Tuesday, November 13, 2012

A White Sheet Of Paper

‘Bham... bham, bham, bham’

Four innocent scrawls were etched on the pristinely white paper using an Add Gel pen. John stared at the words for a few minutes, his eyebrows furrowed in deep though. He added one more ‘bham’ at the end of his first line.

John Thomas was starting on his English assignment. He had been sitting on it for a week. And since the teacher had insisted on seeing them on her desk by Monday morning, he had started writing his brilliantly thought out story on that rain drenched Saturday afternoon. But the sudden appearance of the sun and an equally sudden appearance of eight young boys in shorts and shoes with a muddied football between them had weakened his sagging resolve. With the story poised expectantly at four words, he had run off to join in the joyous chorus that greeted the sun. Now it was Sunday evening and his mind was grappling with the plots and sub plots of his very own G.I. Joe story. In the untidy upstairs room of a small suburban house, John looked at the figure of Duke as it stood menacingly on his table with a big gun in its hands and wondered how he could bring G. I. Joe to India.

John loved G. I. Joe. Every day at 5 in the evening, he would plant himself in front of the television for half an hour of guns, explosions and daring missions as Duke and his team of handpicked fighters battled to save the world from evil. His worst nightmares had Cobra Commander, the terrorist commander, coming home and trying to shoot him. He looked at Duke and then at himself in the mirror. How he wished he was not short, thin and small. He wanted to be like Duke, big and strong, carrying big guns and flying fighter planes and helicopters. Shyam wouldn't make fun of him then. He went back to Cobra’s plan of attack. He wondered what Cobra’s target would be. Not Bangalore, he didn't want his mother and father and his friends to die. He thought for some time and continued to scribble.

‘....Cobra commandos suddenly swept down into the city of Mumbai. They started shooting everyone. They had come to steal the top secret plane that India had developed. The Indian Scientists and the Indian Army, loaded the plane on a ship and got ready to evacuate. By then, Cobra Commandos had taken control of the city, Raptor fighter planes and Viper helicopters attacked the city from above. H.I.S.S battle tanks and heavily armed soldiers patrolled the city. The only resistance was around the ship, which was almost sinking after being hit by two missiles.....’

He wondered if he should make Cobra Commander kill the Mayor and the Police Commissioner on live TV. Suddenly heard footsteps on the stairs and the door opened, letting in his mother who came in with a big mug of Boost. He hid the sheet under a stack of Justice League comics. She would see the story only when it was over. He sat drinking Boost and leafing through a Tinkle while she tidied up his room. She placed the action figures and Hotwheels cars lying on the floor back on the shelves. He proudly looked up at the big collection he had. The figures of Scarlet, Shipwreck, Snake Eyes, Bazooka and Cobra Commander looked down at him. Lying next to them was a broken model of the Batmobile and a figure of Robin missing an arm. He smiled expectantly as he pictured a GI Joe Wolfhound there instead of the Batmobile. How he wished his birthday would come sooner.

A siren wailed at a distance and he heard the soft thumps of fireworks. It seemed India had won the game against South Africa in the Chinnaswamy Stadium. If it were not for the assignment he would have been watching that match. He picked up his mug and looked at the chipped face of Sachin Tendulkar smiling at him. Maybe he should kill Sachin. He lived in Mumbai anyway. No, he liked Sachin. It should be Symonds. He didn’t like him at all. There would be an India vs Australia match in Mumbai on that day. A missile strikes the ground and Symonds dies. He smiled and continued the story as the soft whirring of a vacuum cleaner started in the front room below him.

‘... Many of the soldiers protecting the ship were badly wounded and Cobra commandos were going to capture the plane when a sudden hail of missiles and bullets rained down upon the Cobra forces around the ship. Shipwreck, Bazooka and Heavy Duty arrive with a team to help the soldiers at the ship.  Scarlet and Duke went to the headquarters of Cobra while the others fought the enemy soldiers on the streets...’

