Some Random Things

The moon rose, sped across the skies and then disappeared slowly into the paling sky.

Like Always.

Yawn, morning arrived.

Like It Always Did.

Yawn, class at, yawn, 11 am.

Some Vague Lecture.

Yawn, class, zzzzz...., lunch, zzzzz, class...

And the day died and the moon set its gears again.

If the World was someone's TV, someone was into repeat telecasts. And it was one dull, dreary show they were watching.

That is until the Monkey thundered into the scene.

And then - a cat! And then, the ghost of a mangy cur. And the tooth imprints of a rat. And the wintry chill that only a snow leopard can bring with it. And the quiet silence of the sloth bear.

Oh yes, all of a sudden there's Wildlife in the hostel, prowling unexpectedly around corners, dragging into the stony walls the trails of the wild, an air of tense excitement and promises of unpredictable adventure.

Now, the Monkey is one after my own heart. He owns the following:

1. a broken left leg

2. a shocking appetite for anything remotely edible

3. a permanently blank expression that passes off as deep and philosophical

Next to turn up was the crazy cat. The crazy cat is a regular spitfire. It is completely ignorant of social etiquette and hobnobs with dustbins and thinks of ways to eradicate mankind all the time.

There is also the Ghost of a Dog, spotted only at the Witching Hour, sniffing hungrily at dustbins( probably they smell of the crazy cat)

There are rats too, some reduced to ghosts after guzzling over mess leftovers.

Out of the above fauna, only the Monkey is worth striking up companionship. There were talks about making it the Wing Counselor but this peaceful primate didn't come down from the roof for a whole day as a mild sign of protest.

And the cat is plain evil.

What a clever post, indeed.

P.S: All the above characters are NOT fictitious and anyone who lives in the same wing and doesn't know about all this is living in the thralls of danger and doom. Seriously. Dogs. Bite.

The Mystery of Quincy Public Library

What, one wonders, in one's moments of extreme joblessness, happened to the Quincy Public Library. I use the word wonders and not thinks because I mean to. Thinking is too deep and philosophical an art and doesn't go well with squashing flies and scraping paint off walls ( something I was doing by the side as I wondered)

Like I said. Whatever happened to the Quincy Public Library.

Did it get the Quinzy?

Did it flood in those parts and affect them so brutally that they had to sell off the rarest of their rare books? Did the Klu Klux Klan get 'em?

Whatever. Their loss is my gain. I own it. The slightly yellowed, sweet smelling, ever so beautiful, First Edition of Pocahontas or The Nonparallel of Virgina by, bless him, David Garnett.

God bless Amazon.com. God bless Pari. God bless Quinzy Library, for being so agreeable so as to part with something so dear.

It was nearly a month ago when I sat, feeling rather wistful, in a Dead ( and Highly Respected) Man's library, sniffing the beautiful library he had reared. I was wistful because I felt a mixture of joy and hopelessness. I was also hopelessly stirred.

You could see it in every book, on every page, that they had had a loving master. And what an exquisite collection of books this master had owned. You could see that this was no Bestseller-reading boor. Every title read like poetry.

My nose nearly grazed the many volumes, as I scanned the shelves, resolving the fine print with uncharacteristic determination. And suddenly my spine frizzled. My eyes froze.

There sat amongst the others, Pocahontas or The Nonparallels of Virgina. Slanting ever so slightly towards the right with a queer, delicate air of its own.

I settled down to Chapter One, ignoring the Dog ( there was one nearby). An hour passed when I shook out of the spell of the book, to come to terms with the baying dog and a passing fly.

Dogs ruin life, I tell you. Flies are no Mother Teresas either. I skipped out of the Dead Man's beautiful library, cursing the brainless beasts and limped to a safer but bookless place and I sat there, lost in dreams and reveries. If the Dead Man hadn't been Dead, he would surely have lent the book to me but the Alive Woman who roosted in his place, clearly had no such social side. She pulled an unconvincing face meant to depict apology and gestured No, Fcuk Off.

But now I have it, Ihaveit my precioussss. Even better, it is the First Edition and to add to its never-ceasing charm, it's got a No Longer The Property Of Quincy Public Library stamped over it. Quincy's a loser, if you ask me. It probably got busted by the FBI for indulging in wrong practices, probably they misused CCTVs and all that.

Most likely- There's no Quincy and there's no book and there's nothing and we're just in a dream.

