Sunrise

The sun streaked across the sky,
Its rays killed the dark
As arrows do the fearful foe
And signaled the birth of a new dawn.

Yet the world was snoring
In its deep enchanted slumber.

The chirping of birds filled the sky
As the music strummed sweetly
The gentle breeze lifted the blanket of sleep
As the sky cleared for the display of Apollo’s might

Yet the world was snoring
In its deep enchanted slumber.

When will we wake
Up to the new dawn?
Why are we still lost I dreams,
Of glories and conquests long gone?

Wake up! Wake up!
It’s the clarion call of the day
The time of slumber is long gone.
Let’s step out of our shells.

At the herald of the new day
Grab the sun with both hands
And put its fire in our hearts
And show the world our awakening.

-Shivam

Apocalypse now

Amidst the rumors of impending doom
Amidst ever pervading gloom
Waiting for Death to take its final bow,
I wonder, is it really apocalypse now?

Where greed has grown, and avarice abounds,
Where duplicity and fraudulence breeds new grounds,
Seeing the manipulators, and the seeds of chaos they sow,
I wonder, is it really apocalypse now?

Where speech is stifled by strangulating strands
Where a pair of lips is silenced, by many heavy hands
Truth’s spirit wallowing in an all time low,
I wonder, is it really apocalypse now?

Not by earth-shattering quakes, nor by charring fires
Apocalypse is nothing but unrestrained desires.
The day temptation doesn’t make the conscience waver,
It will not be apocalypse now, but apocalypse never.

-Shivam

The Dialogue

The stage was set. And the crowd, set up. Expectedly, it consisted of his sycophants and cronies, and some real people who had come to entertain themselves with the fiction, served with liberal doses of false emotions. For most of the audience, it was a movie-worthy experience, for free. Not for him, though. Not for him, who silently climbed the building opposite the maidaan. He, who slowly opened a case and removed what he needed to. The stage was set. And so was the scope.

Shyam lied down comfortably and adjusted the sniper gun on his shoulders. The scope was focussed on the dias. The speaker, a Union minister known more for his scams than any real work in the office, was about to arrive. The elections were approaching and the customary farce of promises had begun. But this particular farce would stop that day, Shyam thought determinedly. And then, with a slew of cars riding on public money, he reached the maidaan. Shyam’s heart didn’t skip a beat. He was trained for more than this little chore of shooting a target down. And then, he came within the range of his scope. And then, Shyam took aim for his head and pressed the trigger…

“Stop! Right now!” Cold steel pressed on his back and boomed in his ears.

“What the hell…” Shyam muttered as he lowered the sniper, cursing himself for not ensuring proper clearance prior to his mission.

“I said put it down immediately!” Shyam slowly put the gun down and raised his hands.

“You bloody thug!” A punch flew across and was about to hit Shyam’s face when he blocked it, out of reflex.

“I am not a thug. I am an ex-Army man. Like you.”

“What?”

“Yes. I was in the security staff of another minister,” Shyam stated non chalantly.

“Then how dare you plan murder of our own leaders?”

“Because I saw something that shook me to the core. I saw the man I was protecting, doing a deal with some company. “

“So? They are all corrupt, we know it!”

“Yes, we all know it! But this deal would have ensured that the Indian army would receive substandard ammunition and bulletproof vests,” Shyam replied angrily.

“What?” he was clearly shocked. He didn’t expect the representatives of the country to fall so steeply.

“Yes. However, the company man suffered a mysterious accident that day and was never seen,” Shyam smiled wickedly.

“You bloody murderer!” the bodyguard smacked one across Shyam’s face, “You could have easily reported the matter and stopped it by constitutional means! You didn’t have to murder!”

“Constitution? Oh, you mean that book of codes that is being ripped apart daily by these politicians?”

“Yes, I mean that. And merely killing one of the politicians wont make you a guardian. It will make you a traitor.”

“A traitor? For protecting my own country?”

“Yes, a traitor! And I wont have a bloody traitor roaming aout! Not on my watch!” The bodyguard held Shyam by his neck and started dragging him.

“Wait, wait.. Officer, what’s your name?”

“Vishal singh.”

“So Vishal, will you save the skin of the man who wont think twice before selling the soul of our beloved nation?”

“Yes, traitor. I will. Because its my duty. And nothing ranks above my duty for me.”

“Are you crazy? How can you like serving this apology of a man?”

“Yes. Because its my duty,” again a flat, hard response coming from gritted teeth.

“Duty? Who are you working for? The country or this man?” Shyam was genuinely shocked.

“For the country. For the laws of this great nation. And as long as I am alive, I will not allow anyone to break those laws.” The grip around Shyam’s neck tightened a little.

A silence ensued for a moment, punctuated only by the amplified voice of hollow promises being dished out to the by-now-immune gentry, who had only come to clap and receive the free biscuit packets.

“You hear that?” Shyam asked, “That is the voice of the man who will not hesitate for a moment before killing you, and others of your ilk, just to serve his purpose. What difference would it have made if I had made a complaint? I would have been thrown out of the job, and goons set after me and my family. Instead, I left it honorably, collected my pension and shifted my family out of India. Now my actions here will not affect their future. I have ensured it. Tell me, what would your Constitution have given me? Pain? Anger? Humiliation? And this bastard would have walked out of the case, with a fucking clean chit, clean kurta and clean smile. No. Today, he shall not leave this place alive!”

Vishal’s grip loosened. Probably the traitor was right. Yet, he could not abdicate his duty, for which he was paid. That separated him from a barbarian.

“Only one bullet will be fired. Only one sound will be heard. Lets see who is faster,” Vishal said calmly, the calmness being the oil over the storm of his thoughts. Shyam smiled. Very few could match his skill at shooting. Probably Vishal could be one of them. With a nozzle pressed firmly at his temple, Shyam carefully took aim.

Only one sound was heard. And the gathered audience could only gape in horror as the shining white kurta of the orator was stained red, the stain slowly spreading as life ebbed out of him. While countless legitimate cases had failed to stain him, an illegal bullet by a traitor succeeded.

That evening, the news agencies confirmed two highly irregular events

1) A dead man with a sniper gun lay on the top floor of the building opposite to where the minister was standing.

2) The personal bodyguard of the minister, one Mr Vishal Singh had disappeared.

Who, after all killed the minister?

The Saga

THE SAGA

Listen o weary traveller,
listen o joyous revellar,
I tell thee a story,
a story of a man,
whom the world called insane.

Scores of centuries ago he was born,
for him the fate had always been a thorn.
He had a burn on his hand
and people ran away from him, as if he were a fiend.

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

He grew and grew in age,
But had no knowledge how to even turn a page
His mother profusely beat her head,
"Oh, why didnt he die the day he was born?", she said.

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

One day, he saw a man wielding a sword,
so well that he cut through the thickest cord.
Awed he was, he asked the man to teach,
But greeted he was with a loud screech!

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

Determined, he decided to learn,
for days and days, his hands bore the sword's burn.
All looked at him and smirked
his antics just had them irked.

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

Days flowed to months, moths to years,
He soon conquered all his fears.
His sword breathed fire with steel,
He fought and fought till his skin begin to peel.

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

One day, not so fine, the peace of the town was shattered,
a wild mob had the towns walls battered
People ran scurried away, cowards they were,
This man stood firm, havinf known no fear.

For he was man,
whom the world called insane.

"Come on you fiends!" he roared
His power quivered event he wild horde.
He stood alone, and fought, till blood dripped from his hands,
he fought like a madman to protect his lands.

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

Ah! A sword cut through his back, an arrow pierced his eye
he continued to fight, drenched red.
Last, the horde was reduced to but one man,
The fighter snarled at him, like insane.

For he was a man,
whom the world called insane.

A battle, so fierce, that none had seen
blood and guts were seen, where humans had been
The horde was defeated, by one insane man,
Alas, he staggered to death then.

The people came out of their homes,
and celebrated in the street
They felt so proud of their strengths,
As if killing the horde was their own feat.

They erected a hero-rock for him,
whose wits they called to be dim.
They worshipped the man,
whom they called insane.

