Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part Deux

Unlike Lucas' much awaited Star Wars III, hopefully this second and final installment of "New York Minute" won't be sorely disappointing and riddled with corny dialogues.

When we last met our unassuming hero, he was caught in a crossfire of .45 caps at the basement of NYC's hell-hole - the Port Authority Bus Station...

a short recap to bring you back to the scene:

4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and a overworn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese or Thai, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and askedhim "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"

...END RECAP

The poor Asian gentleman was too scared to react and kept staring at Mr. Dreadlocks. Dreadlocks says, "so you dont have any money huh? I'll show you what money is." and saying so he opens the tote bag he was carrying and starts taking out wads of ten dollar bills (well they looked like $10 bills anyway) and starts placing them on the table. "See, this is what you call money, asshole" He then pushes the Asian gentleman back into his seat, slumps into the closest chair and starts crying. In between sobs he bawls out "What the fuck am I doing here? I'm supposed to in fucking Florida, what the fuck am I doing in NYC surrounded by you assholes!" In the mean time the transit guards have come back and try to appease this dude. For some reason, as if on cue, some dude's 2-in-1 starts playing that oldie Rick Springfield song "Jessie's Girl".

The cops start sweet talking Dreadlocks (interestingly the radio starts playing "Wake me up before you go go"!). The cops tell him "Sir, just take it easy, throw the gun away, stay calm, we'll put u on a bus to florida pronto, just don't do anything rash and all..." Dreadlocks, fortunately decides to acquisce and slides his gun across the table, and the moment he does that, these two cops come in and beat the crap out of the dude with their night sticks...all to the tune of "wake me up before u go go"! It was a pretty insane scene. then they (the cops) take the gun and the money, put it back into the tote bag and took Dreadlocks away...that's the last I got to see these guys.

Then after a while, after all th excitement and adrenalin has subsided, I order some breakfast and try to get back to my book, when this fairly old gentleman, in a gaudy yellowing jacket and and brown sunglasses came and sat opposite me at my table and started dinking my coffee. I noticed that the entire left side of this guys face was burnt and scarred. Before I could react, the man spoke first.

"So you think New York is a dangerous place, huh?" Slightly taken aback, I manage a shrug. "Obviously, you've never been to New Jersey" he continued. "You see these scars on my face? I didn't have these last weekend. I had just come out from a bar last friday night after enjoying a good evening of drinking and I was walking back home when these two muggers cam from behind, stabbed me in the back and threw acid on my face before making off with my wallet." (insert appropriate face of shock) "but these muggers, these muggers I can deal with, the real bastards are the ones who work in government hospitals. When I woke up, i was in this hospital and a couple of days later when they were ready to discharge me, i got my clothes and all back, and guess what, they'd cleaned out my little waist pouch which had all my credit cards and some cash...gone...all empty. but the worst part was, wait, check this..." (he opens the bag he was carrying and takes out a tweed jacket and holds it up and it's been cut quite neatly in two) "...they cut my brand new tweed jacket in half! So i go to the doctor and ask him, why the fuck did he cut my jacket in half? and he says that when i came in i was bleeding profusely and that they had to get the jacket off so he cut it. and i tell him, well if u can't fucking take three buttons off, you shouldn't call yourself a fucking doctor in the first place!" and saying so he picks up what was left of my coffee and bids me good morning and goes off...

I won't describe my reaction. I just quickly finished breakfast and spent the next hour till my bus cam in, in the toilet, trying to get some sleep and generally being safe. Well needless to say I came back to college "shaken but not stirred" and in my unshaven and unclean condition went directly to work (I was still an hour late, but my employeer decided not to dock my pay after she heard my story...)

I know there weren't any lightsabers or starfighters but I'm still working on creating my own brand of merchandise and licensed characters that i can market...

Cleaning the Room

By the end of the year, our room had become the largest landfill in a twenty mile radius. T-shirts, jackets, jeans, soiled panties (yes, we had frequent guests in our room), shoes, socks, fluff, large packets of cereal stolen from the dining hall kitchens, several empty bottles of Jack Daniels, junk mail, midterm papers, we had everything in our closet. Only regular sprays of room freshener had kept the room livable. Then on the eve of our departure as James and I began cleaning the room, we found Jeremiah.

After clearing of the top layer of junk and clothing with nostalgia, we found a bearded face amidst our clothing. In the bad light I thought it was probably a left over mask from Halloween, but as we dug deeper we found a couple of hands, a torso and even two legs and lo, there was Jeremiah!

James was the first to recover from the shock as he tried, much to Jeremiah’s dismay, to pull Jeremiah out of the closet. He looked like a chipped version of John Cleese on crack with a crazy thick beard and unkempt hair and a tattered jacket that smelt like sewage pipes. The worst part was we had never met this person before.

“Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing in our closet?” James asked.

Still shielding his eyes from the light of our bedroom, the man managed to murmur “Jeremiah”. That’s how we got to know his name.

Jeremiah had been living in our closet for the past three months without our knowledge, underneath our heap of clothes and junk. He had been feeding off all the food that’s usually strewn about the room after a good raid at the dining hall kitchens…I don’t have anything to say, nothing, I’m still recovering. Gives a whole new meaning to ‘what lies beneath’ doesn’t it?

4/20

There are many urban legends surrounding 4/20, none of which are true, which is why they are urban legends. Some claim that 420 is the police code for marijuana use, others claim other stuff. Bottom line is, the 20th of April is still International World Smokers Day (although no one apart from a handful of Americans are aware of this) and it is celebrated by smoking at 4:20 am on 4/20 in the Glen beside the bubbling brook and the crayfish pond.

