It was a twenty storey building served by four elevators. Three of them were assigned to ‘aam’ janta’ by which I don’t mean the king of fruits or mango people. I am simply referring to commoners here. Going by theories of probability and laws of Murphy, you are likely to be one too – a commoner I mean, not mango. Yes, about the elevator. The fourth elevator — which was carpeted in red and had three mirrors and special décor — was reserved for the exclusive use of the Company President , the members of the Board of Directors and the general manager. This meant that only they could ride the red elevator, but this would not prevent them from using the other three.
I had never laid eyes either on the company president or the members of the Board of Directors. But, every once in a while, and always from a distance, I caught sight of the general manager, with whom, nevertheless, I had never exchanged a single word. He was a man of about fifty years of age, and had a “noble” and “lordly” bearing. I considered him to be a sort of cross between an old-time gentleman and a thoroughly incorruptible magistrate of Supreme Court. His graying hair, his neatly-trimmed mustache, his conservative suits and his affable manners had made me — and I detested all my immediate bosses — feel some degree of fondness toward Sir Ji. That is how they addressed him: Ji elongated and flattened depending on the need of the speaker, a form of address somewhere between what might seem like familiarity and the veneration owed to a Zameendar (a feudal lord).
The offices occupied by Sirji and his retinue took up the entire fifth floor of the building. Our department was on the third floor, but, since I was the least important employee, they would send me from one floor to another to run errands. On the twentieth floor there were only some ill-tempered old men and ugly women who always seemed to be enraged about something or other. Up there a kind of dossier was kept active in which, five minutes before leaving the premises, I had to — without fail — leave a bundle of papers containing summaries of all the tasks carried out in our department that day.
One evening — having already handed in those papers — I was on the twentieth floor, ready to go home. I was waiting for the elevator. My shirt was neatly tucked in, my hair was combed, and I had adjusted my necktie. I looked in the mirror next to the elevator. A splitting image of me was clutching at a leather case as if life depended on it. On closer scrutiny, I found it to be a rather nervous me
Suddenly, Sirji himself was standing beside me, looking as though he too was waiting for the elevator.
I greeted him with the utmost respect: “Good evening, Sirji.”
Sirji went beyond a simple greeting. He shook my hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, young man. I see that you concluded a fruitful day’s labor and are now leaving the premises in search of your well-earned rest.”
That attitude and those words — in which I thought I perceived a certain nuance of sarcasm — made me more nervous. I felt my face redden.
At that moment, one of the elevators assigned to the “commoners” arrived, and the door opened automatically, revealing a deserted interior. I held the door open by keeping my finger on the button, while saying to Sirji, “After you, Sirji.”
“No, no; by no means, young man,” Sirji replied with a smile. “You go first.”
“No, sir, please. I couldn’t. After you, please.”
“Get in, young man,” he sounded impatient. “Please.”
This “please” was pronounced in such a peremptory manner that I had to take it as an order. I bowed slightly and entered the elevator. Sirji came after me and I mean literally, not as an intention to pun.
The doors slid shut.
“Are you going to the fifth floor, Sirji?”
“To the ground floor. I’m going home just as you are. I believe that I too have a right to some rest, don’t you think?”
I didn’t know what to say. The presence of that doyen of industry — and so close — made me extremely uncomfortable. I forced myself to bear up stoically under the silence that would last for nineteen floors until we’d come to the ground floor. I didn’t have the nerve even to look at Sirji; instead, I kept staring at my shoes.
“What department do you work in, young man?”
“In Quality, sir.” I had just noticed that Sirji was quite a bit shorter than I.
“Aha,” he stroked his chin with index finger and thumb, “your immediate boss is Mr. Daroowala, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, sir. It is Mr. Daroowala.”
I detested Mr.Daroowala, who I thought was a conceited imbecile, but I did not give this information to Sirji.
“And didn’t Daroowala ever tell you that you ought to respect the chain of command within the company?”
“Wha, what, sir?”
“What is your name?”
“Prem Panchal.”
“Oh, a Gujarati.”
“No, Sirji am not Gujarati Am a Maharashtrian.”
We had finally landed on the ground floor. Sirji, who was next to the doors, stepped to one side to allow me to go out first.
“Please,” he ordered.
“No, Sirji, please,” I answered. I was extremely nervous. “After you.”
Sirji gave me a look that seemed to bore a hole in me.
“Young man, please, I implore you, get out.”
Intimidated, I obeyed.
“It’s never too late to learn, young man,” he said, as he stepped out into the street ahead of me. “Have a cup of coffee on me.”
And so we went into the corner cafeteria, with Sirji leading the way, me following behind. This is how I found myself face to face with the general manager with nothing but the table separating us.
“How long have you been working for the company?”
“I began last December, sir.”
“In other words, it hasn’t even been a year that you’ve worked here.”
“It will be nine months next week, Sirji.”
“Well then: I’ve been with this firm for twenty seven years.” He gave me another of those hard looks.
Since I felt he expected some reaction from me, I nodded my head, trying to show some kind of restrained admiration.
He slipped a small calculator out of his pocket.