So, that was the end of that,
o weary traveller, o joyous reveller,
Thank you for hearing this tale.

-Shivam

Waiting

Waiting

Dingy and dark looks the sky,
The horizon, betraying of light
Prolonged, oh, so protracted
Is the spell of the nigrescent night.

Anticipating eyes, anxious faces,
Keep gazing at lands far away,
Waiting for the first ray to burst forth
A Godsend is all, for whom they pray.

Little do they know,
That their harbinger has come,
With open eyes, they sleep,
Not knowing what they can become.

How long shalt Thou take, O Man?
To seize the control of Your fate?
You are filled with energy enormous,
And yet for a hero, why do You wait?

-Shivam

Golden hour

*Golden hour*

He clutched his head and fell on ground, speech slurred, and half the body paralyzed. She waited for an hour before calling the ambulance. "He will be paralyzed for life, and will have amnesia of varying levels," the doctor said. She nodded, head hung in shame.

From then on, Dr Smita never got beaten by her husband, who now, follows his wife's every instruction like a child. It is as if they are truly in love after ten years of marriage.

Dissociation

The Dissociation

A perfect life- well, that’s an illusion most of the human beings chase throughout their lives. What they do not know is that they are merely chasing the metaphorical gold at the end of the rainbow. Little do they realize how disappointed they will eventually be, when they won’t find their promised paradise. Well, this is not a metaphysical discussion on the finer aspects of happiness, of course! But allow me to indulge for a while. No? Okay, let’s meet a fascinating person to begin our story.

Ruttuja could feel her heart thumping. He was coming! It was only the fourth time that they were going out, but he had swept her completely off the feet. It wasn’t his liquid eyes, which spoke a lot, nor his silken voice or his gift of words, but his mere aura when he would sit beside him had made Ruttuja fall head over heels in love. As a psychologist, her mind should have analyzed him more. But love is a feeling that transcends the mind. It had all started six months ago, when Shyam had walked to her and asked her the address of Connaught place. It would not have been strange and funny if they were not standing right at the Connaught place itself. Realizing his foolishness, he smiled sheepishly and mumbled forgiveness. And then, he suddenly turned back and asked her to join him for a coffee, as he was alone. A nervous Ruttuja replied that her boyfriend was waiting for her.

“I know you are single, alone and half-thinking of joining me now,” he said calmly, his liquid eyes piercing into hers. He was right, and half hour later, they were both laughing they time away, sipping cold coffee and chocolate milk shake. It was the beginning of their story. It only progressed further over the next two meetings, at Connaught place again, when they slipped hands into one another and locked eyes, gazing at each other for long periods until their eyes started burning.

Ruttuja glanced at her watch. He was late, again! He had this annoying habit of turning up late and changing her annoyance into love. And she could feel it blossoming again as Shyam alighted from his car and walked towards her and embraced her tightly. It was one of the most secure and safe moments of her life, being in the strong arms of someone she truly loved.

“I love you, Ruttu!” Shyam whispered in her ear as he put her down.

“I love you too sweetheart!” she cooed back.

“Listen, I want to marry you!”

“What?” Ruttuja was shocked. She didn’t expect him to talk of marriage so soon. She was yet to inform her parents about Shyam.

“Yes, I am serious. I will be transferred to another place soon. And I don’t want to leave Delhi without my love.”
Ruttuja considered her options. Convincing her parents was not an issue. They would not stop her if they found Shyam to be a decent, cultured man that he already was, and with a fat pay package that he already had. But she needed to be sure of it first. Oh, if only she had Netri beside her. She would have known what to do. But, the mere thought of Netri brought out tears from her eyes.

“What happened darling? If you are not sure about this, lets not do it,” Shyam said, wiping her tears.

“That’s not the matter honey. I am missing Netri, my best friend.”

“Why? Where is she now?”

“No more. She was brutally murdered by her ex-boyfriend last year. I can still see her face, her beautiful face bloodied by that animal who cut her head off! She hadn’t shown me his photo either. Wanted it to be a surprise. And now…” Tears welled up in her eyes again.

Shyam sat down. He knew it would not be appropriate to interfere. He kissed her on the forehead and said, “Sweetheart, probably she will guide you from the heavens above. Ask your heart, and it will give you the right answer.”

Time passed, nay, flew by. A fortnight had passed since Shyam’s proposal. Ruttija finally mustered enough courage to ask her parents. As expected, they first asked about Shyam’s job, his pay, his family. Ruttuja replied that he was an orphan, and worked in a multinational company with a five figure salary. The credentials seemed to satisfy Ruttuja’s father and he told his beaming daughter to call her chosen one for lunch the following day.

“Hey Shammu!” Ruttuja cooed.

“Yes, Ruttu!”

“I talked to dad, and guess what? He has agreed to meet you tomorrow for lunch!”

“That’s really great, Ruttu. I am confident our relation will go all the way!”

“Me too, sweetu!”

It would be too much saccharine to describe the meeting between the prospective father-in-law and the prospective son-in-law. But, sticking to the traditions, most of the laughs were artificial, most smiles fake and most compliments appeasing. However, it is the expected behavior and usually, the conventional stands a chance in the society of the unthinking. To cut the long story short, Ruttuja’s father gave his consent for the relation and the engagement was fixed a week later.

The stage was set. The partners-to-be were ready. She was blushing, he was beaming at her. Shyam didn’t have many friends in Delhi except his room partner at the apartment. It he who had selected the engagement ring. Soon, Shyam fished out the ring and was about to slide it down Ruttuja’s finger when there was a sound of the police siren. Soon, ten-odd policemen entered the hall and pointed their guns at Shyam. Shyam was too dazed to move. It had all happened too fast for him. Just as he was about to speak something, another man, this time in plain clothes, entered the hall in a wheel chair and pointed a shaking finger towards Shyam, and said, “Yes sir. He is the one who murdered Netri and maimed me!”

First there was silence. But, just like the impending rupture of a volcano, it was soon broken by a mayhem. Everyone was at their feet, trying to escape the scene of indictment, as if it were an infection that they would catch if they stayed a moment longer. Unfortunately for them, the police had sealed the area and no guest was allowed to leave till the arrest of the culpable was made. The culpable, in this case, was Shyam. No, probably he was someone else, according to the man on the wheelchair, “His name is Vishal!” he shouted, still the accusing, trembling finger pointed at the bewildered fiancé-to-be.

It was not a pretty sight, most certainly not, having to witness a man in tuxedo being handcuffed and dragged to a jail, with his engagement ring still in his hands. But, such is the travesty of fate. Shyam could only look helplessly at Ruttuja whose eyes spewed fury, shock and grief. Shyam’s parting words were a plea to Ruttuja, “Please save me Ruttu! I am innocent!” Expectedly, she didn’t pay any heed.

After two days of arduous and torturous questioning, to which Shyam gave the same answer, “I do not know anything!” he saw his horizon of hope in the form of Ruttuja. She walked up to the inspector and stated that she wanted to meet Shyam in private. The inspector had all the reasons to refuse, but could not stand the determined stare in her eyes and the badge of the government approved forensic psychologist in her hand. “Only ten minutes,” he mumbled, before letting her in his cell. Ruttuja indicated the constable to close the door of the solitary isolation room.

“Shyam, I need to talk to you.”

“Trust me Ruttu, I am innocent. I don’t even know that person, or your friend, except on the day you spoke to me about her.”

“I know it Shyam. Thing is, you have suffered from something the psychologists call dissociative fugue.”

“Fyoog? Whats that?” a somewhat confused-looking Shyam asked. He had heard the word for the first time in his life and didn’t even know how to speak it.

“Yes. Fugue. In this condition, following a traumatic event, a person forgets his past, and wanders to an unknown place, assuming a new identity,” Ruttuja spoke through gritted teeth. It was mentally impossible for her to accept that the person she was loving was not in his true self, but an imposter of his own self.

“But…me? What event?” Shyam looked thoroughly confused. He preferred the tough questioning of the police to this psychological jargon.

Ruttuja took a deep breath, battled a few tears and continued, “You are Vishal. Vishal Singh, a resident of Delhi. I talked to that man in the wheelchair for two days. He told me everything. He was your best friend, Prateek.”

