The Baizetown Ripper

It had been a year since the discovery of the first body by the Smiths couple. A foul stench brought it to their attention during their morning walk. They thought it was some decomposing animal carcass. It turned out to be the rotting body of Silvia Minuti, a 33 year old town clerk. Her body looked like it had been mauled by animals, her face and chest seemed to have taken the worst of it. Her limbs however seemed to have been chopped clean off her torso and was arranged around her head like sunflower petals made of rotting meat and bones. The Smiths first vomited, and then called the cops. Thus began the chain of events that led up to this cold November night.

Baizetown was a typical town you would find anywhere around the country. It lied between Dallas and Waco, was home to families whose parents worked in the surrounding bigger cities. It was a charming little place, where nothing exciting ever happens. The town’s leisurely pace was why Steve Grable chose it. He used to be a high strung investment banker in New York. A big city guy who thought coming to small town would bring more stability and peace into his life. But then being deputized by the town sheriff put an end to all that. He had the Baizetown Ripper to thank for that.

On this night, Steve walked over to the window and parted the blinds just enough to see if the chaos outside had fizzled out.

‘Are they still out there?’ a gruff voice called from behind.

‘Yes, boss. And it looks like they told their friends from the city too.’

‘Damn it. How did word spread so fast?’

Sheriff Jorge Valdez was still hot from those reporter’s lights flooding on him when he was leading the suspect in. How did they know? He had contacted the DA’s office as soon as he’d received the call from the suspect. He was told ADA Clarke and her team is on their way. Let the lawyers handle this mess. All he was going to do was being a babysitter till they arrived.

‘Steve, can you go check if he needs anything?’

‘Me? Can’t you send Ralph or any of the seniors?’

‘Are you scared of that old geezer back there?’

‘If he really is what he says, he’s not just another geezer off the street, boss.’

The Sheriff drummed his fingers on his desk, still thinking about the press. ‘Fine, take Ralph with you.’

Steve gave a ‘yes boss’ wave and went to the main lobby where the rest of the force were. Susan the clerk was manning the phone calls, and telling the reporter where to shove their questions.

There were just a handful others there. B’town never had need for more than a couple lawmen at any given time. Until now. One of the reason they deputized Steve in the first place.

The crew were at the window looking at the scene outside. Ralph was the big guy with his uniform shirt trying very hard to keep all that hard muscle tucked in. He turned around to see Steve coming.

‘Steve, man, what’s the deal? Those reporters outside are ready to riot.’

‘Boss doesn’t want any information going out till the lawyers get here. You and I, in the meantime, are to go check if the guy is still breathing.’

Ralph, always eager, hurried his way to the interrogation room with Steve trailing behind him. He was trying to catch up to the young man’s pace. They crossed Susan’s desk, who gave them a look of complete surrender. A lousy night all around clearly..

Ralph was the first one to enter the room. The old man was the same as he was an hour ago, seated with his wrists shackled to the top of the table. He was silently staring the glass wall in front of him, to the right side of the room. He did not react to them entering the room and turn on the lights on.

Ralph was the first to talk, ‘Hey man, Sheriff wants to know if you wanted anything? A drink or a bathroom break or summin?’

No reaction.

They looked at each other. Ralph prodded again, ‘Look man, the infantry is going to be here soon now and I don’t think the ADA is going to allow--‘

‘So it’s Gracie who decided to show up, that’s kind of her.’

This took Steve by surprise, ‘How do you know who--? Yes Assistant District Attorney Grace Clarke is on her way to interview you. And you still haven’t answered, do you need anything?’

‘Nothing. I am just about done here. Would one of you mind sticking around till the show starts? It gets awful lonely in here all by myself.’

Steve got that feeling again, something is not right. This guy seems way too calm. Is a person supposed to be this calm under these conditions? And how would Steve know it anyway, he looked at long excel sheets and ledgers not figure out the mental state of a possible serial murderer. But he was a curious man, and all this has peaked his interest. He glanced at the handcuffs around his old frail wrists, they looked tight enough.

‘Okay, I’ll stick around. Ralph will you get us something to drink from the vending machine. Coke good, old man?’ he asked the suspect. The old man nodded.

Ralph stood there like a deer in front of headlights. He was admittedly not the smartest of the lot, but Sheriff Valdez trusted his instincts, and all his inner radars were screaming not to leave Steve alone with the guy.

‘Steve are you sure? I can get somebody else to get it, the vending machine is in the other wing. And the Sheriff did not want us staying back here right?’ Ralph tilted his head to the old man.

Steve thought to himself. ‘Even he is scared of this guy’

‘It is alright Ralph. We are going to be just fine aren’t we?’

The old man smiled and shrugged his shoulders, saying I’m harmless.

The two cops looked at each other agreeing silently to be cautious. As the doors were closing behind, Steve turned to the old man and looked him over. The man was tall and slender, at least seventy. But still sat straight and looked capable of taking care of himself. He wore a simple dark woollen sweater over a pale blue shirt which was buttoned up to his neck, he wore a black scarf around his neck. He looked like he had spent some time choosing his outfit before calling the Sheriff’s office. He was a precise man with a precise posture, and his face did not give anything away. At least not anything that he didn’t want to.

After a few moments of silent scrutiny, it was the old man who spoke first.

‘You are not from around here, are you?’

‘No just moved here last year. How’d you know?’

‘You’d never have agreed to stay in the room with me if you were.’

Steve shifted in his chair. The old man noticed it, ‘Don’t be nervous. I mean no harm. It is just a small town thing. Come let’s not be strangers, I am Robert Van Clumm. I’d shake your hands if I could’ he lifted his palms up from where they were shackled on the table.

Steve took a second to reply, ‘I am Steve Grable, the sheriff added me to the force temporarily last month. And the cuffs stay, Mr Van Clumm, it’s the rule.’

‘I sure understand. Do you like urban legends Mr Grable?’

‘Um. Yes, sure.’

