Acceptance

Well, I am here again with yet another rant. I simply cannot get on with people. And years of observation have helped me conclude that it's due to my complete inability to talk. Put me in a party, throw me in a group of people or even in the midst of family/friends, I will sit still without speaking much. I am the kind of person who will return from a party being friends with the dog! And even if you get me speaking, it'd be extremely difficult to get a subjective viewpoint from me. For facts and all, I'm bang on - capital of a place, approximate currency exchange, cosmic stuff, mathematical formula, films (I so love them!). But ask me to take stand on a political party and you'd be disappointed.
At first, it doesn't seem so bad. But I've to face it every single moment. Yes, my writing somewhat compensates for the lack. But I got no ears to listen to my loathing, no voice to assure me when I'm sad. I know it works both ways. And yes, I have supported my friends and family in their time of distress. Being an INTP(yes I strongly believe that shit theory or whatever you may call) doesn't help either. I become too much of a self-critic to live up to my own expectations. So here I am pondering over what keeps on people conversing day and night. Maybe, I should take up the challenge and face my biggest nightmare: a date.

A little place off the Edgware Road

Many years ago I came across this fantastic short story by Graham Greene. I took an immediate liking to this story. Here I attempt to present this in a rhyming poem:

A Little Place off the Edgware Road

To be or not to be?

That’s not the question;

For when goes all your courage flee

You don’t remember to have fun.

I know of an incident that makes me scream

It’s by the ultimate chronicler Graham Greene.

There was going a man, Craven by name

Tight in his mackintosh in thin summer rain.

All the way up the park, he was reminded of love & passion.

But for love, you needed money, suit car & a mansion.

It seemed as if he had a heavy mental load.

He came to A LITTLE PLACE OFF THE EDGWARE ROAD.

There he hated his hatred of hating the Guardsmen.

A better body than his was with each of them.

As he walked on the side streets round the Edgware road,

He noticed the posters outside the disused theatre in Culpar road.

No film had ever succeeded there;

Rat holes and spider webs were scattered everywhere.

Worth a shilling to Craven, the seats were cheap.

Protected from the rain, at least he could sleep.

The film was of ‘The Home of the Silent film’ race;

There were not mere twenty people in the place.

A middle aged actor lay on an elbow with his arm round a woman.

The song tinkled and the screen flickered like indigestion.

Somebody felt his way through the darkness past Craven’s knees;

Craven felt a large beard brushing his mouth and it didn’t make him please.

By the time, the actress had stabbed herself

The new man asked why she did so to herself.

None was interested and the film was not over yet.

But the small bearded man was absorbed only in the actor’s death.

Craven was a bit allergic to blood

But the man wanted it to flow like flood.

“What are you talking about?” asked Craven.

When the man spoke, he sprayed a breath albeit a damp one.

There was also a little bubble in his speech

As if he wanted blood like a leech.

Soon they got caught in a small wrangle;

The man made Craven to come in a tangle.

Craved turned and tried to see him

But he couldn’t as the light was dim.

The man talked to himself as if he was sane

Spraying the same breath to Craven, again.

Suddenly and confidingly, he laid on Craven his hand;

It was so damp and sticky that Craven was about to stand.

Craven replied with horror “What are you talking?”

“A man in my position gets to know almost everything.”

Knowingly, the little man began to titter;

Unless for those hands, Craven would have ignored him altogether.

The man’s head had a habit of lolling sideways

He mentioned ‘Bayswater Tragedy’ anyways.

Craven had seen those words on a poster at the park.

When asked about it, the little man began to bark.

He began to cough right at the face of Craven;

‘Twas like vindictiveness, more than that of a raven.

“Let me see. My umbrella”, the voice said

Losing the word, past Craven’s knees he got laid.

Craven was to see him but the screen went blank and bright;

Somebody had turned up the dirt-choked chandeliers’ light.

Craven then saw on his hands a smear;

At the sight of blood, he began to fear.

He went to look out for the madman, but in vain.

So he dialled 999 with a sense of sane.

There he got a horrible news-

A man’s neck was cut from ear to ear in Cullen Mews.

He told that he had sat next to the murderer, as to him it had appeared.

A voice from next end said, “We have the murderer. It’s the body that has disappeared.”

One Sunny Day

We recently had a short-story writing competition in our office. The challenge was to incorporate all four monsoon images in the given particular order. Limit: 1000 words.

