I have been called Anna's supporter (happen to be wearing black), an elitist, a corporate-type, leftist, moderate and an anarchist - all in the same morning. Its very easy to label - isn't it?
At Churchgate station today, a mass of people were shouting slogans - Anna hum tumhare saath hain, humare sir par tumhara haath hai, anna kee jai - bharat mata kee jai, atyachaar nahin chalegaa, lokpal bill nahin rukegaa. I stopped an 18 year old, who was falling on the side and the conversation went like this:
Me: Topee kaafee acchhee hai tumhari, kisne dee?
He: Anna hazare ke baare mein nahin suna aapne?
Me: Suna hai par topee kisne dee?
He: Hum log shaakha se hain
Me: Kaun see shaakha?
He: Shiv Sena
Me: Oh! Acchaa..ye naaraa kiske liye laga rahe hain?
He: Anna ke liye?
Me: Anna ke liye kyun?
He: Wo fasting kar raha hai na
Me: Kis liye fasting kar raha hai?
He: Bill paas karne ke liye..paper nahin padha? bahargaon se ho aap?
Me: Padha..par bill mein kya hai?
He: Wo nahin padha apun.. par anna ne likha hai..gareebon ke liye acchaa hoga..
Earlier in the local, in ladies compartment:
Woman 1 : Everyone's wearing black..
Woman 2: (Looking at me) You are supporting anna hazare?
Me: (quizzical expression)
Woman 2: You are wearing black no..so thought you must be a anna supporter
Woman 3: My daughter had the entire house on her head..said I want my black jeans. That I had sent for washing. I told her wear blue jeans..what difference would it make? Anna wont stop fasting because of her jeans no?
Woman 1: All are going mad at this..first make basics right no..this train is so crowded, they should start more trains..
Woman 2: Who has time for all this..i don't have time even to die ("marne ke liye bhee time nahin hai)
Woman 3: Yes..it looks like a fashion statement..anna hazare has become a hero..
Conversation with my maid on the phone today:
Me: Aaj aa nahin rahe ho phir se?
Maid: Traffic boht hai..anna hazare ka wajah se
Me: Tum to chal ke aatee ho
Maid: Haan par idhar bastee mein sab udhar hee jaa re hain..main kaise aaoon?
Me: Matlab?
Maid:wo morcha nikala hai..nashta veestaa hoga..udhar ko jaa rahee hoon main..
I am not against Anna Hazare or the Lokpal Bill. Am against the sheer ignorance that is going into this. What is Lokpal Bill? What are the revisions in the bill? How will it be implemented? Why haven't previous provisions put into the constitution/ laws to curb corruption worked so far? How will Lokpal address the loopholes of these previous provisions? What are the other ways that need to go into the system or form a part of the system that will aid an anti-corruption drive? Can this mass uprising be not about Anna Hazare but about the cause? Can we stop blaming the Govt. and own 'anti-corruption' at an individual level?
The above are just some of the questions that we need to be asking, answering and discussing. For anybody who is really interested in making a difference, I would urge you to make yourself aware and also others around you.I am not talking about intellectiual masterbation. Just plain and simple what, how, when, where and why of corruption, of lokpal bill, of the movement that is. And as a friend rightly said - lets talk about this not only amongst us but also with people who might not have access/ inclination to the information that we have.
Lastly, do go light a candle - but do so with a complete awareness of what it stands for.Else, its just another charade really.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
अंग्रेज़ियत
कल जब दिन में दसवी बार 'hey wassup ' सुना और सुनाया तो लगा
मुझे अंग्रेजियत से कोफ़्त होने लगी है
ऐसी बात नहीं की मुझे गैर-ज़बानी शब्द पसंद नहीं हैं
shakespeare और milton जैसे पराये मर्दों से भी मोहब्बत है
ऐसा नहीं की मुझे cappuccinno से प्यार नहीं है
ऐसा भी नहीं की pizza exotica देख मेरी लार नहीं टपकती
ऐसा भी नहीं है की mexican dishes के नाम लेते लेते
मेरी ज़बान खुशी से औन्धी नहीं हुई जाती
पर वो कहते हैं न, बिस्कुट जब तक खौली हुई चाय में डुबाओ ना
जब तक गरम फुल्के पर घी और गुड का लेप लगाओ ना
जब तक तरकारी को उसके नाम से बुलाओ ना
तब तक स्वाद तो कहीं फसा ही रहता है
सबेरे जब दादाजी ने ठहाका लगा कर
"grand -daughter ' कहा , तो बड़ा अजीब सा लगा
उनका कुर्ता पकड़ पगडंडियों पर चलने वाली
उनकी पोती कहाँ गयी आखिर?
आज कल जब मैं बड़ों को प्रणाम करती हूँ तो
एक तुच्चा सा hullo बेटा, ही मिल पाता है
जब मैं आप कहती हूँ किसी को
तो वो बगली झाँकने लगता है, बुजुर्गियत के डर से
बड़ा मन करता है की किसी से
आत्मीयता में बात करून , ना इंग्लिश में ना हिंगलिश में
जब मैं कहूं की बहोत दिन हुए गप्पबाजी किये
तो कोई lets chat का उसपे रोलर ना चला दे
जैसा मैंने कहा, ऐसा नहीं की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से परहेज है
ऐसा भी नहीं की बिना सर पैर बातें करना मुझे अच्छा नहीं लगता
मैं भी यहीं की हूँ, इन सब की आदत तो है ही मुझे
बस बात ये है की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से नहीं, अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी अनबन है
थोड़ी अनबन इसलिए कह रही हूँ क्योंकी
मैं खुद इसकी ग्राहक हूँ
हर रोज़ ही mornin से दिन शुरू करती हूँ
और mwa and hugs से खत्म करती हूँ
पर जब मैंने पाया की
माँ को mom बना दिया है और उनके 'इस्मार्ट' से चिढने लगी हूँ
वो जब दाल में घी डालने की बात करती हैं तब मैं उन्हें fat -free के भाषण देने लगी हूँ
बस तब से मुझे अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी कोफ़्त होने लगी है..
