The Crooked Brigadier

"There is no point in morality or principals. A Man's only goal should be to better his and his dependents' lives by every means possible. Principals are for the ignoramus masses to keep them in control, to impart an illusion of order to the world we live in, where none exists", rambled Brigadier Arjun Khanna. It was his weekly night of drinks with his junior and protégé, Brijendra. 

Brigadier Arjun Khanna, son of a martyred army man himself, had not known of any life beyond the defense forces himself. He had spent most of his childhood in cantonments, travelling across the country with his father and now he was doing the same with just one change. Acutely aware of the upheavals in his life when his father was transferred; change schools, find new friends, sometimes learning new language, he had made sure that his daughter does not go through similar disturbing experiences. He had insisted that his wife and his daughter stay behind in his ancestral home, Chandigarh. The city was clean, developed, provided good education and moved at a leisurely pace - providing for every comfort his family desired. Thus satisfied, he opted for isolated and dangerous border locations repeatedly and on purpose. Every three months or so, either he visited Chandigarh or they came to stay with him for a few days. Over rest of the period, he was a strict disciplinarian with none but one friend and little distractions. 

Brijendra was eight years Arjun's junior but they had known each other since childhood. Even as children, they tended to behave as siblings with Arjun being the protective elder and Brijendra as the mischievous younger brother. They had kept in touch over the years but their bond got particularly strong on this posting. Misery loves company and to Arjun, Brijendra was now practically family, quelling loneliness and providing a sense of emotions in this sea of order following human machines. 

Once a week, they would sit together on the pretext of swigging a few pegs. It was then that Arjun, after a few fairly large rounds, would share his thoughts and experience with Brijendra. He would begin by teaching him the backdoor politics involved in rising up the ladder or the tricks that must be pulled to get a plum posting. He would then begin about the times he learned it the hard way and regret that their way nobody to train him such. His sermon would then drift to his life philosophy.

This is when their discussion would heat up. Brijendra was an upright, honest, patriotic officer; the kind any defense force in the world would be proud to have. But Arjun was quite the opposite - his principles could be termed Machivellian at best and, Brijendra feared, Quisling at worst. He was only concerned about the well-being of himself and his family, the army be damned. This used to trouble Brijendra deeply. This line of thought would not be surprising for any Indian but damning the army is not like damning the electricity board and could have far serious consequences for the country. 

On one such fateful night, Brigadier Arjun had had a few more than the usual and had been tipsy even before they got to the philosophy. He had been pulled up about the increasing infiltration from the area under his command and was taking it out on the scotch, gulping with a vengeance. His jibes on the army were particularly acrimonious today and so was the resulting argument with Brijendra. "Your attitude of self-preservation is not fit for the army. As long as you are in the army, nobody's benefiting, neither you nor the army. Why don't you leave?" poked Brijendra. Arjun was now some time past his last sober thought and began blurting whatever came to his mind, sadly, the truth. He slammed the table and retorted, "The army may not have gained my boy but you cannot accuse me of losing it. How do you think I managed the car, the farm house, the wife's business and the multiple plots?" In his excitement, he tried to stand up, failed, and collapsed on the chair. Between hiccups, he slurred, "You think it's a coincidence that infiltration increases in every location I...." And he passed out mid-sentence but having said enough for Brijendra to put two and two together.

When he woke up the next day, events of last night whizzed past him. He had been out of his senses but he remembered everything, word for word. As he replayed the last scene of the night in his mind, he wanted to kill himself for being so stupid. He immediately called up Brijendra but the phone was switched off. He next called up Arjun's quarter and was informed that Arjun had left about an hour back, dressed in his uniform. He knew where he had gone and now it would be all over. Long ago, Arjun had prepared for such eventuality and knew exactly what he needed to do.

Although hung-over, he set in motion and got dressed, simultaneously informing his team that he will be heading for an impromptu border patrol immediately. The captain, although surprised, heeded to the order. Once there, he took out the map and pretending to study it for a while, pointed to a particular spot he wished to visit. The patrol was flummoxed to spot some men who were certainly not Indians in the precise location. They decided to move slowly and round them up.

It would suffice to say that what happened over the next half hour was the product of one man's anxiety and subsequent bravery. Arjun first gave away the element of surprise by accidentally firing a few shots. And then, as the fire exchange turned in to a deadlock, Arjun went for a suicidal charge, pulling the infiltrators in the open and winning the day, getting fatally shot in the process.

 He was rushed to the army hospital where, between gasps, he asked to see Brijendra. Teary eyed, Brijendra entered with heavy steps and sat beside him. He looked at Arjun quizzically, asking for an explanation in the deviation in his actions from his words. Actions that cost Arjun his life. Arjun gestured him to come closer and whispered in his ear, "No country in the world will ever investigate a martyr.", and dropped dead.  

A Heart of Gold

It is an open secret that during the time when the dance bars were banned in Mumbai, they were not in fact, shut off. Quite a few continued functioning unhindered, albeit covertly. It was in one of these bars that Qashif fell for the dove-eyed, wheat-skinned, slightly overweight and hopefully adult Hema about a year back.

He happened to see her shake and thrust out of beat one night and could not take his proverbial eyes off her. He reacted to the situation like most other Indian men would; visiting the bar every night, asking for her private services daily and generally stalking her to the extent a bar girl could be stalked to the point of botheration. 

His advances failed to win him any favors initially but on the suggestion of friends, he turned on his charm and won her heart. Whether it was his personality or the the gold chain that he gifted her did the trick is still debatable. She was innocent but certainly not lacking in common sense. However, it did get her to agree that he be her only customer from now on. 

Hema of course, was joyful. Gone were the days when she would hope to find a patron for the night and sometimes danced herself to a sweat for paltry sums of money. All this had begun to change. She would sluggishly move around the stage until Qashif appeared and then go up to his table to sit with him while he had one peg after another. She now received the full night charges every day and sometimes, if he was feeling particularly generous, jewelry items, usually, solid gold.

Hema was particularly elated when she opened her eyes today. At first she could not recall the reason for her lifted spirits, but as soon as soon as the pain in the neck kicked in, she remembered. Qashif had promised to marry her and had even gifted her a gold necklace with diamonds in it in the shape of a heart. Even her untrained eyes could tell that it was expensive beyond any sum of money she had ever heard of. She admired it so much that she went to sleep wearing it.

As she lazily tossed around her bed, rewinding her whirlwind affair and imagining an exciting elopement, someone knocked on the door. She cursed the darned chaiwala for breaking her chain of romantic thoughts as she got up and opened the door, making sure that she had hid the necklace first. What she saw was not the chaiwala but a fat, sari-clad woman of about thirty five years of age carrying an unclad baby in her arms and an adolescent girl by her side who was wearing rags for clothes and had not had a bath in a week at least. The woman's face looked heavy and ghastly due to red, swollen eyes and puffed cheeks; the kind you get from crying for a long period.

She had not even registered the faces properly when a sound of agony and despair emerged from the fat woman. Her throat was hoarse from all the weeping and she had to gasp for air intermittently but she kept speaking. After a few attempts, Hema understood that she was inquiring if her name was Hema. When she answered in the affirmative, the woman quickly handed the baby over to the girl and moved towards Hema threateningly with raised arms but collapsed on the floor before she could actually land on Hema the punch that she had begun. The children, meanwhile, had started wailing seeing their mother on the ground.