“What? You mean, I am not Shyam? You mean I am someone else? And if he was my best friend, why would I maim him?”

“Yes, Shyam…er, Vishal. Now, please hear me out very carefully. You were having an affair with Netri, my friend, and you were about to be engaged. One day before the engagement, you decided to pay a surprise visit to Netri’s place with a bouquet. It was there that you found her in the bed with your best friend, Prateek. Something snapped within you, and your eyes showed an unseen madness, you picked up the knife and…and…” Ruttuja could no longer hold back her tears. It was too much for her to imagine her beloved Shyam decapitating her best friend and stabbing the leg of Prateek, maiming him for life, before running away. It was a disorder she had only studied in college, but living it was a different matter altogether.

“Ruttu, I have no memory of what happened. Please, help me. I even do not know whether I committed the murder!” Shyam pleaded.

“You did commit a murder Shyam. But, we will have to ascertain whether you did it in your right mind.” It was the most excruciating moment for Ruttuja. She was about to make a plan to save the murderer of her best friend. But deep down, she believed that Netri deserved to die. She was about to call off the engagement the following day as she had found, in Prateek, a much richer man. And she also knew about Shyam’s history of depression, fully aware that any such action on her part would send Shyam into suicidal depression. Unfortunately, something opposite happened and both Netri and Prateek paid for it.

“But how will you save me? The inspector kept on saying something about a cognizable offence, meaning I won’t be able to get bail either!” Shyam asked worriedly. The new developments had him worried. He still didn’t know how he had killed his own fiancée and maimed his best friend, or why would her fiancée sleep with his best friend. Life had suddenly become very complicated for him to understand.

“I am going to ask the Inspector-in-charge to allow you to spend just one night with me. And before you think of anything naughty, it’s for our hypnosis session. We will know the truth in the hypnosis. I am here by appointing myself as your official counselor,” Ruttuja spoke as she was leaving the room. After an interminable wait of fifteen minutes, the constable came into the room and told that Shyam was free for the night. Ruttuja was very difficult to beat in persuasion. He knew it by experience.

It was close to nine at night when they reached Ruttuja’s place. She was alone, as her parents had gone to their relative’s place for dinner. Ruttuja had not told them of her plan. She didn’t intend to marry Shyam anyways. But she wanted to see that justice was delivered to him in the correct manner.

“Now, Shyam, I would like you to lie on the couch and close your eyes,” she began. And then, the rest of the night panned out in an interesting way. What happened was much different than Ruttuja had thought, and she would probably have only her uncontrollable urge and instincts to blame. It would be too dreary to write about it all, and too impossible for me to expect that you will pay attention to every word of mine. The next day’s headlines, however, said it all:


The new Bikini killer strikes again after 6 months. Victim is a forensic psychiatrist.

Mocking Monologue

The Mocking Monologue

Knocking at my door, O, you persistant,
Will you break it down, O incessant?
Oh! You want to talk, to parlay?
Or just want to incite, fight, and flay?

Who are you, O model of insolence?
Why do you promise me your consolence?
Why do you try to jerk your tears,
While massaging, glorifying, enhancing my fears?

Ah! So you want from me, a vote?
And will it really shore up your sinking boat?
So, you offer me what I dont even need,
and expect me to fall prey to my own greed?

Corrupt you are, greedy no less,
My country, you have made into a glorious mess
And yet, I believe your promises, no matter how hollow
For I am from a herd, my leader I follow.

Yes, for you, my mandate goes every single time,
For, I dont really care a single, single dime.
Intellectuals like me, can only raise a cry and hue
And to run the nation, we only have people like you.

-Shivam'da'

Russian Roulette

The Russian Roulette

Nobody exists in this world who has not yet tasted defeat. It is a bitter pill to swallow and a difficult morsel to digest. And yet, for every winner, there are ten times as many losers. And then, there is a third category of people- those who have nothing to lose, or at least that’s the way they would like to portray themselves. Everybody has something to lose. There cannot be a person who has lost everything, and yet survives. Or, is there?

As Shyam felt the cold metal on his temple, he wondered all that went wrong, culminating in him playing the deadly game of Russian roulette. Death was staring at him and he was not going to be the first to blink. As he closed his eyes, he saw the picture of his family, his and children. There was every chance that it was the last time that he would be seeing them. Slowly, he pulled the trigger. The crowd held their breaths. Five blank shots had already been fired by both the players in this deadly game. Only one slot remained unfired, and that was having the bullet. They all knew what would happen next. It was only a matter of when. In his final moments, Shyam remembered all that happened over the last 24 hours, the day that changed his life, and will most likely end it too.

Having a shop at the corner of a main road has its share of advantages and disadvantages. It was a typical day for Shyam in his “Shyam paan parlour”. People were milling by, some stopped to ask for paan, others for their daily fix of gutkha. The police had already come for their daily bribe. These two categories of people constituted the aforesaid advantages and disadvantages. It was then that God decided to play a little game. A man came to the shop and asked for a Banarasi paan. Shyam had run out of his stock of gulkand,the honey dripped rose petals, so essential for the paan. .

“Can you wait for a minute? I’ll get it from the other shop in five minutes!” The man decided he could wait after all. Shyam rushed to the grocery store on the other end of the crossroads, turning a blind eye to the black Scorpio that was coming to his side. He realized it only when he heard the sound of screeching brakes. He looked to his right and saw a very angry looking driver and his companions, all mouthing profanities. Shyam started running as if he never cared. He bought the gulkand and walked back. But, his shop bore a different look altogether. Everything was broken, all gutkha packets were put in a bonfire and all ingredients of the paan were spilled to the ground. In short, his only means of livelihood was broken in a matter of moments.

“Who did this? Tell me!” Shyam caught the collar of a passerby and shouted. He was shocked to the core. In his gut, he knew that it was the Scorpio owner. Rich dogs like him do not value others’ hard work and don’t mind destroying their livelihood if it massages their ego.

“How can I know? I was just walking by!” the passerby freed himself and walked away. It was never wise to spill beans against someone so powerful. Unlike Shyam, that anonymous passerby valued his life. Shyam sat on his haunches, his head in his arms and tears running by the side of his cheek. Everything he had was finished. And even didn’t know who did it! That was the precise moment when his mobile phone rang out. It was an unknown number. Tepidly, he took the call.

“Shyam paanwaala?” A gruff voice spoke from the other end.

“Yes,” he replied weakly.

“Listen you dog! Your interrupted the work of my gang today. Remember a black Scorpio? It was full of my men, all armed. They were supposed to shoot someone. Thanks to your bumbling, the target escaped! Now, the man who gave us the advance money for the killing is mad at us!”

The seriousness of the whole situation now struck Shyam. Bang on the face.

“Sir, please forgive this little creature! I will… I will…”

“Yes, you will. You will repay all the money that we lost. And it comes at a small figure of fifty peti!”

“Fifty lakhs? How can a poor man, who lost his livelihood, get so much? Have some mercy on me sir!”

“Mercy? Forget it! In fact, we need to ensure that you pay up. So, I would like you to talk to someone who might inspire you to get the money.”

The next voice Shyam heard shook him to the core, making him numb from shock. It was wife. Before he could reply anything, the gruff voice took over, “I hope you have my attention. Your wife and two children are with us. And they will be with us, till you pay back every single penny of the fifty lakhs. As much as my men would like to do it, we will not harm your wife or your kids. All we want is money, and now you will think of means to get it fast.” The phone was slammed down.

Shyam stared at his phone as if it were from some alien land, and the voice emanating from, some alien tongue. But, reality hit him hard soon enough. Regaining his senses, he started thinking the various ways to get those fifty lakhs and rescue his family. None appeared on the horizon, after a prolonged thinking. There was no way to cough up so much cash. Just as he was thinking, a piece of newspaper, flying in the air, stuck him on the face. Cursing aloud, he removed it, but something written on it caught his eye. It was an ad promising one crore rupees worth of prize money if the person would take part in a ‘fun-filled, thrilling’ game. In his gut, Shyam knew that the game was going to be deadly. Nobody gives one crore rupees without asking for their pound of flesh. But a poor man, who has lost everything, has nothing to lose, but his life. And Shyam was exactly that sort of man. He intended to either save his family, or go down fighting. After all, fortune favours the brave, and bravado was Shyam’s sole currency.

