Surviving Another Long Weekend

‘Oww! Oww! My head hurts. What time is it? 10.30!’

I was battling a Saturday morning hangover. The sun slapping me on my face, the effervescent birds rustling up quite a din outside my window, nothing seemed to help the struggle.

‘I need sleep.’ With those words I hit the pillow once more.

It had begun on Friday night at 8.30 pm with the movie 300. Esben, my crazy Danish friend made up the movie plans. Even though I was working on one end of the town and had to make it to another end for it, I foolishly agreed to it as I battled to get my work done by 7. My work complete, I rushed out and whom do I run into at the reception; a pal whom I had called over and had completely forgotten about. Left with nowhere to turn but to the old escape hatch called Lies I made up a story of rushing to meet a commercial film director down to andheri. I hated myself then, but after driving like a maniac through the maddening streets (yet making it half hour late for the movie) and spending another 15 minutes watching my most awaited movie unfold onscreen I got over my guilt before the interval. Well, 300 was pure entertainment and paisa vasool.

After a movie, such as this, if eight crazy people do get talking, the conversation invariably veers around to getting drunk. Esben’s place was next door, the booze shop was even closer and the inevitable happened.

There was yours truly, Bob – crazy American storyteller, Esben, Udaya – proud Kanada boy brought up in America, Boby – a party hearty soul, Diya – equally, if not more, party hearty soul, Phejin – cautious girl from Nagaland more interested in watching the proceedings, later on we were joined by Wendy – done it all girl from the shores of America, Moritz – always has a joint German and Kevin – a travelling American doing thesis on music from across the world.

The booze began to flow, conversation floated all over the place, the music kept beat with our words. A few notes I made to myself from all the chatter that went back and forth. Bangloreans love to see their city progressing, but hate to see their culture evolving. There is a language that dies everyday. In another 100 years we may just be left with 5 languages. After a good number of drinks and a round or two of the weed people readily tell you the most embarrassing stories. Once the embarrassing stories begin everyone feels like contributing something and try to dig out their most embarrassing episodes.

Now you think that’s a happening party, people laughing their guts out on embarrassing episodes, but no, somebody decides to kick up the music and put on some groovy tracks. Drunk, a bit stoned, me and bob couldn’t help getting our asses of the seat and shake it to the beat. The party just got better. The highlight was me and bob have a dance floor battle on a Michael Jackson song, I think it was ‘Thriller’. It was hilarious to the nth degree. Just the memory of it is……haa…haa…jlkrnlkeioujfhoineklhaaa n;lkehaaahonelkdkgfhon kdjfnioef (excuse me I need a break because right now I am rolling on the floor and I am trying to keep my fingers on the keyboard)

After the dancing, came the singing. Esben and Kevin jammed with their guitars and belted a number of tracks. After a few more rounds of rum I crashed out at Esben’s place around 6.30 am. Got up at 9 am, somehow got to my home and crashed out again just to wake up at 10.30 and crash out for good till 3 in the afternoon.

At 4 in the evening I got another call for a house party in Bandra, but I happily declined. Nothing felt better than turning my ass to stone on the couch and staring at the television set. Ahh! The joy of being a couch potato.

After an uneventful Saturday evening where I watched my cricket team being ass whipped by the Bangladeshi’s at the World Cup, Sunday looked kind of dull. I needed some tender, loving, homely care, so I headed of to meet parents. It is a ride I love doing on my bike. Gets me out of the city, open wide road and the wind rushing through my hair at a steady 80 kmph; at some point during the ride I enjoy being; being what I am, not what I wish to be. And that day under the hot sun with nature taking on the fiery colours of spring the questions and pressures of life just melted away.

It was around 1 in the afternoon when I got home. It’s funny, I always feel excited with the thought of going home, but an hour at home and I feel like running out back again. I enjoy the journey and the anticipation more than being at home. I think it’s because I know what my dad’s going to say, my mom’s gonna pester me about and my brother’s going to ask me about. The script never changes on that front.

Mom as usual ticked me off on my long hair, beard and how I won’t get any girls to marry me if I kept growing them. Then she nagged me about getting married soon. Dad had a round of intellectual discussions which veered around to the same conclusions that I have grown up on. Well somewhere in between all of us this I did tell my parents that I do ganja on and off. That was a big revelation that they managed to take in their stride quite well, but then I suspected that they suspected I was doing some kind of drugs for quite some while. That kind of set the record straight between us, but next time I see mom I am pretty sure this would be our conversation, “You have gone darker and thinner. Keep having ganja, that’s what you get for it.”