“Twenty seven years, multiplied by twelve months, make a total of three hundred twenty four months. Three hundred twenty four months divided by nine months come out to thirty six. This means that I’ve been with the company thirty six times longer than you have. What’s more, you are merely a common employee while I am the general manager. Lastly, you are only twenty or twenty five years of age, and I am fifty two. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Besides, you’re taking courses for MBA, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sirji, I’m am preparing for CAT, MAT, SAT and GMAT
He made a face, as if he had been personally insulted. He said, “At any rate, let’s see if you actually graduate. On the other hand, I have a doctorate in Management from Patiala Institute of Management, having graduated with extremely high grades.”
I lowered my head to show humility.
He continued, “And, things being as they are, don’t you think I deserve special consideration?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“Well then, how did you have the gall to get into the elevator ahead of me…? And, as if that show of audacity weren’t enough, you got out before I did.”
“Well, sir, I didn’t want to be impertinent or stubborn. It’s just that you were so insistent…”
“Whether I’m insistent or not is my business. But you should have realized that under no circumstances whatsoever should you get into the elevator before I do. Or get out before I do. Or, worse yet, contradict me. Why did you tell me that you are a Maharashtrian when I told you are a Gujarati?”
“But I really am Maharashtrian Sirji; my parents were born in Kolhapur, here in Maharashtra.”
“I don’t care where your parents were born or where they weren’t born. If I say that you are a Gujarati, you cannot, and must not, contradict me.”
“I apologize, sir. I’ll never do it again.”
“Very good. So your parents were born in Kolhapur?”
“No, sir. They were not born there.”
“And where were they born?”
“In Ahmedabad, Gujarat.”
“How strange!” Sirji opened his arms, showing his amazement. “How can it be that you are a Maharashtrian when your parents are Gujarati?”
“The fact is that, due to a family dispute with legal ramifications, all four of my grandparents emigrated from Maharashtra to Gujarat. And my parents were born in Gujarat.”
Sirji’s face darkened with an enormous sadness.
“I am much older than you, and I believe I don’t deserve to be made a fool of. Tell me, young man, how could you even think of weaving such a web of bald-faced lies? How could you even think that I could believe that hare-brained fairy tale? Didn’t you tell me previously that your parents were born in Kolhapur?”
“Yes, sir, but since you told me that I shouldn’t contradict you, I admitted that my parents were born in Ahmedabad.”
“Be that as it may, you have lied to me.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right: I’ve lied to you.”
“Lying to your superior betrays an enormous lack of respect and furthermore, just like any false information, constitutes a danger to the welfare of the company.”
“That is true, sir. I agree with everything you’re saying.”
“Well said, my boy, and I’m even inclined to see a modicum of value in you, now that I see you so docile and reasonable. But I want you to undergo one final test. We have had two cups of coffee. Who will pick up the tab?”
“I would be glad to do it.”
“You have lied to me once again. You, who receive a very low salary, cannot be happy to pay for the general manager’s coffee when you know the general manager makes more in one month than you will in two years. So, I’m asking you not to lie to me and to tell me the truth: Is it true that you like paying for my coffee?”
“No, Sirji, the truth is that I don’t like it.”
“But, despite the fact that you don’t like it, are you prepared to do it?”
“Yes, Sirji, I’m prepared to do it.”
“Well then, go ahead and do it! Pay and don’t make me waste more time, for heaven’s sake!”
I called the waiter over and paid for the two coffees. We went out into the street, Sirji ahead of me. We found ourselves on the main road.
“Very well, young man, I’m going to have to take my leave of you now. I sincerely hope you have internalized the lesson and that you will profit from it in the future.”
He shook my hand and whizzed passed in a shiny black Mercedes
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Her world
Nightmares rise from the depths. At least, that's what Shivangi’s mother and father had explained to her. Shivangi always had nightmares; they visited every once in a while. They always greeted her with a friendly hello, and invited her politely into their land. When Shivangi refused, they turned vicious and snarly and their invitations were no longer asked, they were demanded. And so Shivangi obeyed, of course; she didn't want to hurt their feelings! Nobody wanted their feelings hurt. Shivangi knew that for certain. She hated being teased. Her parents called it bullying, and talked with her class teacher and the principal about it. Shivangi knew that her principal was a good man, and she even knew how to spell his name. Prince, drop the e and add the I, because he's your pal. Princ-i-pal.
Shivangi dreamed of princes before the bad monsters took over. The princes that visited her looked like some of the boys in her classroom, but they were handsome and weren't shorter than her and they could never beat her in a race across in the play ground. They had long curly black hair that shined and shimmered like the sunshine on the sea. They wore silly looking clothing and rode prettied horses. But they always turned out mean, and they called Shivangi bad names and made her cry.
There was a prince that Shivangi loved, though. She even talked to him when nobody was listening. His name was Areeb. He was more handsome than any of the other princes, and he was better than the other princes in every way possible. His sword was sharper and shinier; his shield had never broken though it had many a dent and scrape. His hair was black like the night, and was worn in long dreadlocks that touched his horse's back when he sat down. His skin was equally dark and his eyes were so brilliantly blue that they dazzled and swirled with goodness when she looked into them. His clothes weren't silly; he wore a knight armor that melted into regular clothing when he touched her.
Areeb always protected Shivangi. Whenever the mean princes began to circle around her and tease her and make her cry, Areeb came dashing through the woods to her rescue and fought all the bad guys off. Shivangi had always wanted to hug him, but he always disappeared. He did touch her once, though. It was when she was so scarred by her day's events that even in her dreams she was in pain. Areeb appeared, smiled, touched her forehead, and his clothes turned normal. Then, he disappeared.