“So, you want to enroll in our game?” a hefty looking man with an unkept beard asked.
“Yes,” replied Shyam slowly.
“Do you know what it is?”
“No,” the monosyllabic rant continued. Shyam was beyond caring now.
“It’s called a Russian roulette. In this, there is a revolver with only one bullet in the six slots. Two people hold the gun on their temples and fire. Only one man stands in the end. The one who does, wins the money.”
Shyam gulped down slowly. What the man described was way beyond illegal. It was one of the deadliest sports and only the most desperate participated. But then, desperate was how Shyam was.
“Okay,” another monosyllable.

The stage was set. One revolver was placed neatly on the table and two chairs facing each other were placed. The audience seats started filling. Most of them consisted of affluent-looking men, who would look like gentlemen in an alternate universe, but in that moment, they seemed like vultures eyeing a prey, like bloodthirsty ravens waiting for a bloodbath. Shyam’s head was covered with a black cloth and he was seated in one of the chairs. He waited for his opponent. Soon enough, an announcement was made that the game would start in a minute. The countdown had begun, and in the last ten seconds, the crowd was chanting as if it were a prayer to Almighty.
“Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…ONE!”
It was the opponent’s turn. Even though he was shrouded, he could feel the heartbeats of his opponent, palpitating in fear. Or maybe it was his own heart. Click! It was an empty shot. Now, Shyam knew that it was indeed his own heart. He slowly put the gun on his temple and pulled the trigger. Click! Another blank shot. With every blank shot, the probability of survival changes dramatically in such a sport, and both the ‘players’ knew it. Once again, the opponent fired a shot. Click! Once again, the luck seemed to side with him. Shyam knew that if he survived this round, the next round would be probably his last moment on earth. Slowly, he pulled the trigger. In his blank eyes, he saw the face of his wife and his children. Click! Another blank shot.
“Noooooo!” the opponent cried. Probably he was sobbing. Probably he knew it was his end. Probably luck will not side with him anymore. The crowd waited with bated breath. And instead of the loud noise with blood splattering, all they heard was a soft sound. Click! It was all over. The opponent jumped up in joy! And for Shyam, it was all over.
As Shyam felt the cold metal on his temple, he wondered all that went wrong, culminating in him playing the deadly game of Russian roulette. Death was staring at him and he was not going to be the first to blink. As he closed his eyes, he saw the picture of his family, his and children. There was every chance that it was the last time that he would be seeing them. Slowly, he pulled the trigger. The crowd held their breaths. Five blank shots had already been fired by both the players in this deadly game. Only one slot remained unfired, and that was having the bullet. They all knew what would happen next. It was only a matter of when. Shyam was still staring in the eyes of death. He still did not want to blink first. Breathing deeply, he fired away.
Click!
The crowd went into a frenzy. The opponent started thrashing his limbs. It was not possible! Nobody can survive the Russian roulette in this fashion! But somehow, it had happened. Shyam had survived, and now, both the contestants stood to win. The cloth on their face was opened. The main organizer of the ‘event’ walked on stage, and said “We are an honourable organization. We might be doing this bloodsport, but we will play it fair. Both have survived, and the prize money will be divided right in the middle. Both will get fifty lakhs each!” Shyam could not believe what he was hearing. He had actually won the money, and saved his family! And his chances of survival were les than one in a million. Yet he survived. Yes, he had to take a bold step to save his family, and fortune had favoured him in the most incredulous of ways! Nobody lives in the sixth shot of Russian roulette. No organization conducting such a sport can be expected to be honest. Yet, both had happened. Thanking God, he collected his cash and called the number of the Mr Gruff voice.
“So, you have the money?” the gruff voice said.
“Yes, you scoundrel! Come and get your dirty money!” Shyam vented all the anger and frustration of the last twenty four hours. A moment later, somebody tapped his shoulder. Shyam turned around and saw a huge man in a business suit.
“Then give it to me,” Shyam recognized the gruff voice. The man was in the auditorium! He continued, “I knew you would take part in this one. You had no other choice. But I wonder, how you survived?”
Shyam merely smiled and shook his head, “I don’t know. Here’s your money. give my family back to me!”
“Of course. We are respectable goons.” Shyam’s wife and children soon appeared. It was unbelievable for him! Within twenty four hours, his life was snatched from him, only to be brought back by the longest, or should it be the closest, of shots.
One might wonder, how did Shyam survive, after all? The sixth bullet should have killed him! Yes, it should have. But for that, one would have to go back in time and visit an unknown gun making factory in Russia, where old Nikolsky fitted the spare parts and made revolvers. Then, one must also visit his home and see how much his wife beat him every day. On one particular day, the wife had beat him and verbally abused him so much that it affected his otherwise renowned concentration. It led to a small error in the gun, which would cause the last bullet to remain stuck in the cylinder itself, instead of being fired. This error could be deadly in most of the direct gun fights. Most, not all. Whoever said that fortune favours the brave, wasn’t probably wrong at all.

-Shivam'da'

The devil

For long I was, the good one, the angel eyes,
For long I suffered,to bring some smiles
For long, people prayed to me, day and night
And cursed me hard upon the slightest plight

The halo I threw, away, the wings just flew
With mishief in my head, I became the devil instead

Tired I was, of smiling all day long
To my own ears, oh so cacophonous was my song
Bah! What is there, in being all nice and sweet?
Nothing makes one come alive, like hellfire's heathen heat

The halo I threw, away, the wings just flew
With mishief in my head, I became the devil instead

Ah, the sheer joy, the fun, in hopping and prancing around,
Unburdened, untethered, the naughtiness newfound
Away I fly, with a blazing, fiery trail
Away they flew, the weak, the feeble, the frail

The halo I threw, away, the wings just flew
With mischief in my head, I became the devil instead

Regret I not, swapping my sides
Oh, so much I love my devilish rides
Understand I nw, the true power of evil,
Everybody loves the angel, but nobody messes with the devil.

Exceptional

“Mass murderer at large!” screamed the headlines of every news channel that mattered, and even in those that didn’t. It is always easy to get terrified, and easier to terrify the rest. The dark, halo around the unknown killer was magnified a thousand times by the media. But why all the furor over a couple of killings (five, to be precise) in a country where thousands die daily due to starvation? The reason was simple. The murderer was not merely satisfied by killing. The dead bodies were found decapitated, swollen, with maggots feasting over the abdomen. It seemed as if the victims didn’t die an easy death. The manner of their death, or rather the hypothesis of the same, chilled the media and the audience alike.

“Darling,” drawled Shekhar over the phone, “I am missing you!” On the other end was Rani, his girlfriend for the last five years.

“I miss you too, sweetheart!” Rani replied coyly.

“When was the last time we made love?” Shekhar asked, a clear hunger sounding in his voice.

“Ummm, last month. It’s been so long now! My teddy doesn’t love me anymore!” Rani sobbed in a falsetto voice that only a girl can summon.

“Today, 4 PM, my place,” Shekhar cut the phone with the words that mattered. He was missing his girlfriend too much to think about his pending projects, which had, in the first place, caused so much gap between their meetings. “One afternoon,” he said to himself, “is nothing. I deserve the break. And Rani needs it too.”

For those who don’t know about him, Shekhar is a brilliant, often eccentric scientist at ISRO (Indian Space Research Organization). A Doctorate in Rocket sciences, his work in designing India’s premier satellites has been appreciated at the highest levels. Currently he is working on one of the most ambitious projects- a “spy satellite”. He refuses to divulge any further details regarding his project, and so Rani, his girlfriend thinks he is ignoring her.

Shekhar was going through the newspapers when he stumbled upon the headlines of the mass murderer. Normally it wouldn’t have interested him much, but the journalist fancied himself as a neo-Sherlock and had carried out his own interpretations. They made a fun read, nonetheless.