‘There is a famous one around here. It is about a family who came into this town from a distant country. They work and prosper during the old times of southern plantations. Nobody ever got to see what exactly it was that they produced in their farm. No guests were invited into their estate. Nor did they do a lot of business with the local merchant families. Most think it was alcohol, which was banned back then. They lived a private life. But their secrecy led to gossips being spread about them. It was said they were part of a secret cult, and they were slaughtering children in their farm, and that they slept with animals. People grew to doubt them, then dislike them, and then to fear them.’

‘I should not be talking to this guy without lawyers’ Steve thought to himself. But he was too hooked to just leave the room yet. Instead Steve asked, ‘Let me guess, this was your family?’

The old man smiled, ‘Yes, quite so. But the last of my folks had left this godforsaken place decades ago. Some of us decided to preserve the estate. Something to come back to someday I suppose. Many of us are dead now though. Only I remain of the erstwhile Van Clumm family.’

‘Um I am sorry to hear that.’

The old man gave a chuckle at that, his first humanly expression, ‘You would not be when I’m done talking here. You see, a lonely life with none of your loved ones around is a miserable life. You are stuck in a big home with nothing but you and your thoughts to keep you company. You begin to question your own existence and why it is that you were to have this life, this life of burden loneliness and stench. Oh the stench. But it is all over now. I think I am about done. Hence the Ripper.’

Steve started fidgeting again. He wanted to know to everything that this guy had to say, but he also didn’t want to be the only one listening.

‘I really think we shouldn’t talk anymore. I will be waiting outside, Ralph should be back soon with your drink.’

The old man shrugged, spread his palms and leaned back into his chair. ‘Sure, if that’s what you want Mr Grable. I am not sure Sara would enjoy the wait though.’

Sara was Steve’s wife.

‘What do you mean? How do you know Sara?’ Steve only heard half of it, he’d already yanked out his cell phone and was frantically dialling his wife’s phone, the home phone, anything that he can reach. But his calls went unanswered.

‘Why is she not answering? Where is she? What have you done to my wife?!’ Steve sprang up from his chair, which fell backwards on the floor with a bang.

‘Nothing yet, Mr Grable. Your wife is safe. But only till you do what I request of you.’

The old man just sat there looking at him, quietly smiling. Steve took one look at that smile and lost his cool. He came around the table and grabbed him by his shirt-front and yanked him up. The suspect’s handcuffs was the only thing keeping him on his chair. Steve was threatening the old man with every cuss word he’d learned in his 50 years on this planet. The old man did not react, just sat there and kept smiling like he was watching the world’s most predictable sitcom show. Steve was shivering all over. He tried to calm himself down a bit, and went back to his side of the table. Only he didn’t take his seat this time, he was too amped up to sit down anymore.

‘Relax, Steve. I mean no harm to you or your wife. In fact I think she is a lovely woman and you are a decent man. You both would soon be together, if you do the little thing I ask of you.’

Steve was squeezing his palms together to try and control its shaking. ‘Like what?’

‘For starters, would you help me and bolt the door shut.’

Steve looked again at the cuffs on the Van Clumm’s wrists again. They still looked tight. But then this guy also did just admit to kidnapping his wife of 30 years, who knows what else he is capable of.

Steve didn’t think he had any choice, he went towards the doors and locked them in.

‘That’s good. Thank you, Mr Grable. I think we’ll get along just fine.’

Steve grunted his reply. ‘Let’s get on with this. Do you want me to help you escape or something?’

‘No no, Mr Gable, nothing of that sort. All I want you to do is - take out your gun and shoot me in the head.’

Steve just sat there staring at the old guy, and then started laughing.

‘You are joking right? All this is a joke! Was this Sara’s idea? Is she in on this? They are all standing behind that mirror looking at us right?’

Steve stood up and walked over to the glass wall and pressed his face close to it trying to look to the other side. It didn’t seem to him anyone was there on the other side. He turned to look at the old man again. He still sat there calmly as someone who’d just asked you to pass the salt at dinner and waiting for it.

Steve’s hand absently moved towards the holster strapped under his left armpit. His shaking was worse now. He was not a violent man. He’d spent most of his life in the sheltered comforts of the big city. He even disliked carrying the pistol around, but it was the rule.

The old man saw his hand reach for the gun and smiled. He knew he had chosen the right guy for the job.

‘You have done well so far, Mr Grable. You’ve come to the room to check on me, you asked your friend to go get the drink for us even when every bone in your body was telling you not to. You have me securely locked into this interrogation room. You have been very brave and proper throughout. All that is left for you is to take that gun of yours, point it at my skull here and pull the trigger.’

The door knob rattled. It was Ralph. He knocked the door. ‘Steve, are you in there? Why is this door locked? We’re not supposed to lock these doors.’

Steve looked over to the door. The old man’s gaze however was locked on him.

Steve moved closer to the door.

‘Mr Grable. Of course I cannot stop you from opening that door. But then I cannot also guarantee to tell you where your wife is in time. It is your decision. I just hope she’s still breathing when you do find her.’

Steve was a man in a predicament. He does not think he can actually kill anyone. But he is also scared that this maniac has done something to his wife. For all he knew his wife was stuck in a safe underwater somewhere.

‘You only have to pull the trigger. I have arranged for you to know of your wife’s whereabouts as soon as we are done here. You have my word Mr Grable.’

‘The word of a psycho’ Steve thought to himself, ‘open the door, Steve. Get the Sheriff in here, he will know how to deal with this madman.’

The banging continued. Ralph was still yelling out for him to open the door.

‘You know what I am. You know what I have done. Do you really think I do not deserve your bullet? Do you really think I deserve to live more than your wife? Your wife with her long blonde hair. And her pretty little face.’

Steve could hear Ralph on his walkie-talkie calling for backup. The old man intently looking up at him.

‘She does have beautiful skin, your wife. And that scent. I really did enjoy that. I wondered for a long time how it would taste. It was everything I thought it would be.’

Steve went pale. His body was cold, his hands were shivering. He came around the table, at the same time he whipped out the gun from his holster.

He started smacking the old man with the butt of his pistol. The old man was laughing maniacally. With each blow Steve was yelling, ‘What have you done to my wife? Where is my wife? Where is Sara?’