Not knowing what to do, she set about restoring silence by patting the children and offering them water first and then moved the woman inside and closed the door lest her neighbours saw the tamasha. Sprinkling water didn't help so she pushed a dirty sock near the woman's nose to revive her. This did the trik and the woman finally came to, much calmer now thanks to exhaustion. She asked Hema if she could have some water and if she would be kind enough to speak to her for some time. 

After gulping down two glasses of water, she began, softly at first but sorrow and anger building up as she went along. She told Hema that she was the children's mother and Qashif was their father. Everything was going along well in their lives; a loving couple, two healthy children, a well-paying job, a pet dog and the occasional scotch for Qashif. It all changed the fateful day when Qashif visited the dance bar to celebrate the birth of their boy. Qashif himself would never do such a thing on his own but his friends talked him in to it. But once he saw Hema, he was never the same again. He was no longer a husband, a father or an employee but only a man who was in passionate love and wanted to have his object of desire. Going through the familiar spiral of drying off bank balance, losing the job, selling everything and finally borrowing money to keep Hema happy, Qashif's family was now homeless and did not even have money to feed the children.

By the time the woman reached the story's end, her voice had grown hysterical and she dropped on Hema's feet and begged her to free Qashif from her charms. Hema crouched down and requested her to stop crying and give her five minutes to return. Once the woman let her go, Hema darted straight to her bedroom. Rummaging through her clothes, for what seemed like eternity, she reappeared with a bag in her hand. And she said to the woman, "I can't take back the agony that you have suffered. But I can ensure that I do not cause you any further trouble. In this bag is every gift that he has ever given me and I think they all belong to you. I have also put in some savings to help you start again. I will also tell Qashif to go home and look after his family in stead of chasing me. Please forgive me for my sins."

The woman was about to drop to her feet again but Hema, now accustomed to this, caught her midway and hugged her. Between sobs, she thanked Hema profusely and compared her to divine beings as she left the house with the children in tow. As soon as she left, Hema called up Qashif and told her his wife had visited her. Qashif asked in apparent amazement, "Wife? What wife darling?"

Life of a Salesman

"Thieves do not have a conscience. The whole notion of them being in possession of any sort of honour is a charade designed by society to provide some comfort letting politicians rule. There may be some who stole a bread to survive, but having prevailed over the chaser once, they steal and run forever, sometimes, even ending up stealing and running the country. Watch Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye if you don’t believe me.”

Thus rambled my boss, with a mix of deep philosophy and quirky references. It was an impeccable style I must admit. With so much abstraction thrown in, you could never really counter the reasoning and rebut the argument no matter how right you think you are. For no man in his right mind would question his boss’ philosophical outlook or the taste in movies. The real point however, goes for a toss and by the time you go around that barrage of words, the decision has been locked and stocked with your boss holding a couple of smoking barrels over it.

Before I stray any further, not unlike the Boss, I must orient the uninitiated over the situation at hand. And you will need the orientation if you are not from my line of work. Here I am, a Sales Officer for an FMCG giant, looking after the sale of my products in Punjab. You will understand my role a tad better if I explained the functioning of the sector. The lowest cadre is the salesman, who goes shop to shop, booking orders for his company, depending on the shopkeeper’s needs and his targets. It isn’t an easy job as the shopkeeper wants to keep less while the salesman wants to sell more– typical conflict of interest there. You see that shampoo in the shop even before the ad has appeared on TV, that’s a good salesman. The shopkeeper is out of your brand of toothpaste? That’s an incompetent salesman, and in my view, a retarded shopkeeper for who in his right mind, would not stock my toothpaste in his shop. That thing sells more than Rajni’s movie tickets.

My role is to ensure that the salesmen visit the shops regularly and the distributor supplies regularly to shops. I also go around on these ‘beats’ with my men to ensure things are ship-shape.  My boss, as you may have guessed is the Area sales Manager and manages a handful of officers like myself. Having taken over just a week back, she is on a travelling spree, hopping from one Officer’s territory to another’s, working long hours in the market and acquainting herself with the distributors.

 The above statement came about a fortnight back. After yet another long day’s work that included “working the market” in the blistering heat, noting down the distributor’s stock and inspecting the stock condition and inspecting stock unloading that had just arrived from the depot, we had just settled to have a cup of tea with the distributor. They had only begun to exchange formal introductions when the manager entered with a worried look on his face. As it turned out, one piece of a very expensive cream had gone missing from a shop during our visit to that shop earlier during the day. The shopkeeper was sure for he had only kept three and had only allowed us inside his shop today; after all, an ASM’s visit does warrant an invitation for a tea.

To my mind, it could either be the shopkeeper or the salesman. Both had motive and I could trust neither. I weighed my options; the shopkeeper was my biggest business opportunity in the town while the salesman was only a week old and easily replaceable. I knew I had to pacify the shopkeeper if not return his money but could not bring myself to rob a man of his livelihood on mere suspicion. It was then that my Boss uttered those words and freed me of my guilt. On hindsight, it did not really implicate the salesman but at that point I was more than happy to relieve myself of the burden of my guilt.

I did wonder about the salesman for a couple of days. But his memory, like everything in life, too subsided. It was yesterday when I received a call from a colleague while in the market. The act of calling is not unusual in our fraternity as we develop a strong bon homie with our colleagues and also like to keep ourselves abreast with the goings on in their territory. It was, but, the situation and the content of the conversation that utterly shocked me. After the usual greetings and inquiries he asked me if I could refer a salesman for he is one short. While he was telling me how he had to fire one on suspicion of stealing when the Boss came visiting, I saw my Boss chatting up a shopkeeper, while she inconspicuously slipped a men's perfume in to her purse.

A Nocturnal Affair

“Nice chap, that Anshuman”, thought Kriti. Anshuman, like Kriti, was one of the graveyard shift employees at the company. It’s been about three weeks since he had joined as a lateral hire but he rarely interacted with anyone and seemed to have no interests outside of work. In fact, everyone thought of him as a rather snobbish social recluse. That was until last Thursday. On Friday though, Kriti had started viewing him under a whole new light.

Just as Kriti had arrived for her shift, she received some bad news; her little sister, who has never been a very healthy child, was again down with fever. Normally, temperatures are usual in a child and not something an elder sibling should worry about, but it would not be a story if everything were, indeed, normal. It so happens that her mother undergoes bouts of anxiety every time that happens. And as always, she was already wailing by the time Kriti spoke to her. In between hiccups, she, yet again, asked Kriti to board the first Delhi bound flight and be with family. Now, her father had been handling her mother’s hysterics for the past 20 years and would have done so now as well, had he not mixed his scotch with a dash of driving about a year back. Since then, Kriti has been the man of the house.

As Kriti hunched in her chair, pondering over her situation in her cubicle; this would be her third leave in the past two months and the boss was not exactly supportive the last time around; she noticed a pair of legs approaching her. Looking up, she saw Anshuman hurriedly walking towards her with a look on his face, she could have never associated with him; a look of concern.

The feet now stopped and the torso was leaning over to Kriti, a bit too close for comfort. “He has absolutely no etiquettes about personal space”, thought she. “You look worried. What’s the matter?”, he enquired. Kriti was in no mood to turn her personal worries in to office gossip, much less share it with a virtual stranger like Anshuman. “Go away”, she muttered. “You can trust me, I want to help. Just look at me once”, pleaded Anshuman.

Heavens know if it was the vodka or plain dilemma, once her eyes met his, words just tumbled out. She spoke about everything from the bully in sixth standard to her father’s rather ill-timed demise. By the time she realised having spoken too much, she had already told Anshuman about her dilemma; to stay here and let her mother suffer or to be with her and risk losing the job. A call centre job is not exactly lucrative but that’s all her qualifications allow her to do.

