The Train Of Love..Maybe- A Short Story

He turned around one last time to check if any of his office colleagues were out hanging at the pan kiosk. Finding none, he buttoned up his jacket and started walking towards the railway station in long strides. Meandering through the rows of pavement hawkers urging him to buy cameras, goggles or porn movies, he walked with a bounce amused and satisfied with himself. The boss was out and he managed half a day of leave by successfully convincing the deputy that he had a splitting headache. The industrious second-in-command had briefly looked up from the computer terminal and finding a face exuding small town sincerity, gave a sympathetic nod. It was not usual of him to play truant but the day was too cheerful to be spent behind a cubicle under the humming air-conditioner doing number crunching. In fact, the constant blow of cool air did numb his mind and for the last few days he had the urge to go out, hang his head in the sun and de-freeze the excel worksheets and project reports. Mumbai was experiencing an unusually cool winter this year. There was a nip in the air and a lazy sun overhead brought a philosophical detachment to anything distantly related to work. Around him, the city, which he only saw rushing to work early and dragging back home at night, looked totally transformed. Different sounds, different faces and an entirely different pace of life. As he reached the Terminus a stuffy stench of phenyl and wet towel entered his nostrils, a different stench indeed. The somber looking Mumbai local stood quitely resting under the rays of sun filtering through the tinted glass of the high-ceilinged heritage structure. It was minutes before it will come to life and roll on the rails to a relaxed journey to the suburbs. He walked up to the first class compartment, swung himself on the pole and landed on the train footboard. He then lazily shuffled himself to the window and spread out with a loud thump. Looking around, he found a goatee sporting college student armed with an I-pod, a couple of Gujju bhais engrossed in newspapers and an old gent wearing the whitest-of-white kurta pyjama. He leaned his head on the window and fixed his gaze on the time indicator, rolling his eyes waiting for the train to move. The indicator stuck the right time and as if something turned in its gut, the iron monster woke up to life and let out two shrill whistles. And in that interlude of whistles a swish of punk swayed into the compartment. The first thing he noticed about her were her shoes, which clip-clopped as she balanced herself on the footboard as the train rolled ahead. She then slowly walked up to a seat opposite him but a further away and quitely sat near the window. His eyes followed her little steps to the seat and then began moving further up slipping over her flawless white slender legs to meet a bunch of pink floral patterns on her skirt on her knees. In her hand she held a pink phone with earphones attached. As his eyes trailed the winding wire from her hand, through her bosom and up, he was met by a set of brown and dreamy eyes. The eyes looked through him and beyond. Totally disinterested in the occupants of the Mumbai local. As she kept her right elbow on the window edge and placed her chin on her open palm looking at the world rushing by, he knew it was a beautiful day and the path ahead held many interesting curves. The train meanwhile was happily rocking on the rails and with each rhythmic jerk he stole glances at her. She too was aware of the attention but was unyielding. What if this is really like in the movies?He would walk up to her and just generally strike a conversation on music or the phone model and they would get talking...Marine Line Station....he jumps frames. Walking on the Queen's Necklace promenade, her long fingers intertwined with his. She bends forward to look at him with eyes gleaming with the heat of a stolen kiss on the taxi and he pulled her close, her waist just fitting into the curve of his left hand. Grant Road Station. The goatee dude gets off here shaking his head like a rocker, one of the Gujju bhais folds up today's news and closes his eyes to catch some sleep while the other continues to work hard on the Sudoku. The whitest of white uncle had meanwhile starting falling over himself drifting into a snooze. The pink flower meanwhile is shuffling keys on her cellphone. She then closes her eyes and rests her back to the seat while crossing one leg over the other. Can she hear his thoughts? Lying on the floor with his face on her stomach, he nuzzles into her navel, making her giggle with tickle. He pins her down and digs his face into her heaving bosom breathing deeply her sweet scent. His hands starts moving on her slender legs as desire swells up but she in an instant pulls him by the hair. "No please....you know i have to be at home," Careless to her pleading, he starts nibbling on her neck till she falls back on the pillows living on small gasps between his bites. BOOM! An avalanche of noise shatters his foreplay as a random group of 15-year-olds make an entry into the compartment trampling his tender thoughts. He notices an inch-long frown go up on her forehead and disappear in an instant. She takes in the changed world in 7 seconds and shifts her gaze back to the rushing world outside. Where was he? One of the boys with long hair and a wise-guy smirk pulls his friend and whisperes something in his ear to which both of them rejoice in a loud laughter. The whisperer than stood up looking at the ceiling fans and sat across her while humming a un-musical tune. She pulls herself and moves closer to the window, her eyes fixed outside. The other lad meanwhile has reached the footboard and is leaning precariously outside the train trying to catch a glimpse of her at the window. He feels sick in the stomach. In two leaps he reached the train gate, pulls the acrobat by his shirt and lands a tight slap across his teenage face. A sudden silence fills up the compartment and he could see the Gujju bhais, the old uncle all awake and mouth agape. A ringing in the ears remain. The train too has stopped. The group of boys slowly deboard, while he continues to stand on the gate till the last one gets off. The one hit meanwhile is looking at him with fiery moist eyes and as the train revs up to go, with all his might, shouts - "Teri kya lagti hai behnchod?" (What does she mean to you sister-fucker?). He almost leaps out of the train with a matching expletive on his lips but gravity will just not let him go. He sees him fade away as the train leaves the station. He turns around to find the portrait in pink fiddling on the phone. She again casually gave a flip to her hair and continued to look outside the window as if she descended just now...totally unaware of the scuffle that took place 4-feet away from her. He stands there a few seconds longer and then walks up to his seat thinking - "Lagti kya hai? Kuch nahi behnchod?" (What does she mean to me? Nothing sister-fucker?). A smile goes up on his face and he folds up his arms, leans his head on the window, closes his eyes to slip into the arms of the rocking bogey cuddling him in his train of thoughts. And if the pink girl would have looked at him after a while. She would have seen her saviour, fast asleep...Smiling!