The old man only laughed more, that made Steve bring down the butt of his gun harder onto his face each time. Soon his laughing was muffled by the squelching sounds of the pistol pushing to his bloody face. The old man’s face was bloody and swollen. It did not look like a face of a man anymore. And his crazy laugh still coming out of him made him look all the more ghoulish.

More hands were pounding on the door. Steve could also hear voices coming from the other side of the glass wall. But none of it registered into Steve’s head.

‘Do it Steve. Do it. Or I will haunt you forever. Kill me. Beat me. Save her, save your wife. Don’t be a coward, Steve.’

‘My Sara. My sweet Sara.’ Tears were rolling down Steve’s face as he kept bring down the pistol butt on this man’s face. Blood was pouring down his neck and shoulders, making pools of red around the chair. Even his laugh had stopped. All he was able to make now was a guttural sound each time Steve’s hand came down. Steve’s had was bleeding now too. The gun slipped away with all the blood. He kicked it aside and was now beating the old man’s face with his fists.

‘I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.’

Something heavy was banging at the door. Steve didn’t notice, he was now numb to everything outside. All that existed now was him and his hatred for this old man for what he has made him do.

The door came loose at the hinges. Ralph was the first one in, and what he saw drained all the blood off his face. He saw someone who used to be the quiet Mr Steve Grable, covered in blood standing over the limp body of an old man, punching it with his bare bloody bleeding fists. The body did not have any face left to speak of, was clearly dead and was of the suspect he’d left here with Steve just a few moments ago.

His colleagues came from behind him and pulled Steve away from the old man. They were followed by ADA Clarke, her team and Susan. Susan went over to the old man and touched his neck to check for a pulse. She felt none.

ADA Clarke looked at the limp body, ‘Dammit. Will somebody tell what the hell happened here? Is that Bob Van Clumm? What was he doing here? Why was he handcuffed to the table? Why didn’t any of you tell me it was him you had here?’

Steve was crying in the corner flanked by two cops. ‘My Sara. My sweet Sara’ He kept repeating.

She looked at him and then the others, ‘Who is he? What happened to him? Who is Sara?’

It was Susan who replied, ‘Sara is his wife. I spoke to her two hours ago, she called in from Tom’s Diner saying she’d gone there when some nut kept calling their home asking about the Ripper.’

Steve stopped his mumbling and looked at the Susan, dumbstruck. ‘She’s safe?’

Clarke turned back to Susan, ‘What nut? When did she get this call?’

Susan frowned trying to recall the conversation, ‘I think she said tonight at 8’

One of the deputies interrupted, ‘We did not get the call from this guy till 9’

Clarke pointed over to bloody body on the chair, ‘That guy? That guy lying dead in your interrogation room is a suicidal schizo. He is on enough meds to put an elephant to coma. The court’s put him on house arrest for nearly a decade now. I was present for his hearing.’

Everyone looked at the dead body and at Steve. Nobody understood what has happened here, but they all understood it was something horrible.

Clarke could not take the silence anymore, ‘Will someone try and explain to me what the fuck just happened?’

That’s when Sheriff Valdez walked in. He was in the adjoining room, on the other side of the two-way glass wall. The Sheriff took off his hat, and placed it on the blood splattered table. He took a glance at the old man’s body. And then to Steve cowering in the corner and mumbling, with his crazed eyes fixed at the old man.

And Valdez began, ‘I wish I’d been here earlier. It might have made all the difference. So all I can tell you is how it happened..’

The Pregnancy Scare

Damn you Fridays. I am supposed to be off work already. How can there possibly be another dozen mails to reply to. Friggin' IT.

*phone rings*

Great, of course it's going to be some guy from NY office wanting help on something. 

'Hello, Amar here'

'Hi, Priya speaking'

'Hey, doll. How you doing?'

'I'm good, are you busy?'

Of course not, a dude never says he is busy, when it is a girl asking. 

Amar replies, 'Nah, usual stuff. Go on, wassup.'

'No, if you are busy we can talk later.' She trails off.

That gets our hero's attention. 'No I am not, kiddo. Um, gimme a minute.'

He locks up his machine and goes over to one of the empty conference rooms and closes the door behind him. 'Yup, now tell me what's happening.'

'I am just a little nervous. It is a girlie thing. I am not sure what to do, and there is nobody else I can talk about this right now.'

'Yeah, sure Priya. But tell me what exactly the problem is.'

She barely whispered her question. 'What do you know about iPill?'

As any guy in this situation, Amar gets a little defensive right about now. Even though he definitely knows he hasn't been around this girl, in that way. 'The contraceptive pill? Yeah I know a bit about those. Is anything the matter, Priya?'

As any girl in this situation, Priya starts weeping. Not the frequent sob-and-sniffle girlie cry, but the wholehearted my-favorite-Twilight-character-has-died weep. Amar looks around to be sure nobody's overhearing this conversation and even reduces the volume of his phone for good measure.

She somehow finds gets around to reducing her weep to an occasional blurting of 'I am so stupid'. Eventually becomes more or less clearheaded to say, 'You remember VJ, I introduced him to you when we met last time?'

'Yeah, the law school guy? Dude, you're kidding me. That guy?'

Amar could feel her going red on her face now. 'Yes, that guy. Well we went to Lavasa for a weekend and things happened.'

'Of course things did, Priya. A guy and a girl shacked up in a hotel room in a hill station. What else did you think would happen?' Typical jerk move.

'Why are you scolding me?' She again goes on a cry spree. Typical girl move.

Amar takes a breath. Realizes this was probably the reason she called him instead of her other guy friends. He was supposed to be the practical one. 'I am sorry, hun. That reaction was just reflex. Just stop crying now, calm down a bit and tell me what is happening with you.'

Priya stops sobbing, clears her throat a couple times, takes another moment just to gather herself and tells how things lay right then.

Apparently, she and this Vijay dude went on a weekend 'getaway' to Lavasa, a quaint hillside resort place out of town. They had planned to stay just one night in the hotel, and spend the rest of the time roaming around sightseeing, discover places and stuff. In all honesty they did do a lot of sightseeing and discovering, just not the touristy places kind. They practically stayed indoors the whole time they were there. And that was two weeks ago. She was supposed to have her Red Wedding this week. And she isn't having her pains yet, making her scared shitless.