The day was Tuesday May 1st, at 3:15 P.M., fifteen minutes before school would be over. She was waiting in line for the bathroom. The boy who was in there, had been taking forever, and Shivangi could barely hold it anymore. She clenched her legs together and prayed to God that she wouldn't wet her pants in front of the entire fifth class. Finally, Anshul came out and walked to his desk. Mrs. Nair, the teacher, scolded him for not washing his hands and sent him to the sink. Shivangi rushed into the tiny square of a room.
As she relieved herself, she looked at the dirty tile floor. The tiles were so small you could fit them into your mouth, no problem. But Shivangi wouldn't do that, oh no. That'd be gross, and she'd probably get sick. There's lots of dirt and stuff in the floor, and it'd be smelly, too. Shivangi’s eyes looked over the painted cement-block wall, and up to the square ceiling light, then to the toilet paper holder. The paper was called Jackson Tissues and it was scratchy and thin. Shivangi liked the kind mom bought, with a Charming name; it was thick and soft and flowered or lined. She wanted to curl up and sleep in a blanket of Charming, someday.
There was a little vent in the door, and Shivangi could see a few boys' shoes outside. She got nervous, and began to pull her pants up. Before she could get them up all the way, a boy opened the door, said, "Oh, sorry," and closed it. And then there was laughter. The whole class was laughing. Shivangi's face turned a deep red and she didn't want to leave the bathroom. She wanted to sit in the corner and cry.
"Mama, come get me" she whispered, hoping that her mother would hear. But she couldn't, and Shivangi knew that Mama was at home, probably dusting or cooking lunch. Tears began to drip down Shivangi’s face as she zipped her zipper XYZ-PDQ. (e)Xamine Your Zipper Pretty Darn Quick. All the kids said that, especially when playing Dog and the Bone on the pavement, even when someone's zipper wasn't unzipped.
Slowly, Shivangi pushed down the silver handle with her shoe so that the toilet would flush and she wouldn't have to touch it and get germs. Even slower, she peered into the classroom. All eyes were on her; some people laughed, some looked away. Shivangi blushed even more and began to cry. She turned right around
Shivangi!" Mrs. Nair cried. "Come out, please."
"No!"
There was laughter, and Shivangi could hear one of her friends, Priya, saying, "Leave her alone, you big fat bully. I hate you."
There was a few gentle knocks on the door. "Shivangi, are you in there?"
‘Don't ask me stupid questions, Mrs. Nair, I hate you right now,' Shivangi thought.
"Shivangi Jain, open the door immediately."
"Go away!"
"Miss Jain, would you like me to call your parents?"
Oh no, oh no, don't do that. Only bad kids get their parents called, and I'm not bad. Plus, you have to go to the office to wait, and the office is where the really really bad kids get put so they can wait for their parents, and I'm never, ever going to go to the office,' Shivangi thought.
The classroom was silent. "Shivangi, darling, please come out right now. its okay, nobody will hurt you."
"Leave me alone!"
"Shivangi Jain! I'm getting the principal."
Not the principal, not the principal. He's for the super duper bad kids. Shivangi began to cry even harder.
Minutes passed, and Shivangi heard the principal's booming, jolly voice.
"Miss Jain, you in there?" He asked, gently knocking on the door. Kids began to talk all at once. "Yes, Sir, she's in there, she's been in there for hours," "She sure is Sir, I bet her parents will be real angry at her," "Sir, will she get suspended?" "Nobody can get her out, Sir,"
Shivangi didn't want to be bad, so she decided to speak up in a very small voice. "I'm in here, Sir."
"Send your class out to recess, Mrs. Nair," the principal said quietly.
"But Sir, we're in the middle of our lesson and we have ten minutes until school gets out"
"Mrs. Nair, send your class out to recess immediately, please."
"What good will it do?"
"Shivangi will be less intimidated and more comfortable, causing her to come out in a non-humiliating fashion. The kids in the classroom will be less tempted to come and look and make a big fuss over this. Am I clear?"
Mrs. Nair sighed. "I suppose." In a few seconds, she said, "Recess, class! Line your backpacks up against the wall; you can retrieve them when the bell rings. Go, go, go!"
“Ma’m, as Shivangi's most best friend, can I stay inside with you?"
"No, Priya, go on outside”, Mrs. Nair said.
The classroom was empty and children's voices could be heard faraway outside.
"Shivangi, will you come out, please?" The principal asked. Shivangi felt a wave of humiliated sorrow wash over her and she began to weep again.
"Onlyonly if Mrs. Nair goes away."
"What?" Mrs. Nair asked, shocked.
"You heard her, Geetha. Please leave; you may supervise your class."
Mumbling, Mrs. Nair left.
"She's gone now, Shivangi."
"I don't want to come out," Shivangi sobbed.
"It's okay, now, I won't judge you."
What does that mean? Shivangi thought
"Okay"
Slowly, Shivangi got up off of the dirty floor and opened the door. The principal was sitting on a chair beside the bathroom door. Shivangi expected him to start laughing at her, but he didn't. She felt a little better.