मुझे अंग्रेजियत से कोफ़्त होने लगी है
ऐसी बात नहीं की मुझे गैर-ज़बानी शब्द पसंद नहीं हैं
shakespeare और milton जैसे पराये मर्दों से भी मोहब्बत है
ऐसा नहीं की मुझे cappuccinno से प्यार नहीं है
ऐसा भी नहीं की pizza exotica देख मेरी लार नहीं टपकती
ऐसा भी नहीं है की mexican dishes के नाम लेते लेते
मेरी ज़बान खुशी से औन्धी नहीं हुई जाती
पर वो कहते हैं न, बिस्कुट जब तक खौली हुई चाय में डुबाओ ना
जब तक गरम फुल्के पर घी और गुड का लेप लगाओ ना
जब तक तरकारी को उसके नाम से बुलाओ ना
तब तक स्वाद तो कहीं फसा ही रहता है
सबेरे जब दादाजी ने ठहाका लगा कर
"grand -daughter ' कहा , तो बड़ा अजीब सा लगा
उनका कुर्ता पकड़ पगडंडियों पर चलने वाली
उनकी पोती कहाँ गयी आखिर?
आज कल जब मैं बड़ों को प्रणाम करती हूँ तो
एक तुच्चा सा hullo बेटा, ही मिल पाता है
जब मैं आप कहती हूँ किसी को
तो वो बगली झाँकने लगता है, बुजुर्गियत के डर से
बड़ा मन करता है की किसी से
आत्मीयता में बात करून , ना इंग्लिश में ना हिंगलिश में
जब मैं कहूं की बहोत दिन हुए गप्पबाजी किये
तो कोई lets chat का उसपे रोलर ना चला दे
जैसा मैंने कहा, ऐसा नहीं की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से परहेज है
ऐसा भी नहीं की बिना सर पैर बातें करना मुझे अच्छा नहीं लगता
मैं भी यहीं की हूँ, इन सब की आदत तो है ही मुझे
बस बात ये है की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से नहीं, अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी अनबन है
थोड़ी अनबन इसलिए कह रही हूँ क्योंकी
मैं खुद इसकी ग्राहक हूँ
हर रोज़ ही mornin से दिन शुरू करती हूँ
और mwa and hugs से खत्म करती हूँ
पर जब मैंने पाया की
माँ को mom बना दिया है और उनके 'इस्मार्ट' से चिढने लगी हूँ
वो जब दाल में घी डालने की बात करती हैं तब मैं उन्हें fat -free के भाषण देने लगी हूँ
बस तब से मुझे अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी कोफ़्त होने लगी है..
Monday, June 20, 2011
The wheel chair
I wasn’t sure if he hated me or just didn’t care. All that I could gather was symptomatic of his opinion of me. One, he never looked at me when we spoke on rare occasions. He would look in another direction while we made a monosyllabic conversation. Two, he would invariably find a reason to get away, just in case a situation threw us together. Like at Nikita’s place last month, we ended up being in the same team, while playing a game. As luck would have it, just the two of us remained in the end. In the very next round, he got out purposefully. That I was shocked at this is a no brainer; that everyone else was shocked too, made it evident that for a change my brain wasn’t spinning crazy stories. Three, we knew each other for two years now, but he didn’t have my number. I got to know this last week. I ended up being late for this ‘do’, because he was the one in charge of letting everyone know of the change in plans. He gave an excuse that because he didn’t have my number, he couldn’t call. Yes, a very lame one. Lastly, he never smiled at me. He smiled often and readily but I was very sure that no special occasion in the last two years had warranted a smile meant for me.
He was confined to a wheelchair – a case of polio since birth.
****
She made me feel inadequate. In the last 30 years of my life, inspite of what people expect, I have always managed to overcome the challenges that life has thrown along the way. I have had my share of difficulties, but nothing that has made me think about my ‘condition’ for so long and at such constant intervals. While completing my MBA from Stanford, there were many opportunities that could have been mine, had I played the ‘limp limbs’ card. I never did. I had gotten through the course on my own and was made an offer by Google - the only one that year. Though I wasn’t the life of the party, I had my fair share of friends and lovers. I had moved from California to New York for the job, after my graduation. It had been seven years since I had been away from home in Mumbai. I stayed on in the U.S for two very simple reasons. One of them was the sheer convenience of mobility that all the places provided. The other, while most people noticed my wheel chair, they were either too polite to make it evident or it didn’t matter to them anyways. Back home, the sounds of pity and offers to help used to irritate me. I decided to come to India after a call from Nikita announced that Dad had a stroke. He passed away within a week of my arrival. I stayed on because I was all that Nikita had for a family.
The first time I met her, I found her staring at my wheel chair.
****
I could have ignored him. I tried doing that in various ways. By completely avoiding him, by not talking about him and at times even hearing about him. The problem was that he refused to fade in the oblivion. I noticed him, all of him. His absence was as powerful as his presence. His looking at someone else was as disturbing as his looking away from me. His ease with others was as much a source of discomfort as his stiffness with me. He repulsed me as much as he attracted me. He unsettled me.
The first time I met him, he was lost in a leather bound Rebecca. The book was on his lap, one hand ready to turn a page and the other brushing away a stubborn lock of hair on his forehead. I remember looking at him and the book for several seconds, before I said a ‘hi’. I was still trying to confirm the title of the book, when he looked at me. I saw him wince and then stare. I am not the stuff for beauty pageants but I am no plain Jane either. Most people would describe me as attractive. It was the start of many things that made me realize that he wasn’t most people.
