Nice(ish)?

For the nice guy, watching cigarette smoke is a delirious affair.

It’s like the thoughts in his head-

chaotic,

yet confined.

It makes him believe in the normalcy of incoherence.

The irony of being nice and being where is,

and he loves it.

It makes him intellectualize the word- ‘nice’-

the last cigarette always does.

The people he cares about,

are busy talking about how nice he is.

But watching the smoke waft over your head,

and seeing light diffuse into it-

slowly, surreally,

makes one want better words for description,

because ‘remarkable’ becomes an unremarkable word to use

for something like this.

His story is not one of disconsolation.

It’s nice like how he is.

It's fleetingly beautiful,

like the smoke he's observing.

Escaping into the darkness,

nothingness engulfing nothingness.

The night shall wear on,

and he shall have to go.

Not to get back to being nice.

No, his work for the day is done.

But to arrange for more of this entertainment.

He does not like the smoke inside him,

unlike others who aren’t just as nice.

He likes to watch it leave.

He loves its promise of being a sight to behold-

not an empty promise this.

It's quite like the promises he’s made,

to people who speak about how nice he is.

The nice guy shall remain- immovably-

nice.

An Urban L(ove)ust Story

'Did you sleep with her?’- Alex demanded as she got her handkerchief out; her eyes were welling. 

For the last half hour Francis and Alex had been arguing in Luis' taxi, and were being largely unrestrained in voicing the thoughts each of them had about the other, and Luis had been a patient audience, watching them do so, courtesy of his rear view mirror. 

Luis had been driving his taxi for just over a week now and his older experienced colleagues had told him about the things they hear while they’re working. He wouldn't be the first to have a story to share about a man’s alleged infidelity and the thought of still being the cynosure in the gathering of pseudo-intellectual taxi driving folk later that evening amused Luis a little.

Yes, cab drivers were worldly-wise. As Old Xavier, a mentor of sorts for many of them always says- ‘I’ve learnt more about life driving a cab than most people learn through their education.’

When you’re a cab driver, with little hope of making it big in any other walk of life, words like these work wonders to raise your spirits.

‘That is not the point Alex! I want to give it a shot with Amanda, because the life I’m going to have with her certainly looks more promising that what the two of us have had so far, and to put it bluntly I know that it has been a MISTAKE!’- Francis said; his face had been steadily turning red over these last few minutes.

Luis could see his lips quiver a bit. Men are never too strong, he thought to himself. They are made out to be far stronger than they actually are.

Alex let out a sob; she’d reached the rather infamous hysterical threshold women of her age have. ‘So it was all a mistake you say? Cameron is a mistake? The house we own is a mistake? Oh Jesus, after all this time, this is what all of this means to you?’

‘So you think this is hard for just for you? It’s a big decision, but I’ve thought it out well. How long were we going to pull it off? We couldn’t have lasted and I think that it’d be better for the two of us to acknowledge this and move on!’- Francis said, now shaking visibly.

‘Why should we? Why can’t you see there’s nothing to acknowledge? Why must you always try avoiding seeing the truth? The truth is you’re as filthy as they come! And no matter how much you try to rationalise this you’re going to realize this someday or the other and Amanda will too!’- Alex retorted, as she buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Luis slowed down a bit and turned around to ask Francis if he should stop, but strangely enough Francis asked him to go on.

Heartless, that’s what this generation is, Luis thought as he suddenly proud of how his Papi had raised him. He fully understood a man’s commitment to his family, and how he must put his family before all else.

The traffic in the evening was as much a cause of displeasure to a taxi driver as a perpetually misbehaving kid is to a teacher in elementary school. There are things you just can’t avoid, and just can’t get used to. Thankfully, there were just a few minutes away from their destination.

‘You know I’ve had it with you! You and your stupidity! It’s as clear as it can be Alex! For once why don’t you think something through? There was nothing in our lives worth continuing this!’- Francis bellowed, his fists clenched and his face contorted menacingly.

Alex sobbed even harder- ‘Our child, our beautiful child! Why do you have to make him go through this?’

‘Can we press on the gas a bit harder? We’re getting late!’- Francis said; his tone rather different from what it had been so long.

‘He’ll be better off without having to listen to his parents scream at each other every day!’ – He continued; his tone as acerbic as it could be.