To her utter surprise, Anshuman offered to cover for her while she visits her family. She could never have imagined anyone ruining their weekend for her, much less him. All through the travel, she kept thinking about the conversation and those eyes, which compelled her to tell everything. His eyes. She had made up her mind and was excited to return.

On the day of her return, she arrived a while earlier than the rest. Making sure that nobody’s looking, she placed a note on Anshuman’s desk, using the keyboard as paperweight. She once again checked if it expressed her emotions;

“I wonder how will I ever repay you.

You have been guardian angel.

But there’s more to the situation,

I have fallen for you and that’s the real trouble”

Dinner on Friday, watsay?

-          Kriti

"Corny, but this will have to do", Kriti said to herself.

She keenly observed Anshuman as he arrived at his desk. Those eyes of his! Moving around, observing everything. There was a casual glance and the piece of paper smoothly found its way in to his pocket. Anshuman then focused on the screen, without even a nod of acknowledgement in her direction. Kriti was barely done cursing herself for being so stupid when she spotted that little piece of paper under her keyboard. Her curiosity turned in to elation as she read the content;

“Marathalli Circle, 11 PM. Don’t tell anyone.”

On Saturday, a jogger spotted her lying on the side of the road. Her blood drained out, she appeared unnaturally white for a human. Her eyes were wide open, focusing hard on something, as if hypnotised to a tranquil state. No signs of struggle or resistance, noted the autopsy doctor. She however, yet again, noticed those eerie holes digging deep in to her neck, but as per instructions, did not mention it in her report, just like the past five times, lest chaos breaks out.

                                                                                                                                                       

Room mates

“I shall break down very soon if this goes on”, thought Shuchi as she dragged herself out of the boss’ office. Her boss had reprimanded her for missing the deadline, yet again. In a way, she was glad about it. This could help her blame the gloomy expression on the scolding and avoid the office jokes about the sky-high standards she sets for herself; something that’s considered a sin for people with comfortable, secure jobs.

Shuchi had been obsessed with perfection for as long as she could remember. This had been her identity throughout and had always set her apart. She would either be ridiculed or held in awe, subject to a person’s mindset. But she was certainly always judged; so visibly dominating was the characteristic. As is the case with any human, the jibes bothered her way more than the compliments elated her but neither of them could change her one bit. Mistakes were still unimaginable and the word “almost”, still hated from the very bottom of heart. “You cannot live with an almost perfect pulse”, she commented often. And plenty of good did that do to her career; her superiors disliked her for her inadvertent error-spotting (even in their work) and her colleagues feared her for precisely the same reason. But come crisis, it’s she everyone ran to; for you could rely on her to finish an 8-hour work in 4 hours if deadlines so demanded. Consequently, she had enough certificates of “appreciation” to fill her boss’ office and then some but that office, ironically, would never be hers because of the diligence that got her the certificates.

It was one thing to behave so in office and be isolated for everyone had to at least behave professionally and let her be except the occasional sarcasm but these compulsions can never be left behind at office unlike work. They tend to seep in to personal lives and define a person socially. Same was the case with her. She could stand the passive hostility in office but forced companions found it real hard to suppress their anger out of it. One of them was her room mate.

They had come in contact through one of the multiple online forums to find a room mate in the big, bad city. After meeting up over coffee where both hid a few minor details about self, they agreed to share the apartment, Aradhna had begun to deplore her within a month for precisely the same reasons as Shuchi’s colleagues. Not that she could do much about it as the security was paid and the contract demanded her to stay put for a year. A year is long time to suppress anger for any human being but more so for a woman who is fiercely aggressive and carries a dash of sadism as Aradhna did.

Five months in to the arrangement, both could no longer stand each other; Shuchi would clean the apartment to the point of dusting the ash tapped off Aradhna’s cigarettes from the sofa while Aradhna would blow her lid if someone as much as touched her stuff. Arguing and yelling their lungs out before falling asleep due to sheer exhaustion had become a norm rather than exception. Aradhna had developed a habit of intentionally dropping bits of paper or match sticks and pointing them out to Shuchi and Shuchi compulsively had to pick them up and throw in the bin, mouthing expletives.

That was month five. Having completed 11 months, Aradhna could not wait to move out and struck out days on a calendar. An eerie silence had taken over the apartment as they both knew it was about to end soon. Though relieved, Shuchi was somewhat sad about Aradhna leaving but blamed it on Helsinki Syndrome and went about business as usual. Aradhna, on the other hand, could not wait to finally breath in free air. So happy was she that she even went on her knees to persuade Shuchi to let her throw a party on the final night. Shuchi finally agreed under the condition that Aradhna would clean up everything before she left.

Alcohol brings out our inner self. Aradhna introduced the game of drop-and-pick which she had been playing with Shuchi all this time, and her friends began doing the same. For a while, Shuchi coped, picking up trash but humiliation finally took over, and she slapped one of the idiots. Taking a cue, everyone made a swift exit, leaving Aradhna fuming.

It was like the old days. They were both screaming at each other, calling names. However, both knew it was the end of it and they did not need to hold back. All the pent up anger was coming to fore as the argument got fiercer and louder. Finally, Shuchi could no longer bear the pressure and fainted. But Aradhna was not done. She had lived like a prisoner for a year and now Shuchi had slapped her friend and she had to avenge it. In a fit of rage, she lifted the dustbin and overturned it, dropping the contents on the carpet. Still not satisfied, she started pouring fluids from half empty bottles on the floor and went in Shuchi’s room with an aim to trash it beyond comprehension. She was still at it when Shuchi came to. Everything after that; the final stand-off, the smashing of bottles, the terrible realization, was a blurry haze. All she remembered was trying to clean the mess she had created.

A week later, Shuchi was happier than ever before when she stepped in to the apartment. With Aradhna gone, she did not have to fight every night and she would find the apartment the way she left it; no surprise trash waiting to be cleaned up or no book out of its shelf. She examined the living room and decided to get a new carpet. Those red stains on this one just would not go. 

Giving Back

Anchor: "Good Evening. Tonight, we have in our studio a house hold name who needs no introduction, but unlike most successful men, he does not have a woman behind him. But what he does have is a story about his struggling days and how he passionately worked towards achieving his goal. Ladies and Gentleman, let's have it for the Forbes Businessman of the year 2011, Mr. Kanav Satija."

Kanav: Thank you, anchor.

Anchor: How do you feel to be here?

Kanav: Grateful, proud and many such superlatives.

Anchor: And how did you feel about winning the Businessman of the year award?

Kanav: Surprised, excited etc.

Anchor: In the past 10 years, since you had won the Entrepreneur of the year award, your net worth has grown 50-fold. How do you feel about that?

Kanav: Now you are just getting on my nerves. Can we please have some relevant questions, Anchor?

Anchor: (Laughs nervously). I had only heard about your straightforwardness. Now I realise that the truth isn't far from legend. Formalities aside, I shall begin with the most basic of question: Please tell me about your journey from your home to Chennai.

Kanav: Hmmm. A question I used to dread when I first sat for placement interviews. However, I shall try to answer it as well as I can. I hail from a small town in Bihar called Talaiyya. My father had a little land there, the produce of which, allowed him to feed the family of three and in good seasons, a paltry saving too. When I came of age, he sent me to Kota to prepare for JEE and told me that he has bet all his savings on me. The burden lay heavy on my shoulders and though not as sharp as the others around me, I burnt the midnight oil day after day and finally managed to walk in to the promised land.

