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Archive for October, 2007
October 31, 2007 at 2:15 pm · Filed under fiction
The bottle fell to meet the sound of shattering glass on the destined chunk of tar. She had her head in her hands. Tears rolled down her cheeks onto the road, as she saw him walk away.
- - -
He glanced at the digital clock on the Xplod. 23:57. The dazed pair of eyes focused back on the road, or atleast attempted to. His fingers had lost both, the warmth and the grip. It was as if dead, insensitive skin rested on a circular mould covered in leather. The wheel itself swayed from left to right, very pendulum-like. He was quickly losing control over its movement, yet the feet rarely left the accelerator. The alcohol was taking full effect, as J’s sunken eyes continued to flicker.
‘Fucking bitch’, he heard himself saying, as he gulped down another mouthful of the cursed scotch.
As he approached the railway bridge, he tapped the brake. The Corsa slowed down, momentarily, before the right limb arbitrarily pressed itself against the pedal. 40kph. Now 50kph. He turned through the narrow path under the bridge, not attempting to slow down in any manner, as the screeching sound of pre-fatality filled the neighborhood. Like a furious meander of a deathly stream, he twisted and turned the vehicle around the narrow paths before entering the slums.
The eyes flickered again, trying to stay open, like a lamp struggling on its last drop of oil. But as he sped forward, the liquor emerged victorious. For one fleeting instant the eyes were shut in deep thought and regret - in submission to the might of intoxication. It was as if time refused to tick forward - a void - a sudden enigmatic emptiness of silence.
The old woman.
It happened instantaneously. It was painless. She hardly suffered a moment of pain. It was over in a moment. He hit the brakes as a reflex reaction, and the metal wagon of murder came to a halt just outside her hut. Her corpse came flying down to meet him, landing on the bonnet. The abrupt thud, an omen of finality. Fatality. The soul had entered the after-life.
His eyes were shielded from the sight before him by the trembling fingers and a palm that had broken into cold sweat. They had regained their grip as a result of fear more than sobriety. He slowly moved them away, until they covered the face no more, although the eyes were still shut. He slowly opened them.
The corpse looked back at him, in the eye. The body was lifeless, there was blood all over but not a hint of agony, and he could still hear her screaming. From the windscreen, she was still looking at her assassin, an inquiring look stuck on the stiff face.
- - -
She was now sprinting, but she was late. He was taken. Handcuffed, he looked at her rushing to meet him. He shrugged his shoulders. It was too late. Everything was too late. He still yearned for the drink, and tried to reach it. The officer intervened, as the assassin writhed in anger. But the law-enforcers had seen enough. The seargant walked to the pavement and picked it up. With one last look of disgust at the scotch, he chucked it.
The bottle fell to meet the sound of shattering glass on the destined chunk of tar. She had her head in her hands. Tears rolled down her cheeks onto the road, as she saw him walk away.
October 30, 2007 at 8:47 pm · Filed under politics, regional
I thought ‘JD(S)’ stands for ‘Janata Dal (Secular)’. Oops, it turns out - that’s the wrong expansion. The accurate one is: ‘Just Doing the State’.
Yes. They really are doing us all.
When H D Kumaraswamy took the hot-seat in February 2006, we were slightly surprised, weren’t we? I mean, here’s a son rising against the father, and while Gowda Sr. quietly mumbled his discomfort at the BJP alliance, the son makes a promise to the people of a state.
Only to break it, rather unsurprisingly, a year and a half later.
If the son is the icing, big-daddy Gowda is the cherry on the cake of cunning politics. They say looks are deceptive - in his case, they’re mindboggling. He comes across as a person who would struggle to rule an acre in Kanakhpura, and he actually went on to become the Prime Minister of the Nation. But beneath that expressionless face, beyond that plain-vanilla raagi-hittu diet, there is something about the man that stands out. And it’s quite evident.
Too bad for him it’s his lust for power, an omen of which is the recent influence on the son to halt the power-transfer, which left a power-erect Yediyurrappa who had to suddenly go limp, forced to retreat as a result of what the BJP famously overtitled ‘the betrayal’.
And just like your local Bangalore rickwaala would take a shocking U-turn from under your nose without any indication, the JD(S) have come back wanting to support the BJP. It’s like divorcing a woman, and when you realise you aren’t getting any action at night, and you go back to her, ‘will you marry me?’