IN A FIT

Reality dawns at the most unexpected times and is followed by a variety of emotions - realization, regret and resolution. To me, it dawned in a 2X2 pigeonhole, brightly-lit with mirrors all around. I was there alone like in a transit camp before the judgment - to heaven or hell. The breathing was uneven and it was impossible to hold on to the truth very long...it slipped out of my hands and collected around my ankles. This too won't fit!!! Reality Strikes.

I felt a bout of claustrophobia. The waistline gave a sigh of relief and expanded generously as I wondered how and when did it all happen. But the ordeal was not over. I had to step out of the changing room to announce to the world that this too won't fit to which the dandy standing outside will give a sheepish smile and suggest that I buy shirts instead of trying out trousers as if going around wearing only shirts is in vogue.

For many months now I think most of the mall owners have become racist against us - the amply built ones. Ever thought, why the largest of the size is always at the bottom of the rack and you have to almost touch your toes to fish out just five odd options in trousers?

Some of them announce in advance, we don't have your size. Plain curt.

I remember a friend of mine trying out denims at a fancy store in his neighbourhood and suggested size 36 waist to which the cool dude bent his neck sized him up and said like a savant - "unkel 36 to nahi aayega," (uncle size 36 won't fit you).

Rewind to my school days when you had to buy your school uniform from designated shops. Around May-June, you would find the back-to-school crowd thronging these stores which did not have air-conditioning those days.

It was a common sight to find a lanky shop attendant sweating profusely, trying to pull up the shorts over the oversize bums of a chubby lad while his XXXL parents hopefully looked on. "Bhaiya yeh bhi fit nahi hoga?" (Brother, this too won't fit) the concerned mother would say to which Mr Reed would reply , "Woh kya hai na madam, baba jara healthy hai," (It is like that madam that the kid is a wee bit healthy). Underline underline- Healthy. Not fat. But today at the most swankiest of stores - the counting ends at 38. I guess the last best option is to go to expecting mothers' store and ask for a pregnant fit or simply buy shoes. Shoes don't discriminate.

Dilli Abhi Door Hai!!! - Not A Delhi Diary

Some of my best vacations have been the ones on work and out of office. Away from the physical reach of the editor, I start dreaming of unknown adventures. Even if it is just a visit to the next town. I just love the drama of reaching a destination.

Last week was one such experience.

Imagine sleeping in three different beds on three nights, not counting the forty winks on the plane and drooling all over the co-passenger's shoulder in the car in two trips of 8 hrs each.

The journey began in Mumbai on Jan 29 after I reached home at 1 am (that's the least time the clock can show you). A tired day was behind, a drunk present was evident and a three-day intensive tour was ahead. What was between the present and the future were about four hours and an unpacked suitcase. I present here the diary of one of the nights on the trip.

Jan 30, 2009, Saturday 8.30pm

After a two-hour flight and eight hours on the road I landed in a small town. There were five of us, I, the lone reporter from Mumbai, and four public relations executives. We were here to cover a high profile function at a village two hours away from the town featuring a top cabinet minister and a public sector company chief.