Anchor: And how did the 4 years there mould you?

Kanav: They taught me to know when I should be reasonable and when I must be stubborn. The place could have easily shattered my self-confidence had I looked up to everyone who demanded it. There were the professors who ridiculed us for being coached in Kota or Hyderabad. There were the seniors who made fun of us for having high and mighty goals. There were the batchmates who were smarter, from more affluent backgrounds and spoke better English; who looked down upon the rest of the students. And by the time we were in the 4th year, there was a covenant of research oriented students and professors who chided us for even aspiring for a non-engineering job.

Anchor: So how did you deal with, what seems to be practically everyone, breathing down your neck for not heeding?

Kanav: First of all, it was only a handful of a vast number but naturally, a thorn itches more than a fragrance soothes. The key, like I said, was playing between reasonable and stubborn. Perhaps it was my upbringing that taught me the essence of it. Those people, no matter how condescending, were better than me in some ways. And unlike most others, I was immune to their jibes and hence, could dare to get close enough to them to learn. In fact, I even befriended a few despite the differences.

Anchor: Moving on, your answer to the "bigass bank which pays obscene money to engineers for doing finances and valuations" when the interviewed you is part of IIT folklore. Would you like to recount the whole episode?

Kanav: Why not. Parth, the interviewer, had a look at my 9+ CGPA and asked me if I were really interested in Aeronautical Engineering and if I'd be happy running numbers all day long. My reply was, "Sir, I have seen my parents work really hard to get me here. I'd happy doing anything that helps me to honestly provide for them, even if that means washing cars." And wouldn't it sadden you that you shall be laying your 4 years' education to waste? I quipped, "Yes, I would perhaps be selling out my education but that's far less troublesome than the thought of selling my parents' sacrifices short. I believe there's a time for everything. I may later come back to it when I'm comfortable and seek satisfaction but right now, my goal is to secure bread for my family for the next few years." The reply hit home and he instantly took me on board. In fact, 2 years later, he took me as a partner to his start-up. The rest, as they say, is history. He later told me that he was looking for honest, hard working employees and not for the geniuses stuck in higher moral dilemmas.

Anchor: And how have you given back. Funding the entire Aeronautics Lab at your alma-mater. How did that come about?

Kanav: I guess I had always wanted to give back but I'd have forgotten all about it in my busy life, had it not for the jibes which the lovers of the branch, profs and students alike, threw at me.  They never let me forget. And when I finally had the resources, I did it. Funnily though, A few of my batchmates and my profs who criticised us for taking up banking jobs, welcomed my money and me with open arms. There were no uncomfortable questions about it and they even told the students that they always "knew" that I'll make it big someday.

Bhaskar had invited a couple of friends to boast about his old pal. But in one sentence, Kanav had made it clear that he had not forgotten. Though he didn't name anyone, Bhaskar knew Kanav was pointing towards him, among others. Today, when he was working on one project, Kanav's money was supporting seven similar ones, including his own. Back in the day, Bhaskar had never tired of questioning Kanav's integrity and loyalty for taking up a banking job. Kanav's legendary answer, in his view, was proof enough. But today, in a single statement, Bhaskar's hypocrisy was bared in front of himself. He stood naked facing the mirror of self-realisation, ashamed to even look at it. 

The Unforgettable Journey

The gentry in 3rd ac is no longer what it used to be, thought Somesh as he pushed his suitcase under the seat. The 5 minutes it took him to reach his berth from the door, amidst clamour and congestion had left him exhausted. After catching his breath in a few pants, he surveyed his companions for the journey. The happy and complete Indian family; a husband, a semi-educated wife, a shy daughter and two overweight sons. Why he never found a shy son and overweight daughters with semi- educated mothers, he could not reason. What he knew with certainty was that they were not going to make his journey any easier. A tad disappointed, he focussed on the other side. The occupants of the side berths were not in sight but the luggage, or the lack of it, told him there were no women and certainly not any his age. “Not worthwhile to sit uncomfortably and converse with the other two, in that case”, Somesh thought and resigned himself to finishing the badly written “If God was a banker” during the journey.

Somesh loved travelling by trains. He had loved it since as long as he could remember. So much so that he would take the onward journey to Mumbai by train and only return by flight, whenever he went to meet his girlfriend, Simar, over an extended weekend. Although this cut in to their time together and almost always resulted in a quarrel with her, but he could not help it; these journeys were equally dear to him. They gave him time to introspect, the space to think uninterrupted and the freedom to be what he liked sans the presence of familiar faces judging him. This speeding sea of humanity was the only place where he got some time alone and stillness of thought.

He had, though, one regret: quite a few friends of his boasted about chance encounters in trains whereas he, a veteran by travelling standards, had never even been fortunate enough to have female company of the same age. And this journey was no different. “It would be worse, if anything”, thought Somesh. In a mental game he loved to play, he played out the movements, actions, questions and responses of each of the passengers. He secretly prided himself on predicting with reasonable accuracy, which was enhanced by years of experience in stereotyping and travelling. His train of thought was broken by the ruckus accompanying the middle aged men, occupying the side berths, who had arrived and were now stacking their bags. As soon as they had settled, both took out their phones and began talking in fluent, loud English so that their position of respect was established among fellow passengers.

As the engine blew the final whistle, Somesh’s mind started jogging; all the men are sharing some information about themselves. Highly likely that the businessman’s curiosity is aroused by someone’s line of work and questions and responses fly. Without any deliberation, the conversation flows like the mighty Ganga, exploring a variety of topics and finally settling in the vast ocean of India’s plight, politics and leaders. Once out of words, the businessman takes out a Hindi magazine from his bag and the other two return to making authoritative-sounding phone calls. At this point, the two boys who had been sitting quietly begin quarrelling, running around and generally wreaking havoc in the compartment. The others won’t complain, their gratitude bought by the laddoos which the wife had offered everyone.  By 9 PM, the younger one starts wailing non-stop for an hour, finally falling asleep by 10. The elder one though, carries on uninhibited until about 1 AM. Somesh is only able to fall asleep after the kid runs out of steam. And even before having a proper dream, it’s 5 AM and the younger one is up, all set to rule the kingdom in the absence of his older sibling. Somesh is more tired at 6 AM than he was at 6 PM.

“This can’t be allowed to happen. I must appear fresh and energetic for the interview tomorrow”. Somesh scratched his head, thinking hard. And then, like a flash, an idea crossed his mind. He again played out the whole scene with a minor tweak. Confident of his little scheme, he relaxed, biding his time.

Soon enough, they were looking at each other, expecting someone to start the conversation. Somesh listened as the businessman explained his business and the two men elaborated upon their company and role. “We shall be rivals if I get through”, Somesh murmured.  It was a brief moment before he realised that the others were staring at him, expecting him to ramble on about himself. Gathering his courage and wits, he calmly introduced himself, “My name is Somesh and I am in to smuggling stuff”. “Smuggling what?” the wife asked before she could check herself. With a carefully placed grin, making him look sinister, he said, “You don’t want to know”.

As he hid his hardly controllable smile behind the spiteful novel, he could feel everyone shifting uneasily in their seats – even the children. From that moment the compartment went unnaturally quiet and remained so until he had alighted the train the next morning.

As he sat waiting for his turn, he reflected on the incident. Not only was he better relaxed but also felt more confident, thanks to the wily trick. The masterstroke, he felt, was Simar’s call when he spoke to her pretending she was a call girl. On the one hand, his girlfriend was pleasantly surprised by his “naughty” behaviour and on the other hand, his sleazy choice of words reaffirmed his identity as a low-life among his fellow travelers. Talk about one stone and two birds. Lost in his own thoughts, his lips had broken in to a silly smile by the time his name was called out.