The amount of pot that was floating around college that week was unfathomable. It was unbelievable, I saw at least sixty odd people at a party, all smoking in groups ranging from three to twelve. Personally I  killed "Medium Middle Age", "Reborn" and "Excaliber". I don't quite remember why they were named as such though.

For dessert there was a six feet bong that was shared between the remains of the day...

Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part 1

Well the semester has seen a fair amount of snow storms, sloth and other vices that go with extreme cold. Apart from a remarkable night in New York City, the details of which I have stated below, and a rather arbitrary weekend at Tufts University at Boston, the semester has been pretty straight forward, actually not that straight-forward, but not as crazy as Stephanian times.

On the first day (a saturday) of Spring Break, dad called and told me that one of his friends would be flying to San Francisco via New York and that I should meet this gentleman at JFK on Thursday night. come Wednesday I'm all set to go to the city, when my dad calls in the evening and informs me that the above mentioned gentleman would now be flying in on the following Sunday instead.

Saturday night I find out that there is a certain chap on campus who was going to be driving down to NYC on Sunday morning. Naturally I decided to hitch a ridewith him. This guy tells me that we'll leave at 11 am on Sunday. I was fine with that since the before mentioned gentleman's flight was supposed to come in at 5:30 and NYC is only about 4 hours away from college.

Sunday: (I'll do the rest in an itenary format tospeed things up, this keyboard sucks!)
As asked, I show up at my ride's room at 11, only to be told that it was in fact his brother who would becoming in from Yale to pick us up and drive us to the city and that his brother was not here yet.

12 pm: his brother turns up in a spanking new fuel guzzling Nissan SUV and we set off and I promtly fall asleep in the back seat.

2 pm: I wake up and look around and notice a rather large board saying "Welcome to Whitestown, Pennsylvania". I panic. "Dude, aren't we going to the city?" I inquire. "Yeah we are but my parents just called and they want me to return the SUV to them, so we'll take my truck from home and then go to the city." my friend replies.

3 pm: I am cramped in the tiny utility seat in the back of a Chevy Truck and we're headed towards NYC. They smoke a joint en route.

6 pm: We reach the outskirts of NYC in a a place called Beacon and my friend stops the truck outside the railway station and tells me to take the train from here to the city since he was not going to drive any further since he was going to go to a friend's place here.

7:30 pm: the freaking train takes an hour and a half to reach grnd central. I get onto a bus for JFK

8:00 pm: I'm in JFK. Obviously the fore mentioned gentleman is no longer waiting for me. I call dad and find out which hotel he's staying in and go there. I've never met this guy before in my life, but it turns out that he was pretty chilled and all. He gave me some money dad had sent and my plane tickets to fly back home. He asks me if I wanted to spend the night here or go back to college. Since I was working the next day, I decided to go back and took the West bound subway to the bus station at Port Authority.

9:45 pm; I reach Port Authority in time to miss the last bus to Utica by 15 minutes. The next bus is at 7 in the morning. I have from 10pm at night till 6 in the morning to kill. I decide to go to Broadway.

I'm at Broadway, outside a theatre playing "The Lion King". They're sold out. Fortunately or unfortunately, I find a shady dude scalping ticketsfor the show close-by. I pay an exorbitant amount towatch the show, which was awesome (the show that is, not the exorbitant amount)!

1 am: I wander into the Laughter House to watch comedian Kathie Lee perform. She's terrible...house-wife humour. I walk out an hour later. I wonder why I stayed so long.

2am: the only kind of people on NYC at this time were drunks, black chain gangs and 24 hour chinese food delivery people. I decide to head back to the bus station.

3 am: I'm sitting at the cafeteria downstairs of the bus station, trying to read "Brighter Than a Thousand Suns" when I and some other people in the cafe realize that the woman sitting next to me was trying to commit suicide. This lady was a diabetic in her late 50s or early 60s I would guess and her preferred method of dying was tearing open sugar sachets and pouring the contents into her mouth. How did we find out? Well, we noticed that there was a rather unusually large heap of empty sugar satchets on her table, maybe about forty or fifty and when one of the cafe staff guys tried to ask her what she was upto, something flipped in her head and she started cursing, flailing her arms about and screaming "let me fucking die the way I want to, what the fuck is your problem?" Finally the transit guards showed up and managed to take her away.

3:30 am: The earlier events well behind us, the cafe is back into it's lethargic late night mode. there are a few homeless drunks sleeping on the floor, or Hispanic labourers with their families curiously looking at the shoes on display at one of the closed shops. Things were pretty quiet.

4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and an over worn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one, except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and asked him "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"...

[I'll leave it at this cliffhanger...will Maity escape with his life or will he succumb and become just another New York crime statistic, find out in the next episode of "Days of Our Lives"]

End Of The World

Must watch flash:
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/flash/endofworld.html

For Four Hours Only

The slippers were very irritating. The dusts and spits of water from the road formed miniature, muddy and uncomfortable puddles in the slipper’s undulations.

A beggar sat cross-legged by the roadside. His feet were covered in a funeral blanket. His eyes stared unfalteringly at a distant arbitrary object. His hands moved in a systematic and rhythmic motion; the ends of the cymbals hitting each other in perfect synchronization. I passed him nonchalantly.

Weighing machines, sleeping kids, the stolen watches vendor, the trinket seller all set themselves in a manner organized to cause the maximum hindrance to pedestrians. As if the jagged rocks, bricks and man-holes scattered all over the pavement were not enough.