"Now Shivangi, what caused you to hide in the bathroom?"
"I don't want to say, Sir."
"Please tell me, I need to know."
"I don't want to say, Sir."
"Shivangi, please answer my question."
"I don't want to say, Sir!"
"Now you listen to me, Shivangi, I asked you a question, and when I ask you a question, you are to answer it. Am I understood?"
Shivangi began to cry, and turned back for the bathroom.
"Oh, no you don't," the principal said, and ran for her, but she got into the bathroom first. She locked it from the inside.
"Miss Jain, if you don't come out right this instant, I'll phone your parents!"
Shivangi began to sob. No, mom and dad will be so angry. No, please no. Sir, I don't want to be a bad girl and get into trouble! I don't want to get grounded
"I'm coming in, Miss Jain," the principal said. He shouted. Shivangi heard approaching footsteps.
The handle of the door began to shake. "Shivangi, Shivangi come out right now!"
"Leave me alone!" Shivangi screamed, curling into a ball and crying hysterically. They were going to hurt her! They were going to tease her again.
The handle broke and the mean princes surrounded her. They were sneering and laughing at her.
“Shame shame..puppy shame..all the donkeys know your name..”
“Be brave Shivangi, use the knife. The one I told you to bring and hide in your pinafore” As always, Areeb appeared to her rescue
“But..but..” she whimpered
“Do it Shivangi, just the way I taught you....”
“You will help me?” She asked at once frightened and excited at the prospect of getting back at them
“Yes..of course..let’s do it together..”
They charged with the knife , striking at the mean princes. Again and again. Till the voices stopped laughing. And calling her names.
Shivangi turned to thank Areeb, but he had disappeared, as always. But she knew she was safe now.
The phone rang incessantly in the principal’s office. It was Shivangi’s mother. She wanted to tell the principle that she had forgotten to give Shivangi her medicines today. And that if they could give her a half day to take her to the doctor. Shivangi hadn’t been feeling too well of late. As the phone rang, she also continued to wonder, where was that brand new knife she had purchased yesterday?
Shivangi dreamed of princes before the bad monsters took over. The princes that visited her looked like some of the boys in her classroom, but they were handsome and weren't shorter than her and they could never beat her in a race across in the play ground. They had long curly black hair that shined and shimmered like the sunshine on the sea. They wore silly looking clothing and rode prettied horses. But they always turned out mean, and they called Shivangi bad names and made her cry.
There was a prince that Shivangi loved, though. She even talked to him when nobody was listening. His name was Areeb. He was more handsome than any of the other princes, and he was better than the other princes in every way possible. His sword was sharper and shinier; his shield had never broken though it had many a dent and scrape. His hair was black like the night, and was worn in long dreadlocks that touched his horse's back when he sat down. His skin was equally dark and his eyes were so brilliantly blue that they dazzled and swirled with goodness when she looked into them. His clothes weren't silly; he wore a knight armor that melted into regular clothing when he touched her.
Areeb always protected Shivangi. Whenever the mean princes began to circle around her and tease her and make her cry, Areeb came dashing through the woods to her rescue and fought all the bad guys off. Shivangi had always wanted to hug him, but he always disappeared. He did touch her once, though. It was when she was so scarred by her day's events that even in her dreams she was in pain. Areeb appeared, smiled, touched her forehead, and his clothes turned normal. Then, he disappeared.
The day was Tuesday May 1st, at 3:15 P.M., fifteen minutes before school would be over. She was waiting in line for the bathroom. The boy who was in there, had been taking forever, and Shivangi could barely hold it anymore. She clenched her legs together and prayed to God that she wouldn't wet her pants in front of the entire fifth class. Finally, Anshul came out and walked to his desk. Mrs. Nair, the teacher, scolded him for not washing his hands and sent him to the sink. Shivangi rushed into the tiny square of a room.
As she relieved herself, she looked at the dirty tile floor. The tiles were so small you could fit them into your mouth, no problem. But Shivangi wouldn't do that, oh no. That'd be gross, and she'd probably get sick. There's lots of dirt and stuff in the floor, and it'd be smelly, too. Shivangi’s eyes looked over the painted cement-block wall, and up to the square ceiling light, then to the toilet paper holder. The paper was called Jackson Tissues and it was scratchy and thin. Shivangi liked the kind mom bought, with a Charming name; it was thick and soft and flowered or lined. She wanted to curl up and sleep in a blanket of Charming, someday.
There was a little vent in the door, and Shivangi could see a few boys' shoes outside. She got nervous, and began to pull her pants up. Before she could get them up all the way, a boy opened the door, said, "Oh, sorry," and closed it. And then there was laughter. The whole class was laughing. Shivangi's face turned a deep red and she didn't want to leave the bathroom. She wanted to sit in the corner and cry.
"Mama, come get me" she whispered, hoping that her mother would hear. But she couldn't, and Shivangi knew that Mama was at home, probably dusting or cooking lunch. Tears began to drip down Shivangi’s face as she zipped her zipper XYZ-PDQ. (e)Xamine Your Zipper Pretty Darn Quick. All the kids said that, especially when playing Dog and the Bone on the pavement, even when someone's zipper wasn't unzipped.