1)    2)

3)4)


Now I am not a romantic buff and I dread romantic novels, especially chic-lit ones. Nope, there's no fault in my stars. I was reading Philip K Dick's Minority Report back then. So I decided to pay a tribute to this sci-fi genius. Here' my modest attempt at the short story:

“I have always loved rains,” thought Stella, “even if it hinders the smooth lifestyle we are used to.” 

She looked out to the Red Bridge amidst the labyrinth of water droplets that had collected on the window. “At least it gives the time to admire things that are not man-made.”

The wire-way cleared and Stella commanded her BugMobil to move. She had desired the advanced ThoughtDragon that would fly by itself to the owner’s intended destination. But the lack of money and time played a spoilsport. “Time…” sighed Stella. That’s what she was looking to mend.

The BugMobil halted at an orphanage. Stella climbed out and the car went on to park itself.

“Pleasure meeting you Stella,” greeted Audrey who was in charge of the institution. “You’ve come a long way from your days here. We’re obliged on your decision to adopt one of our girls.”

“I am compelled to. It’s one of the requirements to obtain the past-gear.”

“Being a future-traveller is easy. But keep in mind that travelling past has more nuances” warned Audrey.

They halted near a playground. Stella saw a 12 year old girl jumping and playing in the muddy waters of rain. She felt a wave of nostalgia rush through her body.

“I believe you like Margaret,” smiled Audrey. On getting a nod from Stella, Audrey beckoned TotalTurtle, her robot PA.

“Hello dear. I am Stella, a future-traveller”, said Stella as she introduced herself.

“Hello mam, I am Margaret. Where are you taking me?” replied Margaret politely.

“Home. You may call me Stella.”

TotalTurtle took the digital biometric prints and updated the database as legal formalities were completed in a jiffy.

“Will I get my own bed?”

“Yes, sure”

They thanked Audrey and made their way out of the building. Stella fired a voice command beckoning their ride.

“And a travel to future?”

“Oh absolutely!”

They entered the BugMobil and started towards home.

“You may call me Maggie,” said Margaret and their faces lit up with a smile.

On their way, they had lunch at McRobots, bought a Google ChromeBed, and beautiful Microsoft WearableWindows dresses for Maggie.

After reaching home, Stella asked Maggie to freshen up while she got busy in preparing the new room. Later in the evening, Stella made delicious hot chocolate that she served to a rather gleeful Maggie devouring majestic rain by the window.  Her joy was short lived as Stella pushed a few books towards Maggie.

“Why these?” inquired Margaret.

“Well madam, we’ve fulfilled your first demand. And in order to travel time, you must learn about it” answered Stella.

“Aye Aye Captain!”

                Over the course of next few days, Stella taught Margaret about time warps, space curves, light speeds and importantly the proper usage of future-gear. For practical, they hopped time in intervals ranging from few seconds to a couple of minutes.

“Can we travel further afar? This advanced theory is boring” pleaded Margaret.

“Alright, but be careful.”

Maggie used Stella’s gear and they moved ahead a good 3 hours.

“Ha-ha! This is fun” giggled Margaret. “I could solve all my problems this way,” she added.

“Not all honey” conveyed Stella, now a little serious. Adding further, she said “I want to travel past to undo a misdemeanour. And to obtain the past gear, I must have years of future travel experience and train a child in travelling future.”

“Oh I see”, exclaimed Margaret, “I’d help you in your mission. By the way, what’s this inscription on your gear?”

“It’s my id. 13U2Z. You either acquire a new id or inherit one from your trainer. I was lucky to find a trainer in my guardian.”

“Just like me!”

“Yeah, but you can’t have it as long as I’m associated with it.”

“So what happened to your trainer?”

“That’s what I want to mend.”

                Margaret had now become as good as Stella in time travel. She was also successful in going forward a month. They were now to make the ultimate leap.

“Ok dear. Now’s the time. If you’re successful in travelling over a year, I could go to the Ministry of Time Travel and get a past-gear and what’s more, you could apply for your own future-gear” said an excited Stella.

“Hold on to your hats madam. For we’re going to travel at top gear!” exclaimed Margaret.

“Where are you taking us?”

“Wait and watch.”

Margaret was nervous as she had never before attempted time travel on such a scale. She programmed the gear and pressed the ‘Go’ button.