Shuffling feet, heavy breathing, sweltering faces; they all gave me a second look as I passed. Their eyes shone with fear and hunger. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t. A young boy of about six ran and grasped my trouser leg with all he was worth. I resisted the temptation to kick him and pushed him away as gently as possible. The child ran off to hide behind a fruit-juice stand. A few black patches of dirt now covered my otherwise sparkling white trouser right where that kid had held me. I cursed the little beggar boy.
Dodging the heavy rush hour traffic near, Suicide Alley, I managed to barge into Kumars’ sweet shop. The singeing sun, the reckless drivers and the obstacle course I had just completed had made me unbearably thirsty. I ordered a mango shake.

I sat by the window allowing my eyes to observe. Then they fell to rest on that young beggar boy. He was being beaten by his mother. “Bainchod, bas itna paisa laya aaj?” She screamed at him. The boy retreated, tears rolling down his dark cheek. Without waiting for the milk shake I walked out of the shop.

I headed back towards school not really knowing what to think; only aware that I should have a profound thought. I was deep in introspection and retrospection and all those other big-words when suddenly a hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to find Hamid. I wasn’t particularly fond of him. I wanted to shout at him, probably say an obscene word or two, but before I could, he flashed two tickets for the latest movie, waving it in front of my face. I literally fell at his feet and grabbed his leg.

The incidents of the day well forgotten, I became his best friend for the next four hours...

How To Maintain A Healthy Level of Insanity

1. Sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars. See if they slow down.

2. Page yourself over the intercom. Don't disguise your voice.

3. Every time someone asks you to do something, ask if they want fries with that.

4. Put your garbage can on your desk and label it "in".

5. Put decaf in the coffee maker for 3 weeks. Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to espresso.

6. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sexual favours".

7. Finish all your sentences with "in accordance with the prophecy."

8. Dont use any punctuation marks.

9. As often as possible, skip rather than walk.

10. Ask people what sex they are. Laugh hysterically after they answer.

11. Specify that your drive-through order is "to go".

12. Sing along at the opera.

13. Go to a poetry recital and ask why the poems don't rhyme.

14. Put mosquito netting around your work area. Play a tape of jungle sounds all day.

15. Five days in advance, tell your friends you can't attend their party because you're not in the mood.

16. Have your co-workers address you by your wrestling name, Rock Hard.

17. When the money comes out the ATM, scream, "I won! "I won!" "3rd time this week!!!!!"

18. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot, yelling, "run for your lives, they're loose!!"

19. Tell your children over dinner. "Due to the economy, we are going to have to let one of you go."

21. Pee into bottles and then empty them into the pot.

22. Jump out of ATMs/Public Bathrooms naked and say "don't go in there".

23. When someone pulls out his hand to shake yours, try and dodge it, Matrix style.

24. When someone wishes you, sneer viscously and say "fools, you're all gonna die" and walk away laughing hysterically.

25. When someone says "dude, I haven't seen you for sometime", claim that you were in "stealth mode" or hug him/her and say "it's all over between us".

26. Wear a bow tie with your T-Shirt. (Is that too gay?)

27. Walk around with a blunt sword.

Raju Be Happy

Nana Pillai’s only son Raju was studying in the United States, at Franklin and Marshall. He wasn’t offered a scholarship when he had gone, but Raju had assured his dad that he was a cinch to get a full tuition grant by his sophomore year. With that hope (and a bit a pressure from his wife), Nana pumped all he could into his son’s education. Raju had left for the US as the devoted son, with eyes that said, “I’ll do you proud” as he touched his father’s feet at the airport.

Three years had passed and Raju had not even received a partial scholarship. Nana’s bank balance was depleted. Savitri, his wife, had succumbed to terminal cancer. She could have been saved, he knew it, but it would take away the very last penny they had. That would be the end of Raju’s education. Savitri wouldn’t want that, would she? Nana’s wife died happy. Her mission on earth was complete. Her little Raju was a man now!

Nana didn’t inform Raju about his mother’s death. He didn’t want to disturb his son’s happiness. He was happy, wasn’t he? After all, those initial loving, home sick letters, longing for his mother’s cooking had stopped a long time ago. They were now replaced by short and curt demands for more money, each time outlined by some excuse. Nana, however, was not one to ask questions. He duly obliged, sending words of caution and advice, but he never complained…

Times were hard. The Pillai family home had been sold. His factory was sick and he had absolutely no security. Yesterday, Nana had received another telegram from Raju. Raju always used the post. The telephone was too expensive, he said, and they had to be economical. Raju needed money and he needed it quickly.

Friday, the 26th, three days after Raju’s telegram, Nana and his dilapidated scooter were found eighty-three feet below Bandel Bridge. The police report said that Nana, blinded by an oncoming truck’s headlamps, had lost control and smashed through the guard railing. The scooter’s petrol tank had burst, charring what was left of Nana’s mutilated body. Nana’s life insurance company, after a lot of debate with Nana’s lawyers, reluctantly handed over one hundred and thirteen thousand rupees to Raju Pillai’s account.

It was a sacrifice worth the Pillai name. A sacrifice for that little Raju who used to say, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a big car daddy.” And Nana would say, ruffling his hair, “I know son, I know.” All Nana knew as he drove his scooter off the bridge was that he could not fail Raju.
A few days later, seven thousand kilometers away, Raju Pillai died of a cocaine overdose.