Slowly, Shivangi pushed down the silver handle with her shoe so that the toilet would flush and she wouldn't have to touch it and get germs. Even slower, she peered into the classroom. All eyes were on her; some people laughed, some looked away. Shivangi blushed even more and began to cry. She turned right around
Shivangi!" Mrs. Nair cried. "Come out, please."
"No!"
There was laughter, and Shivangi could hear one of her friends, Priya, saying, "Leave her alone, you big fat bully. I hate you."
There was a few gentle knocks on the door. "Shivangi, are you in there?"
‘Don't ask me stupid questions, Mrs. Nair, I hate you right now,' Shivangi thought.
"Shivangi Jain, open the door immediately."
"Go away!"
"Miss Jain, would you like me to call your parents?"
Oh no, oh no, don't do that. Only bad kids get their parents called, and I'm not bad. Plus, you have to go to the office to wait, and the office is where the really really bad kids get put so they can wait for their parents, and I'm never, ever going to go to the office,' Shivangi thought.
The classroom was silent. "Shivangi, darling, please come out right now. its okay, nobody will hurt you."
"Leave me alone!"
"Shivangi Jain! I'm getting the principal."
Not the principal, not the principal. He's for the super duper bad kids. Shivangi began to cry even harder.
Minutes passed, and Shivangi heard the principal's booming, jolly voice.
"Miss Jain, you in there?" He asked, gently knocking on the door. Kids began to talk all at once. "Yes, Sir, she's in there, she's been in there for hours," "She sure is Sir, I bet her parents will be real angry at her," "Sir, will she get suspended?" "Nobody can get her out, Sir,"
Shivangi didn't want to be bad, so she decided to speak up in a very small voice. "I'm in here, Sir."
"Send your class out to recess, Mrs. Nair," the principal said quietly.
"But Sir, we're in the middle of our lesson and we have ten minutes until school gets out"
"Mrs. Nair, send your class out to recess immediately, please."
"What good will it do?"
"Shivangi will be less intimidated and more comfortable, causing her to come out in a non-humiliating fashion. The kids in the classroom will be less tempted to come and look and make a big fuss over this. Am I clear?"
Mrs. Nair sighed. "I suppose." In a few seconds, she said, "Recess, class! Line your backpacks up against the wall; you can retrieve them when the bell rings. Go, go, go!"
“Ma’m, as Shivangi's most best friend, can I stay inside with you?"
"No, Priya, go on outside”, Mrs. Nair said.
The classroom was empty and children's voices could be heard faraway outside.
"Shivangi, will you come out, please?" The principal asked. Shivangi felt a wave of humiliated sorrow wash over her and she began to weep again.
"Onlyonly if Mrs. Nair goes away."
"What?" Mrs. Nair asked, shocked.
"You heard her, Geetha. Please leave; you may supervise your class."
Mumbling, Mrs. Nair left.
"She's gone now, Shivangi."
"I don't want to come out," Shivangi sobbed.
"It's okay, now, I won't judge you."
What does that mean? Shivangi thought
"Okay"
Slowly, Shivangi got up off of the dirty floor and opened the door. The principal was sitting on a chair beside the bathroom door. Shivangi expected him to start laughing at her, but he didn't. She felt a little better.
"Now Shivangi, what caused you to hide in the bathroom?"
"I don't want to say, Sir."
"Please tell me, I need to know."
"I don't want to say, Sir."
"Shivangi, please answer my question."
"I don't want to say, Sir!"
"Now you listen to me, Shivangi, I asked you a question, and when I ask you a question, you are to answer it. Am I understood?"
Shivangi began to cry, and turned back for the bathroom.
"Oh, no you don't," the principal said, and ran for her, but she got into the bathroom first. She locked it from the inside.
"Miss Jain, if you don't come out right this instant, I'll phone your parents!"
Shivangi began to sob. No, mom and dad will be so angry. No, please no. Sir, I don't want to be a bad girl and get into trouble! I don't want to get grounded
"I'm coming in, Miss Jain," the principal said. He shouted. Shivangi heard approaching footsteps.
The handle of the door began to shake. "Shivangi, Shivangi come out right now!"
"Leave me alone!" Shivangi screamed, curling into a ball and crying hysterically. They were going to hurt her! They were going to tease her again.
The handle broke and the mean princes surrounded her. They were sneering and laughing at her.
“Shame shame..puppy shame..all the donkeys know your name..”
“Be brave Shivangi, use the knife. The one I told you to bring and hide in your pinafore” As always, Areeb appeared to her rescue
“But..but..” she whimpered
“Do it Shivangi, just the way I taught you....”
“You will help me?” She asked at once frightened and excited at the prospect of getting back at them
“Yes..of course..let’s do it together..”
They charged with the knife , striking at the mean princes. Again and again. Till the voices stopped laughing. And calling her names.
Shivangi turned to thank Areeb, but he had disappeared, as always. But she knew she was safe now.
The phone rang incessantly in the principal’s office. It was Shivangi’s mother. She wanted to tell the principle that she had forgotten to give Shivangi her medicines today. And that if they could give her a half day to take her to the doctor. Shivangi hadn’t been feeling too well of late. As the phone rang, she also continued to wonder, where was that brand new knife she had purchased yesterday?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Another Fairy Tale
Shards of silence fell over the group. The Voice boomed again;
“Airies and Airymen. These are times of great uncertainties. We must find a solution to this crisis at once or face extinction”
The owner of the Voice was a pompous looking man. The overhead lights cast an eerie glow caused by the reflection from his orange and green coloured robes. He sat erect with his hands folded on the rectangular ivory table that filled most of the space in the room. On his head, sat the Voice. It was the last surviving member of its clan. It belonged to the Emperor since he was a boy of eight. Long before he made a fool of himself without clothes.