Walking in with a swagger, feeling supremely confident, he looked up to read his interviewers. In an instant, his face became the second thing to fall, right after his confidence had bungee-jumped without the safety rope. That his body did not follow suit was nothing short of a miracle. Sitting in front of him, were the two middle-aged men from the train. He wanted to turn around and run, run back to yesterday evening and re do that one moment when he had lied. Little beads of perspiration were now forming on his forehead and the back of his neck was itching. “Get ready to be slaughtered”, he told himself as he mumbled good morning.

Shamelessly sneering, they offered him a seat and glass of water. He only has hazy recollections of what happened next. Questions were fired and inadequate attempts were made at responding for a while. He kept gulping water until they had closed his file and returned it to him. He remembers the word congratulations and his hand being shook. What he clearly remembers is the instruction, “You are clearly gifted when it comes to convincing people. However, you are going to stop lying from now on.”

Hungry Couple Revisited

Like always, the police team, headed by inspector Rabindra Narayan Khanna Chakraborty, could not prevent the crime. They arrived at the Chaterjees' abode moments after Rajath and Ayesha had sliced through the blue-eyed child. What could have been a case of kidnapping, turned in to a murder case because the head constable, Nakshatra, could not hold his bladder a while longer. A little while earlier, he had created a ruckus and forcibly stopped the Police Jeep to relieve himself, while urgently rounding up the area, following a tip-off. Not strangely though, he was convinced that the neatly cut body parts are better evidence than a traumatised six years old boy. And because of him, the Police now have a stronger case.

As is every organisation's wont, the district Police heralded the valour and bravery displayed by constable Nakshatra in tackling down Rajath to public, politicians and media. While once among the secure, secretive grounds of the department, he would be ridiculed and cold-shouldered by even old friends who believed his wooden bladder had cost a boy his life and a couple, their child. All this could not and did not deter or disappoint him for he knew that they will come around like they always have, forgiving him through a twenty-year long career of goof-ups. Besides, he did act bravely, and somewhat stupidly, in pinning down that violent Rajath alone while letting the lanky, uncoordinated inspector, Rabindra, handle the feline woman Ayesha. That Rabindra came through the scuffle with a lot of scratches and bites is not his problem.

Despite the exhaustion and the odd wound, he had insisted a return to the house along with the investigation party. What the team found was as strange as strange itself. The couple had been living a life as respectable as was possible in this dilapidated house; the floor was clean, although it was missing entire blocks in places. The remains of a mattress, what served as a bed, were made as properly as the rags covering it would allow. There was even a make-up box which had been used recently. The Chaterjees could have very well been a couple who had fallen on hard times were it not for the grotesque stench emerging from the kitchen. Roughened-up, as the team was, two of the members still could not hold back their vomit and puked all over the place, part of the liquid even landing on the recently cut-up boy's arms.

After the sick men were rushed out, Arnab, olfactory tolerance heightened by a lifetime of cooking fish, opened the fridge. The sight could make Idi Amin proud; a fridge stacked up with human bones and dripping with blood, probably human too. The top shelf was filled with skulls while the longer arms and legs occupied the lower shelves. Backbones were neatly cut in to two; perhaps they were too long to fit in any shelf. Even the egg slots were put to use by storing fingers and toes there.

As he took in the sight and comprehended the magnitude of the arrest, Nakshatra silently swore that he would not let them die easy. They will have to pay for what they have done. The court may take its course and deliver its verdict but until then, he will personally make the hungry couple's lives a living hell. The department was used to such practices to extract information out of detainees. There would be, however, no bargaining and hence no stopping this time around. 

Every day, for the next week, Nakshatra would get up early, go straight to the station and lock himself up with the monsters. One after the other, punishments followed like a schedule. First, they were hung upside down and beaten until he tired. Then they were suffocated alternately in a plastic bag for 3 mins. each. When they used to pass out, they were jerked awake by mild electric shocks. After forcing them to lick their lunch from the ground, with hands tied behind their backs, he spent the evening watching them shivering on giant ice blocks. 

His superiors silently agreed with his ways and turned a blind eye to the daily ritual. Nakshatra had been asked to take just one precaution; both the convicts should have their hands tied behind them whenever he left the cell. He was free to undo the cuffs and even some joints when inside the cell. On his part, Nakshatra followed it to the tee until the 6th day.

Nearing retirement, he had decided that this case shall be his absolution. This couple will be punished for every soul they had tortured and he will win some respect in the bargain. Through the cruelties meted out, Nakshatra could virtually see his colleagues melting and accepting him. The coldness displayed on the first couple of days was now lukewarm, if not outright warm. And this kept him going on through the pleading eyes, the desperate screams for mercy and the repeated begging to put a bullet through their heads. Yes, no colleague of his could stand all this and carry on imparting justice.

The requisite coldness was a rare quality. If only he had been a bit more careful or had that crucial bit of luck on his side, he could have retired very high up. For he was brave, smart and decidedly apathetic to criminals; traits that could guarantee success, but he always let things slip at crucial junctures. The bank robbery where he mistook the robbers as civilians, the drug-raid where he accidently sniffed a bit too much and passed out, letting the smugglers escape. After every such mess, his colleagues sniggered behind his back while his seniors denied him promotion after promotion.

Everything was going the same way as the past six days. So much so, that Nakshatra was a bit bored and wondered if he should introduce some new methods. It could be interesting to see their reaction. The couple had been trying fruitlessly to search for a shred of warmth by covering each other on that ice slab when Nakshatra’s bladder revolted again. So much was the pressure that he ran straight to the toilet, foregoing repeated instructions to cuff them. It had not slipped off his mind but what could the battered bodies do in a couple of minutes.

As he returned from this exceptionally long bathroom break, he kicked the cell door which refused to budge. Surprised, he kicked again and almost at the same moment, found the reason for the door’s stubborn behaviour. A handcuff was tied to a rod in the door and to another in the door frame, holding the door in its place. He cursed himself for having left the cuff-key inside the cell. His angry eyes blazed fire, searching for the couple in the cell and the expression changed to pure astonishment as soon as he spotted them.

Crouched in the corner farthest from the cell, the couple was hugging and kissing each other silently. Oh no, it wasn’t hugging and kissing. The couple was biting each other’s neck off and digging nails in to the other to check their screams. As he frantically tried to undo the cuff with a pin, he could see blood dripping from both necks. He finally took out his service revolver and in the third attempt, shot the door open. As he ran towards the strange creatures, they desperately took one last bite and collapsed on the floor. When Nakshatra separated them, all that was left was two lifeless bodies with large, gaping holes in their necks from where blood spluttered out. He then spotted tears on those calm faces.

Disclaimer: Only the names are inspired, not the characters.

Private Demons

Your happiness is no secret,

with the joy on your face, writ large.

The news excites me too,

My smile for you isn't a farce.

I know you will react the same,

when you know of my good fortune.

If I was just elated before,

your smile will take me to the moon.

Things are different though,

when it comes to sharing sorrows.

I shall listen and help but,

the concern won't go beyond my brows.

So just be glad for my joys,

do not try to share my burdens.

For men may share their angels,

but every man has his own demons.