The Crucifiction of Scooby Doo

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting Delhi running an errand for my father.
11:00 pm I am on the AC deluxe night bus to Delhi, with a drunk guy sitting next to me."wanna know why I'm drunk" he drawls, showering me with stray drops of alcohol that he had not swallowed and clouding the immediate vicinity with the stench of booze... "My son, he flunked his CBSE hahahahaha, so I'm going to Delhi to fuck him!" (of course the entire conversation transpired in Hindi.)
2:00 am Still on the bus, freezing cold because of the AC but I manage to fall asleep by covering myself with a towel. (now I know why Douglas Adams said never leave home without a towel.)
2:10 am Rudely awakened by some noise. I find that some dude has started an arguement with the conductor. He wanted the AC to be put off, but the conductor was arguing that the bus would have to be stopped for that and it would spoil the AC if he kept putting it on and off. the bugger got pissed off and started abusing the conductor. The conductor abused back and naturally a fight broke out. At Midway Hotel (midway between Delhi-Dehra Dun as the name implies), some of the passengers throw the conductor off the bus. The conductor agrees to acquiesce (go SAT word list!) for the rest of the trip...
5:30 am The bus drops me off at Lal Quila. i have no idea what to do...
5:45 am I reach Amit Chandra's flat (formerly Tanaya's flat) in Indravihar. i knock on the door till 6:00 am. No response.
6:00 am I fall asleep outside the flat.
7:00 am I decide it's too uncomfortable and go to college. Fall asleep under the Buddha statue in University lawns with some guys practising karate nearby and the whole world out on a morning walk looking at me as if I was a freak show (no smart comment on this please)
9:00 am Wake up...lawns are empty. I walk to Mukh East and see fancy tiled toilets and showers...take a crap and a shower...didn't have a brush...
10:00 am I meet Wilson in main corr. I smile at him.
10:10 am Out on the work I was meant to do.
11:45 am work done. Sit at Cafe Coffee Day watching music videos with Uttam Mukherjee (I Chem) and his girlfriend. eat breakfast.
12:50 pm In CP booking tickets for the journey back home. Go window shopping in CP, piss off shopkeepers.
2:30 pm In PVR Naraina (stoned) watching "The Passion Of The Christ". There were some deaf people who had come too. I didn't know then that the entire movie was in Hebrew with subtitles. In the end they distributed "Love Jesus, Love God" booklets and left. I went to watch Scooby Doo 2.
7:00 pm back in CP. got stuck in dirty Delhi rain, had a subway dinner while reading MAD. Chatted up some arbit tourist who had just visited Doon (I was carrying a Doon School bag with me.)
9:00 pm on the bus back home.
10:00 pm the conductor tells me the bus is going to Nainital, not Dehra Dun. i panic. Don't worry he tells me, I'll put u in another bus.
11:00 pm I wait for the "another bus" to come in the rain at Fatehpuri.
11:30 pm bus comes. I fall asleep.
6:30 am I reach home.
I love this world....

The River

The shadow of the thick-leaved tree seemed to float on the rays of the smooth and intense light of the morning sun. It sailed past the open meadow, over the jagged rocks and finally rolled down to the River where it broke into a thousand glimmering wavelets.

The River was always mysteriously beautiful. Calm, with small ripples and undulations, yet deadly and forbidding.

No one crossed the river, for fear of the other side. The woods were dark and deep there. The sun could not penetrate through the gigantic evergreens. They say the woods hide riches. Riches, beyond our wildest dreams, but there was no path to it. The river ate the path years ago.

The River. One now said that name with a God-like reverence. It had no name. It never required one. God doesn't need one. The water was sweet and had a flavour that could tantalize even the most morose of men. Its cleanliness rivaled by nothing in this world. Its power, its might, raised its ego. It was not the sustenance of life. It was life.

The river and its two banks have existed for eternity, its diversions caused by human intervention. It still marks the light and darkness. A few foolish, greedy yet courageous men ventured to step into these waters to cross over. They succeeded, but no one knows if they found gold, for they never returned.

This balance will always remain.
There is life and there is death.
There are things understood and things left misunderstood.
And in between them all runs the River.
This is how creation works.
This is how God works.