Me, “But Mom I don’t do it regularly. It’s at some parties that’s all.”

Mom, “But why do you want to do it. You start once and then you keep doing it regularly. When I was in the hospital I used to get patients whose blah, blah, blah.”

Me, “Mom I am watching TV”

Mom walks away with a huff, “You just watch TV your whole life.”

Well I didn’t get any of that conversation that day, but some good food, which was basically mom’s yummy mutton curry and fish curry. The next day we planned on visiting mom’s sister who lived in New Bombay.

Getting to Jose Uncle and Leela aunty’s place was fun until the sun became really hot at around 12 in the afternoon and started frying me up. That’s the disadvantage of being on a bike, no shade when the sun decides to play it a little hot. My parents and bro had the advantage of the shade though since they came over in my parents’ SUV.

One look at my cousins, aunt and uncle when they met me and you knew they hadn’t seen me in a long time. I felt their look reflected more of pitiful surprise than joyful amazement. “What the hell has he gone ahead and done with himself.” The steady stream of visitors, my uncle’s acquaintances, later that day made me feel like I had stepped out of rehab.

I come from a family with a conservative lineage, boys are supposed to be clean shaven, have short hair, go to church, be studious in college and work like a donkey and bring home money after that, get married, have kids and stay with their parents till eternity. Well, I didn’t adhere to any of the principles and had now gone ahead and broken the first two rules that would have at least let me pass off as the good Mallu family boy.

Thankfully India was playing Bermuda that day and the way the Indian batting juggernaut rolled on everyone pretty much lost focus of my existence in that room. Well I had my dinner quickly and pretty much ran out of the door before the 50th over got over and they had time to ponder over my beard and hair again.

Happy Independence Day

Scene 1

The Cast -

10 guys. 4 Danish. 2 American. 1 Spanish. 3 Indians.

Location –

Janta Bar, Bandra (W)

So on Val’s day these blokes decide to meet and celebrate. Celebrate what? Being single? Being hopeful? Well I have no clue. Each had his own story.

Well over many slices of fried fish, plates of rice, some fine alcohol got consumed. 12 Kingfishers and a quarter of Old Monk rum to be exact. Well the good food and alcohol did its trick. The guy jokes started kicking in. Belly’s rolled and the feet wanted to move.

Lights out.

Scene 2

The Cast -

Still those same 10 guys. 4 Danish. 2 American. 1 Spanish. 3 Indians.

Location –

Outside Boat Club, Bandra (W)

Our jiggy feet brought us out here. Sadly we couldn’t get in as 3 guys had slippers on. Yep, you got slippers on your feet; you can’t step into a disco! You ain’t got a shirt on, no pants on, it’s all fine lad you got a fine pair of boots, step in.

Javi tried his best, smooth talking, tough talking, being sarcastic, begging, but the damn manager wouldn’t crack. Bob’s yell of, “Hy people I am getting sober here,” brought us back to the important business of getting drunk and wasted.

Lights out.

Scene 3

The Cast -

Good Lord! Still those same 10 guys! 4 Danish. 2 American. 1 Spanish. 3 Indians.

Location –

Toto’s, Bandra (W)

We were all gathered outside debating whether to get in or not. Toto’s was crowded like hell and it was kinda irritating me. So the argument continued, do we go down to Esben’s place or get into Toto’s. Well it didn’t continue for long. Bob’s scream, “You Mother#$%^&@s I am getting sober here and that ain’t good,” settled it. Toto’s is where the party would shift.

So over another round of beers and more beer and more beer we got further drunk, sang and danced on the sly. Well, you see Toto’s has a pub licence and not a disco licence so you can only drink and shake your head. Moving the body is a strict no, no. Poor Javi got pulled every time he tried to shake his ass.

Well on one of the lucky chair’s out there sat this...

SNIP,

SNIP,

SNIP

CENSORED

SNIP,

SNIP,

SNIP

...and in this city for another three weeks.

Toto’s was closing. It was time we drank more.

Lights out

Scene 4

The Cast -

Still those same 10 guys in an extremely drunk state. 4 Danish. 2 American. 1 Spanish. 3 Indians.