‘He’ll be better off without having a moral-less father like you!’ – Alex said, almost howling.

‘YOU DARE ACCUSE ME OF NOT BEING A GOOD FATHER!’- Francis hollered now turning to Alex with a vicious look on his face.

‘A father who loves his family so much, that he considers fornicating with women as unprincipled as he is as a sacrifice for their well-being’- Alex replied, wryly as she struggled to control herself.

‘STOP NOW!’- Francis growled, raising his clenched fists, his face more menacingly contorted than any face, Luis had ever seen before.

The car screeched to a halt.

‘We’re here sir!’- Luis said; his voice betrayed how terribly distraught he was.

‘You’ll pay right!’- Francis said as he lowered his hands.

‘I paid the last time, Phil!’- Alex complained.

‘Ah well, how much mister?’- Francis asked Luis as he opened his door.

Luis didn’t answer. He just stared blankly at a poster on the telephone box right next to his car.

’20 bucks. Wait, you’re in it?’- he asked Francis disbelievingly pointing at the poster.

‘Err, yeah, just like the poster says. That’s me and that’s Erica! We have a hard time in this town. We’ve got to take whatever comes by our way. We hardly earn! Had to take this one too! Asked the folks to think of a better name but ‘An Urban Lust Story’ is the best they could come up with. You know what? This acting thing gets on your nerve and damn it I’m going to quit soon. Stupid names, stupid scripts, stupider cast. Gosh didn’t it sound ridiculous to you! You just saw almost the whole of Scene III. And we’ve hardly practiced!’- Phil said as he handed Luis his fare.

‘You think we need to go through it once more?’- Erica asked as they walked away from the cab.

They clearly don’t, Luis concluded, they most certainly don’t.

Annyeonghaseyo Korea

I can’t help feeling like a five year old in a candy store as I write this and as trite as that analogy is, it is but true.

Korea has been nothing short of breath-taking, so much so that I couldn’t help mouth a ‘wow’ as I made my way into the high speed train that operates within the airport that took me from the departure gates to immigration where traditionally dressed ushers (I take the liberty of calling them ushers as their job was to usher us bedazzled visitors to the immigration counters) greeted us with a smile as radiant as the smiles that were worn by the remarkably sweet Korean folk in the advertisements that were constantly playing on the innumerable flat screens installed on every wall of the airport.

Incheon International Airport has been voted as the world’s best and this we realized as do many of the millions of its visitors who do their best to absorb in awe, the many ways it has depicted Korea’s characteristic and simplistic elegance with its love for surging ahead in technology.

It’s been nearly two weeks that we’ve come here and we’ve taken to love the city we’re living in- namely Daejeon.

It’s a quiet city with lovely people and is Korea’s research nerve centre with a huge number of universities and research establishments within its bounds.

To describe how this city represents the truly indomitable Korean spirit would take more than just one blog post but I’ll try to as much justice to it as I can here.

Daejeon is systematic in the most infallible literal translation of the word.

And Korea’s insatiable desire to create a perfect blend of its illustrious past with its promising future is evident everywhere.

From the smart phone savvy shop keepers and restaurant workers who say – ‘hwangyong-hamnida’ as you enter their establishments to the taxi drivers who smile broadly as they ask you for the address of your destination so that they can enter it into their GPS systems, this wonderful fugue of tradition and modern day technology really makes you wonder how ideologically superior these people are in comparison to the rest of the world.

Never have I had cars stopping to let me cross a street and I surely haven’t ever come across an iPad wielding youngster help an aged cleaner carry a trash can out of the elevator.

It really is exquisite.

The institute I’m working at also exemplifies this beautifully- students bow gently when a professor or any familiar elder walks past and these are the same students who are studying and developing cutting edge technology in an environment that is unbelievably conducive to scientific thinking and rationale.

Research at KAIST is serious business and the millions of dollars the government is pumping in into every project that every department undertakes is most certainly paying dividends and why shouldn’t it?

Diligence and sincerity always do.

And it isn’t limited to just research mind you.

The immaculately dressed security guards salute as the campus shuttle bus enters the premises and the cashiers in the cafeteria never take more than a few seconds to complete a transaction.

KAIST takes the word efficiency very very seriously and I have reason to believe that so does the rest of this wonderful nation.