****
The first time I spoke to her, I wasn’t friendly. I seldom am, to people who give my confinement more attention than me. But I did try. I had asked her, if she would like to have some tea while she waited for Nikita to reach home. I didn’t introduce myself, because she looked uncomfortable around me. She had asked who I was. I had told her I was Nikita’s brother. “From the U.S?” She had enquired. I nodded as I watched the play of shadows on her face. She was fascinating to look at.
“If you will be alright on your own, I need to go out for a stroll”, I said following a long silence
“Sure! Do you need any help with your…?” She did not complete the sentence.
I turned away. I didn’t feel like responding to the question and the underlying assumption it carried with it.
****
It had been pouring furiously all weekend and continued on Monday morning as well. There had been a text from the authorities urging people to stay indoors unless absolutely urgent. I received the text after I stepped into the office. The floor was almost vacant except a couple of people, who seemed oblivious to the world around them. I liked the silence. No one from my team had come in to work that day. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and was just settling in for the day when Nikita called
“Richa! Don’t tell me you are at work!”
“Well! You must be psychic, that’s exactly where I am”
“Are you crazy, woman? The trains have stopped. All the roads are flooded. How are you going to get back?”
“Oh! The trains were delayed but still working when I came in. Didn’t think they would stop. Now what?”
“Why don’t you go to my place? At least it’s closer than your home and not flooded yet”
“Go to your place meaning? Aren’t you at home? ”
“Nope! I stayed over at a friend’s. I am still here. But Jai is working from home today. He will open the door for you”
I felt strangely excited and petrified at the idea of seeing Jai. Though I told Nikita that I would leave for her place right away, it took me all of one complete hour to actually make a move.
****
She was the last person I expected to find at the door and definitely not looking like that. Loose curls from her hair were plastered over her shoulders, dripping water. A few drops glistened on her eyelashes. Her lips trembled, perhaps with cold. She was saying something.
“I can go back if it’s inconvenient. I will find a cab”
The edge in her voice brought me back to reality.
“No. Please come in”
I opened the door wide and pulled myself aside to let her in. She hesitated, guiltily looking at the puddle she had made on the floor. Her lost puppy expression had me grinning. Or I may have even chuckled. I saw her startle a bit, and then look at me as if for the first time in two years. She smiled and then laughed nervously. At that moment, I wanted to be the funniest man alive, just to hear her laugh again and again. The thought vanished as soon as it had appeared and I turned to get to my room. After all, she saw me as nothing but a wheel chair.
****
I felt warm all over, in spite of my rain drenched clothes. His smile felt like home, comfortable and inviting. It felt like we had always laughed this easily. And then he stopped. As if I had dreamt it all up. I felt bereft. I wanted to snatch that moment and make it last. I did the next best thing. I stopped him in his tracks.
“Nikita tells me that you make amazing ginger tea. Would you please make some for me?” My voice sounded nervous to my own ears. Any moment I expected him to block me out as he always did.
“Ok” he said gruffly.
I was elated. At least it was a start.
I went into Nikita’s room to change into dry clothes. I heard him humming, as I came near the kitchen. The aroma of cardamom and ginger mixed with tea made me happy.
“That’s my most favorite smell in the world”
He turned towards me and said, “It does smell nice but it isn’t my favorite”
“Then?”
“I can’t describe it. Here hold the cup and let me take you to it”
Holding my cup of tea, I followed him to the window in the living room.
****
Nikita’s clothes were a couple of sizes too large for her. She kept pulling at the t-shirt to prevent it from slipping. I had never been more intrigued. I noticed the way she cupped the mug with both her hands. The way she inhaled deeply before sipping the tea. The way she looked at me and made me feel like there was no else she would rather be with.
“The smell of earth when it rains is my favorite”
She closed her eyes, smiled and took a deep breath. She nodded and opened her eyes.
“Yes. I am fond of it too. But this tea is heaven. For this you must excel in the art of tea appreciation though” she said, looking at me.
I laughed.
“And where and how does one learn this art?” I asked
She smiled and bent down while pushing my chair back. She sat down on her knees, keeping the tea mug on the side table.
“Right here and I shall teach you how”, she said.
She brought herself closer to my chair, and then held my hand. Her slender fingers entwined with mine and in that moment all that I could feel was the warmth of her palm in mine. She picked up the tea cup with her other hand and held it in both my palms, wrapping her own fingers around mine. She then raised the cup to my nose.
“Now, close your eyes and breathe in. Like you wanted to inhale it all in rather than drink the tea”
Her voice was soft as a breath, musical. I did as she said. I felt her nearness. I hardly breathed. When I opened my eyes, I found her gaze fixed on mine.
****
I held my breath as he continued looking at me. And then, just like that, he leaned over and closed the distance between us. His hands grazing my face, he tipped my chin up. Then he brushed his lips gently across mine in a kiss. I never wanted to awaken; I never wanted this dream to end. It was so real. I could actually feel the warmth of his breath as he sighed against my mouth before deepening the kiss.
We were jolted back to the world with the ring of the phone. We both were a little embarrassed at what just happened but neither regretted that it did.
While Jai attended to the call, I wandered through the house. I came by his study. As always, there were heaps of classics spread all over the table in the corner of the room. Rebecca with its red cover and the golden emboss beckoned me once again. I found something popping out from between the pages. It looked like an airline ticket. Something warned me to not take it out. But I did.