Location –

Esben’s Home, Andheri (W)

Well we bought off the complete booze shop close to Toto’s and headed to Esben’s place. I was singing ‘Sayonee’ loudly on the streets somewhere in between all of that. It wasn’t even 5 minutes since we had settled in. The bottles opened, out came a fat joint and we were back on our trip to insanity. Johnass, Esben’s pal, had us laughing tears with his comic act. Havi and Bob kept making good mood shifts to the party by taking control of the sound console. Prem was getting bored. Danish words were flying thick and fast all round. Havi, Esben, Me and Ambarish went click crazy, clicking every damn thing the lens could focus on.

Somewhere at 5 I crashed out. As I slipped into a deep slumber I could still hear the sounds of partying and I could hear Ambarish’s voice echo, the words that he had wished us with when we started of at Janta at 9 last night, “HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

Right now I can hear the women gripe, "Guys!" :D

Innocent Blood

The two kids sobbed at intervals. Their tears had dried. They were confused. Why were they going to be killed? Finally one of them gathered a little courage. He looked towards the other kid, who was about his age, “What’s your name?”

“Murtaza,” he whispered, “And yours?”

“Manish.”

In the other room the kidnapper looked at the glinting gun. ‘Aha. The blood of criminals flows through many an alley and rests on the head of two children.’

It was time. He picked up the phone and punched in the number.

Inspector Kamble, from Crime Branch, stared at the handset. Tired of looking at it, he turned his attention to the two pigs seated in front of him. He loathed them, given a choice he would have happily blown their brains to bits rather than logging 157 encounter deaths to earn popularity on the streets of Mumbai and notoriety in the by-lanes of crime.

The saffron chief, Bal Thakur, could see the utter contempt that the Inspector displayed. He tried hard, considering the enormity of the situation, but couldn’t stop his lips from forming in to an arrogant smile. Nothing felt better than holding a million masses in one’s palms. Aha! It is so true that power corrupts?

But right now he sat there not of his own accord, a terrorist had driven the media into a frenzy. What did he want? Who were the hostages he was holding?

Next to Bal sat the highly regarded cleric, Iqbal Mansoor. He was supposed to be picking up a huge donation from one of the industrialists in Allabhad today, but the morning news had completely altered his schedule. A psycho was holding hostages, whom he promised to kill if both him and Bal wouldn’t arrive at the Crime Branch office, in Colaba, by 2 in the afternoon. The blood-thirsty media had splashed it all over. Not staying back in Bombay would have proved suicidal. He looked over at Bal, then the inspector. He hated them both. His face twisted in agony. To be seated in this room was worse than other forms of police torture techniques he had heard of.

Kamble had just finished giving orders on the phone. The force was desperately trying to hunt down this crazy guy who had completely upset Bombay’s busy rhythm, but he had hardly left any scent. He looked like a pro. None of Kamble's informers had any idea about him or what the whole drama was leading up to.

The phone on Kamble’s desk rang, jolting all three from there mental meanderings. Kamble picked up the handset before the second ring could be completed.

“Switch on the TV,” the voice from the other end commanded.

“Who the hell are you to tell me….”

“Switch it on,” the chilly voice cut in.

Reluctantly he put the set on. A home video was playing on the news channel. He saw two scared seven year olds looking wide eyed at the camera. Both of them had two big nameplates hanging around their neck. One read Murtaza. The other had the letters Manish scribbled over it. The chilly voice coming through the TV set said, “If the two old fools sitting at the Crime Branch office don’t decide who should be killed and who should walk out alive, then they both die. They have time till sundown.” The newscaster’s voice exploded through the speakers with all the excitement that a scoop like this generates. Kamble hit the mute button and turned back to the fobs staring at the television open mouthed.

He spoke into the phone again, “So, what do you want, dick head?” For all the hostility he displayed his voice quavered like a dried autumn leaf that shivers that feels the waft of a chilly breeze. The first and last time it had trembled was when he had cornered a fleeing gang leader and asked him to drop his gun. He had a bullet wound on his shoulder and the ignominy of a runaway criminal from that episode.

“Pass the phone on to the saffron champion.” The voice had become chillier than when the conversation had begun.

The kidnapper toyed with the trigger. “Save the Hindu kid Bal. Anyways Murtaza will grow up to be a Hindu hating Muslim. One more less of them, Bal, that the Hindu community would have to worry about. What? They are innocent kids and should be left alone.” His gunshot laughter bounced of the walls and echoed through the tiny sound proof room. “Last time I checked there were many children who died during the riots. Kill them when they are young Bal. Let us not wait for them to grow into monsters.”