“…………and one hypothesis over the identity of the murderer is that it is a woman. Yes. An interesting lead that has come up points towards this direction. All the victims so far, have been men. All young, and upon searching their data, drawing a high salary. It could be possible that a woman trapped them with her looks and used their money. When they were no longer needed, she disposed them off in a manner that nobody would recognize the victims. Again, people don’t relate women to such heinous crimes......”

Shekhar pondered over the lines. His researcher’s mind was already churning facts and spewing out solutions. The writer was not all that wrong after all, he thought. Women usually don’t commit such crimes and it is easy to camouflage if you are a woman. Shekhar wondered whether he knew the murderer. It would be an interesting juxtaposition of fate, he thought, if the murderer were his girlfriend. Hypothesizing further, he wondered what would be his reaction if Rani were to attempt to kill him. Perhaps he would hit her, he decided. But the very thought made him shudder. Hitting Rani seemed impossible for someone as gentle as Shekhar. Perhaps he would gladly accept death at the hands of the one he loved more than his own life. “But why would she kill me?” he thought next. He was right. Most crimes need a motive. Here, there was none. But then the newspaper article’s lines came to his mind, “It could be possible that a woman trapped them with her looks and used their money. When they were no longer needed, she disposed them off in a manner that nobody would recognize the victims…”

He looked at the clock. It would be still three hours before Rani would come to his place. Too much time to bear the uncertainty, he thought. He picked the phone and asked Rani to come to his place immediately, as he had another appointment in the evening. He had to find out the truth, lay his doubts to rest.

A bell rang. Shekhar jumped up all of a sudden. It was almost as if his trepidation was true. Rani walked into his house. Shekhar stepped back nervously. Rani gently passed her arms into Shekhar’s  and hugged him. Sensing her stiff, she whispered, “What’s the matter darling? Too much work? Let me relax you in the way only I can!” Shekhar smiled. Rani thought it was because of her cooing the sweet words in his ear. She was partially right. It was because of her. But Shekhar was thinking how funny it would seem to an invisible observer that a girl first makes love with her boyfriend and then murders him in cold blood.

Lost in ruminations, he never noticed when Rani had removed his shirt and was now removing her own clothes. Nor did he notice when she (or was it him?) removed his pants and then proceeded to remove hers. He never felt the passionate kisses that his girlfriend placed upon his lips, his cheeks, his neck and his chest. He didn’t hear the soft moans of Rani as he made love to her, almost absent mindedly. He never felt the nails digging into his back out of sheer pleasure that only a peak of delight during making love can bring.

“Rani, can I ask you something?” Shekhar asked, caressing her hairs as her naked body lay on him.

“Ask me anything, my love. But tell me, why are you looking so tired?”

“My answer lies in my question.”

Rani looked at him, dazed. She often had to put up with the idiosyncrasies of Shekhar, including his habit of speaking in complicated, roundabout sentences.

“Tell me, will you murder me?”

“What?” Rani was genuinely shocked. She had all the reason to believe that she had just slept with a lunatic.

“Just say yes or no.”

“Shekhar, are you fucking crazy? You must work lesser these days. All this work is getting into your head!”

“JUST SAY YES OR NO!” Shekhar yelled.

“If you ask me that question once again, I think I will definitely murder you!”

“I knew it! So my suspicion was right all along. You are the one who has killed those five innocent men, haven’t you?” Rani slapped him once. And then one more time.

“Its over between us! I bore your hectic schedules, your stupid habits and flights of fantasies only because I thought you loved me. It seems you don’t love me anymore. Our relation is dead today, and the murderer is you!” Saying this, she started dressing up. It was then that she heard her own voice playing over a recorder, “I think I will definitely murder you” over and over again.
She turned around to see Shekhar smiling mischievously, with a mad glint in his eyes, something she had never seen before.

“Walk one more step and I shall release this tape outside to the media,” he said threateningly.

“Shekhar,” Rani pleaded with folded hands, “please understand. I am not the killer. I am in a relationship with you over the last five years, remember? Then how can I kill five men in a month and you would not know about it?”

“We shall see about it once I bring my sodium pentothal. One shot and you would spill out the truth.”

“Shekhar, please don’t…” Rani pleaded, hopelessly, and to little avail. Shekhar seemed adamant in his delusion.

“Now, I have to make sure you don’t escape,” saying this, he held her hands and dragged her to his closet. He opened it and pushed Rani inside it, saying, “Now you won’t think of escaping anytime soon. Wait for my truth serum baby!” Shekhar left with a mad, delusional glint in his eyes.

It was dark inside. And suffocating. Rani was afraid of both. What was supposed to be a romantic evening between two lovers had turned out to be a grisly affair for her. One thing was sure- she was going to press charges against Shekhar. He might be mentally delinquent but she didn’t have to suffer for that. But for that to happen, she had to walk out of here, alive. And the suffocation and darkness was making it difficult for her. It was then that she noticed something strange. A rancid, odour coming from somewhere nearby. It was so strong that it shut out her brains for a moment. Groping in darkness, her hands finally found something. It seemed to be the source of the odour. As she passed her fingers over it, she felt two empty sockets, an elevation in the middle, and something fuzzy on top. In a shock she dropped the object. It was a human head she had held! And then the realization dawned unto her. Her boyfriend was not crazy. Not only crazy, actually. He was a demented, delusional murderer. She screamed aloud at the realization. There was no response. She kept on screaming till her throat started hurting, in the futile hope that it would attract the attention of someone who would eventually rescue her. It was of no use. And then something rolled on to her and hit her head softly. It was another head. Her eyes, having adjusted to the dark, saw two blank sockets staring at her. She could perhaps make out a thin outline of a smile on the decapitated head, as if it were inviting her to its home. Rani screamed again and threw the head away. She started banging the door of the closet.

Shekhar was pacing across the room. It was then that he heard Rani’s shouts. “Serves her right”, he muttered. After all, each of those five men he killed, each locked in his closet till the last breath escaped their lungs and they would be suffocated by their own carbon dioxide, had confessed to having an affair with Rani. She had cheated him not once, but five times. And she was cheating him even before they were in a relationship. The first to die, Anil, had confessed that he liked Rani in school. School! So promiscuous was his girlfriend! Though nobody said that Rani loved them too, but for five men to fall in love with her, she must be sending them some sort of a signal to entice them into her honey trap! She deserved the worst kind of death.

Soon enough, the bangs silenced, replaced only by a sobbing voice. Soon that would be silenced too, thought Shekhar, as he switched on the news channel and smirked at the theories of the identity of the serial killer. Usually, he never touched a woman. But Rani, she was an exception, and her murder, was exceptional.

Freedom

What is the freedom that we seek?
From the want of which, we reek?

We aim to empower, we aim to please
We aim to be the ones to defy the Nazis
We aim to conquer, but for the sake of peace
We aim to bargain, only to fleece.

What is the freedom that we seek?
From the want of which, we reek?

Freedom from tyranny, they say
Freedom from inequality, they pray
Freedom from rules which enshrine us,
Freedom from duties that define us

What is the freedom that we seek?
From the want of which, we reek?

We seek to run, we seek an escape
We seek to be the vigilante in a black cape
We seek power, we seek command
We seek justice of our own brand.

This is the freedom that we seek
From the want of which we reek.

Wanderer

The bags were packed. The doors, locked. The shutters were firmly shut. It was time for her to leave. Her destination was unknown and means of travel undecided. Most girls of her age would call her independent and free spirited explorer.

She preferred to call herself an escaped child labourer.

Rat in my room

There is a rat in my room. Everybody thinks my room is super clean because I have the impression of a person who thinks cleanliness is next to Godliness.

But I have a rat in my room.

Every night the rat comes out and bites on my foot. Sometimes, if it bleeds too much or pains too much, I wake up and apply some bandages to stop bleeding so that people think it is a minor injury. But now I have developed a high level of tolerance to pain. Now, small bites or bleeds do not wake me up. It is important that my image is maintained.

But I have a rat in my room.

I do not want to complain about it to any one, or call the sweeper, coz then, everyone will know about the rat, and people will know that I am not as clean as I claim to be.

