.

A couple of weeks passed he didn’t came. She heard the news of a war like situation brewing at the border in the north. But she never heard anything about him. Everyday when she came out at her usual time and didn’t see him standing below the tree she cursed herself for not having responded to his smile, and that made her feel worse.

A month later one day she saw his friend standing below the tree looking in her direction. She threw the bucket full of clothes on the ground and ran outside. The man didn’t say anything just handed her a letter. She read it, it was from him and it said that he had gone to some place and was working for a big government organisation now, but didn’t disclose the place or the name of the organisation. She read and reread the letter several times and cried. She asked the man to return the next day and she would write a reply.

She didn’t sleep that night and wrote a letter saying that she was missing his smile and she would wait for him till he came back. The next day she saw his friend standing there again and gave him the letter. This continued for several weeks. His friend would give her a letter and she would write a reply.

Finally she got a letter from him saying that he would be coming back by next week. Next week she saw his friend standing there again, and ran up to him. He said that he would be coming, and asked her to come near the town square clock tower at the same time, next day. She said that she would be there. She could sense sadness in his voice. She didn’t know why.

The next day, dressed in her best salwar suit she went to clock tower a few minutes earlier than the appointed time and hid behind a paan shop from where she could see the square but he would not be able to see her, when he came. She noticed that on the other side of the square was a small crowd and she could see some commotion there. She also noticed his friend standing there.

In sometime a green truck passed her on the road she could see a few army men sitting inside. The truck drew up to the middle of the square and stopped. Someone opened the back of the truck. Some of the men from inside the truck jumped out and stood in an attention position. Then four more army men jumped out of the truck and started to pull out something from the truck. It looked like a huge box to her. It was wrapped in the Tricolor.

The four army men raised the coffin on their shoulders and stood in the middle of the square while the other men standing in attention saluted. She saw a couple of women running towards the ensemble, their screams were painful and they were beating their chest. One of the women fell, the others dropped on their knees beside her. His friend and a few other men ran toward the fallen women and tried to console them. The four men moved forward and placed the coffin wrapped in the Tricolor in front of the women. The women started to cry, beating their chest.

She looked at the coffin and burst into tears. She fell on her knees and cried with her face hid in her hands. She raised her face, looked at the coffin and smiled before giving out a cry of pain looking towards the sky.

The Revenge

Disclaimer: The names of characters and situations occurring in this story are all fictional and any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental. The story is purely for leisure reading and the author at any point does not mean to make fun of or degrade any caste, religion or sex in the story. If you think so, it is purely unintentional and the author apologizes for the same.

I had a troubled childhood. And I hold all my relatives, the endless list of uncles and aunts and my neighbors, another endless list of uncles and aunts, responsible for this. My only fault that I can remember was that I was a cute kid, with chubby cheeks, a mop of curly black hair on my head and round plump buttocks.

Whenever these people would come to visit my family during festivals or we went to visit them, I would be put to third degree torture. My cheeks would be pinched, my hair would be ruffled, my belly would be poked and tickled, and if they ran out of ideas my buttocks would be slapped so that it jiggled. And they would all laugh with sadistic pleasure as I would make faces and try to wriggle out of their grip, trying to get away from them.

Soon I reached a point where I was scared to death whenever I heard of a family get together. I started to device plans to escape the torture, wearing a cap to prevent from my hair being pulled or applying too much oily face cream on my cheeks so that people would not be able to get a proper grip on them. Once I even thought of placing a thick cardboard under my pants to protect my buttocks, but all in vain. The torture went on, I continued to suffer and people continued to pinch my buttocks and laugh with sadistic pleasure. But this story is not about my helpless sufferings, it’s actually about my revenge.

As I reached adolescence and hair started to grow all over my body, the tormenters stopped harassing me. But there was one lady, (name not disclosed because it’s classified information) who didn’t stop. She used to live a couple of blocks away from our house and she had befriended my mother at one of our neighbors’ weddings, a few years ago.

She was a good looking, married lady, much younger than any of the other tormenters, and had a nice, voluptuous body. She used to come to our house during the afternoons just after we came back from school and have had our lunch. She used to come to our place sometimes to learn to knit, or sometimes to learn a new cake recipe that mother had tried or sometimes just to chat. And every time she came I had to run for my life.

Sometimes I would hide on the terrace or in the garage but she would call out my name and come looking for me until she would find me. And then she would pinch my both cheeks, pulling me towards her and I would sway too and fro, screaming helplessly. But she wouldn’t stop at that. She would hold my face close to hers and smother me with kisses on my forehead and my cheeks which would leave my whole face wet. Sometimes she would hold me very close and in all the excitement her duppatta would fall off and her huge breasts would be right there in front of my nose, the cleavage showing through her deep neck salwar suit. And it was such an incident that prompted me to take my revenge.

It was actually after my thirteenth birthday when we were newly into our teens and were discovering ourselves that this incident happened. At that time the discussions with friends revolved around the things people did on the first night of their marriage or around the huge breasts of some actress in a new movie or newly learnt jokes on private parts of people. Each time someone would mention a girls body part I would feel a sensation all over my body.

One afternoon this lady was half way through her ritual of tormenting me when she held me very close and suddenly her duppatta fell. I could see her cleavage right in front of my face. And then it happened, accidently my face brushed her breasts, her open cleavage to be exact, and I felt something move in my groin. I pushed her back, turned around immediately so that she was unable to see the bulge in my pants and ran from there. I must have sat for at least an hour all alone on the terrace before the bulge in my pants finally subsided. But all the time I thought about her soft cleavage and realized that I had actually enjoyed the whole thing. I was secretly happy.

It was Holi, the day when I finally came of age. I was on the streets with my friends, putting paint on everyone in sight, when I saw her opening the gate of our lawn and enter. I dipped my hands in dark green oil paint and rushed in front of her and greeted her “happy Holi aunty”. Her face, hair and hands were all red with gulal and her white salwar suit had a few color spots here and there. I could see her cleavage through her transparent duppata. “Happy Holi”, she replied with a big smile, and caught hold of my cheeks. I could see there was some red color on her teeth as well.

She bent down, started pinching my cheeks with both hands, and started to pull me towards her. As soon I reached very close to her breasts, I pulled her duppatta very lightly which she didn’t seem to notice and it fell off her shoulders. She gave one big pull to my cheeks, and I almost fell on her, but I raised my left hand to prevent myself from falling directly into her breasts and my hand, wet with deep green oil paint, landed on her right boob. It all happened in a flash and I don’t know whether it was my reflexes or male instincts which told me to squeeze her breast really hard. I did, and almost immediately removed my hand. She stood shocked for a second, her mouth open, looked at her breasts, her duppatta on the ground and then at my face as I looked at her with my left hand raised and my mouth open.

“Shaitaan (demon)”, she screamed. I ran. She ran after me screaming, “Shaitaan rukk jaa abhi batati hoon tujhe. (Stop you devil, I will teach you a lesson).” I ran out of the house, she followed me. I turned around and saw her running after me in her white salwar suit, tying her duppatta around her neck. And as she ran her round breasts bounced up and down, the right one deep green in color.