*Remotely inspired by this excerpt from Anna Karenina: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way"

The hungry couple

She was anxious. He had been gone since morning. He had never been away that long before. But times were such. A fortnight ago, a couple had rang their doorbell looking for directions, having lost their way in the vast non-descript countryside and there was no other house in sight. That was the last time they had some fresh food. The couple provided them with enough food to last a week and they had been starving since.

“I’ll go to the city and try to find some food”, said the husband and walked out of the door, famished and desperate. It wasn’t always such. They were a typical family, living a typical life in the suburbs of the city. There was nothing of note to distinguish them from the family next door, or at the end of the lane. They had been to a few, clandestine wild places to satiate their innermost fetishes. But then, which family doesn’t have its own embarrassing secrets.

Something, though, had changed over the past year or so. The sensation was strange and each of them kept it to themselves until they could no longer hold it and confessed to each other. They were surprised to learn that both of them are going through similar condition. They promised each other to not share it with anyone else and tried to ignore it.

They put up a façade for sometime but first the family and then friends, colleagues, the entire world started noticing the changes. Invitations from the social circles decreased, greetings from familiar faces ceased and then one day, he was asked to look for a job somewhere else. That was the first time in her life that she felt hunger pangs. He had then tried to grab some food and run from the store. He was caught; they were declared unfit to inhabit a civilised society and ordered to be put under care. They managed to escape this time around. After treading through the country side for days, surviving on the kindness of a few drivers who pulled over to help, they had come across this isolated house in the wilderness.

They knew that they wouldn’t be accepted in any town or city and so they decided to live there. It was old but intact and the nearest town was only a couple of hours’ walk away. “I got some meat”, declared the husband, breaking her chain of thought. “Now clean it and cut it up while I light the fire.” She hurriedly took the sack from him and thrust her hand inside. It was still alive and started screaming as soon as he saw her. She cut through with one strong, precise swing with the knife, and the head of the boy rolled over the floor, spewing blood all over the place as it went. “Can’t you ever do it cleanly? I’ll have to clean the floor again!” he yelled. “I don’t like the screams. Why don’t you ever kill them yourself?” she retorted and began hacking the limbs off the severed body.

Don2: An honest review

Perhaps I should start by telling you the emotions the movie evoked. Imagine a bright, sunny morning at the SCG. You've got the best seat in the house and you sit their, sipping on a tea or beer, watching a Sachin straight-drive. Now think of the equivalent of this pleasure in terms of pain and multiply it by 3 hours. That should pretty much describe how the movie will make you feel. We went in with low expectations but only after the movie did we realise as to why the Police in 11 countries is looking for him. All the citizens want their money back!!!

In the first scene, SRK tries to walk in with a swagger but comes across as a bad case of osteoporosis. It is just funny that the uncrowned king shows up himself to take a consignment. With the recession around and plenty of unemployed youth around, you'd wish he had hired a few to do the dirty job. At least that would save us the agony of watching SRK trying so hard to be the cool Don.

Hoping against hope, we were certain that the movie shall pick from there. It did, as Priyanka Chopra sizzled in her scenes looking every bit hot and delicious. But that seems to be the only upside to the 3 hour long torture. But she also provides lessons in manipulations as she fires orders at her colleague, making him do the clerical work but takes all the credit herself. That poor chap seems to have a thing for her but with his zombie-like expression, it is tough to tell whether he is scared, angry or concerned.

Boman Irani, who seemed to match Don's wits in the 1st movie, is made to look like a complete fool as SRK breaks away from the jail in which he's been rotting for 5 years. I think the jail food hadn't been all that good for his IQ. The scene in which he questions Lara Dutta's ability could be likened to the Opposition's questions to Rahul Gandhi; we keep expecting a witty response but none arrives. To top it all, I present you Kunal Kapoor, a genius hacker who has impregnated a woman without any source of income. I'd like to visit the country where women are ready to hook up with unemployed youth.

When it comes to the action sequences, the less we talk about, the better. Personally, I have never understood the reason behind a car chase. Even you manage to outpace the escapee, you can't force him out of the car because you won the race and banging your car in to his is plain stupid. But that's another story for another day. The point here is, a car chase has never made me yawn, until now. And the underworld seriously needs to get its act together if SRK can beat up those thugs with bare hands, however unconvincingly.

The dialogues and those one-liners are the best part. Looks like there was a holiday discount on defective dialogues and all the characters shopped to their heart's fill. Some of them are so bad that they come around all the way to be good again. In one particular scene Boman Irani asks SRK if he can ask him a question. SRK quips; "no". It used to be funny when I was 10 but the movie unfortunately, is 15 years late.

All this, only until the first half and a bit. I'm sure the latter half too deserves to be written about but fortunately for yours truly, he could not bear the torture and passed out for the better part of it.

PS: As we left the movie hall, plenty of scathing comments were tossed about. My favorite: "Amitabh should file a defamation case against SRK for ruining Don."

To add a li'l spice

T-20 is hurting cricket. Ravi Shastri and Ramiz Raja, more so. We need technically sound batsmen and persistent bowlers for the survival of Test cricket. To regenerate interest in the ball-by-ball detail, we need someone who can call a shot something other than a tracer bullet. I long for the day when a really irritable cricketer comes to fore and makes the game and the equally long post-match proceedings a bit entertaining. I hope the Messiah arrives soon to defeat the devil called Danny Morrison and delivers us from those boring to the point of suicide inducing post match ceremonies. In fact, I have day-dreamt it so many times that I have a script of that hour of reckoning. In my imaginations, this is how it goes:

I: Congratulations. You played a great knock today when your team was reeling at 18/3 in 5 overs.
C: Gee thanks. I didn't know the score when I walked in. Next time, I'll call you up to tell me.

I: So your team was under a lot of pressure when you walked in.
C: To tell you the truth, I was cursing those 3 morons who threw away their wickets and forced me to come in. At that point, I was talking to this real hot chick and had to break off the conversation mid-way.

I: Err... I mean cricket-wise.
C: Well nothing. Like I said, I didn't even know the score until you told me. I was just thinking to spend a few minutes, get out and resume my conversation with that chick and even tried that twice. But the fielding team cannot even catch a cold, let alone a catch.

I: And the way you got Sehwag out. Was it a plan?
C: Oh yes, why not. I bowled the full-toss precisely because I knew Sehwag will try to hammer it out of the park but will get an edge. Didn't work for the first 4 deliveries but worked the 5th time :D

I:So do you think 187 is a compatible total in this match.
C: No. Absolutely not. The way we are bowling and fielding, even you can score that much.

I:So you have any plans for SRT?
C: Actually we do. After every boundary he hits, the bowler will go near him and burst in to tears while the rest of the team will be praying hard. Hopefully, SRT's heart will melt and he will throw his wicket.

I: Why do you think you lost the match after coming so close to victory?
C: Oh you don't know??? I had fixed this match and had planned to get out after putting my team in a winning position. Next time, call me before the match and may be I could help you to make a few bucks.

I: Thank you, cricketer. It was a pleasure to speak to you.

C: Yes, now that you have had your pleasure, may I go back to that hot chick?

N. Srinivasan sets an example

In the latest development over mismanagement of funds in IPL, N. Srinivasan, BCCI's president-elect has pleaded ignorance to all the wrong doings. In a statement to the parliament's standing committee, he declared, " "We were taken for a ride. I know we cannot plead before you that we did not know all this was happening. Your question would be, were you not vigilant? What did you do? I am sorry, sir, there is no defence for me. No defence in front of you. So, I am not pleading that [ignorance] at all. We just put our heads down."