The story continued - G. I. Joe commandos fought hard to regain control of Mumbai. He described how all the hostages were valiantly rescued in the battle that went on into the night and how Cobra Commander, ran away at the end. He heard an ambulance again, and the fireworks were closer now. Lokesh’s father must have bought the crackers. He wrote faster. He didn't want to miss any of the crackers.

‘..The President of India awarded medals to the brave soldiers of....’

Now they were right in front of his house. That meant even Naren has bought crackers. As he quickly wrote his name and roll number in the right hand bottom corner, he heard a crash and the sound of tinkling glass from the room below. Mum must have broken something; she would be in a bad mood.

John Thomas
Std VI ‘A’
Roll No: 17   ’

The sirens kept blaring, now closer home. He grabbed the two sheets of white paper in one hand and the stick figure of Duke in the other and ran down the stairs triumphantly.

His mother lay in the front room, blood pooling around her. A big blotch of red marred the flowery cream of her nightgown. As he ran towards her shouting, he tripped on the wire of the vacuum cleaner that still kept droning on. Duke fell down on its back, its plastic gun pointing at the rotors of a fan lazily going round and round as two white sheets of paper, bruised and tainted, fluttered about in their wake.  

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Poking my Wall?

Pictures of dogs and babies
A little tab in the corner selling
Women and perfume. Someone
I don’t know poking me. Liking,
Sharing. Photos of me on someone
Else’s wall. People answering
Questions about me. Trumpeting
Gossip, sleaze and fake causes.
Losing ourselves in our timelines.
Dead gigabytes of pictures
Replacing our memories now defunct.
People we have know all our lives,
Wanting to be friends. And strangers
Commenting on my attire. Suggesting
Names for my new born son.
A clamorous din of half hearted
Birthday wishes and stolen quotes
Symbols on a computer screen that will
Disappear with the dreams. Deleted,

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Names, Faces And Other Odds and Ends

Sixth standard. My sister and I had small chubby holes in the only cupboard at home. Hers was filled with bangles, earrings and necklaces, each in ordered sets that matched the various frocks she owned. Mine was a mess, Hotwheels cars, vying for space with springs, wires, bits of junk and broken down clocks. My favourite car and my fledgling collections of coins occupied pride of place in the farthest corner, away from prying hands that weren't mine.

Nearer to the opening of the hole were the odds and ends and the small box that held my proud collection of knick knacks. Coloured aquarium stones, pieces of glittering, coloured plastic that fell of my sister’s assortment of jewellery and a piece of glass crystal that had once adorned my mother’s necklace, now in my proud collection as the clasp had broken. I showed it off proudly to all who cared, claiming it was my diamond which I would sell once I became big and make lots of money. Lots and lots of money.

I saw her at church when I was in sixth. She was walking with her friends. laughing at something. I was with mine. I had a green grasshopper in my left and in my right I had the dried head of a a thistle that I was getting ready throw at my friend. There were already three sticking out of my t-shirt, stuck were they had landed after being launched by enemy hands. Only two of my thistle heads had managed to stick to Arun's t-shirt. I needed to land this if I had to draw the game. Still laughing she walked into the church. The grass hopper somehow wriggled free at that moment, i don't remember how I let go of it, and jumped onto the neck of one of the girls in front of me. In the ensuing confusion and the screaming (stupid girl), I lost sight of her and lost the game.

I got him the next Sunday, but I didn't see her again for some time until I saw her again at school, again hanging around with a few other girls. I knew the others. They were from the 7th standard. My cousin's friends. Seventh. A chechi. I dont know why it hurt, but it did. A dull ache somewhere in the region of my chest. It went away by the next PT period, when the first football rolled past me into the net I was protecting. I saw her two or three times after that. I never knew her name. But I think of her sometimes when I'm at that church or I see someone that resembles her. Not that I remember how she looked. I barely saw her for more than three minutes, in total. But I have a picture of her face somewhere in my mind. The face of my first crush. Well that’s what everybody says she was anyway.