It had Jai’s name on it. It was a one way ticket to New York. A previous conversation with Nikita made its way to my consciousness
“He is planning to settle in New York”
“I thought he had decided to be in India”
“Yes. I thought so too. But one of these days he will just pack his bags and leave. I know the way he is”
The ticket was dated for Friday that week
****
As I finished the call, I saw her walk back into the living room. Something had changed. I felt my heart fill with fear
“Are you alright?” I asked
“Yes. Never been better” She smiled. It was a fake
The kiss. She must regret it now. It hadn’t registered then but it struck me now - the look of embarrassment on her face. She was ashamed of me.
I felt a knife sear its way through my being. I couldn’t bear to look at her
“The rain has subsided. Perhaps you should leave now”
I heard the door bang shut behind my back
****
I had never felt worse. I fought tears rolling down my cheeks. I cursed my fate at having fallen. Fallen so deep that I never thought it was possible. As I walked on the road, the smell of earth around me made me choke. It hit me then that I had been in love for two years. In love with a man who chose convenience of being in another country without as much as giving me a thought. The kiss was an indulgence, a whim. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to pour away like the rain. I wanted to stop breathing.
****
The truck driver wanted to get home before the rains started again. The roads were slippery. The girl turned on to the street. She did not hear the horn. The driver couldn’t apply the brakes soon enough
****
She stopped breathing
He was confined to a wheelchair – a case of polio since birth.
****
She made me feel inadequate. In the last 30 years of my life, inspite of what people expect, I have always managed to overcome the challenges that life has thrown along the way. I have had my share of difficulties, but nothing that has made me think about my ‘condition’ for so long and at such constant intervals. While completing my MBA from Stanford, there were many opportunities that could have been mine, had I played the ‘limp limbs’ card. I never did. I had gotten through the course on my own and was made an offer by Google - the only one that year. Though I wasn’t the life of the party, I had my fair share of friends and lovers. I had moved from California to New York for the job, after my graduation. It had been seven years since I had been away from home in Mumbai. I stayed on in the U.S for two very simple reasons. One of them was the sheer convenience of mobility that all the places provided. The other, while most people noticed my wheel chair, they were either too polite to make it evident or it didn’t matter to them anyways. Back home, the sounds of pity and offers to help used to irritate me. I decided to come to India after a call from Nikita announced that Dad had a stroke. He passed away within a week of my arrival. I stayed on because I was all that Nikita had for a family.
The first time I met her, I found her staring at my wheel chair.
****
I could have ignored him. I tried doing that in various ways. By completely avoiding him, by not talking about him and at times even hearing about him. The problem was that he refused to fade in the oblivion. I noticed him, all of him. His absence was as powerful as his presence. His looking at someone else was as disturbing as his looking away from me. His ease with others was as much a source of discomfort as his stiffness with me. He repulsed me as much as he attracted me. He unsettled me.
The first time I met him, he was lost in a leather bound Rebecca. The book was on his lap, one hand ready to turn a page and the other brushing away a stubborn lock of hair on his forehead. I remember looking at him and the book for several seconds, before I said a ‘hi’. I was still trying to confirm the title of the book, when he looked at me. I saw him wince and then stare. I am not the stuff for beauty pageants but I am no plain Jane either. Most people would describe me as attractive. It was the start of many things that made me realize that he wasn’t most people.
****
The first time I spoke to her, I wasn’t friendly. I seldom am, to people who give my confinement more attention than me. But I did try. I had asked her, if she would like to have some tea while she waited for Nikita to reach home. I didn’t introduce myself, because she looked uncomfortable around me. She had asked who I was. I had told her I was Nikita’s brother. “From the U.S?” She had enquired. I nodded as I watched the play of shadows on her face. She was fascinating to look at.
“If you will be alright on your own, I need to go out for a stroll”, I said following a long silence
“Sure! Do you need any help with your…?” She did not complete the sentence.
I turned away. I didn’t feel like responding to the question and the underlying assumption it carried with it.
****
It had been pouring furiously all weekend and continued on Monday morning as well. There had been a text from the authorities urging people to stay indoors unless absolutely urgent. I received the text after I stepped into the office. The floor was almost vacant except a couple of people, who seemed oblivious to the world around them. I liked the silence. No one from my team had come in to work that day. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and was just settling in for the day when Nikita called
“Richa! Don’t tell me you are at work!”
“Well! You must be psychic, that’s exactly where I am”
“Are you crazy, woman? The trains have stopped. All the roads are flooded. How are you going to get back?”
“Oh! The trains were delayed but still working when I came in. Didn’t think they would stop. Now what?”
“Why don’t you go to my place? At least it’s closer than your home and not flooded yet”
“Go to your place meaning? Aren’t you at home? ”
“Nope! I stayed over at a friend’s. I am still here. But Jai is working from home today. He will open the door for you”
I felt strangely excited and petrified at the idea of seeing Jai. Though I told Nikita that I would leave for her place right away, it took me all of one complete hour to actually make a move.
****
She was the last person I expected to find at the door and definitely not looking like that. Loose curls from her hair were plastered over her shoulders, dripping water. A few drops glistened on her eyelashes. Her lips trembled, perhaps with cold. She was saying something.
“I can go back if it’s inconvenient. I will find a cab”
The edge in her voice brought me back to reality.
“No. Please come in”
I opened the door wide and pulled myself aside to let her in. She hesitated, guiltily looking at the puddle she had made on the floor. Her lost puppy expression had me grinning. Or I may have even chuckled. I saw her startle a bit, and then look at me as if for the first time in two years. She smiled and then laughed nervously. At that moment, I wanted to be the funniest man alive, just to hear her laugh again and again. The thought vanished as soon as it had appeared and I turned to get to my room. After all, she saw me as nothing but a wheel chair.