Like a sympathetic school teacher who's been there, done that (and possibly much more), the standing committee is understood to have understood his situation and gave him a, errr..., standing ovation for his honesty.

Taking a leaf out of his IPL boss' book, MSD has admitted to having no idea about his own batting or the game at large. "I can't really pin point the problem on this tour. I admit it's all been happening under my nose, but I think the time has come to confess that I do not understand the game at all. I treat it as a stress-buster between my advertising assignments you see, a hobby, you might call it", declared Dhoni with a broad grin.

In a totally unrelated incident, the students from the most premiere technical institute from southern India staged a demonstration calling for an end to the undue burden resulting from hailing them as la crème du pays. "If we were so good, we would be working on tech-projects in stead of investing our time and the govt's grants in Counter-Strike, Dota, How I met your mother or IMDB top 100. Calling us technocrats deters the JP Morgans and Deustche Banks which offer us our dream jobs. I hereby appeal to the aspirants and the awed to quit touting us as the smartest technical brains and let us apply peacefully for jobs with fat pay-cheques and which involve complicating financial data even further and bear no correlation, whatsoever, to our graduation". Thus commented CKSR Janardan Reddy, a student of Electrical Engineering, who hopes to be the reason behind the next financial meltdown.

Hating the state

A bomb blast today rocked the nation,

All we could hear was condemnation.

When an earthquake later shook the land,

Our mood still remained bland.

No concern for those who were hurt,

No remorse for those reduced to dirt.

Making statements is all the govt. does,

Even we are too busy updating an fb status.

The next bomb could be beside you or someone close,

Would you do the same if that one explodes?

The deceased reduced to jokes on the internet,

I'm sorry but I don't quite see the humanity in that.

I would rather see people full of hate.

hating the terrorists and hating the state.

People looking at the country with rage,

A rage deep enough to compel it to change.

A mere three weeks backs, united stood the nation,

Answering Anna's call against corruption.

The govt. is unwilling to fight terrorism too,

Is status updates all we can do?

Is he the next Gandhi?

Technically, all articles should start with an introduction of the issue. It's 6 AM, I haven't slept the whole night and am justifiably devoid of the patience to delve in to the background. So if you don't know the background already, please don't waste your time here.

Like 'Team Anna' has been claiming, there are many similarities between the two. Both are fasting to achieve something which the govt. of their respective times reluctant to gift-wrap and present to them. Both had a strong resume of social services before catching the nation's imagination. While Anna turned a poor village in to a model one, Gandhi did something similar during the time he spent in South Africa. Both took the route of non-violence to make their voices heard. And finally, both managed to get the rulers agree to their demands.

Small aberration that Anna actually beat up the youth in Ralegan Siddhi to set them straight. Well, you cannot preach to the hungry. Hence the use of force is justifiable to my mind. Adding to that, nobody would change their way of life for a fasting stranger. He resorted to more civil ways once he got the support of masses. And now when the hour of reckoning arrives, Anna is the poster-boy of the civil society. Lesson in strategy here.

Moving on to the present, the devil of a govt. has relented, Anna has his way and everything is sunshine and roses for India. Hail the new Gandhi.

If only he was not so much like Gandhi or Gandhi was as perfect as he's made out to be. Let's not talk about the Lokpal Bill for the time being. It has already been scanned and dissected more that those poor frogs in biology classes. Let's talk about the Satyagrahi power.

Now Gandhi, during his time, was the ultimate decision-maker in India. I would go as far as saying that he was a dictator for the little amount of time he lived in independent India. Every bill the parliament passed, every resolution the govt. undertook had to receive a nod by him. And if he deemed it wrong or unfair, it wouldn't see the light of day.

Read history deep enough and you will find many fundamental blunders made by the state of India and quite a few originated from one man-Gandhi. In case the ministers protested, he would use his ultimate weapon - threat of a fast. That's how Pakistan got their 40 crores at the time of partition. He was the father of the nation and the big daddy of Congress.

Now this created problems back then, as it does now. Without doubting the integrity and intentions of either, it is highly improbable that one man, that too those with a deeply ingrained sense of fairness, can do what's best for a nation. A saint can never run a grocery shop.

Gandhi used to say "A Satyagrahi always knows the right way." And it was only he who could judge all the qualities, the IQ or the fashion sense of an ideal Satyagrahi. It is more or less the same story 60 years later. Anna decides the members of the Civil Society, the date of enforcement for the bill and even the content of the same. For argument's sake, let's suppose we give Team Anna a free hand for drafting the bill. Now say, Kejriwal disagrees with Anna on some parts of it. What next? I can bet my oversized, overweight arse that Anna will force him out of the committee or threaten to on another hunger strike.

Not judging the JLP, but it is disturbing that we let one man enjoy so much power and but still strip with joy, blowing the trumpet of being the largest democracy.

The Bill

Before the respected Anna Hazare made that very public and widely publicised visit to Delhi, I had no clue about the Lokpal bill, like many others, I might add. He then staged a fast to get his voice heard and forced the government to include members of the 'civil' society in drafting the bill. The masses were behind him and he won.

The real problems arose when the government refused to accept some of his committee's suggestions to be included in the bill. (You could google for the major PoDs in the Jan Lokpal Bill, as it is popularly known, and the government's draft.) Angered by the government's lack of cooperation he and his team is up in arms against the high and mighty once again.

The bone of discontent seems to be the difference in scope of the two bills. The JLP tries to hold everyone, including the PM accountable while the government bill is content with being a watchdog for senior level officials. While I agree with the JLP on most issues, there are some points about the whole situation that worry me.

The first is sustainability. It is all based on the assumption that the members of the Lokpal committee will be clean as a whistle. In fact, the 1st committee might even be so just like the politicians in the 50s. But later on the power that the position grants them, is bound to corrupt some and may be all. Also, the assumption that the lokpal committee will be independent of political influence is far-fetched. It is India after all. Nothing is free from political influence here. And if the committee happens to be hand-in-glove with the government, it is as good as useless.

The other problem is the motive of the masses showing such solidarity. They are all against corruption no doubt but only when someone else does it. I don't think any of those supporters will think twice before greasing the palms of a traffic cops when they are caught jumping a signal. It is the always easier way out. To them, this is not a movement against corruption as such but only against the corrupt politicians. They are fine as long as the neighborhood ration-shop owner conveniently accepts gifts.

However, if I had a choice between the two, I'd always choose the JLP but with a humble request to Anna: Please bring in some regulations to ensure the incorruptibility of Lokpal members and please do not think Indians are as averse to corruption as is visible.

Dhoni decision unleashes a butterfly effect

The bizzarre case of Dhoni being given out by a wrong replay has sparked yet another controversy. The BCCI issued yet another statement wherein Sharad Pawar confirmed that he's received reports of food grain rotting in the open and is looking in to the problem. When reminded by the press about the issue at hand, he quipped, "the best way to protest against a wrong replay is by commenting on a different problem."

The goof-up has initiated a new method of marketing called counter-marketing and some companies are working overtime to conceptualise a full-fledged ad campaign based on the idea. While Ambuja Cement has decided to use the bikini-clad JK Cement model to drive customers away from JK Cement and hence towards Ambuja, Vodafone has decided to do away with its Zoozoo and air Dhoni's Aircel ads in a bid to encroach upon Aircel's customer base.

Last night, the CIA busted an Al-Queda plan to air old video clippings of Osama bin Laden to bluff the world in to believing that he's still alive. Upon questioning, the tape handler confessed, "If a video clip can fool a 3rd umpire hired by WICA, it can surely fool the CIA, innit?"