“If we don’t stop her before tomorrow, we are all doomed. Gone will be the days of riding on our glorious past. Oh! It will all be such a waste. Such a poor little waste”, Mrs. Hood cried hysterically.
Mrs. Hood had been a heroine in her hay days. Now, the red cap looked a little ridiculous on her scanty haired head. It had taken a long time to convince her mother to poison her grandma. The old hag was ninety and still sitting on mansions and palaces all over the country. She had taken advantage of the Wolf’s secret crush on her. She wasn’t that little after all. She had convinced him to take the blame and in turn they could live happily ever after. It had all worked out well till a certain Grimm got whiff of the plot and was about to publish it. He and his brothers had to be bribed to rewrite the sound bite and it was a huge hit. The book followed soon after and the royalties were decent even by today’s standards.
They all had tales. Ms. Beauty for one, who was in the business of manufacturing spindles of a special kind. These were supplied to terrorist organizations and could put people to sleep. Forever. Alexander, Hitler, Stalin and even Taliban paid a huge premium on these machines. She too had to rely on Grimm brothers to present a palatable story about her real business.
Cinder also had an interesting tale. Mr. Charming had wanted to marry her, a commoner. These days it was only too easy. Princess Katie and Prince William couldn’t even imagine the difficulties of those days. Mr. Charming had to go to great lengths to put a romantic, dreamy eyed spin on things. He had utilized public sympathy with the ‘Shoe that fits’ campaign. Eventually, it had all worked out well. They had to approach Grimm for publicity and image management. Her step mother and sisters had only been too happy to play the part. Who wouldn’t with that kind of money in the offing?!
The Emperor himself, who now chaired the meeting, had a lot at stake. When he had been caught in a compromising position with his partner, he had to turn to Grimm to turn things around. Being a homosexual was an idea that was abhorred in those days. A man in his position could lose everything.
They were all faced with an impending catastrophe. Everything created so painstakingly could fall to bits. One crazed woman could undo it all. Turn things to shambles. They had long ago stopped their appearances in public. They were content with their race being re-branded as fairies instead of ‘Airies’ and dished out in glossy story books and Disney toons. They had taken to disguising as humans. They would secretly laugh, when once in a while they peeked through a window and heard such fairy tales. But overall, life was good. The money was good. And above all, their secret was safe with the Brothers.Untill yesterday
The phone rang. It was barely five. He had slept late after dropping Rumpelstiltskin to the airport. He woke up with a groggy head to only find himself frantically beckoned by the new android that Rumples had gifted last Christmas.
“The Emperor speaking”, he barked on the phone.
“I know who you are”, a shrill voice sounded at the other end.
“I have no patience for crank calls at this hour”, said the Emperor, annoyed.
“ Grimm told me everything. I know who you are. Unless you are willing to listen and give what I want, am going to spill it all out. I have proofs. Spindles, poisoned apples and best of all pictures of you in your naked glory”
The Emperor forgot to breathe. For what seemed like an hour but was only a few seconds, the Emperor saw his world fall apart. He now whimpered, “ Who are you and what do you want?”
“Who I am, is unimportant. Let’s say am one of the grim exes”, the woman at the other end chuckled, pleased at her own wit. “What I need is to get a deal on the inside. I am too old now, but I want my bother to be an Airie. The only twist is that he doesn’t want to be a part of your happy mushy world. He wants to be one of the Bad Ones. He has got his head around being remembered as a legend. The problem is that he has no credentials. The only worthwhile thing he has done was being friends with an organization in Pakistan. But he wants to be remembered as the greatest terrorist of all times. Such that one day, mothers tell stories about him. He wants children to talk in hushed tones and say, ‘Osama could live ten years amidst guns and nukes. And when he died, the U.S President himself left all agendas to make an announcement.”
And now the only thing that was in the way of ‘Tale of Osama and the U.S Military’ was the Voice in the Emperor’s head. That stopped him from being party to creating and living another gigantic lie. Or in the local parlance, another fairytale. Would the Voice win?
“Airies and Airymen. These are times of great uncertainties. We must find a solution to this crisis at once or face extinction”
The owner of the Voice was a pompous looking man. The overhead lights cast an eerie glow caused by the reflection from his orange and green coloured robes. He sat erect with his hands folded on the rectangular ivory table that filled most of the space in the room. On his head, sat the Voice. It was the last surviving member of its clan. It belonged to the Emperor since he was a boy of eight. Long before he made a fool of himself without clothes.
“If we don’t stop her before tomorrow, we are all doomed. Gone will be the days of riding on our glorious past. Oh! It will all be such a waste. Such a poor little waste”, Mrs. Hood cried hysterically.