This is just the beginning of your ‘Korean Adventure’ as the very hospitable Professor who is guiding me likes to phrase it.

I am yet to undergo the neck craning exercises required to see the high rises of Seoul and I still have to visit the enchanting beaches of Busan.

Blog posts there will be many, but I have fairly understood what this country tries to put across to each of its visitors.

‘This is our home and we’ll do what we can to help you feel like it’s yours’.

PS- Food has been a problem, yes but I’ve been brave enough to try most of what has been offered to me and I consider it all part of a thrilling life experience of sorts.

Clear the air mate!

Dear Srijan Maulick,
It wasn't easy hunting you down, but I had to.
I have received innumerable letters, emails, texts and phone calls from my fans in Guwahati, people claiming to have sat next to me on buses, restaurant owners claiming to having had me visit their restaurants and the owners of several shady places (one of them being a place called Bhumi) claiming to having been patronized by me. I have been unnerved to say the least.

But today, something even stranger happened, I received an email from a Korean named Won Hee Lee who says he's a super market owner in Daejeon and that he had tried selling exquisite Korean Seaweed in India (That's how he came to know me) as an exotic product but failed miserably and then he went on a little about how Indians can never appreciate gourmet food, but that's beside the point here so I won't talk about that any further. He claims I was in his store last night and was confused between normal tissue paper and toilet paper.

I am indescribably appalled and I sincerely request you to do what is required to prevent such misunderstandings which now seem to have spread on a global scale.

Regards,
Shankar Mahadevan 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#TrueStory
#NowYouKnowWhyIDon'tLookLikeHimAnymore

Beauty and the Beast

‘The Hartland Fiend strikes again’-, the Newsreader said in a sombre tone.

‘This morning, the body of Miss Kathleen Dawes was recovered from Edgar Park on the outskirts of Hartland. Her wrists and throat were slit, much like the bodies of every other unfortunate victim that has fallen prey to this madman. This has been the tenth such murder in the last three months and persistent efforts by the Hartland and Redding Local Police to nab this killer have still not shown any signs of coming to fruition. We still await a formal statement from the Chief Superintendent of Hartland Police on this particular murder while the body of the decease-‘

‘Oh child, again!!’- Daphne Morrison said, turning off the television set in her kitchen.

Lorraine Morrison, her daughter, was shaking uncontrollably on her chair at the dinner table. She placed the spoon in her hand back into the bowl of porridge she was eating and quietly left the kitchen.

‘We have to talk about this sweetie!!’-Daphne said, as Lorraine went upstairs to her room.

Lorraine was fifteen, but yet not quite so. She was for want of a better term- mentally challenged for her doctor, ‘mental’ for the people around her, and ‘special’ for her mother.

Daphne was the only friend she ever had, ever since her father passed away in a tragic accident when she was merely three.

Women like Daphne seem to be strong, capable, and very proactive, but only on the surface. This, years of bringing up Lorraine had made Daphne acknowledge. From putting her to bed every night for the last fifteen years to smiling back when Lorraine smiled at her for no apparent reason, to convincing her day after day, hour after hour that when the neighbourhood kids called her- ‘wackjob’, they actually meant she was remarkable.

Lorraine could barely write, and it had taken her years to even learn the little she knew about letters and numbers.

Daphne had accepted her daughter for what she was, but making a cynical world do the same was far too uphill a task, a task she knew she would not succeed in but a task she had assiduously tried to do since Lorraine came into her life.

 Daphne was very worried about how Lorraine had been reacting to the whole affair of the Hartland Fiend.

This mass murderer had been on the prowl for the last three months or even before that, and had been raping and murdering young, beautiful and very unfortunate teenage girls.

Sketches of how the killer possibly looked like had been released and people had claimed to have seen this man doing his sinister work but to everyone’s bewilderment, the local police did not seem even remotely close to apprehending him.

Notices had been circulated to every house in the district about how people should be aware and how they should exercise every precaution possible to keep themselves and their families safe.

Lorraine had been visibly distressed by what this maniac had been doing for quite some time now.

Daphne thought back to when news about his first victim – Janine Williams had been published in the newspaper. Lorraine was staring at the headlines which read- ‘YOUNG TEENAGER BRUTALLY RAPED, MURDERED’, and while clutching the newspaper she began sobbing. 