But even the women would have better sense. However - The Brainless Janata Party (or the BJP) - who were actually in the middle of their election campaign, agreed immediately, as if they are a powerlust-starved entity and not a party responsible for the welfare of the people.
Had Yediyurappa really gotten this hard?
The trigger for the JD(S) thrusting into reverse gear, undeniably, ought to be the actions of a certain rebel JD(S) leader who goes by the name of M P Prakash. I’ll forgive you for going ‘M P who?’ as it’s usually the Gowda household that hogs all the limelight. Prakash - himself an accomplished and respected leader - who enjoys a following even within the Kumarasamy camp, went on spawning his own thread in alliance with the Congress. Prakash also enjoys more support from a dominant Lingayat community, and the window of opportunity to go on and become the CM in a Congress alliance would’ve sent Godwa’s panic-o-meter running.
And somehow, base-Gowda has come out tops again, with the majority.
When will the leaders realise that this a promise they make to their people, and not a game of musical-chairs?
Anyway, here we are back to square one.
- - -
It is no secret that the mean-supreme Gowda’s eyes remain shut more often than not. So, it seems appropriate that while the party is led by namma Kumbhakarna, typing JD(S) on MSN Messenger yields this:
October 25, 2007 at 2:39 am · Filed under fiction
At seventy-three, Manjunath’s index finger was incredibly still, as he extended it to pat his charioteer. The touch was both firm and gentle - and mysteriously, the muddy fingernail communicated his intent to pull over. The rickshaw came to a halt at the sidewalk, as the veteran courier climbed out with caution, carrying the watertight bag over his shoulder. The smell of the fresh monsoon leftovers greeted him, bringing a dry smile to his exhausted face, while he rummaged through his pockets for change. It was horribly dark, and with the power out, the only light came from a divine source reflecting the full face of the moon.
Nazeer Pasha was far from honest. The khaki-clad driver lit a matchstick near the meter to read the fare, and doubled it.
“Saab, Chaalis”
It was way too dark, and Manjunath couldn’t read his lips, although he sensed the speech. Moving a step sideways to allow the light into the rickshaw and its driver’s face, he asked his charioteer to repeat the last words.
“Chaalis”.
The deaf undertaker paid the fare and walked towards the lake. Tonight was a one-man show, and he had only the corpse for company.
- - -
He was no ordinary cop. Thirty years in the service brought his aim to near-supernatural accuracy, and any criminal who offered the question was either silenced or rendered incapable of doubt. A recent promotion landed him in the Office for Counter-terrorism, an ad-hoc initiative setup by the district authorities to expose potential terrorism within urban Bangalore. Raman’s recruitment was hyped by the media to the extreme, although it was an obvious choice. His name was synonymous with the highest level of ruthlessness that the city had to offer, and it wasn’t always about the kill, but about his presence and visibility, even on Page 3. The force came under heavy criticism, but made deep inroads into the dormant underworld, a proactive step to combat crime. As Director at OCT, many felt that Raman’s encounters were a thing of the past.
What they didn’t know, of course, was that he still gave the bullet to organized crime in the city. Madhusudan Raman had merely switched focus, not roles. A bureaucrat by day, a freelance sniper by night.
- - -
Manjunath had grown up in the area, he’d been at the heart of the action all the way through the Cantonment’s rise and fall. He’d seen the Union Jack replaced with the tri-color that made him swell with pride, and with times changing, his versatility at handling funerals only increased. Now past his best years, Manjunath had retired to die a peaceful, natural death, until his latest ‘employer’ introduced him to opportunity, a job that he could have as long as he evaded fatality. It wasn’t legal, it wasn’t easy, and it had tremendous risk attached to it, but it offered his fragile frame a means of living. It was livelihood, a way of life that didn’t require his lost capability of hearing. He had nodded his head frantically at the proposition, his palms folded in gratitude, as the employer remunerated him with half the value for the job.
Today was his last job for the employer, but the confidence and enthusiasm had peaked as it always had, and he got around to working on the corpse like clockwork, fantasizing of the other half of the pay-packet that waited at the end of his task.