But I have a rat in my room.

This story has nothing to do with the rising crimes in India.

Three Dinners

Presenting one of the longest stories I have ever written.. A story of karma, a story of Three Dinners! Enjoy!

Three dinners

When the past is dark,
And the future is bleak,
Redemption, Oh Lord
Is all I seek.

The moment was critical. “Do or die”, an oft repeated cliché, was the way forward for Shyam, arguably one of the best surgeons in the city hospital. But the case demanded the best of him. The shrapnel had penetrated and perforated the stomach and the colon, and could give rise to a massive septicemia any time. Amidst utmost concentration, Shyam carefully extracted the shrapnel. “What a nasty piece!” he commented as he took it out. As he walked out of the OT, the relatives of the patient surrounded him. They soon got the magic words from the doctor, “He is all right.”  Nothing could be a greater relief to the patient or his relative than to know that the operation was successful. As Shyam headed all alone towards the hospital cafeteria for an insipid coffee and a stale sandwich, he remembered the dinner he had at Manekchowk with his friends after their 2nd year exams, and the events that followed it, which somehow, culminated into the Shyam that the world knew.

“Hey dude! Let’s go to Manekchowk!” Shyam’s friend Mihir called out and asked him to go at a popular place for street food in Ahmedabad. It was a momentous event for them as their exams had ended that day. It was a month long torture-chamber and they were extremely excited to get freedom.
“Sure. Let’s call the rest of group.” Shyam’s group was a motley collection of individuals, ranging from toppers who studied like crazy to Shyam, who was languishing at the bottom of the totem pole. But, nothing came in between their friendship. They called their group ‘Bhai group’, an apt name since they were as close as blood brothers. A group of seven people, they filled two cars later that night. Loud music blared from the stereos, and the pulse of the excited group was palpable. They reached to the designated place within half hour after negotiating narrow by lanes, made narrower courtesy the cattle, and the traffic consisting of all thinkable and unthinkable vehicles ranging from cycles to scooters with a side car, that could seat 4 people at ease.
“Waiter, get the order!” shouted Shyam. It was the only way to get the attention of the pricey waiters who didn’t care to take order unless a group of five or more comes. After ordering seven pau bhajis, six butter pulaos and three ‘special’ pineapple sandwiches, the group of friends sat down to discuss their favorite topic- exams.
“Shit man, this time I am going to be screwed in pharmacology!”
“Don’t think you will be alone friend. Bhai group sticks together! I haven’t written enough to pass!”
“You saw the face of that Prof when she caught Mihir red-handed? It seemed like she had caught Osama bin Laden!”
Their banter had to be brought to an abrupt halt as a loud screeching sound of an ambulance was heard. It was immediately followed by an announcement “A blue WagonR has been parked on the road and is obstructing the traffic. The owner is requested to park it at the correct location.”
Sattu looked doubtfully at Shyam “Is it our car?”
“I don’t know. I parked it somewhere on the road, but I don’t remember where. What the hell man! Enjoy the meal! Who cares about traffic?”
“Hey Shyam, you are a real cool dude man!”
Shyam merely replied with a smile. They didn’t mind the noises for the next hour as they all gorged in their meals with pleasure, topping it with a kulfi, chocolate for Shyam and malai kulfi for the rest. As they leisurely walked out, they were greeted with a sight for which they were totally unprepared, least of all Shyam, who had almost forgotten about his wrongly parked car.

A man walked up to the car and merely asked “Who is the owner of this car?” Shyam moved forward, hesitatingly. The man deposited a tight slap across his cheeks and went away sobbing. For a moment, everyone, including those caught in the traffic due to the wrongly parked car was shocked. Being late is one thing, but slapping the accused and crying afterwards? It was out of place. Shyam mouthed a few expletives to the person who slapped him, apologized the other people and removed his car. During the return journey, nobody spoke. They were all dazed by the incident. But if that incident was shocking, the one that was to follow would put them out in shock for a long time to come, for they would discover that they have been unwitting accomplices of a murder.

The headlines of next day in the morning tabloid would scream:

Bad Parking sense leads to death

In what was a shocking incident, a man died in an ambulance because he was not able to reach the hospital timely. While this might not ring a bell of surprise in many of the readers, what is indeed appalling is that it was because of a car parked in a wrong place! It caused such traffic that the ambulance was unable to move. We have printed the photo of the car. If any of the readers catch its owner, make him know that his crime amounts to murder, at least in the moral sense. We condemn such people and hope that the authorities levy stronger parking fines.

“How bloody immature I was in those days!” Shyam murmured to himself, as he scrubbed for another operation. It was a busy day, one of ‘those’ days which every surgeon feared- terrorist attacks. A series of blasts had just ripped across the city, and for each treated person, two injured were ready to take the place. Something similar had happened before too. Shyam was the key man in that incident too, albeit, in a different way. As he remembered the incident, a voice blared across the speaker “Dr Shyam is requested to report to OT-4 please.” An hour later, he came out in the same way, with his typical running cum walking style. It was the last operation of the day; at least the last scheduled one. It was the time of medical emergency, and unpredictability was a way of life. But he had to take his dinner, again in the same horrible canteen. The menu for the day included masala dosa, idly and sambhar. So much for the variety! But it was food, laced with its carbohydrates and proteins which would sustain and nourish Shyam. However, food, before becoming nutritious, should be palatable. And the canteen masala dosa was anything but that! It made Shyam remember the best south Indian food he had, at a street ‘dosawalah’. It was better than anything he had eaten at a posh restaurant. But what followed the moment… Damn! Damn the moment and its horrible memories! It made the dosa on his plate worse than it actually was!

“And now, we call upon Dr. Shyam.”, the announcer’s voice was heard. For Shyam, the whole world was watching his graduation ceremony. Today, his dream of 23 years would be fulfilled, and he would be labeled a doctor! An underachiever that he had remained throughout his life, nobody expected him to accomplish what he had done, and that made the moment all the more special. But, with a tinge of sadness, he remembered that it was the last time the great Bhai group would be together.
They filled two cars, and drove to a street ‘dosawalah’ or a lorry serving south Indian food. After ordering seven masala dosas and one filter coffee, they sat down to discuss their lives after college.
“I am taking a drop this year. Didn’t qualify for a PG seat this time.”
“Same here. Tough to get post grad seats in first attempt, especially in clinical field.”
“Well guys, I have a good news.” announced Shyam, “I have got admission in surgery at AIIMS”
“What the hell! AIIMS! It’s the best in India! Congrats man!!”
“Hey thanks! Party’s on me tonight.” said Shyam modestly.
“I hope it includes ice cream too!”

In their banter, nobody noticed a shadow creeping near them and leaving something there. It was dark anyways, and the seven boys were on top of the world that day. Why the hell would they care for a dropped tiffin box of a stranger? In retrospect, Shyam wished he would have. It would have saved the lives of his friends, the dosawalah and twenty other people in the vicinity from the bomb that exploded in the tiffin. The Bhai group finally broke up, at the pinnacle of their friendship. Shyam, his leg bleeding profusely, could only look as his whole group was wiped off in an instant. There was blood everywhere, and despite spending a year and half in the hospital and seeing so many patients bleed and puke, Shyam felt nauseated at the sight of blood for the first time. Perhaps it was the association he had with the blood. He had once said that friendship ran in the blood of Bhai group. He was seeing his friendship ebb away slowly with the blood of his friends.

“Dr Shyam! Emergency in OT-6!” a shrill voice over the loudspeaker announced. “Damn! Another operation! It’s my twentieth operation of the day! I need some relief now,” he muttered to himself. His muttering was cut by another announcement by the same shrill voice, “Dr Shyam! You are requested to report to OT-6 as soon as possible!” Shyam hurried to the operation theatre. The patient was in a delirious state, and was shouting violently, “Leave me! Leave me! I do not deserve to live! Leave me!”  The nurses had held him tightly while the anesthetist quickly administered a sedative. With the patient finally calmed down, Shyam held his scalpel and began his procedure. The injury was the worst he had seen in the day. Not only that there were multiple puncture wounds on the abdomen, with two of them puncturing the liver, there was also signs of infection in the wounds over the leg, which was totally drenched with blood. Shyam wondered whether the patient would even survive. After an exhaustive operation, which stretched for four hours, Shyam hardly had the energy to walk to his room in the hostel. Once he reached his room, his didn’t even care to shower and went to sleep straight away.