The Mango Mafia

Part I
mangoforbreakfastmangobetweenbreakfastandlunchmangoafterlunchmangoafterafterlunchmangoinmydreamsetcetraetcetra
I really like the way Mr. Dahl employs the term 'fruity' while describing sappy stuff, like silly TV moments when Tom is about to propose Angela. It gives me hope and courage that there once lived a man who rightly interpreted the manipulative and trashy nature of these organic infestations, designed primarily for the diet of the fruit bat and the fruit fly.
Whether 'tis some mild delirium that guides me to rant so openly about this insular scheme of nature,that I cannot say. Whether it's a secret craving for processed food, the kind with Italian peppers strewn generously, that too is beyond my knowledge.
All I know is that I am being pursued by the Mango Mafia and there's little I can do about it.

Part II

The truth hit me a couple of hours ago, when my mental cogs reeled out ole Bollywood gangster scene,and in no time I had put two and two together.

'Chausa' , I conjectured, had to be a sort of highwayman ( such a typical name), Hapus the wicked gunslinger and I was damned if Langda wasn't their leader. Had these been real people with the customary gangsta moustache and mole, I wouldn't have felt any more stricken.

Oh, I was shit scared. And that is when I felt compelled to read up on the old deserted case of the Mango Massacre of the 90's. If I had been shit scared earlier, I now felt like a homeless bacteriophage. In an old newspaper I found a bizzare account, told from the horror-struck eyes of The Mangoose, a famed decoit of the past and as I read the bone chilling epistle, my worst fears were confirmed. I must let out the story for confined within me, it torments my system and right now, I'm in the state of one who values health above all.

Part III: Abstruse Mangoose: The Dead Man's Account

I began the Mango Massacre.

I shot down every mango in my sight. Young or old, not one mangy mango escaped my terror. My thirst grew.I began scouting for peaches. I beat the pulp out of oranges. I skinned chickoos. I laughed as I squeezed the life out of pomegranates. I plundered secret hideouts of berries. In my wake, grapes grew seedy and apples lost colour.

The world was rightly shaken, most importantly the scientific community at whom my ire was directed, became helpless. Sans the apple, I knew the ole bearded bozos would be left with only the 99% perspiration and none of the newtonesque inspiration that is required for scientific progress.

Over the time, I quit beating-the-bushes and expanded my networks and skills. Wildlife, I soon learnt, was what the top smugglers were lusting for, and I plunged head-on into this new, fantastic job.

Snakespearbuddy), Ratface, Toad and Limpin'Lemur and me got together to form a formidable team. We supplied the big 'uns the works- ivory, mink, tiger claws. We grew rich and ambitious and in a series of coups, Ratface killed Toad after Toad killed the Lemur and Snakespear slit Rat's neck.

The Mangoes massacre

It was destiny that led me to throw Snake down the river. Strange emotions welled up as I watched the trusty friend of yore battle helplessly against the raging waters, but doomed is the gangster who yields to the tricks of the heart in its mellower moments. I was now numero uno, the bane of the jungle and beloved of the big'uns.

But going solo meant that the work got lonely and doubly dangerous. Often my resolution would flicker, and my soul fell to conflict. I could go back to becoming a teacher. My villainy would stay masked, forgotten in due course. I would be a tyrant, yet an accepted citizen.

One day I could take it no more and picking up my rifles, pushed off into the depths of the jungle. I was determined to end these useless, rambling doubts. I was a hunter and my job was to be unforgiving and cold. I was a predator. My blood worked up as I wandered deep and far; the smell of the wild excites the true predator and makes it a thing of demonic savageness.

I spotted two shining lights in the dark. A black velvety bulk stood outlined against the heavy darkness of the night. It was a panther. With infinite deceit and pain, I rounded the panther and felled it with a curve of my hatchet. The lifeless body slumped and the fire of its eyes slowly dimmed, as if in submission.

In the foliage, I detected little furtive motions. It was an elephant, a magnificent tusker and I soon had it at my feet, crushed like a beetle. I caught the scent of deer and soon enough, the fleeing lot were outrun by a couple of my bullets.

It was the greatest haul ever. I felt drunk, delirious with success. I caressed my fingers, those dextrous, beautiful creations of art.

Every glimmer, motion or unrest in the jungle came to a standstill in my wake. The forest seemed to hold its breath. The wind fell, almost withdrawing from me.
I dragged my haul after me, filling the air with loud, raucous laughter as I thought about my old vacillating mind.

But I should have read the signs of the sudden climate change. I should have kept an ear out for the soft padded steps that were rounding on me.Suddenly, from the thick darkness tore out beasts, of every kind and number and their angry baying and bawling rung through the air as they broke the circle they formed, charging towards me.
All became a furious tussle..between flashes of gnashing jaws, teeth, paws and antlers I dimly fell the growing patter of rain. A storm was aboad.