Amar was never completely comfortable with this aspect of the female biology. As most guys generally do, for the sake of convenience, he put away all thoughts of the female cycle from his mind for now. And only asked Priya when was she due and did they take the necessary precautions during their tryst.

'We did. But I am scared now. I am due today. But I don't feel anything now. I am just really worried. I had taken the U72 pill instead of iPill. Is that good enough? Is there a way to know if the rubber broke?'

'Now? I don't think anybody keeps them stored up for future research, kiddo. And don't worry I am sure things would be normal tomorrow. Maybe you're just a bit late. That does happen sometimes, don't it?'

She is almost normal now, 'I guess so. You really think everything is fine?'

'I do. And in any case there is really not much we can do now is there. You say you had taken the necessary precautions, and all we can do now is trust in science to do its shit. If anything did go wrong. We'll.. think about it then. You remember Tina?'

'Akash's girl from Pune?'

'Yup, she is studying OBGYN. I will send you her number, I'll tell her you will be calling her. She can help you more on the medical angle. But as far as I can tell, things seem to be safe now.'

She smiles a bit now. 'Thank you, ji'

Amar sighs a bit at this. She is back being normal again. 'I don't want to be preaching you on these things, but dude, you need to be extra careful with these stuff. This thing is no joking matter. Imagine how bad you'd have mess things up.

She unsurprisingly doesn't weep this time. She comfortably lashed out at Amar, as was usual. 'Don't you preach about this to me. Weren't you the one asking me and Asha to come out of our comfort zone and live a little. You were the one who introduced Asha to her boyfriend remember? Do you think they don't do it? Who do you think I got my pills from?'

Asha was Amar's first cousin.

'Asha. Pills. What??'

'See that's the thing about you boys. You want your girlfriends to be all loose and cosy with you, but when you know that the same is being expected of your sisters and women close to you. You immediately go on a rage.'

'Dude, what are you talking about? Is Asha messing around with Vicky?'

Priya holds her tongue now, 'I am not talking any more about it. I have spoken to much already. You will have to ask her yourself.'

Amar didn't talk much of anything after that. They said their goodbyes and he reminded her to call the OBGYN friend whose number he'd shared. And as for her, she asked him to not tell Asha that she was the one who spilled about her and Vicky. He said yes, he would have said yes to anything at that point. He was already on auto-pilot.

Amar wasn't sure how he felt about all this. Nor was he sure how he should handle this. Should he speak with Asha directly, or let her elder brother know about this. He didn't like to think what her brother would act like, probably go bash Vicky's head in. He was psycho like that. And he wasn't exactly close with Asha all that much to get her to openly talk about this with him. He was sure had to do something to help her.

Amar came out of the conference room, got back to his work. Hoping it would distract him from his personal crap. And as usual, it did. It was nearly close to midnight. He'd done a bit of overtime today. But at least nobody would be bothering him over the weekend. He packed up his stuff and was about to get up from his desk.

*phone vibrates*

A text message from this girl he was seeing -

"Roommate out of town. Wanna come over?"

The Women We Never See

When I used to be live in Pune, my roomie and I used to have our dinner at a small canteen run by a Gujarati family. I'd already lived with Gujju folks for a number of years so I've picked up a fair share of their language along the way. This was the first time my roommate had left his hometown in Madhya Pradesh, and barely spoke in any Indian language other than Hindi. So whenever we used to go there he used to ask me to translate bits of Gujrati from the people who ran the canteen. Mostly cause he fancied the owner's daughter. She was still in college, and spent some nights every week helping her elder brother in managing the place and her mother in her cooking. We usually saw her handing out the plates and cups during those nights. And my thirsty creep of a roommate used to give her the eye and made every excuse to get close to her, even though she was like five years younger to him and wasn't the least bit interested.

When has that ever made any difference to guys.

Anyways. It had been nearly three months of me coming to eat at that place. As was usual for me, I'd made a decent rapport with the regulars there and the people who ran it. My roommate's work timings changed so he'd stopped coming to the canteen. I had gotten into a routine of this place so I guess I stuck with it just for familiarity's sake.

One day while I was leaving the hotel after my meal, the elder brother stopped me near the exit. He was running the place that night in his father's absence. He told me that the canteen would be closed for the next three weeks or so. Apparently, the whole family was going over to their hometown in Gujarat. The daughter was to be married by the month's end. The same daughter who was just a sophomore in college was getting married in a couple of weeks. I'd just barely gotten my act together, and kids around me are already getting hitched. Some folks, are in too much of a hurry these days.

I congratulate him on the happy news and ask about the wedding. The brother informed me that the wedding would be in their own ancestral home and that the groom owned a garment store in their hometown. Thinking back now I should have just stopped there. But nah, I just had to ask the next random question that propped up in my head.

"What about her college?"

To which the brother replied, "Nah she is a girl, her place is now in her husband's home."

Then I ask, "Okay, so she would be able to complete her degree from a college close your hometown?"

He said, "I don't even think there are any colleges in our hometown where you'll find a lot of girls studying."

"So you're saying she will not study further and just be a housewife now?"

"I guess."

That was where I felt that weird pang. You see, I am the sort of guy that expects people to be naturally good at heart. And this was his younger sister after all. But the by the nonchalant way he'd submit his only sister to a life of mediocre alerted some sort of radar in me. I piqued up and dug in with more questions. Why didn't I just leave!

© K.L.Kamat/Kamat's Potpourri

I looked past all the tables and chair where people were having their meal, over to the little door at the end of the hall. There was a lady sitting just within that door on the floor making chapatis. She wore a heavy saree and had the hem of it over her head covering it. you could hardly see any of her face. This wasn't anything rare. In many of the North Indian cultures, the women-folk hide their faces with a veil of some sort. But now, I actually noticed it on this woman. Then I looked over to the counter where they hand out the steel plates, spoons and such. There sat the soon to be married daughter, reading a magazine that was spread open on her lap. She was wearing a tight white top, and faded jeans. She wore a bit of makeup by the looks of it. Truthfully, she was really rather good looking, in a nubile college girl sort of way. I tried to make myself imagine a future for her in the form of her mother present. It seemed too drastic a change from her life right now. And by what her brother was saying this future would be exactly what is in store for her.