Our lodgings for the night were to be in a hotel with a heritage name and rooms fit to match the ruins. Only they were already occupied...by thirsty mosquitoes - the biggest of their species - circling like choppers around us - the prey for the night.

After turning our rooms into smoke chambers with mosquito coils, we headed to a close by banquet hall to find more of my species circling around warm beer bottles and whiskey without ice. They were mostly chiefs from the city bureaus who had separately travelled for the event.

After gulping down a large whiskey with warm water, I had my stomach in knots. The crowd however looked immensely satisfied with the warm spirit. I took aside my PR friend, who was as restless as me to get drunk, and said it was important for us to make whatever is left of the night. It was nearly 11 but we decided to try our luck.

Both of us didn't know the local area or the dialect but daru is as universal a word like water or mother. So the conversation to ask directions goes like this,

My friend hollers from the car window to a group of localities

- Daru, daru? (liquor) ,

- Band (Closed),

- He gestures kahan milega?(where)

- Black (you can get it in black - our term for paying more for our enjoyment),

- Kahan? (where),

- Hotel.

So with the knowledge of the world, we reach an almost shut seedy hotel, get in, buy a bottle of our trusted advisor - Old Monk and zip off.

The heritage rooms have a deathly silence. Bodies of asphyxiated mosquitoes are lying around. We begin our session. The first peg goes easy, the knots open up, the shoes are off and we have curled up on the bed. The conversation is intense. Careers, bosses, office bitches and the stupid company which has brought us here. By the second peg, the smoky atmosphere of the room has acquired a divine aura. We begin talking about "experiences" at religious places.

By then our teetotaler friend has already decided to retire to the other room, visibly uneasy with where the god forbidden people were headed - hell for sure.

In the third and the fourth peg - we are united in our misery, together against the world full of deceit and craftiness which drags us down professionally, we are the epitome of excellence and very very articulate.

It is the last peg - the Patiala.

It is 2.30 am, the dawn is near, the tubelight is dim, our eyes are shining. And then the big question emerges - Where do you see yourself in the next five years? My PR friend lifts up the glass to announce - "I would retire and I have a plan" . My other friend propped up on pillows says - "I want to have a published work in the next five years." Another one all wrapped up in a shawl says -"I want a house and a car but I know it will not happen." All of us pounce upon her with perfect clarity of thought on how you have to dream to do it and think positive and you could attract your success with your own thoughts. She settles down on a big house and a BMW.

My soon-to-retire friend suddenly thinks about a Rs 3 crore watch that he would surely buy.

I'm drunk but not sleepy, just tired. I have nothing to say I cannot look beyond the next day. I try hard to decide on the next five-year-plan...someone offers me a half drunk patiala, I gulp it down...still no clarity. The journey is not over yet. I have two more days of travelling and maybe some more journeys to reach the destination. Dilli Abhi Door Hai!!!

Ek Prem Katha Ke Naam

Jeevan mein honi chahiye ek prem katha,
Hona chahiye koi kissa yaad karne ko,
Nahi to kya rakkha hai, gehri sansen lene mein
Saans ruki aur khel khatam

Jeevan mein hona chahiye ek sapna,
Ya sapnon ka ghar,
Nahi to kya rakkha hai eent pathar ki chardiwari mein,
Mahine ki bandhi kishton mein

Jeevan mein hona chahiye koi junoon
Hona chahiye ek jazba chand ghar lane ka
Nahi to kya rakha hai chandrayaan ke safar mein
Batorne gaya hai chand ki mitti

Jeevan mein jaroor honi chahiye ek prem katha,
Hona chahiye koi kissa,
Nahi to din aur raat ki daud mein
khatam ho jayegi kahani,
Dil ban jayega khoon pump karne ki machine,
Aur Jeevan bina jiye hi jiya jayega

HALF THE MOON (WALKER)

Late 80s in a small town of Jabalpur in Madhya Pradesh.

Pop music here was called "English Music" and Jackson was its highlight. Even those who did not ever hear his music, knew about someone called "Jaiksan" somewhere in America. They also knew that he could dance - almost like Mithun Chakraborty - who then was the larger than life Disco Dancer of the silver screen.

MJ's new album "BAD" was a great rage among us - school boys then. Though we could only understand "I'm Bad, I'm Bad" in the whole song and religiously sang along whenever the phrase came up, it was his moonwalking we swore by. Practicing the smooth backward slide of the feet on dusty school grounds ruined our nice and dandy Bata shoes- but nothing stopped us.