Next morning promised more of the grisly sights which formed the graffiti of Shyam’s previous day. But there was something else in store for Shyam, as he got an envelope which contained a letter.
“What is it, doctor?” the pretty nurse, who just adored Shyam, asked.
“I’ve no idea, Sheena. It’s from a person called Shahid, saying that I’ve saved his life.”
“What is new in it doc? You save so many lives daily! And yesterday, you were just awesome, like an operating machine!” Sheena couldn’t stop herself from lavishing praises on Shyam.
“Sheena, that’s a part of our job. Remember, I’ve joined the profession to save lives. And so have you, right?”
“Yes, but you know what, before you came, I thought good doctors have become extinct. At least the good looking ones!”
Shyam smiled slightly and walked away. The contents of the letter were equally strange. An address was written on it, and a simple sentence, inviting him to a dinner was written. Shyam was perplexed. In his three years of surgery in the hospital, he had never been invited to a dinner by a patient. “At least something to look forward to today,” he muttered as he scrubbed for another marathon of operations on blast-afflicted victims. Shyam was assisting Dr Kartik, who was Shyam’s senior in college and his very good friend. “Kartik, why do these people explode bombs? I mean how have we harmed them?” Shyam asked to divert his mind for a while from the blood and gore around them.
“Shyam, it is difficult to give a particular reason. Some of them are religious zealots, asking for revenge against some real, some imagined injustice to their people. There are people who are angry over their rulers and have no faith in democracy, so they take the matter in their own hands. Too much anger is prevalent today, friend. I am afraid that what we are seeing is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“I can’t believe it. I mean, how low has mankind fallen to? You know, I had once read somewhere that man is the only species that has the power to wipe out its own existence from the earth. Today, I am forced to agree with the statement.”
“We have nothing in our hands. After all, the perpetrators of this heinous crime must realize that they are only digging a deeper grave for themselves, and they’ll probably pull the entire mankind with them,” Kartik added in a mournful voice.
After the operations for the day ended, Shyam headed quickly to his room, showered and changed his clothes for the dinner. The place was not difficult to locate, and Shyam reached there in twenty minutes. His host lived in a two bedroom flat in one of the most expensive areas of Ahmedabad. It indicated that he must be well off financially. Shyam knocked the door hesitatingly. A man dressed in a blue shirt and khakee pants opened the door. He had full beard, and looked serious.
“Yes?” he inquired.
“Er, I am Shyam. Dr Shyam,” Shyam replied hesitatingly.
“Of course! I am sorry for not having recognized you doctor!” the man’s expressions changed immediately on hearing Shyam’s name and designation.
“So, may I know who invited me today? I had performed so many operations yesterday that I don’t remember anyone.”
“Doc, you surely remember your last patient of yesterday!” a croaking voice came from within one of the rooms.
“Yes, I do,” Shyam replied, and then looking at the man who opened the door, he asked, “Can I meet my patient?”
“Of course you can! Follow me.” Shyam followed the man to the inner room from where the voice had come. Shyam looked at the patient and asked kindly, “How are you feeling now?”
“Better. But worse!” the man on the bed replied.
“What does it mean?” Shyam was confused at the oxymoron.
“It means that my health is better, but inside myself, I feel rotten!”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. First, let’s have dinner. You are our honored guest, and it would be improper to keep you waiting for long.”
The two men took Shyam to the dining table. A lavish spread was on display. The dishes included mutton biryani, chicken curry, fresh tandoor breads and kheer. The aroma of the food was alluring to Shyam, who had his last proper dinner a month ago, with Sheena. The meal was consumed without much talking, and Shyam happily tucked into the delicacies on the table.

“So, Shahid,” Shyam called out to his host, the man whom he had operated the previous day, “why do you feel rotten inside?”
“Brother, I will tell you who I am. I am the most wanted terrorist of the city, who triggered yesterday’s blasts and killed hundreds. Unfortunately, I was not able to run away on time and one of my own bombs exploded near me,” Shahid said in a remorseful voice.
“You bastard! How dare you even invite me here? I feel like taking an emetic and vomiting out your food on your face! You bloody gutless swine!” Shyam exploded in anger.”
“A gutless swine indeed!” Shahid snarled, “Another gutless swine, years ago, is responsible for making me who I am. You want to know what made an innocent ten year old into a dreaded terrorist?” Shahid threw a gauntlet of question.
“Sure! Tell me who made you an animal that you are,” Shyam said.
“My father was a police informant. Years ago, he died while on duty. No, not by a gangster! That would be a far more honorable way to die! Instead he was killed because his ambulance could not reach the hospital on time. And you know why?” Shyam held his hand up to stop Shahid in the middle of his inflamed speech, and closed his eyes. A tear streaked down his cheek. He rubbed the tear and asked Shahid to continue.
“So, as I was saying before your emotional drama interrupted me, my father’s ambulance could not reach the hospital because the road was blocked by a callous driver. We tried to call the owner of the car, but he didn’t show up! And my father, my abbu died without any fault of his! And the government did not even pay us a penny! Disgusted with the people and disgruntled with the government, I turned a terrorist. I wanted to make such a loud noise that would shake the whole country.”
For an instant, Shyam said nothing. His throat went dry, and he it seemed like all the moisture of his throat had permeated into his eyes. He cried incessantly. Like a child who had been told that he was responsible for the murder of his parents.
“Brother, why are you telling me all this? Why am I so special to you?” Shyam managed to ask amidst sobs.
“Because you saved my life yesterday. It brought my belief in humanity back. You have extinguished the fire that had been smoldering inside me for years, consuming my insides in its inferno. You have given me a new birth.”
“What I did was my duty. Now, let me reveal something. I too am a gutless swine! That day it was my car that led to the death of your father. God made me pay for my sins by making me lose my friends, who were like my brothers. I feel your pain, friend, I feel your pain,” Shyam put his hand around Shahid’s shoulder, who in turn, was crying like Shyam was doing a few moments ago.
“Shyam, I have decided to reform myself fully. No more violence for me. Now, I will devote the rest of life towards upliftment of our community,” Shahid vowed.
Shyam gently patted Shahid’s back and walked out of the house slowly. Somehow, his mind felt lighter than ever. The circle was complete. The crime he committed by causing the death of a father was punished by the death of his friends, and now, the redemption was complete as the series of events ultimately led to the reforming of a terrorist. As he was walking towards his hostel, Shyam looked around to see countless men and women milling around, chatting unabashedly, lovers deep into each other’s eyes. Only one thought had occupied his mind- How can the actions of one man change the life of hundreds around him? Maybe, that’s called karma, the endless cycle of sin, punishment and redemption.

-Shivamda

Smile Seller

The Smile Seller

Most of us live in a euphemistic world. We all wish to project our lives, our jobs as more important than they actually are. So, an outlet serving one paneer sabji and hakka noodles would label itself a ‘multicuisine restaurant’. A medical intern would call himself ‘junior doctor’ even though all he does is to collect lab reports and other menial works.

It was my first day of the ‘School Health Services’ campaign. I cursed the government for once again trying to gulp more than it could chew. Sending just one intern and two health workers to assess the health of 1500 students is, if nothing else, atrocity. Actually, a qualified doctor is supposed to go, but then, if there is only one doctor manning an entire health centre alone, he will definitely not be inclined to go to lower rung schools to check students. Cursing the government and the the world in general, I entered a classroom, only to be greeted by what should be expected in a Municipal School’s 8th grade classroom- utter chaos. I banged on my hand on the table, which quivered a little under the forceful impact.