The brother was looking at me carefully while I was looking towards his mother and sister. I turned back to him and asked, "You should at least have waited till she completes her education."

He straightens up at that, and replies haughtily, "What is the point of her going through college when all she was going to do when she is getting married was taking care of her husband. That is her place."

I had never yet met anyone of his kind. I have always been around people who had more liberal sensibilities like mine. This measure of orthodoxy was new to me.

"So what was the point of sending her to college at all?"

"She would have only gotten better grooms if she was well-educated."

More like half-educated.

"Is the groom well-educated then?"

"He has passed 10th grade, I think. But that is normal where we come from. Most women in our hometown are more educated that their men. My mother was a state topper in her BA college."

I looked over to the woman sitting on the dirty kitchen floor, covered from head to toe, sweating by the heat of the stove cooking chapatis.

"That woman there? She is a gold medalist? She has a degree in Bachelor of Arts?"

"Yes, in english."

I went silent at that and looked over to her again. I had never really thought of her in all the time I'd been coming to this place. Her making chapatis was constant sight whenever I came to eat here. I'd seen her sitting there on the floor so often now, she'd almost become invisible to me. Like the many furniture here.

I looked over to the daughter again. She was lazily turning the pages of her magazine now. She really was good looking, and seemed to be a smart girl. But then I guess so was her mother. She was smart enough to be the top student in college. Now though, she is married to a guy who runs a small daily-meals hotel in a small street corner of Pune. She didn't exactly make it big in life. By the looks of it, neither will her daughter.

I looked back to the brother, he was now busy counting the wads money in his father's till. I found that to be very repulsive for some reason. Suddenly, the whole canteen seemed like a vile place.

I looked over to the unfortunate women. Sometimes you empathize with somebody so much that you begin to feel the pain that they themselves had long forgotten or had grown blind to.

Walking away from the hotel and into the street, I soon realized this was the last time I'd ever step foot in that place.

To be, or not to be - The Political Correctness Dilemma

Alright alright alright. We meet again. I didn't think you'd ever show your face around here again after last time.

I sure didn't. It's been a long time since I have posted something here, so if you're coming here still I'm grateful for your readership. And for the fact that you probably didn't have anything better to do when clicked on a link somewhere that brought you here.

Click-bait. I haven't yet  while writing this thought of a title for this article yet, so if I really did write something genius to lure you in here give me a moment please to pat myself on the back. *pat*

So. What's up, doc? 

If you're a she - That's good. Of course, that shirt looks great on you. And I totally agree, you're guy was prick to leave you alone at last night for a game night with the boys. Come and sit tell me all about it, while I try and figure out a way to make a pass at you.

If you're a he - Damn dude. Did you see the game last night. Our guys *enter sports team name* killed it, man. Did you see *last name of favorite player* do that thing in the last 5 minutes, it was EPIC. What, oh you're girlfriend had called you up and you missed the shot. That's cold man, damn you're so whipped. 

For the ones reading this  and have now come to conclusion to go ahead and title me a sexist just by those couple lines above. Kindly go ahead, also on shut the door on your way out. Because I am not going to explain myself to anyone. Frankly I am too tired of trying to not come under any title, the society is currently trying run away from.

Whenever I read about any of big civil rights movements that have happened around the world, I've noticed that there has always been three groups in the conflict - the ones who are oppressed, the ones who do the oppressing; and then the ones who don't understand any of it but still are scared shit-less of inadvertently causing any conflict. In any of those major turmoils, the majority of the people come under the third category. Only a small portion of the world's population are actually evil (mostly the ones on a power trip) and do bad things; onto other equally small portion of people (usually the ones without any real power to speak of). 

And majority of the other people don't come under those categories, these are the ones who barely make it through their life each day to oppress anyone else or have enough time to contemplate if they are oppressed themselves.

This doesn't in any way mean that I have any reservations with people fighting for their rights. I say, more power to them. I am a liberal and am sensible enough to know that homosexuals are people, women are equal (or better) to men, and people of religions other than mine are not conspiring to take over the world. 

Gullible/selfish/political pricks are not probably thinking on the same lines as I am. But I am sure a large majority of the people like you, reader, think the same.

People are good at heart, and they are in some weird way biologically programmed to care for each other. I know that sounds very Anne Frankish. But I do think we all have a deeper sense of empathy than we give ourselves credit for. Whenever you see someone exploiting another living being in some way it mostly has to do with greed, stupidity, cruelty, or pure A-holery. And nothing to do with that guy's religion, sex or race. This a-holery is also passed on from one generation to other generation of like-minded a-holes in the form of propaganda and conniving greed-stories. If you just cut off the influx of a-holery into these people's bloodstream you begin to see that they are just like you and me. Weak hairless apes with slightly less confused brains. 

The population of a-holes are still nonetheless very limited. I am sure not many of you who are reading this come under this umbrella. You are mostly, like me, normal day-to-day commoners. Someone who tell sometimes enjoys a good sexist joke at workplace. Make insult jokes at both men and women alternatively. Make puns on people of all race and religion, including your own. Always with the hope of getting a laugh out of the people around you. It is not that you are prejudiced against other people, it is just that you are a attention seeking pretending-to-be-funny moron.

"Is this politically correct?" No.

Probably isn't politically correct to say that a man has gotten whipped when he hurries to home after a call from his wife. Nor would it be politically correct to joke about a female coworker spending more time fixing her hair than working for a change. 

But you see these things always get an easy laugh from people. And we by habit love to do things easy. You know, everyone is thinking it. You're just saying it out loud. Of course, they're gonna comeback at jokes of their own about you. Come on, look at yourself at the mirror someday, loads of material for a good bit right there. That hair, duude!

So for you my politically incorrect friends, I say - Rip it out. Next time you want crack jokes and someone else's expense go ahead. Vent it out. Vent out all those ages of prejudice and inappropriate jokes you've stored up inside of you. Have a blast! 

(Just don't do that literally, please. That's terrorism.)