****
I felt warm all over, in spite of my rain drenched clothes. His smile felt like home, comfortable and inviting. It felt like we had always laughed this easily. And then he stopped. As if I had dreamt it all up. I felt bereft. I wanted to snatch that moment and make it last. I did the next best thing. I stopped him in his tracks.
“Nikita tells me that you make amazing ginger tea. Would you please make some for me?” My voice sounded nervous to my own ears. Any moment I expected him to block me out as he always did.
“Ok” he said gruffly.
I was elated. At least it was a start.
I went into Nikita’s room to change into dry clothes. I heard him humming, as I came near the kitchen. The aroma of cardamom and ginger mixed with tea made me happy.
“That’s my most favorite smell in the world”
He turned towards me and said, “It does smell nice but it isn’t my favorite”
“Then?”
“I can’t describe it. Here hold the cup and let me take you to it”
Holding my cup of tea, I followed him to the window in the living room.
****
Nikita’s clothes were a couple of sizes too large for her. She kept pulling at the t-shirt to prevent it from slipping. I had never been more intrigued. I noticed the way she cupped the mug with both her hands. The way she inhaled deeply before sipping the tea. The way she looked at me and made me feel like there was no else she would rather be with.
“The smell of earth when it rains is my favorite”
She closed her eyes, smiled and took a deep breath. She nodded and opened her eyes.
“Yes. I am fond of it too. But this tea is heaven. For this you must excel in the art of tea appreciation though” she said, looking at me.
I laughed.
“And where and how does one learn this art?” I asked
She smiled and bent down while pushing my chair back. She sat down on her knees, keeping the tea mug on the side table.
“Right here and I shall teach you how”, she said.
She brought herself closer to my chair, and then held my hand. Her slender fingers entwined with mine and in that moment all that I could feel was the warmth of her palm in mine. She picked up the tea cup with her other hand and held it in both my palms, wrapping her own fingers around mine. She then raised the cup to my nose.
“Now, close your eyes and breathe in. Like you wanted to inhale it all in rather than drink the tea”
Her voice was soft as a breath, musical. I did as she said. I felt her nearness. I hardly breathed. When I opened my eyes, I found her gaze fixed on mine.
****
I held my breath as he continued looking at me. And then, just like that, he leaned over and closed the distance between us. His hands grazing my face, he tipped my chin up. Then he brushed his lips gently across mine in a kiss. I never wanted to awaken; I never wanted this dream to end. It was so real. I could actually feel the warmth of his breath as he sighed against my mouth before deepening the kiss.
We were jolted back to the world with the ring of the phone. We both were a little embarrassed at what just happened but neither regretted that it did.
While Jai attended to the call, I wandered through the house. I came by his study. As always, there were heaps of classics spread all over the table in the corner of the room. Rebecca with its red cover and the golden emboss beckoned me once again. I found something popping out from between the pages. It looked like an airline ticket. Something warned me to not take it out. But I did.
It had Jai’s name on it. It was a one way ticket to New York. A previous conversation with Nikita made its way to my consciousness
“He is planning to settle in New York”
“I thought he had decided to be in India”
“Yes. I thought so too. But one of these days he will just pack his bags and leave. I know the way he is”
The ticket was dated for Friday that week
****
As I finished the call, I saw her walk back into the living room. Something had changed. I felt my heart fill with fear
“Are you alright?” I asked
“Yes. Never been better” She smiled. It was a fake
The kiss. She must regret it now. It hadn’t registered then but it struck me now - the look of embarrassment on her face. She was ashamed of me.
I felt a knife sear its way through my being. I couldn’t bear to look at her
“The rain has subsided. Perhaps you should leave now”
I heard the door bang shut behind my back
****
I had never felt worse. I fought tears rolling down my cheeks. I cursed my fate at having fallen. Fallen so deep that I never thought it was possible. As I walked on the road, the smell of earth around me made me choke. It hit me then that I had been in love for two years. In love with a man who chose convenience of being in another country without as much as giving me a thought. The kiss was an indulgence, a whim. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to pour away like the rain. I wanted to stop breathing.
****
The truck driver wanted to get home before the rains started again. The roads were slippery. The girl turned on to the street. She did not hear the horn. The driver couldn’t apply the brakes soon enough
****
She stopped breathing
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Matters of Principle
I would like to believe that I have the makings of a star in the world of all things literary. Each word I put to paper fulfills its goal of existence before breathing its last and proving futile for further usage. If I peer a little harder into this reality, I can see faces crumbling, smiles dazzling and hands, well – clapping, at the mere mention of my name. I believe that my writing has that deep dark sort of flavor, potent enough to put even chocolates to shame. I love chocolates. I think they are one of the five most useful creations of the Universe. The others are: nail cutter, disposable razors, coffee and books. I attribute books with such usefulness because they make even the most dumb witted amongst us appear interesting. I call dimwits with books ‘showcase’ intellectuals
It had been twenty one days, 10 hours and thirty minutes since I completed the novel. I thought it was rather, as the Brits put it - fetch. Why do they call it fetch? If one has to use the word in that sense of optimism, one could just say ‘fetching’ instead of implying a meaning meant for dogs when one says to them – ‘go fetch the ball Brownie’. And Brownie or Blackie are very racist as names. Ever heard of a dog named Whitey? I am not a dog person at all, just in case it crossed your mind that I am. I am also not a cat person. I am clarifying this because the world seems to be divided between dog and cat persons. That’s a little unfair to the rest of the animal kingdom. I think I am a cow person. It’s rather docile, comes in all colours and makes itself useful unlike its more popular cousins who only follow you around or laze under the sofa.