“Anybody with fever, difficulty in seeing, or any other disease?” I shouted my lungs out, while the health workers were busy recording the heights and weights of the kids. Nobody stepped out. Sighing, I stood up and stepped out of the class, only to repeat the exercise in the next class. And the next. By the time I reached the last classroom, my lungs were begging me to stop shouting. Not a single kid stepped out and those who did, only came to me for some mundane complaint. It was an exercise in boredom. As I was stepping out from the hellish experience and gulping down a much needed glass of water, I felt a hand tapping my back. I turned around with an irritated look.

“Yes! What is the problem?” I asked tersely.

“Sir, I am feeling weak,” the kid who tapped my back answered.

“So? Why didn’t you come to me when I came in your class? You think you’re a VIP?” I shouted, a tad unnecessarily, a revelation of hindsight.

“They all would laugh at me sir,” he managed to stammer it out. I noticed a solitary tear escape his right eye. It was then that I realized that this kid was afraid of me. Never having felt that sensation of being feared, I knelt down and patted him on the back and asked, “See, I won’t make fun of you, I won’t scold you. Now tell me what the problem is.”

“Sir, I feel weak. High fever. And I feel shivers at night,” he stammered in broken Gujarati. They were classical symptoms of malaria. I asked him to come to the health centre the next day with either of his parents to get the medication and gave him dietary advice.

“But sir, I won’t be able to come with papa. He cannot leave his work. And ma will not come.”

“Why? Why your mother will not come?”

“Because she can’t.,” saying this, he ran away, leaving me wondering. Upon asking the headmistress, I learnt that his name was Raju and his father sold balloons. I decided to visit his father, just on a whim. In any case, I had missed my date that day and planned to make up with my girlfriend with the help of some good balloons. A little more enquiry directed me to his whereabouts.

It was one of Ahmedabad’s typical evenings. Loud, pollution laced, and yet serene, as if indicating that the madness of the day is done and a new day will dawn soon. I was led by Raju to his father. He was standing with a smile and stick, on which various balloons of different shapes and colors were hung. That was when I noticed something peculiar. All the balloons had a tag on them, with something written. I leaned a little to read it. On each tag, a different note was written.

“Tara nu vaahlu. Tara nu gamtu. Tara ni pasand” I read them aloud, Tara’s beloved, Tara likes, Tara’s choice. I looked at him, befuddled.

“Tara is my wife, sir. Raju’s mother. I name all my balloons after her. She is no more in this world,” the man explained.

“Oh, I am sorry. What is your name?”

“Veerji Makwana. Saaheb, what is wrong with my Raju?”

“Well, nothing. He has malaria. Here are the tablets,” I handed him the Chloroquine tablets which I had taken from the Health Centre’s pharmacy and gave him instructions on how to give them to his son.

“Thank you saaheb. How much do I have to pay you?” he shuffled his pocket. I could hear a few clinks of coins.

“Nothing,” I replied firmly, “but if you want to give me something, give me your best balloon.” Veerji took out a beautiful heart shaped balloon and handed it over to me, “Saaheb, take this. Your girlfriend will be very happy!”

“How do you know I am taking it for my girlfriend?” I asked, surprised.

“I am in the selling smiles for years now. Experience!” he replied smiling. I joined in with a shy smile too, before realizing something strange.

“Selling smiles?” I asked.

“Yes. Whenever people buy my balloons, they smile. For ten rupees, I give them a smile. Now, you tell me, is there a place where we can get a smile so cheap?”

That man, I wondered, could have beaten a management graduate had he been to IIM, I wondered, as I walked away.

I was to be posted there for another month, owing to the school health program. While the state of the state-run schools saddened me, the face of the ‘smile seller’ always brought a smile to my face. It was as if he didn’t sell me any smiles. He gifted them for free. Often my return home would be punctuated by a visit to his stall, buying a couple of balloons and sharing a few jokes. The chasms between our age and wage had dimmed considerably. And the friendship deepened. It seemed as if we were long los brothers, as we now started sharing a cup of chai and biscuits over the evening while sharing experiences of our vastly diverse world. I would often be the silent one, trying to soak in the life that I would never have to live.

“It is difficult, our existence,” he said, one day, “Daily, we have to pay the policemen and the street gundas to protect ourselves from them. And yet, at the end of the day, we live on, hoping for another beautiful day. The smile on my son’s face is all I would ever ask for, should God grant me a wish. He is all that I have, after Tara left. And you saved his life! You are like God to me.”

“Oh come on! All I did was to give him some tablets. Nothing great,” I shrugged nonchalantly, “What happened to your wife?” I ventured, banking on my goodwill. His face stiffened in return. As if it were something he didn’t want to bring up. I never asked about it again. Every man has his secrets. Some want them buried, others put them on Facebook.

It was at the end of yet another taxing day, with school health visits in the morning and helping to run the OPD in the afternoon. The OPD was especially heavy, and by the time I was done, all I wanted was a cup of hot tea and soothing music. But my return journey was marred by something totally unexpected. Curfew! It was as if the whole of Ahmedabad lay dead. I had no idea what was happening, and had no means of getting one either, as the phone networks had been jammed. My senior, the pharmacy staff and me, we totaled five people in the Health centre, who absolutely had been cut off from the world. Just then, my mobile rang. As I picked it up, I heard mom’s voice, laden with anxiety, and fear.

“There have been bomb blasts everywhere in Ahmedabad! And this time, the rascals have targeted all hospitals, especially Government hospitals! Are you safe?”

I was dumbstruck, both at the audacity and the heinousness of the attack. They had attacked places with minimal or abysmal security arrangements, and maximum concentration of targets. Trembling, I relayed the information to others. Everybody was equally shocked, dazed…nay, terrorized. As the initial shock passed, the pharmacist spoke, “Then why are we alive? Why have the terrorists not targeted us?”

“Maybe our health centre is too small to be a target,” I made a feeble attempt to make light of the moment. It was replied with silent glares. I decided it was better to shut up. Nobody spoke a word for the rest of the time. We decided to spend the night in the Health centre itself, inspite of realizing that we could be in for a shock. Or a blast. But at the moment the place seemed safer than anywhere else.

The next day dawned, or rather struck. News of the blast and its causalities were everywhere in the news. Thousands had died, and many more, injured. Amidst all the gloom, as I returned home, I sought ‘the smile seller’. He was nowhere in sight. Shuddering at the thought of his death, I went over to the adjacent shopkeepers to enquire about him. Nobody knew much about him, apart from the fact that he had recently started selling balloons in the locality. He had disappeared a day before. Nobody even knew his name.

“His name is Veerji. Veerji Makwana,” I said.

“Saaheb, that’s my name! It was the first thing he asked when he came here!” I was shocked. Maybe shocked is an understatement. Was the man whom I thought to be my friend, something entirely else? Afraid to build a conclusion based on circumstantial evidence alone, I walked back. As I passed a police station, I had half a mind to go in and report about the balloon man, but decided against it. The little boy inside me still told me to trust him.

The OPD was almost empty the next day. Fearing another attack, nobody had come there to take medicines for cough, cold and fever. Maybe it was better to cough for a day than to die. The MO told me to go home if I wished to. I went straight to the spot where the ‘smile seller’ stood. It was empty. I was about to turn away when the shopkeeper, the real Veerji, called me. As I came, he came close to my ear and said, “Your balloon man is dead.”

“What?” I exclaimed in shock. Life was suddenly dealing me shocks by the dozen.

“Yes. Yesterday he came here, not with his balloons, but on a motorbike, with his son. Asked me to take his son to a safe place. He had a pleading look in his eyes that I will never forget. When I asked the reason, he didn’t say anything but ran away. Just as he was crossing the road, a truck smashed right into him. The truck driver ran away with the truck.”

I had no words. I was as if the wind had been snatched out of my lungs. All I could mumble was a “Thank you” to the shopkeepers and trudged back to my car. As I drove back home, I switched on the radio. The RJ was not in his usual buoyant mood, and for a reason. But one line that he spoke jarred me into attention, “According the Commissioner of Police, all the targets had a balloon man standing nearby, scouting on the place for a month. Efforts are on to find any of those. If you have seen any such person, you can call on this number…”

So, he was a terrorist! But why did he not bomb our Health centre, if he was scouting it? It was then that his words came to me, “You saved his life. You are God to me.”