Bart Simpson's Lessons

A burp is not an answer.
All work and no play makes Bart a dull boy.
Bart Bucks are not legal tender.
Coffee is not for kids.
Five days is not too long to wait for a gun.
Funny noises are not funny.
Garlic gum is not funny.
Goldfish don't bounce.
High explosives and school don't mix.
I am not a 32 year old woman.
I am not a dentist.
I am not authorized to fire substitute teachers.
I am not deliciously saucy.
I did not see Elvis.
I do not have diplomatic immunity.
I saw nothing unusual in the teacher's lounge.
I will finish what I sta
I will never win an emmy.
I will not aim for the head.
I will not barf unless I'm sick.
I will not belch the National Anthem.
I will not bribe Principal Skinner.
I will not bring sheep to class.
I will not burp in class.
I will not bury the new kid.
I will not call my teacher Hot Cakes.
I will not call the principal Spud Head.
I will not carve gods.
I will not celebrate meaningless milestones.
I will not charge admission to the bathroom.
I will not conduct my own fire drills.
I will not cut corners.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not do anything bad ever again.
I will not do that thing with my tongue.
I will not draw naked ladies in class.
I will not drive the principal's car.
I will not eat things for money.
I will not encourage others to fly.
I will not expose the ignorance of the faculty.
I will not fake my way through life.
I will not fake seizures.
I will not get very far with this attitude.
I will not go near the kindergarten turtle.
I will not grease the monkey bars.
I will not hide behind the Fifth Amendment.
I will not instigate revolution.
I will not pledge allegiance to Bart.
I will not prescribe medication.
I will not re-transmit without the express permission of Major League Baseball.
I will not say Springfield just to get applause.
I will not sell land in Florida.
I will not sell miracle cures.
I will not sell school property.
I will not show off.
I will not skateboard in the halls.
I will not sleep through my education.
I will not snap bras.
I will not spank others.
I will not squeak chalk.
I will not teach others to fly.
I will not torment the emotionally frail.
I will not trade pants with others.
I will not waste chalk.
I will not Xerox my butt.
I will not yell Fire in a crowded classroom.
I will not yell She's Dead at roll call.
I will return the seeing-eye dog.
It's potato, not potatoe.
Mud is not one of the 4 food groups.
My homework was not stolen by a one-armed man.
My name is not Dr. Death.
No one is interested in my underpants.
Nobody likes sunburn slappers.
Organ transplants are best left to professionals.
Spitwads are not free speech.
Tar is not a plaything.
Teacher is not a leper.
The cafeteria deep fryer is not a toy.
The Christmas Pageant does not stink.
The Pledge of Allegiance does not end with Hail Satan.
The principal's toupee is not a Frisbee.
There are plenty of businesses like show business.
They are laughing at me, not with me.
This punishment is not boring and pointless. Underwear should be worn on the inside.

Three Bad Poems

Stephanian Winter
In the concrete Serengeti, the meeting season had begun.
The day was marked by raucous calls of prospective meets.
They fell on deaf years.
At night, little Timmy relieved himself by the lamppost
And sniffed a stray burning Navy Cut butt.
He had to be fast, the dew would extinguish it soon.
The Ritz at one end of town, bustled.
There were no seats left – you had to book yours.
The Oberoi had lost a lot of business lately.
Ski-masked terrorists lurked in dark corners.
The cold had taken a toll on them.
Their heaters blew the fuses. Darkness. Time to strike.
Lazy men sat in wasted old-age homes
Drinking vodka without caviar.
That was the thrill of it…
Jokers in dark suits, boots and ties were laughed at.
The jokers laughed when the act was over.
They stopped laughing when they had to pay the taxi bill.
A white Esteem rolled out of the gate at night.
The crowd screamed in delight:
Elvis had left the building!



Rickshaws in Europe
Rickshaws in Europe
Is that too much to ask for?
Their frail axle is susceptible
In the moon surface of Kamla Nagar:
You bounce, jump and jiggle in your seat.
Suspension, non-existent…
The roads of Europe are smooth and clean –
Smooth as a Basu’s head.
You don’t need a fishbone suspension
Rickshaws are perfect for Europe.


Sad Boredom
Sitting alone in a stupid stall selling ‘study abroad’ advice
When there’s hot music to chill to on the dance floor.
Sitting alone in a room sulking and hearing
Heavy rock emanating through your window.
Sitting alone in a rave party stone cold sober
Watching others dance to the DJ’s bad Punjabi music.
Feeling guilty to have fun because you’re worried about the future.
It’s sad…

Are These Actually True?

Shortest Essay:
An English university creative writing class was asked to write a concise essay containing the following elements:
1) Religion 2) Royalty 3) Sex 4) Mystery
The prize-winner wrote:
"My God," said the queen, "I'm pregnant. I wonder who did it?"

Another one says that a class was asked to write a two thousand word essay on "Courage" and the prize-winner handed in a blank sheet with only one line on it:
"This is courage"...