Mrs. Hood had been a heroine in her hay days. Now, the red cap looked a little ridiculous on her scanty haired head. It had taken a long time to convince her mother to poison her grandma. The old hag was ninety and still sitting on mansions and palaces all over the country. She had taken advantage of the Wolf’s secret crush on her. She wasn’t that little after all. She had convinced him to take the blame and in turn they could live happily ever after. It had all worked out well till a certain Grimm got whiff of the plot and was about to publish it. He and his brothers had to be bribed to rewrite the sound bite and it was a huge hit. The book followed soon after and the royalties were decent even by today’s standards.
They all had tales. Ms. Beauty for one, who was in the business of manufacturing spindles of a special kind. These were supplied to terrorist organizations and could put people to sleep. Forever. Alexander, Hitler, Stalin and even Taliban paid a huge premium on these machines. She too had to rely on Grimm brothers to present a palatable story about her real business.
Cinder also had an interesting tale. Mr. Charming had wanted to marry her, a commoner. These days it was only too easy. Princess Katie and Prince William couldn’t even imagine the difficulties of those days. Mr. Charming had to go to great lengths to put a romantic, dreamy eyed spin on things. He had utilized public sympathy with the ‘Shoe that fits’ campaign. Eventually, it had all worked out well. They had to approach Grimm for publicity and image management. Her step mother and sisters had only been too happy to play the part. Who wouldn’t with that kind of money in the offing?!
The Emperor himself, who now chaired the meeting, had a lot at stake. When he had been caught in a compromising position with his partner, he had to turn to Grimm to turn things around. Being a homosexual was an idea that was abhorred in those days. A man in his position could lose everything.
They were all faced with an impending catastrophe. Everything created so painstakingly could fall to bits. One crazed woman could undo it all. Turn things to shambles. They had long ago stopped their appearances in public. They were content with their race being re-branded as fairies instead of ‘Airies’ and dished out in glossy story books and Disney toons. They had taken to disguising as humans. They would secretly laugh, when once in a while they peeked through a window and heard such fairy tales. But overall, life was good. The money was good. And above all, their secret was safe with the Brothers.Untill yesterday
The phone rang. It was barely five. He had slept late after dropping Rumpelstiltskin to the airport. He woke up with a groggy head to only find himself frantically beckoned by the new android that Rumples had gifted last Christmas.
“The Emperor speaking”, he barked on the phone.
“I know who you are”, a shrill voice sounded at the other end.
“I have no patience for crank calls at this hour”, said the Emperor, annoyed.
“ Grimm told me everything. I know who you are. Unless you are willing to listen and give what I want, am going to spill it all out. I have proofs. Spindles, poisoned apples and best of all pictures of you in your naked glory”
The Emperor forgot to breathe. For what seemed like an hour but was only a few seconds, the Emperor saw his world fall apart. He now whimpered, “ Who are you and what do you want?”
“Who I am, is unimportant. Let’s say am one of the grim exes”, the woman at the other end chuckled, pleased at her own wit. “What I need is to get a deal on the inside. I am too old now, but I want my bother to be an Airie. The only twist is that he doesn’t want to be a part of your happy mushy world. He wants to be one of the Bad Ones. He has got his head around being remembered as a legend. The problem is that he has no credentials. The only worthwhile thing he has done was being friends with an organization in Pakistan. But he wants to be remembered as the greatest terrorist of all times. Such that one day, mothers tell stories about him. He wants children to talk in hushed tones and say, ‘Osama could live ten years amidst guns and nukes. And when he died, the U.S President himself left all agendas to make an announcement.”
And now the only thing that was in the way of ‘Tale of Osama and the U.S Military’ was the Voice in the Emperor’s head. That stopped him from being party to creating and living another gigantic lie. Or in the local parlance, another fairytale. Would the Voice win?
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
matters of heart
I have looked at this for long now
From all angles and dips and dents
Across lines and points and circumferences
I have even peered through its guts
I have found things, yes.Plenty of things
Like my hand underwater, drawing out discarded stuff
Mouthful of curves making smiles
Along with fistful of dreamy flights
I have tried measuring these things
On scales and balances, judiciously placed
They have tilted always in another favor
I get a lousy sum at the end to discontent with
I have heard that in matters of heart
The motions of business should be done away with
How, what, when and where should be mere technicalities
But.My heart resides in my brain
The knee seems an inappropriate place.
It goes weak at the first heartbeat
From all angles and dips and dents
Across lines and points and circumferences
I have even peered through its guts
I have found things, yes.Plenty of things
Like my hand underwater, drawing out discarded stuff
Mouthful of curves making smiles
Along with fistful of dreamy flights
I have tried measuring these things
On scales and balances, judiciously placed
They have tilted always in another favor
I get a lousy sum at the end to discontent with
I have heard that in matters of heart
The motions of business should be done away with
How, what, when and where should be mere technicalities
But.My heart resides in my brain
The knee seems an inappropriate place.
It goes weak at the first heartbeat
Monday, April 18, 2011
Among the Multitude - Walt Whitman
Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child,
any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not--that one knows me.
Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child,
any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not--that one knows me.
Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Experiments in breathing
I have decided to breathe
Wait – what’s that shadow on your face?
Am crazy or what? Is that the rhetoric that I see you chew and swallow?
After all, who doesn’t breathe?
That is a misconception and I shall expound
Yes – hold your horses will you?
When was the last time you felt your breath?
Yes - When you knew you were breathing?
The breathing in of life and breathing out of crap
Or carbon-dioxide, to suit senses marinated in sophistication
Yes, so as I was saying- when was last time you felt alive?