                It was a sunny day. The sky was lightly overcast but one could easily feel the warmth of sun after a spell of rain. Stella felt a sense of déjà vu.

“Wowie!” cheered Margaret, “I’d always wanted to see a rainbow across the red bridge.”

Stella’s heart started beating faster. She felt a premonition of what lay next. As she turned, she noticed a guy walking towards Margaret with an electro knife. She let out a scream: “Maggie! No!” and jumped towards the guy trying to snatch money.

Margaret turned back in time and ducked to save herself. The bot police immediately sprang into action and caught the robber.

Margaret’s relief was short-lived as she noticed a pool of blood near the ground where Stella was lying. The emergency bot doctors declared her lifeless. Stella’s body was taken by the bots to the inspection centre. Later they’d arrange for funeral and notify Margaret of the details.

The events had occurred too soon for Margaret to collect her senses. She wanted to undo it all and go back in time. If only she had travelled wisely.

Margaret rushed to the old Victorian building off the corner.

“This is Ministry of Time Travel. How may I help you?” asked the receptionist.

“I want to register myself as a future traveller,” said Margaret. She had made a decision.

“Do you want a new ID?”

Maggie looked at the gear in her hand and answered “I will use 13U2Z.”

As is the case with me, I didn't win. But I am satisfied at trying something different. I also threw in an easter egg for my favourite space ranger. It's easy if you try ;)
Do provide your feedback. If you wish to, you may download the PDF format from my Google Drive.

Bhugda Khaijaiin

I can write endlessly on nostalgia. To me, it’s the strangest feeling of all. You can’t hate it. Neither can you fall in love with it. It pops out at times you don’t expect it to or worse when you are not prepared for it. Consider this. You are busy in a meeting and your brain ticks! The nostalgic impulse rushes at the speed of light and no, you have no control over the outcome of emotions. That’s the reason why you see many of the folks smiling at a serious point or shedding tears when the company has its growth being manifested. I bet you have just recalled a similar incident and if am not wrong, you are smirking your way through ;)

Today when I talked to my Amma (grandmother), a similar nostalgia ached through my heart. I have not visited my home for over a month. A job in a distant city and the difficulty of booking train tickets during vacation have added to the woes. I prefer to converse with her in Sindhi, my mother tongue. I believe one should imbibe the language he or she is born in. I have grown up with grandparents by my side and that has made me love my language. It brings me closer to the culture I am hereditarily a part of.

It is summer here and she has put forth some set of rules. Recall a typical Indian motherly figure showering advices (rather commandments) with oodles of love. Us mein baayr na nikar jaiin (Do not go out in the sun). Baairi bhaaji na khaay jaiin (Do not eat outside vegetables, which symbolises non-vegetarian food). Duddh vathi kare kha (Buy some curd and eat). Kheer thado pi jaiin (Consume cold milk). Bhugda Khaijaiin (Eat roasted chick-peas). Amb-chaavar kha (Eat mango with rice – and that’s what my weekend plan will be). Ghar mein hi vetho rahe jaiin (Remain in home).

The Bhugda part hit that mother lode of nostalgia. I rarely had roasted chick-peas, popularly known as Chana in Hindi, during my 15 month stay in Mumbai. Not that I am extremely fond of it, but the memories of it during my school days make it a food to remember. Amma keeps telling how she relished having bhugda in her school days (and that’s before Indian independence). She and her sisters used to fill their pockets with bhugda and daakh (black raisins) on their way to school. Now at the age of 83, she grinds them and consumes the powdered avatar. I recall watching TV or reading a book while involuntarily devouring them.  I recall Amma instructing me to have some after having fried things (She has this theory that if you consume water after having oily/fried things, you will develop cough. The way out is either to wait for like, half an hour or to bridge the gap by consuming ‘safe’ things like biscuits, papad or chick-peas among other stuff). I recall my mother keeping some of them with a little jaggery in my tiffin box. I recall mouth-watering laayi (Chikki for you) made out of bhugdaas and/or khaajas (groundnuts) during Diwali. I recall the stories of horses having them and that that being responsible for their strong legs.

So many memories in such a little pea! We do take as granted the little wondrous elements of life. I don’t know if I’d be having bhugda soon, but yes, they would always intrigue me as carriers of nostalgia. Forget coffee. A lot has indeed happened for me over Bhugdaa.