Daphne had rushed to comfort her but she wailed on incessantly and went upstairs to her room, and locked herself in for several hours. Lorraine used to shed tears whenever she got anxious, which was very often, but locking herself in her room was something she never did.

Her mother didn’t take this particular incident very seriously but when Lorraine did this again when she heard news about the murderer’s fourth victim- Emily Bradshaw, on the television, Daphne was alarmed. 

She knocked on Lorraine’s door, and asked her to open it so that she could talk to her, and explain to her that she was as safe as she could be, with her, but Lorraine was adamant about her decision of seclusion.

Daphne knew her daughter was scared, and she knew how sympathetic Lorraine must have felt for the poor girls who had been killed by this heinous beast of sorts. For a moment Daphne felt proud of the fact that her daughter could feel so much more than the normal people she constantly contrasted herself against could. 

Then when news about the Hartland Fiend’s seventh victim flashed on the television, Lorraine had flung the TV remote out of the window and had marched back to her room, her depression now having transubstantiated into anger at the murderer’s morbid sense of contentment.

Daphne wanted to consult their family doctor on what she should do to help Lorraine deal with this whole issue, but Lorraine hated to go to the doctor ever so often, she hated it because of how other kids at the hospital sniggered when she walked past them.

So Daphne didn’t call up Dr Hawthorne and when Lorraine finally came out of her room she went and gave her a hug and kissed her on her cheeks, and asked her what she should do to make her feel better.

Daphne was helpless, but she knew showers of affection, made more frequent than what she already gave Lorraine would help.

She was wrong and Lorraine did not get better, and the murders got more gruesome and more tragic.

Daphne thought about how depraved the man must be, how he very selectively, chose innocent girls as his victims, snuffing their hopes, their dreams, and their families’ happiness out, presumably without any contriteness.

The fiend and her daughter shared their only similarity in that both of them were incomprehensible.

Today, Daphne had a lot of reason to be very disconcerted. Today, Lorraine didn't just lock herself up.

She was screaming in her room, her shrieks were far too ominous for Daphne to stop tears rolling down her own cheeks as she waited outside her door. She had never been so upset and never had Daphne’s desire to somehow take down the door and help her child, been so strong.

She thought if she should call the doctor, but she knew she had to do something which had a more immediate effect and something which would help Lorraine calm down.

For fifteen long years, Daphne had taken care of Lorraine with a resolve that was astonishing, but today she felt more in despair than ever before.

The screaming waned, and Lorraine opened the door.

‘Do you have an envelope Mamma?’- She asked.

‘Yes, yes sweetie, I’ll get you one’- Daphne said as she quickly went to her room and searched for one.

‘There you go’- she said handing it to her- ‘Tell me if you need anything more from Mamma’- she said giving her a hug.

‘No, I will meet you after some time Mamma, can you leave me alone for now?’- Lorraine asked, her face expressionless.

‘Yes, but promise me you won’t lock your door this time’

‘I will not’- Lorraine assured her.

Her daughter hardly ever wrote and she definitely hadn’t written a letter all by herself before.

 She smiled, left Lorraine in her room and went back downstairs to the kitchen.

 

A couple of hours later, Lorraine came to her with a note in hand and asked her –‘Mamma, can you tell me where the Fiend lives?’

Daphne was horrified beyond her wits. Glassy eyed, she asked Lorraine-‘Why do you want to know honey?’

Lorraine handed her the note, and the envelope.

Dear Fy-end,

Where are you?

I want to meet you.

I know you kill beautiful girls, girls who look pretty and who are sweet.

Then why?

I am pretty, I am sweet.

I thought you would know.

You would understand.

The world doesn’t think that I am pretty and that I am sweet.

I want you to prove them wrong.

I want you to show them that I am no different.

Show them I am, what’s the word- normal.

I want you to – KILL ME too.

Please Fy-end, please.

Love,

Lorraine.

Daphne broke down in front of her daughter.

Perhaps the fiend and her daughter were not incomprehensible after all, perhaps they were merely misunderstood.

I hope this finds you-someday

Dear Me,
You’re 35 now, old, but yet quite not so.