Of Love And Scooters In The Ditch

One summer holiday I had stayed back in Dehra Dun to study. It was my last year in school and I didn’t want to waste it by going home and loaf around all day. My father arranged for a house in an obscure place called Indira Nagar. He knew that in a colony for retired people I wouldn’t find any items of distraction. Unfortunately in his quest for peace and serenity, my father had set me up 14km away from the main town!
My tuition timings were fixed; right from 6.20 a.m. in the morning till twelve noon. Each morning I caught a Vikram and took a three rupee and thirty-minute roller coaster ride, downtown. First up was Physics, followed by Math, English and finally Chemistry. Between math and physics I always kept an hour and a half free for breakfast, which I usually had at Barista. I became quite friendly with the staff there and by the end of my holidays I knew all their wives’ birthdays!
Carrying my doggy bag of a ‘Brrrista’ and a grilled sandwich, I usually parked myself in the cyber café next door. Each day I would type ‘mighty_180’ on Yahoo! Chat and expect to find a virtual ladylove, like those thousands of hopefuls who place their ads with Yahoo! Personals and expect their true love to be delivered to their doorstep on Saturday night.
However, I did meet quite a few interesting people. For instance there was this Austrian who shared similar literary tastes and an American teenager who believed Fred Durst is Jesus reincarnated. Love, however, was something that escaped me.
Before I could get bored of the devotional songs playing on the café stereo, I had to take a walk down Rajpur Road, survive the traffic of Suicide Alley and arrive at my math tutor’s doorstep. I always found Rahul “Bhappa” Singh and Anshul Wasu (couple of my school mates) hanging around his house, waiting for his previous batch to finish. They would come early to watch the chicks come out and drive away in their scooters.
We usually sat under the fiber glass shade of a video library, discussing Doscos and Welhamites (who said girls were the only ones who gossip), licking an occasional ice-cream and trying to puncture scooter tyres (So we could act chivalrous and help the girls change wheels, but that plan never worked out!).
Math tuition usually passed by in a breeze. We either discussed whether Devdas was a loser or Haseena Maan Jayegi was a better movie than Analyze This! By the time we actually opened our registers it was already time to leave.
Bhappa had an ancient crackpot contraption which only passed as a scooter because a dilapidated ‘TVS-Scooty’ sticker was pasted on one side. He lovingly called it Dhobal, after a classmate, because according to him they both ran on jugaad. We would ride down together to English tuition from Math and thus Dhobal became an intricate part of my daily life. The adventures of Dhobal are another story itself which I shan’t delve into.
Without fail, Bhappa, Dhobal and I were always ten minutes late for English. Not that it really mattered for the class always started fifteen minutes into time. Ganging outside the classroom we would spend time breaking litchis and bitching. To make matters more interesting there were a bevy of pretty girls in our batch and one fatally smote poor Bhappa. A real cutie who went by the name Piya. Bhappa was always falling in and out of love; he could never hold a relationship for more than a week – that was his record.
For the next few days Bhappa followed her scooter (hell, everyone had a scooter, except me!) in a feeble attempt to find out where she lived. However, when all the jugaad failed, Bhappa decided to adopt the good old fashioned lover boy style. The next day he came along with a single stem of a red rose wrapped in an aluminium foil like a tandoori chicken leg. The rest of us guys obviously couldn’t help but burst out laughing, and were then as useful as a toothpick in the Amazons. I couldn't stand all this juvenile mushy, mushy crap so I promptly fled the scene and walked all the way to the Vikram stand without waiting for anyone to give me a ride. I don't know what happened that day, but I guess it turned out quite well since the next day Bhappa and Piya stuck together like the 12th and 13th page of a book.
There were the evenings at Barista, the romantic walks, hand in hand, through Paltan Bazaar, gifts of expensive perfumes stolen from mummy's closet, chocolates and the like. Then it all fell apart.
It was a Wednesday. As I walked into the path leading to my math teacher's house, I saw a bent and forlorn Bhappa throwing pebbles at a bewildered dog. The end of another relationship, his longest yet – a whole fifteen days! Damn, the guy was getting better.
That day Math and English passed unceremoniously. I didn't bother to ask Bhappa what was wrong and surprisingly he didn’t say a word either. As soon as English class was over Bhappa stormed out and stood under the litchi tree with his hands on his hips. Soon another chap called Thoothoo came and joined him in the shade. The rest of us quietly slinked away. Something big was up and we decided to watch from a safe distance. Then Piya came and stood beside Thoothoo. A three way face off. It reminded me of some lines from the merchant of Venice…
A heated argument followed, but I was least interested. I would rather watch my dog fall asleep. But from what I could gather, it was a love triangle feud. Apparently Piya had been two-timing both Bhappa and Thoothoo. I don’t blame her. After all, who wouldn’t want to mufti twice at Barista in one day? I mean, c’mon she’s only human. Hell! If I was getting two free meals a day, even I would have done the same. Unfortunately Bhappa and Thoothoo didn’t quite grasp this simple logic. They spoke about truth and commitment and all that other horse manure you usually hear women say in TV soaps. Then they asked her to choose. Well let’s see, Thoothoo had a sexy new Hyundai and owned most of Rishikesh and Bhappa had… Dhobal.
Poor Bhappa in his grief stricken stupor could only murmur, “…well in that case, remember the perfume I had given you, could I have that back?”
I was really bored by now and my stomach was beginning to growl. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and I wanted to go home and have a nice lunch. Unfortunately, my ride was stuck up in a seemingly stupid argument. What was more pissing off was that they had been at it for an hour and still showed no signs of letting up!
I quickly checked my wallet and figured that I didn’t have enough money to buy a ride to the Vikram stand. Then my guardian angel came in the shape of Sakhlani.
“I don’t think they’ll manage to sort this out before nightfall, man, come, I’ll drop you off at the stand.” With a wry smile I jumped onto his scooter and thanked god for letting me out of this mess. As Sakhlani revved the engine I looked back and saw Piya bored to the teeth. I knew exactly what was going through her mind… “Guys could we sort this out at Barista, please?”
I smiled at the thought and turned my head. I felt the sweet summer breeze on my lips as the scooter raced down EC Road. We were doing seventy. I didn’t want the ride to end. I just felt like singing, so I started singing “Sun is shining”. Suddenly Sakhlani turned around and gave me a dirty look. I guess he didn’t like my singing. Well, hey, not everyone’s Elvis!
“Dude, girls are pure poison, bloody hundred percent cyanide, man. Arre, Bhappa and Thoothoo were such great pals and now look what the weaker sex has done to them!”
Sakhlani was sore about the incident. I nodded my head in agreement. He took it is as encouragement.
“Bloody hell yaar, I’ve seen it in every Hindi movie. It’s always the girls who breaks up friendships and get brothers separated. What the hell yaar, I mean…”
It was too late when we saw it coming. In all his excitement Sakhlani had forgotten the road and missed the white Gypsy heading right at us. In my absolute state of shock all I could do was poke Sakhlani in his ribs. Sakhlani turned around after he saw my white face and what followed was a scene The Matrix fans would have paid to see. Sakhlani braked hard and skid the scooter to one side. We hit the road at fifty and slid down, the rough asphalt cutting into our jeans causing internal injuries which would trouble me for the next couple of weeks. We were headed right for the ditch and before we knew what had happened, we were waist deep in the dirtiest and murkiest Dehra Dun water. Sakhlani looked at me and shrugged.
I finally got to the Vikram stand; wet and stinking. Seeing my condition several Vikrams simply refused to take me! Somehow I reached home – hungry, but smarter than I had started. I had learnt a lesson: having anything to do with love is a dangerous proposition. But don’t let that take your mind off Dehra Dun roads, lest you end up in a ditch.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

Teacher: To get to the other side.