Milestones

They say our life is made up of a few seemingly small events that might not have made a lot of noise when they came to happen but in the long run shapes up what your future would be like.

Well if that’s true, I don't know why when I sit and try to recall such events that might've occurred in my life I come empty handed. At least none that comes to mind immediately. Everything that comes to mind are those big obvious ones - school, college, crushes, those stupid rage bouts, random travels, work projects. Those are probably present in nearly everyone's list. And well by definition I am supposed to be I am a millennial, we're supposed to hate being ordinary. I should really get down to it and actually think of something timid and minuscule event that made a hell of an impact in my life.

Until I figure that one out. Let me know just go on a tangent and write about the milestone this post is namesake of - This week I've completed three years of work life. Woo ooh! Yay! Yippee-ka-yay!!

that The Breakfast Club moment!

What? No jumps of exuberant cheer? No fist pumps to the air? No leaps of chair throwing glasses of beer on the floor yelling incomprehensible gibberish?

Oh yes. Why would any of this mean anything to ya’ll? My coming on the other end of the tunnel of corporate pledging period is not really going to end the troubles of the world now is it? But then, what is the point of having blogs and not being able bask in all the glory of self promotion now and then. So bleep-ya'll, I've earned this.

I wrote a similar post (seems like a century) on my First Anniversary, at First Job!. Well as the title suggests I was too spirited about it that time. When the blessed anniversary came around for the second time, I was caught up with work and stuff so much so that I didn't have any time to remember it till a month later, let alone write a blog entry about it. I am going to be such an amazing husband to some lucky woman one day.

Anyways. This time I remembered especially, well honestly, because people around me get so stumped  whenever I tell them I'd not even completed my three years of work experience. You see, over the past couple years I've come to realize that I am really good at what I do. And that is being noticed by coworkers now. So when they hear that I have gotten this competent with only just over a couple of years of experience under my belt, they give this incredulous look that says, 'You're pulling my legs/I hate your guts.' Either ways that one look, that one moment of silent comprehension - makes my day!

You have to realize now I am a fairly level-headed guy with a skewed sense of achievement. Getting a Cadbury Gems packet filled with orange and yellow ones, is an achievement. Getting to board the train in the last minute and still get a window seat, is an achievement. So for me, a muted acknowledgement of my skill in something that I do on a daily basis is a big validation of it.

Obviously, this does seem a bit megalomaniac even to me as I write this. But the fact of the matter is I did work a lot for getting here. If you were to meet me IRL, you wouldn't see me talking so freely about the  efforts that’s gone into this. But here in the internet, who gives a poodle. Truth of the matter is I don't know if there was much of efforts at all. I just really like what I do. And so whatever I do, how much every time I clock in do it, hasn't really seemed like a big deal. I am good at what I do because I like it. I like reading about it, I like doing new stuff with it. I like that I can help the clients with the things I can do. And well, it pays for the bread too. How very Fountainhead of me.

Now when I sit and think about what my life would be like if by some twist of fate I would've ended up doing something else, like working on some other core technology languages etc. I don't know if I would've been just as satisfied with it. I might've learned to live with it, maybe even become good at it. But what I do now, namely business intelligence, I adore it.

It does seem like I’ve found at least one small event in my life to add to that list we were talking off. Huh. Who knew.

Melancholic Hoarders

"We are all beasts of burden..

We are all born with these humongous suitcases inside of us,
that we keep filling up with all sorts of debris of our lives..

Up until one point when we begin to define our lives with the sort of baggage we carry around..

We were all once men of action.. Men of purpose and dignity and intelligence..
When did we all become a sad group of melancholic hoarders?

When did we lose our ability to be truly happy, no conditions applied."

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Love Each Other. Consensually.

Strength has always been so much important in society.

A man is not a man unless he has a taut physique, at least six feet tall, with macho demeanor and chest hair poking out near the top buttons of his shirt. He does dare devil and challenge others without a thought of any harm happening to him. And let’s face it; he is a man, what can ever harm him?!

Don't think we are being partial either. A woman is also very strong. A woman's prowess comes from her strength of compassion, humility, values and affection. We have traditionally been a culture that holds women to such high regards. Almost all of the famous Gods in the epic stories have a strong female counterpart. We worship women and her kind.

A woman is not a woman, unless she is the humble thimble of the family, compassionate enough to do everything at home to keep her family comfortable, keep her values intact such that when the male in the family decides something she never challenges him, and affectionate enough so that she keeps his bed warm even if she is not the mood for any loving.

You see we are a country of strong people. Strong traditions. Strong values. Strong emotions. Strong prejudices.

We are proud of our history and revere our herd mentality. Some may say we are scared that if we don't shove our values down the throats of young people our next generation might forget our rituals and will lead our beautiful land becoming one of lechery and half-nakedness. Some might point out that the biggest champions of our traditions - the politicians and the heads of religions - are now more prone to watching porn in the parliament buildings and to molesting disciples. For them we'd like to point out that they only do so to show the world that they are normal people, one among the masses.

Ah the masses of our country. What can we tell about such wonderful people? No words will suffice to praise their hard work and awareness about what actually is going on in our country. Remember the big uproar of political unrest over widespread corruption in government? Tens of thousands of people on the roads protesting and demonstrating their demand for change. And look now, we now never see a single bureaucrat anywhere in the country be caught in a bribery racket. Right?

That's where we think this Nirbhaya protest went all wrong. You see this is one change where half measures won’t work. Mass revolt against corruption was one thing. But for the Nirbhaya uproar, though there was a big fight. And the politicians did bring in their valuable words of wisdom. But most of the traditional minded people, which still hold very high positions, were still not too entertained about it. After according to them all the women were clearly asking for it. Rape happened only in India and not in their Bharat.

dnaindia.com

You see... I agree with all of you... The protesters and the traditionals...

The protesters weep for the women who got violated so bad that by the end of the turmoil her entrails were dropping out of her privates...

The traditional weep for their idea of cultural living going to ruins... The culture that our country has been living in for centuries... That which is most familiar to them… They do not know any better…

For both people I will just like to point out one thing... Time is different...

The protesters need to remind themselves that while getting on the road, or on social media comment sections reminding everyone else that something needs to be done; does sound like you are doing something about it. In reality you are not.