The concept of writing a letter to one’s future self is probably very clichéd, but I felt I should try doing it just so you can read this someday, and say –‘I was such an ass when I was 20’. Ok, I think you just had your day’s bit of laughter, and I know you don’t laugh a lot because you’re generally worried. Be it your family (Hopefully you have one by now), your job, or even your ever bourgeoning belly (I tried getting rid of it, but in vain), things just tend to get you worked up don’t they?

2012 has been a miserable year so far and I know that we’re barely two weeks into it, and I know I’m being a whiny moron because in comparison to the problems you have to deal with; mine are well, derisively stupid. I’ve had my heart broken twice, have had bouts of flu and have tons of work that’s pending, and I wanted to vent all of this to someone who wouldn’t mind, and I know you wouldn’t, because you’re me.

There are things I want to tell you, things that you might have forgotten by now or you might still remember them but your frenetic way of living probably never gives you a chance to ponder over them.

People have always told me, work hard and don’t brood over the possible outcomes of what you do as long as you’re doing what’s right. Do the people you work with, still tell you this?

See, I realized this very recently- people forget to add a very crucial clause to this precept. You must do what’s right only as long as it’s right for the people who matter to you-irrespective of it being right for you or not.

I’m going to leave you to dwell on this. You’ll understand what I mean to say, if you just think about it for a minute or two, maybe after you turn your bed side lamp off, before dozing off at night, or during your ever dwindling lunch hour.

In all probability I will not stick to following this, because I never manage to, with things like these.

I hope you shall make a conscious effort to keep this in mind always- so I can hope that as I grow older I become like- what I’m hoping you are right now.

A lot of people tell me, being materialistic is wrong. See, it’s alright to have a fancy sports car, live in a lavish apartment, splurge on watches and clothes, if you know that you can do all of this, because you’ve made yourself worth all of this. And yes, I hope you’re a bit charitable and that you do whatever little you can to help make the world a better place. I’m not saying you should go out of your way trying to be a good person. You don’t have to. Buy a homeless person a doughnut, donate a blanket to an orphanage, and lend some money to a colleague in need. That’s what being good is all about. It’s not about opening trusts or getting a picture of you helping the underprivileged, published in a newspaper.

I hope you’ve found your soul mate by now. If you haven’t, keep looking. Don’t settle for people who don’t respect you and your sensibilities. If someone has a problem with you working late into the night, or with you not answering their calls while you’re in a meeting, they obviously don’t understand you too well. They aren’t bad people, they’re just being inconsiderate and you should know better than to hope to be compatible with them someday.

I hope you do party once in a while. Getting sloshed is okay as long as you don’t do things that might be hurtful to others. Remember what Vijay Mallya says (He’s such a dude)- Work hard and party harder. I do a lot of crap when I’m alcohol sodden but I haven’t insulted or hurt anyone when I’ve been inebriated.

Keep listening to music- especially Coldplay. Their kind of music will never phase out and if it does, make it a point to keep listening to them, no matter what and keep appreciating the way they manage to alleviate any sort of stress. One of my dreams in life is to watch them perform live. Have you done that already?

I dream of being able to write well all my life. It’s a dream which has been shattering bit by bit with every passing day. What I want you to do is to pick up the pieces and somehow, get them together. Sundays are free (I hope). Go to a quiet place, alone, and sit and scribble on a notepad for a few hours. It helps- a lot. You must know that you’re good at it.

There are two places in this world I’ve always wanted to visit- Times Square on New Year’s Eve and the Centre Court at the All England Tennis Club (Wimbledon). We’re all crazy in our own little way aren’t we? We should be, else we’d all be the same.
I hope you have visited these places or do plan on doing so in the years to come.
I can go on and on but I think I’d save some more of the things I want to tell you for another letter.

One more thing- I hope you’re still in touch with your closest friends from college. If by any chance you aren’t, find out where they are, turn up at their doorsteps and greet them by saying- ‘What's up fu**face?’ like the old times- like I do now.

You’re not very old yet. You can still work a lot, and you should. Being satisfied is just a concept. You can never be satisfied, but you can be happy. I don’t know why people are labouring under the impression that the two mean the same. They don’t and nor will they ever do.

I can’t seem to find a decent way of ending this letter.

So I’ll end this with the closing lines of my favourite Coldplay song:

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things that you do


Yours sincerely,
You