High school was exciting in more ways than one. I wore trousers to school now. Not shorts. And I actually had to tie my tie. It was now a long piece of cloth and no longer the shorter version with clasps that you fastened around your neck. The residential address on my school hand book had changed, so I travelled by school bus. It was the time when I had just gotten over Pokemon tazoos that came free with Cheetos, but was still hooked to Pokemon, Digimon and Beyblade -the one where they battled with tops. Samurai Jack came and went, so did Dragon Ball Z. Batman became my favourite superhero. We get shuffled around after middle school. So I was in a whole new class with a lot of people I was barely acquainted with.

 She was there in class. I really liked the way she read out her 'My Summer Vacation' essay. She had a nice voice, clear and soft, and she read it with enough sing song in it to be cute without becoming irritating. And she was pretty, fair with a really nice smile. Long hair - not straight and sleek, not smooth and curly, but springy and thick. So much so that sometimes it looked like hay. But I liked it and she was pretty and I was not the only boy in class who thought so. There were others.

One of them was so obsessed that he once asked me if he could keep one of my Steadtler pencils as she used the same kind of pencils. Another of them had the audacity to 'propose' to her. In ninth standard. As one of my friends told me "Whaat da?. Loosu wonly. Does not know the difference between filums and real life" Apparently I did. I talked to her, every chance I got. I smiled with her, laughed with her but never in all the time I knew her did I ever give any inkling of how I felt. She is now my friend only on Facebook. Another name on my friends list under the heading School.


College was just like school. It was still school technically -  Pre-University College. The only saving grace being that there was no specific uniform. Just a strict dress code. A very strict dress code. And there were more people of my age in one place than I had ever seen before. My tastes for music changed. I started growing out of cartoons and growing into movies. I connected the ganja that I read about in the Crime section in newspapers with weed and pot. I went for tuitions and coaching classes like every other person I knew. I saw friends becoming ' we're together' and then becoming exes. I blew up test tubes in the lab and started checking out to-be juniors who queued up during admissions. I learnt how to headbang and sang Hey There Delilah at the top of my voice in class. I met a lot of people there.

I met her at a Rotary leadership camp. We became friends. She asked for my notepad during the second session. She wrote my name where it should have been, skipped the two pages where I had scribbled notes of the first and in neat, precise blocky handwriting took down notes. I don't remember what we did there at the camp. I remember her though, and the smile when she gave me back my notepad. She was from my college, studying two floors below mine. We hardly met again for the next two years. Every time we did though, she had a bright and bubbly 'Hi Jerin!' She is no longer in Bangalore, just like me.


I used to debate in school. And she was my partner for some of them. My opponent in others. My senior. She was pretty. Short frizzy hair and bright sparkling eyes. She always got into fights during debates and with teachers in class. Tough as nails. My senior again in college. She asked me if I wanted a partner for the debates there. I already had one.  By the end of the year though, we had hosted two programmes together. She came to me one day, a month before she passed out , with a thank you card and nice letter. She said I was one the best friends she had and she thanked me for being there.

On their last day, everyone went around taking pictures with everyone else. Towards the end of the lunch break, she came up to my class. She looked resplendent in a creamy white saree. She asked me for a picture with the two of us. My friend had the camera. We stood next to each other. Smiling. I brought my arm up to put it around her. She did the same. We hesitated, looked at each other, laughed and went ahead with it. That evening on the bus back home, I thought about a debate in school when we sat together in the audience, laughing at the different teams that came up on stage. Until it was our turn.


College was very different from junior college. Getting used to washing my own clothes and watching three hundred episodes of One Piece. Playing Age of Empires for five hours straight. Getting wet in the rain at one in the morning and watching the sunrise at five, savouring the warmth of the first rays while standing knee deep in frigid, sandy waters.

She was there at college, she smiled, every time. I smiled every time I saw her too until one day I saw her with another guy.

She was from out of town. We went to get a burger. She asked me if I wanted some ketchup. Before I finished saying 'Yes please', she dumped half a bottle of chilli sauce onto mine and ran away smiling mischievously. She went home that night. It was one thousand eight hundred kilometres away from the place where I stood and said goodbye.