- - -
He knew his way into the premises, an opening through the fence that guarded the lazy lake from the busy roads. Mustering up the strength, he threw the bag ahead and climbed over the parapet, coming face to face with the huge cemetery that lay ahead. The graveyard itself was unique - it had many graves but never needed diggers. It accommodated over hundreds of the dead, yet it always seemed empty, ready to conceal more corpses under its skin. A dump of bodies in the heart of the city, yet it remained invisible to almost everyone, except for one single soul - the undertaker responsible for setting up this burial ground - a world of souls, suspended and submerged underwater, a mortuary better known to the city as the Ulsoor Lake.
Manjunath gave one last look at the watertight sleeping bag, and a sadistic smile followed. He never regretted that today would be his last task ever.
- - -
Raman’s freelance assignments had one issue - disposal. Police encounters were a different ball-game, but private killings required a lot of physical effort to hide the body in a safe place. With the real-estate boom, practically every little land worthy of occupation was used up, and that left the sniper with few areas to lose his kill.
Until he recalled Manjunath, who came up with the idea of turning the city’s most popular waterbody into a necropolis.
“The lake, sir. In the whole wide universe, no one would have thought of this.”
Raman had his doubts, but he also trusted the aged transporter - a veteran of many corpses. However, it was with a touch of reluctance that the cop agreed to the idea.
But it worked wonders.
It was absolutely impossible to imagine where these bodies would be lost. Every week, people from the city would arbitrarily vanish without a trace, and the body would never be recovered. Manjunath would seal the corpse in a watertight case to prevent human rot from contaminating the lake. And the space underwater was immense - it would last them a lifetime. The plan had worked well - flawless - until last week.
Tears rolled down the old man’s face as he sealed the most recent corpse in the fiery orange case. He couldn’t lift the body anymore, but the weight of the dead wasn’t the concern. It was the weight of feelings that had grasped him, on first encountering the dead body of his only son, and then sealing him with the same fate as the rest of Bangalore’s crime community. He refused to believe that Harish would’ve ever gone against the law - and when he questioned Raman about it a few weeks after the dust settled, the latter’s reply shocked him.
“When you’re hunting, many stray animals get killed.”
“Did you know?”
“What?”
Manjunath looked at the floor, as his hands went to the pockets.
“He was my only son.”
“Harish? Oh my God, I’m so ” -
But the apology never made it to the lips. He still held the knife in his hands, although they were stained with blood. The cop’s body fell flat on its back, the face frozen in fright as it was during it’s final moment before mortality. A mixture of saliva and blood trickled out of the mouth that was wide open, as it flowed through the cheeks till it reached the cement tiles at the Raman residence. Manjunath had brought the bag with him, and quickly got to work, not noticing that the fallen cop clenched his fist, the final movement that Madhusudan Raman made before being sealed to his fate.
- - -
The night had reached its core, and life around the lake was as still as the water itself. Manjunath guided the wooden raft strategically to a point where he’d made lesser dumps - this was a body that required isolation. He pushed it as it fell into the lifeless water, sinking down waywardly until it hit the lake’s bed. The latest bag to enter the huge pond, but it was unique from all the other corpses in its vicinity. One single factor separated it from the rest of the bodies submerged in the Ulsoor lake.
The body within that case still had life.
It has been one week since. Raman continues to attempt an escape from mortality, in vain.
October 25, 2007 at 2:23 am · Filed under telly
Oh? Hi there! Let me quickly introduce myself. I’m the new pimp in town.
And I’m also horribly incompetent. I can’t keep up with the competition out there. While journalists manage to dig up ground-breaking stories, I refine wine and serve it in a new bottle.
If you remember, a month back, a Kashmiri ‘terrorist’ - known for murdering Kashmiri pundits - was released. I sniffed for a bit. Indeed, it seemed a great story. So what I did, was promptly set up a panel of ‘experts’. I split the screen into quadrants and got them to dial in. Two of them had honest opinions, but I rarely allowed them to speak. I gave more time to the stupid diplomatic tape-recorded opinion of a bureaucrat, and once he hung up, I twisted the words, fabricated a baseless opinion and sold it on national television.
That is how powerful I am. Today, of course, I’m having a field day.
Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s trimmed those locks. Goodness me, isn’t that the next-big story, just a notch short of the aforementioned cricketer shaving the pubic hair (and then perhaps calling for a press conference to publicize it)? Indeed, this must be the year’s top story. So I sent out my reporters to Ranchi to cover the ‘homecoming’. I played the famous Musharaff clip about a million times, the one in which he goes ‘If you want my opinion, I think this look suits you, you look good in this’.
Then, I splash a huge headline with an orange backdrop: ‘Dhoni goes for a cool, new look’
I then send my reporters to interview the city on what they think about it. Does it affect cricket? Perhaps, sprinkle in a doctor’s report that links keratin to the bottom-hand muscle strength. Great, I’ve managed to fill in enough for today’s news.
But is that spicy enough? Nope. Too bland. Time to add a pinch of salt.
So I rope in the Deepika Padukone twist, and I make sure my reporters go ‘Dhoni’ and then ‘Deepika Padu-koni’ so that it rhymes. Creates an impact, you see? I then revert to my best technical capability - splitting the scene into two. On the left is Deepika, dressed in a to-die-for evening gown (atleast, it’s to-die-for now that I’ve mentioned it), and on the right is Dhoni pulling an offie for six.
I then ask my reporters to find out from the people of Ranchi - how would they welcome Deepika anyway? Will she fit into the household? I get public opinion, and share. Because I am all about awareness. My objective is to bring the news to the people. I want my viewers to know exactly what is going on in the nation. This is why I exist. This is what makes me sleep at night.
I am such a media pimp, making my celebrities look like publicity-grabbing whores.
I am Headlines Today.
Don’t miss tomorrow’s exclusive interview with the barber who trimmed the Dhoni locks. Live and exclusive on HT.
October 17, 2007 at 11:58 pm · Filed under cricket
Let’s state two highlights today. The first, Dravid was rested. Secondly, India won. No, I’m not correlating, but merely stating two facts.
On a rather serious note, people have hit back on the Wall’s exclusion. Spare a thought for the selectors - the guy doesn’t perform, you drop him, and the match you drop him requires the services of a strong middle-order batsman strong in defence chasing 193 where run-rates aren’t too worrying. How unfortunate indeed.
On the Mumbai ODI itself, well, what do you say at a team like ours? We bowled exceptionally well - Karthik surprisingly got wickets, six of them to be precise, he’s the same guy who was initially offered to comment on the series from the media-center - and we fielded decently although there were chances we didn’t take. Not many teams end up bowling Australia out within 50 overs for less than 200, and with only 193 to chase, one would think India had the match safely pocketed.
Yeah, right. It just occurred to me - we’re a team that’ll make a match out of chasing 24 on a belter, if we could.
- - -
So the batting card walked out there, and horribly shuffled around, ducked, swayed and shuddered in fright before perishing to the pace of Yellow. Ganguly and Karthik - Dravid’s replacement - decided to give the scorers the day off, Tendulkar has the woodwork in a mess, Yuvraj was uncharacteristically measured and Dhoni hopped around for a bit. When Pathan had strolled out for a quick see-in (and promptly walked back after a quicker see-you), India were reeling at 64-6 before Uthappa and Bhajji had enough. Utthappa played extremely well for his 47, a fighting knock in the context of the match, one that brought India to within a whisker of the victory. The tail held their nerves, common sense prevailed and some wayward bowling from Australia (who actually conded 20 wides, would you believe it?) allow India to scamper through and regain some respect from a series they deserved to lose from day one.
Simply becase, hello, Australia played more professionally, were more consistent and were more positive.
India’s aggression, on the other hand, was limited to a fiery burst of pace from Zaheer and Sreesanth, the latter sprinkling a bit of southie profanity to stir the Australian camp up. Didn’t go down too well with Andrew Symonds, and if looks are anything to judge by, he’s one bloke I wouldn’t want to piss off. Instead, Sreesanth got whacked all over the park in his recent outings provoking the selectors to show him out and draft RP Singh in, injuries be damned.
Eventually, we limped across and won, and all is forgotten.
- - -
It will be interesting to see the team selection for the one-off T20 at Bombay in a few days from now. I’d pick the same team that won the finals at the Wanderers, but then again, that’s me. Will bring the match live, ball-by-ball come Saturday evening. Until then, adios.
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