Plato: For the greater good.

Aristotle: It is the nature of chickens to cross roads.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Saddam Hussein: This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

Martin Luther King, Jr.: I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives being called into question.

Richard M. Nixon: The chicken did not cross the road. I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.

Freud: The fact that you are at all concerned that the chicken crossed the road, shows your underlying sexual insecurity.

Bill Gates: I have just released the new Chicken Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, balance your cheque-book and eat your neighbours.

Oliver Stone: The question is not, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” Rather, it is, “Who was crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked in our haste to observe the chickens crossing?”

Charles Darwin: Chickens, over great periods of time, have been naturally selected in such a way that they are now genetically disposed to cross roads.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon your frame of reference.

Buddha: Asking this question denies your own chicken nature.

Ernest Hemmingway: To die, in the rain.

Not To Be

The night flies swarmed around the lamp on the desk. The room was dimly lit. The leaky tap maintained a drip in the otherwise quiet night. The coffee was as cold as his feet.

The clouds rumbled... would it rain? He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander. He had to work. His family had left him. Only loneliness survived. He liked the loneliness, it helped, but the sadness did not.

Sheets of paper were scattered all over the desk. A bunch of typewriter ribbons occupied the corner. On the centre of the table stood an ancient machine, no wait, it wasn’t just an ordinary machine; it was a livelihood. It had been idle for sometime now.

He stared at the ceiling and sighed. His gaze shifted to the rusted old fan cloaked in cobwebs. Outside, the rain fell hard, washing away the unfairness of society, or at least he hoped it would. He got up and walked towards the cupboard, the only piece of furniture besides his table and his bed. He had decided.
***
His cheek rested on the tabletop. He stared unblinkingly at the last three words on his typewriter. In his right hand was a bottle of morphine. The dust swirled around the room as a gust of wind forced open a window. It settled on him, the man who was to become the greatest writer ever. But he will only be remembered as a dusty little man in a dusty little room.

Love At First Byte

The Sunday morning was bright and clear,
When she entered his life;
He had named her ‘Daisy Dear’,
And wanted to make her his wife.

Love at first byte was the case,
But it lacked reciprocation;
He loved her from his magnetic core
But she refused the relation.

My capacity for love is boundless
My pixels leave others dumbfound;
Resolution, class, perfection,
In me, SVGA, abound.

“Don’t get fresh,” qouth Daisy,
“ You vain son of a screen,
I already love another
One who is to you supreme.

Don’t grovel at my base,
Or slobber my print head with kisses,
I cannot answer your love
So save your swears, groans and hisses.”

But VGA remained undaunted,
He made one final attempt,
To woo the one he loved,
And overcome her contempt.

He grabbed a light pen from the desk,
And etched it onto his chest,
In bright red the eternal words –
‘I love you with all my zest.’

But before he could enter his tale of love,
Into his permanent memory,
Load-shedding came and took away,
His precious thought – his treasury.

When the lights came on again,
SVGA’s screen was blank,
Where once were sights of life and love,
Was void, cold and dank.

He had forgotten the emotions he felt,
When his eyes had fallen on Daisy;
The incident had removed the last traces
Of the affair, so one sided and crazy.

Daisy was relieved and overjoyed,
To see this madness end.
And just as he was in the beginning
Lay SVGA, at the end.

This tale thus ends where it began,
Reminding us that love is hard;
A machine needs not circuits and memory,All it really needs is a heart.

Oi Faccha!

Rain. Luggage. Seniors. Ragging. Sweat. Embarrasment. Intellect. Welcome to St. Stephen's College, freshman

Politics For Beginners

SOCIALISM: YOU HAVE TWO COWS, YOU GIVE ONE TO YOUR NEIGHBOUR.

COMMUNISM: YOU HAVE TWO, THE GOVERNMENT TAKES BOTH AND GIVES YOU THE MILK.

FASCISM: YOU HAVE TWO COWS, THE GOVERNMENT TAKES BOTH AND SELLS YOU THE MILK.

NAZISM: YOU HAVE TWO COWS, THE GOVERNMENT TAKES BOTH AND SHOOTS YOU.

CAPITALISM: YOU HAVE TWO COWS, YOU SELL ONE AND BUY A BULL.

TRADE UNIONISM: YOU HAVE TWO COWS, THEY TAKE BOTH, SHOOT ONE, MILK THE OTHER AND THROW THE MILK AWAY.

MORAL: DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH COWS THEY ONLY BRING TROUBLE.