Around the launch of this album, an English magazine "Sun" announced to release a four-part doorsize poster of MJ in his black dress with hooks and trappings, an image which was featured on the BAD album cover.

Now Sun was not a magazine which school boys could pick every now and then . Also the publishers being intelligent publishers released a part of the poster every month starting from his shoes. The wait for the next edition was unbearable.

Because it was summer holidays, my father bought my eldest brother, who obviously had better Jackson-gyaan than I, an edition of Sun, which carried the first part of the poster - the King of Pop's shoes.

A month later, my brother also managed to get the second edition of the magazine and we could create MJ upto his waist. Many a days, I would imagine where I would put up that poster. When nobody was around, I would try pasting the two portions of the poster to see how the whole picture was shaping up.

But as life would have it, we could never get the next two editions of Sun.

Was it Dad's anger over grades (his not mine as I scored decently) or something happened that we could not go to the lone bookstore in town, I was left with half the Moonwalker. Despite this, I preserved the two parts of the poster for more than a year, praying that I might get two more editions of the Sun to complete the picture.

MJ went up to give us more hit numbers and we grew up to sing along with his songs -verbatim.

Today he is dead, in a twist of fate, leaving an unsung concert- just like my incomplete poster of half the moonwalker.

DOORSTEP TO DOOM

Mein kabhi kabhi khud ko
Paap ke dar pe paata hoon,
Sab kuch dekhta hoon
Khud kuch karta nahi
Paap ke bare mein sochna bhi
Kya kufr hota hoga?

Yun to zindagi bina paap ke bhi ji jaati hai,
Par us khoon ka swad chakhne ko
Kyon mann mujhe keechta hai,
Khada kar deta hai us dehleej par
Jiske paar nahi koi khuda,
Bin khudaon ke bhi kya zindagi hoti hogi!

Wahan ka nazaara bhi bada dilkash hai,
Jaise befikr jiye ja raha hoon kisi aur ke din,
Par us dar se laut kar din-o-raat mere,
Na jaane kiske hain, kyon hai khwamakhwa

Yun to ram ke karam se
Sab kuch hai
Paap ke siwa,
Thode pheeke se lagte hain
Kabhi Kabhi ye din
Kya Karen? Kya Dehleej Par Karen?

BOMB-BAI - 26/11

Epilogue
The blood on the newsprint has dried black like ink. The wound is still fresh underneath the crackling dead skin which has begun growing around it. A tempting itch could just open its mouth again.............
The Event
The 25 inch monster sitting atop a pedestal in my drawing room has been spewing gunshots, grenades, fire. I am sitting through it - like under a spell - Am I suffering from Stockholm Syndrome? The siege on the city has kept me hostage before the television from morning till late in the night. Splinters of breaking news are all around me and I fear to get up and walk through it. One might just pierce my heart I feel. It is better here on the beanbag. Maybe I could stay here forever or as long as the terrorists want me to. Its so safe around here. The water bottle next to me - I could just reach out to a helping of snacks. I guess I can live for a couple of days with a bottle of water and some snacks. Well if I just sit here on the bean bag I could conserve all my energy and anyway passivity hardly burns any calories -any way I sympathise with my captor. With so much happening its so difficult to catch up. Maybe my exasperation too will make me lose energy. I should remain calm. I hope I changed the batteries of my remote. I am busy with some serious channel surfing...I should have an eye witness account of every bullet fired, every shrapnel that became alive and stuck deep into some one's skin. As dead bodies start piling up my eyes begin to grow heavy but a screaming headline shakes me up. And then another. I could smell gunpowder in the air. Can someone please open the windows? I have the urge to curl up and sleep and put out the noise. But it is just getting louder and overpowering. Its so claustrophobic was there a bomb explosion here? The soot of the black smoke is writ all over my face, I am gasping for air but they are closing on on me. All of them ..walking right into my house and spreading around behind the television, in the bathroom, in the bed room, in the kitchen, on the loft i know I am cornered...i know i am caught It was not a great idea to stay on the beanbag. I know now I would last only till my captors want me to. One of them thrusts a gun into my chest, orders me to strip. Ashamed by the many set of eyes watching me I begin to undress. First the shirt then my trousers, I stop, one of them pulls down my underwear, another kicks me in groin, I twist in pain clutching my crotch as the make a ring around me. Two of them start pulling my hands away while I desperately try to cover myself . they have stretched me across the floor on my back. I close my eyes in fear they begin laughing hysterically, I can imagine them rolling in laughter and over the noise one of them screams. "Look at you! Bloody Eunuch".