Now, before you think I have forgotten all about my novel due to my digressions on Brits and Cows, I will get back to the story. The story has me, my novel, a man named Richard Monteiro and a woman named Paula. I need no introduction and my novel is yet to hit the stands. Also, since this novel is my first completed piece of work, I wouldn’t want the word to get out and thrifty publishers making a beeline in the hope of taking advantage of a ‘nouvel écrivain’ – a new writer. I am not new to writing, and neither is writing new to me. The only things new in the scheme of things are Mr. Monteiro and Paula.
I was to meet Richard on the morning of the twenty second day of my completion of the novel. A friend, who frequents the publishing circles, recommended him to me. According to him, Richard is a critic and a literary agent whose opinions have launched and bombed many a careers. Richard stopped working with a leading daily on matters of principle and started out on his own six months ago. Now, I have always been wary of men with principles. Not that I have a thing for unprincipled men, but men with principles do pose a challenge for a free spirited woman like me. I once went on date with this guy who had quit his job because his boss asked him to misrepresent some information. It was a highly rewarding job – house, car, servants and the works. I questioned his sense of ‘practicality’ in matters like these and he answered saying, “I am a man of principles. I am alright not being able to afford this dinner we are having, but I will not stand exchanging my scruples for a pay-cheque”. The restaurant we were dining in was of a rather expensive variety. Since I wasn’t and am not successful monetarily, I saw his scruples standing in my way to surviving the month without any beg, borrow or steal involved.
I had used my friend’s reference and written a mail to Richard a week back. I am producing it here verbatim so nothing is lost in translation. I quite like that movie. I am fond of the part where Charlotte says, ‘I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre. I guess every girl goes through a photography phase. You know, horses... taking pictures of your feet’. I went through that phase too, when for a whole month I only clicked my toes. I had thought they were potential exhibition material. After all, anything sells in the name of art these days. Paintings with a square and a hole in them, movies with octagonal love stories and books in which vampires don’t do their thing but go for humans minus the sex and the blood. This brings me to the mail I wrote to Richard, for an appointment about my novel.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
I got your reference from Rafeeq, who is a good friend of your ex-girlfriend Paula. Paula and he are dating now. I met them last week. They didn’t look terribly happy or sad. Paula mentioned your name and said that you knew a thing or two about books. I looked you up on Google. You definitely seem to know more than a thing or two about everyone. I saw you being quoted on so many authors. Most of the quotes are not to my liking, though I do understand that one has to be pragmatic about these things. Some of your words about supportiveness to new writers did strike a chord. I am unable to remember other things
I’m 28 and am a freelance writer opinionating mainly on health, psychology, nonprofit management, and, lately, excelling in fiction. I practice yoga and meditation pretty regularly, love to hike, cook, eat, travel, listen to music, read and learn about people (despite a shy streak) and why we do what we do. If I had to choose a few adjectives to describe myself, they would be curious, sensitive/intuitive, compassionate, independent but loyal, passionate, unconventional and, I’m told, courageous. I’ve talked my way out of a police station in Dubai (expired visa, nothing too terribly illicit), and watched a shaman do a smoke clearing (uninvited) in a bungalow in Delhi. My achievements include, writing a book that will be the nest bestseller , starting two businesses (shut down one) and mending a couple of important relationships with relatives.
There have been plenty of humble moments too—so many that I’m now flushed just thinking about the first one or two that came to mind. The stacks of guilt-inducing bedside reading include Dojo Wisdom for Writers, a few books from the library about psychology, a couple of self-help titles and an embarrassing number of unread magazines—from Reader’s Digest to Cooking Light, and Natural Health.
Now that I’ve rambled, for all I know I could have deciphered your email address incorrectly (someone’s probably getting a big kick out of this if that’s the case), or you may have moved to Timbuktu—and forgotten to change your id. I am told all ID’s in Timbuktu must have timbuktu.in at the end?
I am writing to know if we could meet to discuss the various paths to success for my new book? I can make myself available next Friday.
-Shipra
p.s. I have marked Cc to all my I’ds just in case I forget your name and would like to trace this mail to send it to another agent.
Richard replied within an hour. His mail was rather short for a guy with a new business.
To: Shipra Mishra
Sub: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Shipra,
Did Paula give you my personal I’d?
As for your book, please send the manuscript of the first three chapters to my assistant. We can discuss further, should I see any merit in the same
-Richard
I wrote again and was rather short for myself.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: Re: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
Do you really want to sacrifice your next big opportunity at the altar of bureaucracy and a rude assistant? I know that this could be your first big break.
-Shipra
p.s. Could you please hit a reply to all, so am able to save this for other correspondences?
I did not hear from Richard again. On the mail that is. Since then, I had gotten rather pally with Paula. Paula is the kind of woman who loves to talk, walk and buy fashion. She could rattle off brands like a pro and that earned her a fan in me. Not that I am obsessive about brands. But my novel is about a woman who divorces her husband because he doesn’t understand her. Understand her preference for shoes over him that is. When Paula heard about this, she was completely taken in by the idea and even empathetic. That’s when she started talking about Richard and how he cared two hoots about her new Jimmy Choos or the new Prada she had sold her engagement ring for.
When I did not hear from Richard till the next day, I rang Paula to take her opinion on a future course of action. Paula was agitated on my behalf and assured me that she would get Richard to meet me, even if it meant taking him to court. I was rather curious about this piece of information. I really wanted to know about the ammo she had on Richard that could send him to court. I decided to save it for another day.
The very next day, I got a call from Richard’s assistant, informing me that Richard would meet me at Costa Coffee at 10:30 A.M on Friday. Needless to say, I was overjoyed. While I knew that my book would occupy the shelf of fame in all libraries and bookstores in the future, for now I needed Richard’s help in getting it up on any shelf.
I called up Paula to thank her for the help, but it was answered by an annoying couple’s voicemail, wherein Rafeeq with his nasal twang and she in her shrilly voice were saying, “we decided to go on a holiday in the middle of the night. We will call when back. Ciao.”