Dosco Expelled

You join school you leave school too young too late.
You play games and read books and wait and wait.
It’s all books and balls, balls and books but wait! Wait, or otherwise cook!
Sit and treat. We wanna eat! What? No meat no sweet so no treat! Then hey! Beat!
You don’t wanna treat? Then serve. Serve!
Serve - yourself - your - head - your - own - and - the - rest - of -your - house!
But always remember serve the shouts.
[Server!] [Server!] [Chapats?] Run get chapats. Cold!
Must get chapats! Everything else... hold!
Hold up your head, serve it first.
Once the bell rings, sit, eat, and savour your thirst.
You’re always thirsty and always late.
Toyetime! Playtime! Everytime late! Classes, P.T., what’s-the-time? “Late!”
Change-in-break! Change your books! Wrong books!
“Sorry Sir, I’ll just...” “Uh-Uh! No excuses! Hey, where are you going? Stop! Wait!”
Can’t go back to my house now?
Under your breath, you swear.
“Can’t go back to my house”,
What’s this place coming to?
You think and suddenly hear a bell.
The class just got over, you think oh well... swell!
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter; all the scopats windows I have to shatter, says the rain.
You’re wet, you’re cold. No umbrella no bag no plastic
Books-wet, CDH-wet and cold and finally you make it, slish-slosh to stare at your windowpane.
Then your friend shouts, “Arre...yaar change up fast, we’ve got a game!”
Game: Ball! Big ball small ball hard ball bouncy ball,
Suddenly you remember oh my god you had to make a phone call!
Phone call means chit: chit! Phone chit! Outing chit!
Store chit cog chit book chit good chit bad chit. How...!
Books! What about them! Notebooks Rough books.
Only wanna read library books but can’t. But, why?
No study now, read later! Learn now, why later?
But no. They why can’t you study now and pay later? You cry.
Learn? (Sob) study? (Sob) now (sob) why (sob)
“WHY? I’ll tell you why. For getting into a good college you blob!
But you only need four! Sir, best four. Don’t need to count the rest?
Their marks don’t count and why? Why the rest? What is the rest?
The ‘rest’ was very relaxing and short and nice and is equal to ten schools a week
1800 minutes a month 240 hours a year minus extra classes!
And - it - doesn’t - even – count.
Armed with education minus rest the college gates you shall mount
Forward backward but onward into rain. Rain.
Mist, breath, smokes rain. (Bell)
Bath! What? Now? Have you seen the time? Are you insane?
Hmm...You say rub out the sleep and step out.
Rain mist breath smoke! Chappals towel soap dish –
Ammunition You step out!
Cold. Very cold. Brrrr.!
You shiver and try to come back in but... bang! bang! bang!
It’s me, let me in. It’s damn cold out here bang bang bang Please I don’t wanna have a bath. (Pause) ok don’t!
FINE!
You borrow shampoo from the next room and inquire about your old friend time.
Ohhh my god, ooh my god has the bell rung?
Yes! someone shouts back its rung!
Damn you time, some friend you are!
You deserve to be hung.
Run! Run after your food before it gets cold.
Open up! I’m late aah! It’s open.
But where’s my... Form-mate won’t wait can’t wait or he’ll get late,
Some mate or he’ll get late. Late for dinner... so that makes you a...? Sinner!
Everyone angry with you. Cater-er, Headmast-er, serv-er,
Makes you wanna commit murd-er.
But how? Knife? Banned! Gun? Banned.
Wife? Banned! Tuck?... I repeat Tuck-your-shirt-in-and-pull-up-your stockings
The way you’re going there Ain’t gonna be no stopping
And change those awful shoes! How many times do you have to be told
Can’t you follow rules? Fit in with the mould?
Rules? Who rules?... and us?... Fools?
What are we here for? What do we do?
You learn, study and enjoy yourself now shooo!
Enjoy? How? By studying? By standing? “No!”
Its sunday stupid! Arre watch the 2-5 show!
Oh yes! Its sunday and there’s a movie but why can’t you go?
You’re gated! So stick here, study and do so and so and so.
Watching the cricket match you say “I’ve heard the new movie...”
“CATCH IT!” You’re interrupted and the fielders go up. The ball goes up, up! up! Up in the air
So if you were fielding at 3rd man you wouldn’t just stand and stare
You’d go for the catch... You’d jump over the wall after the ball.
But you’ve been warned. Take heed!
But you still go for the catch, you do
And you succeed... but......oooo
Well done! Congratulations! You’re caught! You’re healed
You’re school life is over, another letter is sealed.
Howzzat! You listen as the batsmen shout.
You glance at the umpire he shrugs- up goes his finger I’m sorry you’re out!
Out, out! out from the field, out from the gate... you’re finally leaving.
But one second, hold it now, wait!
Where’s your gate pass? Where? It slipped through which crack?
But then you remember you won’t be needing it cause you’re not coming back!
You don’t need to walk, the gate walks towards you,
It looks different like a spare,
Then you see the chowk and think,
“Aah, atleast he’s still there”
“Namaste bhaiya...” you want to continue but your vision and eyesight suddenly blurs.
He’s a collector like you... you collect cards but he... he prefers signatures.
So you think you’ll give him one not another’s like last Sunday’s but yours.
Your very own... and so you ask for the book and you feel its bark.
You open it sign and leave your mark.
You pick your bags and suddenly you’re out... Check mate!
You look behind you but he’s already,
Shut the gate.
Too late again... again too late.
The game’s over! You’ve won! And don’t you feel great?
No more boring classes. No more form-mates.
No more coffee and noodles. I guess you call it fate!
You’ve been expelled... but sadly it came too late... for had it been sooner and as much as you hate yourself for admitting it... you stayed on just long enough to get that lethal taste!
What taste? You wanna know what taste?
That taste which lingers and connects you to dust!
That taste which makes you enjoy your last bust!
That taste which like steel survives even rust!
That taste which is so sweet that return you must!
That taste which hits true and when it does, goes straight to home base!
That even you can’t help admitting, “Damn, I’m gonna really miss this place.”

Apurv Chandola at his best in 1999