So… Stop, please stop. Nothing ever gets done that way, who are you kidding? Mass protest worked in an era when countrymen actually believed in belonging to something. Now, patriotism only shows up when Indian cricket team is playing the World Cup. Don’t believe in the popular solution melodrama. Protect your own people. Take care of the women around you. That is the most practical solution I can think of. If every person in this country started looking out for each other, even if only their close ones, don’t you think we’d be covering more ground than spending another decade in making laws that probably won’t ever get enforced in our lifetime? Take care of the women in your life, be there for them. If they are out with someone, don’t be a stalker, but you can at least be aware of the people around her. And you, the people around her, please take care of her. Be a man.

The traditionals need to remind themselves that while yes it might be true that the old traditions are at a risk now. But then we are not the people of the old times... While it is true that women might wear tighter clothes or show more skin than the ladies in your epic stories. That does not in any way mean she is doing that to get some. Women working night shifts to earn her food for her family is not doing so because she has loose morals and is hungry for late night action. A child is a child. You don’t have any right to snatch away her right to a happy childhood just because you have a penis.

We once preached respecting women and elders and children. That was probably my favorite part of our culture. The level of affection we were taught right from a young age by and towards the people around us. Many of my friends from abroad are amazed at how close knit our families are while theirs are torn apart with divorces. I don't know where all that love and respect got lost...

I really do like what we have here. I adore what we had in the past. But I dislike the things for which we stand for now around the globe. Our country is not really that bad. We just have a bad case of inaction, and indecisiveness. More importantly, a sense of empathy at an individual level.

We have survived so many things together. It would be such a waste to be defeated now by our own failing sensibilities. Be kind to each other. Be sensitive of each other’s pain.

Today, and forever, love each other. Consensually.

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Queen of Spades and the Faint of Hearts

“And he hated himself and hated her,too, for the ruin they'd made of each other.” 

- Dennis Lehane

"Phileas. Mr. Phileas Rodriguez? Can you hear me, sir?"

He woke up with a start. Looked around the room like it was the first time he was seeing it. He was not. He had been visiting Dr. Sharma for the past four years now, ever since his first blackout. Though now he was just plain asleep and not blacked out. He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes and face to wake them up. He had a week’s beard on his face, peppered with white here and there. It did give him a sophisticated look, but itched like a flea-ridden mutt’s crotch.

Blackouts were nothing new to him; he knew very well what it felt like. They started a couple of years ago. It was very scary in the beginning. He checked himself into a clinic at his third incident and did all the tests they had there. No one actually came to any conclusion as what was wrong with him. They all wrote it off as a prodrome to something else and just decided to wait and see. So he waited, until a few weeks from his first incident he blacked out behind the wheel while driving back from work. Luckily no was hurt, but it sure did put the fear for his life into him and he started looking out for every possible avenues for help.

A friend suggested he try yoga, didn't help except his back never felt so good thanks to all the stretching. Another suggested him to drink a lot of liquids, that didn't help much either except that he had to get up from his desk more often to visit the restroom earning him a lot of catcalls from his coworkers. Then his younger sister, a physical therapist, suggested maybe his ailment wasn’t anything physical at all. Maybe it was all in his mind. That's how he had ended up in this place where he was presently sprawled on a sofa in the lobby of the shrink’s office.

"I'm sorry. Was working late last night, didn't get enough sleep", he replied to the receptionist who was looking over his computer screen to him smoothing over his flannel shirt and plaid pants. She never understood why this guy had to wear so proper all the time. It's been years she’s been watching him now, and she had never seen him in casual Tees and denims. He was very tall and lanky, would look great in jeans. Anyways, she kept her thoughts to herself and returned back to the social network site she was surfing on while pretending to work on her boss’s letters.

He walked past the receptionist's desk and opened the door to the good doctor's cabin. And as always, he was hit with the strong scent of roses. The room seemed to brimmed with it, there were pictures of rose gardens on the back wall, there were two pots filled with roses near the window, and there was always vase with a few more rose stems on the doctor's desk. His guess was she even doused herself in rose perfume before she leaves for work.

Right now, Dr. Sharma was seated behind her desk writing hurriedly in her diary. She kept one for every patient. She looked up and gave the very slightest of smile and signaled him to take a seat.

Phileas took his usual seat at the corner of the couch, closest to the doctor's chair. He was soft on her, and she knew it. Obviously she did, a woman didn't need a double degree in psychiatry to know if a guy is into her or not. But she was not one to break a doctor-patient relationship. And he was not her type anyway.

She was soon done with her notes, pushed the diary away and stretched while seated in her chair. Sitting all day in a chair all day listening to people’s problems takes its toll on a person’s vertebrae.

She turned to the stack of hardbound diaries kept at one end of his desk and shuffled through them to get to her patient's notes. Now she asked, "So Phileas, how are we doing today?"

"I am well, Ms. Sharma. This has been a good week. The trip to the capital was a much needed break from all the stress." He could never bring himself to call her Dr. Sharma. She looked so young to be called that.

"That's nice. Yes, I remember, you were going to attend an ex colleague’s wedding in Noida. How was function? Was there a lot of people present?" she asked, mildly bringing up Phileas's fear of crowds.

Phileas didn't take the bait, "No no, it was actually a small affair. Got to meet with a few old friends from my time in Amazon and also there was a band and a trip around old Delhi. It was really quite exciting."

"That sounds good. Hope you did not stress yourself out too much, sometimes a rush of old memories and emotions might become too heavy on one's psyche."

"No it really was nothing like that. I actually had a good time...”

Phileas started to fidget in his seat. The doctor could see that he was not saying the whole thing; he was hiding something from her. The fidgeting was his tell; he would be very lousy at poker.  She looked at him for a moment and spoke softly looking down at her dairy writing something, "Take your time, Phileas. There is no hurry."

"I don't think I have been completely honest with you, Ms. Sharma. About my reason, my incessant need to attend this wedding even though I hate public transport... I, um, the bride... Well, we used to be very close for a while. I mean. Uh. We were in love." He shifted his eyes from her and started looking at anywhere but in her direction. The doctor didn't seem to notice the change. She just waited there bowed down to her book pretending to read, waiting for him to continue.