I woke up. My skin felt curiously pickled and smarted as the wind brushed it but the foremoust thought I had was that I was alive.
I lay in a tribal hut, and who I discerned to be the village doctor, was hovering around.
" He has woken. Put him on a diet of fruits. Only fruits. Fruits of every kind, of every hue , with pith and rind" his voice broke the quiet of the morning as he directed his orders.
A new set of footsteps told me that breakfast had arrived. A bowl of mangoes sat in a shaft of the sunlight, giving me a look of loathing, but what troubled me was the laziness which it dwelled upon me.
An unknown pang of fear went down my spine.
I gasped and clutched at my blanket.
" So it's you. FInally we meet. How ironic, we who could cure you, we who are full of goodness, will be see you to the burning gates of hell." said the mango.
" No, no! " cried I " Leave me! I could squash you! Leave me!" and I kicked at the old bowl savagely.
The bowl tottered a bit and the mango rose out.
" You cannot escape." it said, calmly.
From behind it, I watched with horror as my breakfast closed upon me with the slow, calculated motion of vengeance.
" Spare me" an involuntary note of plea escaped my dry mouth.

The army of fruits parted in two files. A peach walked in.
" Spare you?" spat she, her voice trembling with contempt. She ripped open her heart, and I saw streaks of crimson down the yellow flesh that seemed to burn with hatred." You, who left your dirty human tracks on my great-grandfather's heart."
A huge watermelon rolled up and gave a commanding bellow " Ladies and Gentlemen. It's wartime. Roll out the cannons! Fire the bullets!"

I could scarcely believe the scene. Massive melons rolled around, firing their seeds at me. Bananas left their skins lying wherever I tried to run. Oranges acid-fired at me. A huge jackfruit went flying, ripping off as much of my flesh as it could.
I took to my heels. The ballistic army came chasing me, but even in my weakened condition I knew they could never, ever catch me.

Panting, I reached the shore of the river, ahead of which lay a town. I only had to cross it to escape this madness. I needed a weapon to face the challenges ahead; I pulled at a branch that swooped low over me.

A yellow thing, smooth, young and yellow fell in my hands.
It was a mango.
" I was waiting for you" it said in a fruity, dangerous tone and fell over my neck, smothering me with its sickly sweetness. " Take your own time. There are many of us." it said, with a lisping voice.

Part IV: The remains of The Mangoose were found near the river in a shocking state. His head lay in a pool of crimson plum juice, pulp and goop coiled around him like ropes. And his mouth was found to be open, teeth decaying, and stuffed with mango.

Monsieur Monsoon

It rained all day tonight.
'Twas an early morning when the rains tried to steal in. But because of the many ghissus up at that hour, the wake up calls went around quickly and the houses and balconies were full of cheers as the first drop came shooting from the skies.

The thunder applauded.

The rain came pouring, unfurling its silvery sheen, its full glory and richness of sound, down onto the waiting trees, the thirsty soil and the outstretched arms. In minutes, the world stood transformed as a certain banana republic of a place called Roorkee bade its minions to the cursed confines of examination halls. Though not even a thing as cross-eyed as an exam can spoil anything that's got a dreamy 'first' prefixed to it. First Crush, First Car, First Rains..you name it!

You just need to jump into the puddles, or lip-sync with a frog or freeze-frame the spiralling droplets and the dreadful hangover of the aweful-est exam goes cartwheeling into the misty horizons.

Rains are magical.
In the sheer audacity of their suddenness, in the bountiful beauty they inspire, in the music they leave behind.
Rains heal. By giving back life to parched land, by washing the dust off old memories, and simply by showing up.
Rains unite. By getting people together over cups of coffee, by pulling out the livelier sorts onto the streets and forcing the hydrophobic ones to stay huddled under shelters.

The leaves must have dried up by now. Just hoping my shoes have too.

So you think you could just be dancing

The party is on.

Every face is a study in perfect composition: the women wear their painted smiles and the men their bluff heartiness. But when the music begins, light-hearted spirited strains off a piano, a small scar of horror cracks through every mask, for it reminds them of how far away from rhymes and revelries their lives have come.

But they still step up to the dance floor, hand-in-hand with the partners they secretly hate, envy or cheat. And yet they pretend to look at them as if they were in love, because that is part of the whole scheme of their life...doing as the occasion demands.

From above the dance floor, the maginficent chandelier watches, its icy white light a little whiter than usual.

The clock ticks silently but the gap between each hour is slowing.

The witching night has gobbled up half the moon.