We were surprised to see each other during summer. It was at an event at junior college, a year after we had passed out. We had worked together, had known each other for three years. She was tall, willowy, bright and cheerful. We exchanged numbers. She called me the next day. Told me she was angry with her dad and didn't know who to talk to. We talked. She laughed. I laughed along. We texted regularly for three weeks. I told her that I was coming to a book shop near her place. Would she be free the next day? She said she had an exam. Okay. I’ll see you some other time then. Good night. I'll talk to you later. Two hours later, she sends me a message telling me she has to buy a birthday gift for her boyfriend.


During my summer vacations I went for yoga classes with my dad. We woke up at quarter to six, reached the place at six thirty and in a room full of middle aged women trying to lose weight, my dad and I learnt yoga. The class would get over by eight and we would stop for breakfast at one of two places. Our usual stop was the Udupi Sagar near the Tanishq at Jayanagar. There I would gorge on idly vada soaked in hot spicy sambar while listening to distinguished old men in shorts and t-shirts debating politics and sipping hot filter coffee after their morning walk. If Udupi was too crowded or we felt like we needed a change, we would go to the Davangere Benne Dose down the same road. It is a small eatery where I would treat myself to the benne dose or the benne masala dose, dripping with butter, with very spicy coconut chutney on the side.

She stood at the bus stop in front of Sanjay Gandhi Hospital. She was thin, with shoulder length hair. Dressed in a salwar kameez, with a bag hanging off her shoulder and earphones plugged into her ears, she would stand there with her arms folded, waiting for the bus. She looked frail, but pretty in an anaemic sort of way. I would slow down and take a little longer to finish my coffee if we were a little early, and renounce coffee altogether if we were late, just to catch a glimpse of her. I would enter the car after draining the coffee, switch on the radio and tune it to Radio Indigo, and wait for the Sanjay Gandhi Hospital to appear on my right.  Sometimes, she would not be there and I would curse the guy who took the last idly, making me wait for the fresh batch. Other times we would reach there as the bus pulled away and I would watch the end of an orange duppatta disappear into the bus before the doors gave a banal hiss and hid her from me.

I wondered one day what it would have been like if we were studying together. Would it have led to something?

Yeah right.

*chechi - elder sister, Malayalam
*those of you who don't know what the rest of the words in italics are - Shame on you. Go Google/Wiki them.

This post is inspired by true events. Any similarity to people dead or alive is probably intended. If anything in this post has offended someone, please let me know. This series of unfortunate events has also spawned another post, Rocket Science. Do read and comment. One last disclaimer. I do not stop and stare. But I do appreciate beauty. And not in any way that offends anyone.

Sunday, July 17, 2011


Growing up is all about getting hurt. And then getting over it. You hurt. You recover. You move on. Odds are pretty good you're just going to get hurt again. But each time, you learn something.

 Each time, you come out of it a little stronger, and at some point you realize that there are more flavors of pain than coffee. There's the little empty pain of leaving something behind—graduating, taking the next step forward, walking out of something familiar and safe into the unknown. There's the big, whirling pain of life upending all of your plans and expectations. There's the sharp little pains of failure, and the more obscure aches of successes that didn't give you what you thought they would. There are the vicious, stabbing pains of hopes being torn up. The sweet little pains of finding others, giving them your love, and taking joy in their life as they grow and learn. There's the steady pain of empathy that you shrug off so you can stand beside a wounded friend and help them bear their burdens.

 And if you're very, very lucky, there are a very few blazing hot little pains you feel when you realize that you are standing in a moment of utter perfection, an instant of triumph, or happiness, or mirth which at the same time cannot possibly last—and yet will remain with you for life.

 Everyone is down on pain, because they forget something important about it: Pain is for the living. Only the dead don't feel it.

 Pain is a part of life. Sometimes it's a big part, and sometimes it isn't, but either way, it's part of the big puzzle, the deep music, the great game. Pain does two things: It teaches you, tells you that you're alive. Then it passes away and leaves you changed. It leaves you wiser, sometimes. Sometimes it leaves you stronger. Either way, pain leaves its mark, and everything important that will ever happen to you in life is going to involve it in one degree or another.

                                                           - Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden,
                                                             Jim Butcher, White Night 
                                                             Book 9 of the Dresden Files