On Friday, the alarm on the phone did not ring but my mother did. She was calling in to suggest a meeting with a nice, homely Brahmin boy. Hence, you will not judge me when I say that I prefer alarms to my mother in the morning. I find it difficult to put my mother on a snooze once she has started on the epic of the quintessential eligible bachelor. I put the phone on speaker and rushed for a shower. It was ten thirty already, by the time I was ready to leave my house.
When I reached the coffee shop at eleven, I saw three haggard looking men sitting on their own. I knew Richard had to be one of them. I am intuitively right about these things but I decided to use my cell phone to give my intuition a pat on the back. That’s when I realized that my phone and my mother on it were left home alone and I had no other way but to randomly pick a Richard. I loved Home Alone part one, but the others were very unoriginal.
Just then, a waiter walked to me and asked if I was Shipra. When I acknowledged my name, he pointed to haggard looking man number two and said that he was waiting for me. I fixed my brightest smile on and walked towards Richard, and said a very loud hello. I am not sure but I think he flinched a little. I introduced myself and occupied the chair opposite him. I started to take out the manuscript from my bag, when he waved his hand and said, “No need for that. It will be done. I have these papers for you to sign the contract with the publisher”. He looked a little intimidated and I did not want to hand over the script to sacredly cat. I wondered if the contract was a fake. I pursed my lips, traced three lines on my forehead that mean danger and began, “Richard, now you see- am here only on the insistence of Paula...” Before I could even finish the sentence, Richard pleaded, “Please Ma’m.Don’t tell Paula anything about this. I promise that I will do the best I can for your book. Give me one chance.” The man of principles looked well intentioned and so I handed over the 780 pages of my manuscript, made him promise that not a page could be modified or deleted and that I will need the first cheque within a month. Richard agreed only too willingly and almost ran away.
I learnt from Paula later that Richard had been charged with faking identities and asked to resign. That is why the previous company had sacked him. Paula had threatened that she would go public if he did not publish my book. I asked Paula, what was the stolen identity about and she in her usual ‘toss the hair, look at the nail-paint, narrow the eyes’ style said, “He relied on me to write all those critiques dearie. And you know I never read a book. I always judge it by the cover. Obviously they found out”
For once, I had no words to put to use. I only heaved a sigh of relief that I was dealing with a man definitely devoid of principles.
It had been twenty one days, 10 hours and thirty minutes since I completed the novel. I thought it was rather, as the Brits put it - fetch. Why do they call it fetch? If one has to use the word in that sense of optimism, one could just say ‘fetching’ instead of implying a meaning meant for dogs when one says to them – ‘go fetch the ball Brownie’. And Brownie or Blackie are very racist as names. Ever heard of a dog named Whitey? I am not a dog person at all, just in case it crossed your mind that I am. I am also not a cat person. I am clarifying this because the world seems to be divided between dog and cat persons. That’s a little unfair to the rest of the animal kingdom. I think I am a cow person. It’s rather docile, comes in all colours and makes itself useful unlike its more popular cousins who only follow you around or laze under the sofa.
Now, before you think I have forgotten all about my novel due to my digressions on Brits and Cows, I will get back to the story. The story has me, my novel, a man named Richard Monteiro and a woman named Paula. I need no introduction and my novel is yet to hit the stands. Also, since this novel is my first completed piece of work, I wouldn’t want the word to get out and thrifty publishers making a beeline in the hope of taking advantage of a ‘nouvel écrivain’ – a new writer. I am not new to writing, and neither is writing new to me. The only things new in the scheme of things are Mr. Monteiro and Paula.
I was to meet Richard on the morning of the twenty second day of my completion of the novel. A friend, who frequents the publishing circles, recommended him to me. According to him, Richard is a critic and a literary agent whose opinions have launched and bombed many a careers. Richard stopped working with a leading daily on matters of principle and started out on his own six months ago. Now, I have always been wary of men with principles. Not that I have a thing for unprincipled men, but men with principles do pose a challenge for a free spirited woman like me. I once went on date with this guy who had quit his job because his boss asked him to misrepresent some information. It was a highly rewarding job – house, car, servants and the works. I questioned his sense of ‘practicality’ in matters like these and he answered saying, “I am a man of principles. I am alright not being able to afford this dinner we are having, but I will not stand exchanging my scruples for a pay-cheque”. The restaurant we were dining in was of a rather expensive variety. Since I wasn’t and am not successful monetarily, I saw his scruples standing in my way to surviving the month without any beg, borrow or steal involved.
I had used my friend’s reference and written a mail to Richard a week back. I am producing it here verbatim so nothing is lost in translation. I quite like that movie. I am fond of the part where Charlotte says, ‘I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre. I guess every girl goes through a photography phase. You know, horses... taking pictures of your feet’. I went through that phase too, when for a whole month I only clicked my toes. I had thought they were potential exhibition material. After all, anything sells in the name of art these days. Paintings with a square and a hole in them, movies with octagonal love stories and books in which vampires don’t do their thing but go for humans minus the sex and the blood. This brings me to the mail I wrote to Richard, for an appointment about my novel.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
I got your reference from Rafeeq, who is a good friend of your ex-girlfriend Paula. Paula and he are dating now. I met them last week. They didn’t look terribly happy or sad. Paula mentioned your name and said that you knew a thing or two about books. I looked you up on Google. You definitely seem to know more than a thing or two about everyone. I saw you being quoted on so many authors. Most of the quotes are not to my liking, though I do understand that one has to be pragmatic about these things. Some of your words about supportiveness to new writers did strike a chord. I am unable to remember other things
I’m 28 and am a freelance writer opinionating mainly on health, psychology, nonprofit management, and, lately, excelling in fiction. I practice yoga and meditation pretty regularly, love to hike, cook, eat, travel, listen to music, read and learn about people (despite a shy streak) and why we do what we do. If I had to choose a few adjectives to describe myself, they would be curious, sensitive/intuitive, compassionate, independent but loyal, passionate, unconventional and, I’m told, courageous. I’ve talked my way out of a police station in Dubai (expired visa, nothing too terribly illicit), and watched a shaman do a smoke clearing (uninvited) in a bungalow in Delhi. My achievements include, writing a book that will be the nest bestseller , starting two businesses (shut down one) and mending a couple of important relationships with relatives.