Meanwhile, the widespread use of the concept has landed the involved parties in a tussle over copyright ownership. Gregory Brathwaite, the officiating 3rd umpire is owning up to full responsibilty for the mistake and demanding full right, citing it as an unfortunate and avoidable accident which has ultimately proven to be fortunate as well as unavoidable for the emancipation of cricket in general and mankind in particular. The TV broadcasting agency too has staked its claimed for the rights declaring that they have been doing committing similar errors for a while now by airing wrong advertisements and programs. When asked, a spokesman explained, "We have hired highly untrained and underpaid professionals specifically for this job as nobody watches our channel anyway."

MS Dhoni claimed to be the victim of the fiasco and demanded to be compensated by way of copyrights and declared that he wont rest while sipping martinis on Barbados beach. An extremely enthusiastic reporter managed to peep in to an SMS sent to Shashank Manohar by him and could read the following words: wrong... sad... money... arm twist... WICA...ICC, before being hoicked away in the air by Dhoni in an ugly manner.

In the ongoing ICC meet, a new rule has been drafted by which a batsman can be given out based on the evidence of a previous delivery. Following the news, Cricket Boards across the globe have engaged in a bidding war over video clippings of a teenaged Sachin and Warne in his prime.

To my fellow IITians

A lot has been made of the recent suicide at IIT-M. As an alumnus, it really hurts to see the institute's name in the news for all the wrong reasons. It hurts even more when I see my friends squarely blaming it on the administration.

Yes. Someone took his own life. It is sad. But didn't we see 2-3 such cases and a few more attempts every year when we were there? Some were due to acads, some for not being able to get a good placement and some due to a failed love affair. How many times did we blame the administration back then? Deep down we always knew that it was a sad waste of life over something really not that important.

We wake up and start blaming the administration. Specially the remarks by the Dean. He is bad at PR, agreed. But that seems to inflame people more than the death itself. He screwed up alright but you cannot demand compassion. And frankly, for someone handling such cases every year, and a couple more attempts, compassion is a job hazard.

We blame the administration for being insensitive. But if his parents and closest friends did not get a hint of what was to come, how could the guys in administration know, to whom, he was just another student. It is all so easy to blame it on them because that takes the burden of truth off our shoulders. There is a so called guidance and counseling unit put together by the students whose priority job is to prevent such incidents. But the guys selected on the body are all due to political reasons and nobody cares enough to cleanse that up. Did the GCU take any blame for it? Has the GCU head offered to resign before asking the dean to do so? My guess is, he hasn't.

Too much academic pressure on students, we claim. Though I personally don't believe that, having graduated with a 7.5 without much effort but would we want the workload be reduced and result in quality dilution? The reason we cited to raise our voices against reservations. The U grades and extensions are part and parcel of the game and those are the reason we keep on our toes and put in just about enough effort to crawl to the dais on convocation.

The 'trend' of so many extensions handed out by one prof and 2 of those students taking their own lives is indeed worrisome and must be addressed but I have not seen the prof's name pop up even once in those endless threads on fb and e-mails. I feel we are aiming our guns in the wrong direction.

It would have been more relevant if the students had raised their voices against the administration when an unfortunate student lost his life on his birthday due to the sheer lethargy of medical staff. The 'admin' had the balls to blame it on birthday bumps. That was sad. And infuriating. Administration had failed there and did not take the blame. But we did nothing more than claiming condolences on facebook and gtalk. That was the time when the so called administration could have been shaken out out of its slumber. We missed it. And we retort when the fault lies more with us.

The Haunted Well

Ghanshyam was among the few men in his village who could read and write. Belonging to a wealthy family, he was educated in Jaipur, a privilege few could afford in those times. Even fewer had justified the expenses borne by their families in sending off their son to the city for education. So he considered it a cruel act of fate when his father passed away and he, being the only man in the family, had to return home after his 1^st year in BA to take care of his mother and 2 sisters.

Upon return, he prospered as a landlord, his education and inheritance holding him in good stead. The villagers of Madot revered his intelligence and wealth and frequently sake his advice in matters of money and family. As he was now the wealthiest and, as some would have him believe, the wisest man in the community he was confident that he would become the representative of his community in the next village Panchayat. Hence, he was in for a rude shock when his community elders, including some of his relatives, favored Meghram over him.

In stead of making his disgust evident, he decided to dig deeper and find out the reason for this injustice. For the next 6 months, he coaxed and cajoled his close ones in to admitting the real reason for the raw deal he got. Saying that he was dumbfounded would be an understatement. He concluded that he wasn’t chosen, partly because he had spent his formative years in the city and not in the village and whose deep rooted issues and beliefs he would never comprehend. The same village, whose problems he so easily understood and solved. But those were the times when anything foreign was treated with cynicism and suspicion. He was just a smart man to the villagers with no real say in the way they functioned.

The major reason, but, was the fact that he did not believe in spirits, so much so that he had not organized a single barsi for his late father. The pain of losing a parent and then altering your life’s plans may affect some people such. But for the villagers, this was blasphemous and unthinkable.

Ghanshyam, being the man he was, decided not to bow down to the pressure but in stead prove to the villagers that no such thing as ghosts or spirits existed. He was convinced that if he could convince the villagers of this, they would not be averse to supporting him as a representative in the Panchayat.

He, being a methodical man, came out with the perfect plan to convince the villagers. Just outside Madot, there was a dried up well, inside the cemetery boundary wall. The people of the village were of the belief that any man, once cremated, resided in the well until Chitragupta worked out his deeds and ordered his carriage to either heaven or hell. Needless to add, people were scared of going near the well alone even in broad daylight as every now and then, someone would claim to have heard strange voices coming out of it.

Ghanshyam’s plan was simple. He would go to the well on a moonless night, spend an hour there, and return to the village. If he did return safely, his community would be bound to endorse him as a Panch over Meghram. To prove that he had actually visited the well, he would hammer a nail in the wall covering the well. So strong was his belief that he turned a deaf ear to his well-wishers’ advices, pleading sisters and a weeping mother and patiently waited for Amavas.

On the night of reckoning, he left the village when the clock struck 12, promising to return after an hour. As he walked to the cemetery, he laughed to himself when he heard multiple chants and prayers for his well being.

The villagers waited with baited breath for his return as time went past.By 2 o’ clock, his mother could not bear it and began bellowing while the sisters consoled her. By 3.30, even Ghanshayam’s sisters could not hold it any longer and started hollering, fearing the worst. By 4.30, the whole village was in frenzy, with the elders collecting in the temple and praying as the youngsters formed search parties to begin looking for him with the first ray of sun. The bravest of the youngsters, armed with totems, rushed to well, praying more for their safety than Ghanshyam’s.

They found Ghanshyam’s body sprawled by the well, with one hand strongly clasped on his Dhoti. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were about to pop out. The face had a look of such horror, as if he had seen a ghost. The priest insisted on first persuading the ghost to leave the body before allowing it to be cremated, costing Ghanshyam’s family a fortune.

The tragedy was nothing but another anecdote in the list of reasons cited by the villagers to keep away from the well. And oh, the old man who told me this story swears that he saw Ghanshyam’s dhoti stuck in the nail which Ghanshyam had hammered in the wall but nobody believed him as he was only 8 at that time.

*For all you morons who have a low IQ and didn't understand the last bit but are too proud to admit it, here's the logic:

Ghanshyam's dhoti got stuck in the nail and when he turned around to leave, he felt his dhoti being pulled. Fearing the worst, he died of shock.