Felt a gush of air through your nose revive and refresh?
When was it last that you were not gulping mouthfuls-
Of existence dealt in doses of day ends and weekends?
When was it last that you leapt out of your bed-
And not feel like a ton of bricks on your head?
Indulge me a little more in this experiment on breathing and answer-
Do you nudge the night to call it a day?
Or do you run through the day, hunted like a prey?
Do you have moments to spare, jingling in your pocket?
Or do you beg for them like you lost them to a paycheck?
On a scale of one to ten, are you more dead or alive?
On a scale of one to five – are you exceedingly anxious or supremely content?
On a scale of zero to seven – how often do you stand and stare?
On a scale of zero to nine- how often do you do things without a care?
I put those to make my experiments in breathing, quantitatively sound
For you will appreciate when I say, and I say this without qualms
That you can do zilch without counting and then calculating
Reasoning, rationalizing, weighing, measuring and then erring anyways
And so coming to square one, or back to basics if you like
For what can be more basic than breathing
I have decided to exercise this very fundamental right
More rightful than rights to equality or fraternity
The right to breathe and the right to live
The right to pause and rewind
The right to wonder and pursue
The right to be and just be.
Wait – what’s that shadow on your face?
Am crazy or what? Is that the rhetoric that I see you chew and swallow?
After all, who doesn’t breathe?
That is a misconception and I shall expound
Yes – hold your horses will you?
When was the last time you felt your breath?
Yes - When you knew you were breathing?
The breathing in of life and breathing out of crap
Or carbon-dioxide, to suit senses marinated in sophistication
Yes, so as I was saying- when was last time you felt alive?
Felt a gush of air through your nose revive and refresh?
When was it last that you were not gulping mouthfuls-
Of existence dealt in doses of day ends and weekends?
When was it last that you leapt out of your bed-
And not feel like a ton of bricks on your head?
Indulge me a little more in this experiment on breathing and answer-
Do you nudge the night to call it a day?
Or do you run through the day, hunted like a prey?
Do you have moments to spare, jingling in your pocket?
Or do you beg for them like you lost them to a paycheck?
On a scale of one to ten, are you more dead or alive?
On a scale of one to five – are you exceedingly anxious or supremely content?
On a scale of zero to seven – how often do you stand and stare?
On a scale of zero to nine- how often do you do things without a care?
I put those to make my experiments in breathing, quantitatively sound
For you will appreciate when I say, and I say this without qualms
That you can do zilch without counting and then calculating
Reasoning, rationalizing, weighing, measuring and then erring anyways
And so coming to square one, or back to basics if you like
For what can be more basic than breathing
I have decided to exercise this very fundamental right
More rightful than rights to equality or fraternity
The right to breathe and the right to live
The right to pause and rewind
The right to wonder and pursue
The right to be and just be.
Friday, March 4, 2011
These make me
A piece of heart and chunks from the following:
Nostalgia – Seasoned yet fresh with mango flavored bits of memories
Smell – From mom’s sari after her prayer
Sight – Of grandpa quietly amused at the half eaten toothpaste in my mouth
Conversation – With a stranger about to turn friend against the pitter patter of rain on concrete
Sound – From the rustle of dawn caught between night and day
Curiosity – About the reflection in the mirror, neither child nor woman
Taste – Of water mixed with tamarind laced tears
Fear – Of yellowed future living upto expectations without me
Touch – Of a hint at the corners of his mouth reflected in the glint in his eyes
Calm – As I see myself counting waves by the sea and tossing ideas for my pen
Passion – Wrapped in bubble shaped seconds that burst at uninvited intervals
Paper – Printed, blank, written and read with words floating upon my mind
Coffee and Tea – That break the average of a day with steam and tongue
Friend – In the singular, she suffices, substitutes, suffuses
Anger – not the strong and silent variety. Fragile and loud
Delight – At whiffing the bold type faced unread mail running into pages
Pain - From waiting behind doors locked from the outside for the sound of footsteps announcing sleep
Loss – Of bricks that could build castles in air complete with windows overlooking the specks below
Nostalgia – Seasoned yet fresh with mango flavored bits of memories
Smell – From mom’s sari after her prayer
Sight – Of grandpa quietly amused at the half eaten toothpaste in my mouth
Conversation – With a stranger about to turn friend against the pitter patter of rain on concrete
Sound – From the rustle of dawn caught between night and day
Curiosity – About the reflection in the mirror, neither child nor woman
Taste – Of water mixed with tamarind laced tears
Fear – Of yellowed future living upto expectations without me
Touch – Of a hint at the corners of his mouth reflected in the glint in his eyes
Calm – As I see myself counting waves by the sea and tossing ideas for my pen
Passion – Wrapped in bubble shaped seconds that burst at uninvited intervals
Paper – Printed, blank, written and read with words floating upon my mind
Coffee and Tea – That break the average of a day with steam and tongue
Friend – In the singular, she suffices, substitutes, suffuses
Anger – not the strong and silent variety. Fragile and loud
Delight – At whiffing the bold type faced unread mail running into pages
Pain - From waiting behind doors locked from the outside for the sound of footsteps announcing sleep
Loss – Of bricks that could build castles in air complete with windows overlooking the specks below
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