There have been plenty of humble moments too—so many that I’m now flushed just thinking about the first one or two that came to mind. The stacks of guilt-inducing bedside reading include Dojo Wisdom for Writers, a few books from the library about psychology, a couple of self-help titles and an embarrassing number of unread magazines—from Reader’s Digest to Cooking Light, and Natural Health.
Now that I’ve rambled, for all I know I could have deciphered your email address incorrectly (someone’s probably getting a big kick out of this if that’s the case), or you may have moved to Timbuktu—and forgotten to change your id. I am told all ID’s in Timbuktu must have timbuktu.in at the end?
I am writing to know if we could meet to discuss the various paths to success for my new book? I can make myself available next Friday.
-Shipra
p.s. I have marked Cc to all my I’ds just in case I forget your name and would like to trace this mail to send it to another agent.
Richard replied within an hour. His mail was rather short for a guy with a new business.
To: Shipra Mishra
Sub: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Shipra,
Did Paula give you my personal I’d?
As for your book, please send the manuscript of the first three chapters to my assistant. We can discuss further, should I see any merit in the same
-Richard
I wrote again and was rather short for myself.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: Re: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
Do you really want to sacrifice your next big opportunity at the altar of bureaucracy and a rude assistant? I know that this could be your first big break.
-Shipra
p.s. Could you please hit a reply to all, so am able to save this for other correspondences?
I did not hear from Richard again. On the mail that is. Since then, I had gotten rather pally with Paula. Paula is the kind of woman who loves to talk, walk and buy fashion. She could rattle off brands like a pro and that earned her a fan in me. Not that I am obsessive about brands. But my novel is about a woman who divorces her husband because he doesn’t understand her. Understand her preference for shoes over him that is. When Paula heard about this, she was completely taken in by the idea and even empathetic. That’s when she started talking about Richard and how he cared two hoots about her new Jimmy Choos or the new Prada she had sold her engagement ring for.
When I did not hear from Richard till the next day, I rang Paula to take her opinion on a future course of action. Paula was agitated on my behalf and assured me that she would get Richard to meet me, even if it meant taking him to court. I was rather curious about this piece of information. I really wanted to know about the ammo she had on Richard that could send him to court. I decided to save it for another day.
The very next day, I got a call from Richard’s assistant, informing me that Richard would meet me at Costa Coffee at 10:30 A.M on Friday. Needless to say, I was overjoyed. While I knew that my book would occupy the shelf of fame in all libraries and bookstores in the future, for now I needed Richard’s help in getting it up on any shelf.
I called up Paula to thank her for the help, but it was answered by an annoying couple’s voicemail, wherein Rafeeq with his nasal twang and she in her shrilly voice were saying, “we decided to go on a holiday in the middle of the night. We will call when back. Ciao.”
On Friday, the alarm on the phone did not ring but my mother did. She was calling in to suggest a meeting with a nice, homely Brahmin boy. Hence, you will not judge me when I say that I prefer alarms to my mother in the morning. I find it difficult to put my mother on a snooze once she has started on the epic of the quintessential eligible bachelor. I put the phone on speaker and rushed for a shower. It was ten thirty already, by the time I was ready to leave my house.
When I reached the coffee shop at eleven, I saw three haggard looking men sitting on their own. I knew Richard had to be one of them. I am intuitively right about these things but I decided to use my cell phone to give my intuition a pat on the back. That’s when I realized that my phone and my mother on it were left home alone and I had no other way but to randomly pick a Richard. I loved Home Alone part one, but the others were very unoriginal.
Just then, a waiter walked to me and asked if I was Shipra. When I acknowledged my name, he pointed to haggard looking man number two and said that he was waiting for me. I fixed my brightest smile on and walked towards Richard, and said a very loud hello. I am not sure but I think he flinched a little. I introduced myself and occupied the chair opposite him. I started to take out the manuscript from my bag, when he waved his hand and said, “No need for that. It will be done. I have these papers for you to sign the contract with the publisher”. He looked a little intimidated and I did not want to hand over the script to sacredly cat. I wondered if the contract was a fake. I pursed my lips, traced three lines on my forehead that mean danger and began, “Richard, now you see- am here only on the insistence of Paula...” Before I could even finish the sentence, Richard pleaded, “Please Ma’m.Don’t tell Paula anything about this. I promise that I will do the best I can for your book. Give me one chance.” The man of principles looked well intentioned and so I handed over the 780 pages of my manuscript, made him promise that not a page could be modified or deleted and that I will need the first cheque within a month. Richard agreed only too willingly and almost ran away.
I learnt from Paula later that Richard had been charged with faking identities and asked to resign. That is why the previous company had sacked him. Paula had threatened that she would go public if he did not publish my book. I asked Paula, what was the stolen identity about and she in her usual ‘toss the hair, look at the nail-paint, narrow the eyes’ style said, “He relied on me to write all those critiques dearie. And you know I never read a book. I always judge it by the cover. Obviously they found out”
For once, I had no words to put to use. I only heaved a sigh of relief that I was dealing with a man definitely devoid of principles.
Sirji
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
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
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?
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