As the hours grows late, the grandest of the guests arrive, they who wear their inhuman aristocracies like heavy armors- armors which are meant to be formidable defences, but which themselves turn inwards and chip and nick a little flesh when they can.They are dressed richly, in furs and wild colours but the real difference lies in how perfectly their masks have become one with their skins. Pecking and cooing with false pleasure, they run into familiar faces- old affairs, friends they duped, fellow millionaires they secretly conspire against but their painted smiles stay just as wide.

Ofcourse, every now and then a sharp, jealous glare slips out unbidden within the sea of impersonal greetings, but this is a ugly, naked breach of conduct and no one acknowledges it.

Now the music slides into a wild, feral romp on its own. The pianist appears to have gone missing, the piano seems to have walked by itself, to a chamber upstairs.

An invisible finger trails down everyone's spine but they try their best to keep guard. Sip wine and play-talk, wading through the thickening atmosphere with a set stubborness

The grander guests kept their high-handed hauteur and the lesser mortals their chilling courtesies. Not a face has yet betrayed the horrors that are wrecking their insides, the strong grasp the wind's hand suddenly has made on their very throats. Because acceptance would be defeat.

Until the unexpected guest walks in.

Hippies Don't Lie

'Twas Theoatmeal.com that sent me into the depths of despair all this while. How could I even poke the issue of randomness with grandmasters like Mr. Innman around? Utterly hopeless, I had given up this-is-so-random and drifted to lower crafts like drafting and rendering,well, at least in my dreams.

I wasn't the only one having troubled dreams.

The Troublemaker had a dream about her past life. That she had once been Christopher Columbus, the chosen one, the great man who never let the wind go out of his sails, the intrepid traveler who introduced his companions to the wonders of scurvy. She regaled tables, chairs and a few walls who were ready to listen with how travel was the only ambition in her life.
Meanwhile, the Beanstalk lost her mind and her heart and bravely masked this great tragedy by putting up her autobiography in installments through periodically updated status messages.

So it was a nervy and twitchy audience that the Troublemaker had, when the Beanstalk and me accidentally caught her in an impassioned " Why the hell won't you ever move your a*ses out of Roorkee? " kind of speech. Beanstalk burst out and declared- " ALL RIGHT THEN. Tomorrow, the land of Rishikesh it is! You can do whatever you want to - hog, amble, raft-
NO!
@$%^##%!
Why the hell would I say draft!"

Which is how we found ourselves ensconced in a bus, still rubbing our eyes, on a trip that we decided to improvise as a food trail. Since ambling sounded suspiciously bovine and I firmly put an end to any discussion on drafting, and also since two out of us were consummate foodies, we decided to go as on-the-job gluttons.

...And it was heaven. It doesn't take long for one to come under the sublime spell of Rishikesh, and nothing can ruin it, not the supersonic roar of the auto engines, not even the charging cows, not the jostling crowds.

While we stuck to our hogging plans, soon food wasn't the only thing on our minds.

Hippies.

Don't Lie, Look Awesome, Are completely at peace, Come only in One's or Two's and are God's Gift to the Opium Industry.

And now it wasn't only the Beanstalk who had lost her heart.

Their faces are unusually unlined and carefree. They spend all their life in pristine unwashed glory. They provide home to stray birds in their magnificent coiffures and they can make a raggedy cloth ,that a non-fussy mechanic would scorn, look like the most elegant line of pret wear.
A hippie will think nothing of squatting by the curb to read a book, something of the nature of The Tibetan Book Of the Dead. A hippie will revise yoga postures in the middle of a cafe. A hippie will, more often than not, be accompanied by a thick cloud of smoke. A hippie will walk hand-in-hand with mendicants and write on how beautiful and divine the beggars of India are.

Hippiedom is the pinnacle of pointlessness, what they call nirvana. It is a sublime state of existence, where soap, comb and sanity are shunned, where laziness is but a way of life..

???

Where was I?

Something about on-the-job gluttons. Heaven. Mystical.

I was mystified into the world of magic stones , as a cross-eyed shopkeeper showed us a memory-reviving stone. I would have liked to buy an entire (double-strung) necklace of those stones but the Chief Treasurer forbade any investments in anything that wasn't edible. FOCUS! commanded she, and we treated our intestines to an interesting mix of pancakes, pasta and deserts. The Troublemaker refused to eat at one place unless we sat in the view of the river and this being neatly overruled, a killing silence followed that made me fish out The Tibetan Book Of the Dead for advice. Anyway, from where we ultimately sat, we had a good view of an Italian hippie, resplendent in a lungi, who referred to the waiter as 'You- CHINK!', and thus restored us to good cheer.

But all good things must end and soon we were back on the jolting ride home. Back to the 360 acres, back to a Monday, but back as sworn believers of the hippie cult...

Aloha!