Iqbal’s hands trembled as he returned the receiver to Kamble. “Let me guess,” Kamble asked as he steadied Iqbal’s hands and took it, “He told you it made sense to save Murtaza.” Iqbal tried hard to nod his head, but it wouldn’t move.

“But they are innocent kids. What wrong did they do,” Bal kept muttering over and over again as he stared at the clip news channels played over and over again. He had engineered many a campaign that had struck fear into the heart of the city, but for the first time he saw what fear looked like. Fear didn’t cry. Fear didn’t scream. He felt that fear. All the power that he had amassed over the years destroyed by the act of a maniac.

Iqbal had turned men into monsters with his sermons. But now all the words he had uttered sounded hollow. How can I even think of the Hindu kid’s death? He is a poor, innocent kid! He turned slowly towards Bal, one look and he knew Bal wouldn’t ever ask him for Murtaza’s life. They both had been trapped in their own game of power. He had seen dead bodies, even dying, resigned eyes. But he had never seen eyes that were just about to see death. Those eyes scared him.

It was 3.15 pm when two ambulances drove right up to the crime branch office and whisked away Bal and Iqbal. The media had never seen drama like this. They knew the next few days would see their TRPs touch points never seen before. This event would be the launch pad of a few news peoples’ careers. It was time for conspiracy theories to jam up the airways.

The admittance of Bal and Iqbal to the city’s top hospitals were attributed anywhere from genuine health issues to a smartly planned escaped from taking any decision at all. Some news channels also saw a dangerous ploy by these two big heavy weights into instigating another round of riots.

But this is how events unfolded at 6:17 pm, sundown. Two shots rang loud, but got muffled in a sound proof room in the by-lanes of Borivali. The police discovered the children's bodies at 6.45 pm after the killer told them where to find them.

The next morning one gun went off at Bandra (E). Another gun shot was heard at Mohammed Ali Road around noon. A servant on hearing the shot rushed into his master’s room to find Bal laying lifeless on the floor. Gun in hand. Iqbal’s son found his father sprawled the same way at their home.

Four Arms and Three Legs

Mist is all I could see and there was a huge air sac stuck in my throat. 3 more hours to go.

I was seated in the waiting room, desperately waiting for my wife’s operation to end. The odds of her making through were very low, or so I thought. She had been battling Churg Strauss syndrome for the past two months. Only 90 people have been known to suffer from it over the past two years and she was one of them.

What in the world is this disease you wonder? Churg-Strauss syndrome is a rare disorder that was first reported in the 1950s. Persons afflicted by this syndrome have an accumulation of an abnormally large number of certain white blood cells, inflammation of blood vessels and inflammatory nodular lesions. The onset typically occurs between 15 to 70 years of. It can be severely debilitating, and even fatal if untreated.

And that’s what had happened with Susana. It went unnoticed till two months back when I found her fighting for breath and bleeding through the nose on the kitchen floor.

The doctors didn’t give her much chance. I didn’t.

A handicap’s chair came to a stop next to me. The attendant placed a toy on the lad’s lap and disappeared behind a door.

For someone with two stumps for hands and legs that couldn’t move he seemed pretty cheerful; staring at the toy and pleased like a bowl of spiked punch.

“What are you smiling about chap? You don’t even have a hand to hold on to the toy and play around with it!”

Susana always said tense situations made me extremely rude.

The kid took a while to shift his gaze towards me. “Just because you are blind doesn’t mean I am not playing.”

“What!? You are staring at a toy dumb boy.”

“Well I don’t have hands in the physical world, but I have four arms and three legs in the world that I imagine. I do more than what you could ever do in this world.”

‘What a freak of nature,’ I thought to myself.

“Why three legs and not four boy?” I had to ask it, if you had four arms it made sense to have four legs. Three was so odd.

“I always loved the way a camera stood on a tripod,” he replied swiftly.

He turned back to playing again.

“So why are you so cross?” He didn’t turn his eyes away from his toy.

“I am sorry lad. My wife’s being operated upon and she’s battling for life.”

“And??”

“And what!?”

“You don’t think she’s going to make it through?”

“Well her disease has reached a critical stage and doctors don’t think she can make it through.”

“How different is that from a couple of minutes ago when you thought I had no arms and a useless pair of legs.”

The sac of air just evaporated. I felt humbled, I felt a lot better.

“How do you do it kid?” I croaked.

“To be like the drop enjoying its momentary form, to be as elated as the dried leaf enjoying its final dance in the swirl of wind before it hits the ground. That’s how I do it sir.”

He continued playing with his toy.