He took a moment of quite, and continued.

"We met in an office party. She was a HR person dealing with recruitment. She was the one who had assisted me during my induction process when I joined the company. I'd never met her since in my nine months of working in the there, until that New Year's Eve bash. I still remember her wearing the beige pantsuit, with a tiny chain made of silver hanging around her neck. She looked beautiful. She was also the biggest klutz, you’ll see. So she was always tumbling over something or shoving to somebody else while passing. Still I liked her all the same, she was cute." Phileas was by now looking absently out the window behind the doctor's chair. His gaze was looking towards a different place a different time. He was opening up far more than he had ever done in the four years he had been her patient, Dr. Sharma was beginning to sense they were at the verge of a breakthrough.

"Somehow when dinner was announced we ended up at the same table; call it what you may, destiny or sub-conscious plotting by my side. But I've never had a better first time conversation with any woman ever. We sat there and spoke for hours, she told me about her life, her aspirations, about her work with a local NGO, and I shared my dreams and troubles with my sister. It was great. Soon it was past midnight and the party was dying. People were starting to leave with their spouses or friends. We both didn't have any so we decided to leave together and share a cab.

“Well one thing led to another, we kissed on the ride back to her place. I was 23, and that was the first kiss I've ever had. I was a very sickly kid when I was younger you see, no girl would come close to me by a ten meter radius. And it showed I think, because soon she was taking the lead in the whole activity. I was naive, and even I could sense that this wasn't her first time snogging in the back of a cab. But I was not complaining anyway, it felt too good to be true as it was."

Your Virtues

“Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”

- H. Jackson Brown, Jr

The times when we smiled and rejoiced the most, were the times when we were free of all the worries and burdens on our weary shoulders. Each of these carefree memories that we have are the most cherished minuscule tidbits of our life. Our life is made up of gazillions of such anecdotes, but for us some stand out among others for some unfathomable silly reason. These are the moments with which we grade the completeness and true merit of our own lives, the more these are the merrier.

And here too as in every aspect of men’s life, to each their own. Some like spending time cooking or gossiping with friends, some like spending time washing and cleaning the same subset of their material possessions again and again repeatedly, and some absolutely weird ones like me enjoy spending time talking to total strangers in bus stands and parks and railway ticket queues. The sheer novelty of the meeting and of that person gives you such a happy high. The chance to say whatever you want to, be whoever you want to and not make an iota of difference to the personal lives of both the parties gives you a this strange thrill that no skinny dipping in the middle of winter can give.

There was this girl in high school one of my classmates was insanely in “love” with. He usually was capable of finding his true love once or twice each semester. We all thought this one was one such worthless endeavor of our Romeo, and soon would find someone fairer and prettier. And he did do the same in a couple of weeks, without fail. But for now he was busy gawking at this girl from school. He circled her home in the morning like a vulture waiting for his prey to leave home for school and follow her there, when the night comes he haunted her neighborhood to get a glimpse of her through the windows kept open to let the air in warm summer nights. This went on and on for a week or so. In the beginning we, as we always did, were busy pulling his leg and teasing him about his current “true love”. But by the end of the third week he got even us believing that he truly must be serious about this girl.

And when a realization like that cracks into the thick skull of any guy, he goes all out to give a helping hand to his brother in arms, and have no doubt love is war, and in high school they get messy. The problem with us was that none of us had any firsthand experience about a real love affair. We all were completely naïve, and it clearly showed in our suggestions and ideas to get the girl to fall in love with or friend.

What sensible girl would think a bunch of roses thrown at her from a car romantic? It almost seemed like a gangster drive by hit. We even got him to write a letter and put it in her bag, not that bad idea, right? Well trust me it is when you mistake the bag and put it another girl’s bag and she turns out to be the class teacher’s niece. Luckily, he forgot to write his name in the letter, truly Romeoesque.

We were bringing out the most stupid romantic ideas of all time, and mastering this art better than Don Juan or Casanova did. We toiled days, then we all got bored of it and decided to take shifts in accompanying our lover boy in his nightly love trysts. One such night, changed everything.

The trouble with love is that it is contagious. Once one of your friends is in its spell, you have this urge to be in it too. You go around everywhere trying to fall in love with every other girl you see. Sometimes you do fall in love but not more than two hours so, and then the next one comes along. 

The problem was that one night, when he was busy gawking at the now all too familiar window, I was busy staring at another. This one was a few blocks away from the girls home and on the other side of the street so the Romeo didn’t have a clear view of it. But I could, there I saw a huge TV and girl in her pajamas a staring at it, the light of the TV falling on her beautiful face. I did not know this girl then, but after that night I began to notice her all the time when we used to go to school. Her name was Priya Cherian, our heroine. She lived somewhere close to the girl’s home and our school. 

We used to pass each other when we went to school, she went to the same girl’s only school that our lover boy’s girl went to. And that common link caught the eye of our dear friend; he started pushing me talk to her, get to know her. Bloody git.

And I did, well just nods and hi in the beginning then we found common ground in our mutual hate for math and I used it to lengthen our minute long conversation each time before and after school. Soon she started waiting for me at the gate of my school to walk together till the crossroad some blocks away. Now my friends had started to tease me, and oddly it felt awesome to be at the receiving end of it. For the first time in my life I was beginning to feel happy about my ease in talking to strangers. She started talking about stuff other than math too, her hobbies, family, friends etc. I supposed that must be a good thing that she is opening up. It felt good to be confided in, the now familiar high was at its highest then.

The one thing I really didn't notice back then was that our lover boy was also walking along with us. I was too busy gawking at her perfect teeth and long hair, I did not notice the spring in our lover boy’s steps whenever Priya came around the corner. I did not notice the weird excited nervous laugh that guys have when they are around a girl they like. I did not notice the lack of interest he seemed to be having now on the girl from school. The nightly trips to her neighborhood to stalk her neighbor became rarer, while the walks after school more consistent. I even caught them walking off ahead without me a couple of times. Soon in a couple of weeks, they were talking more about each other, to each other than anything me. Soon, they started making plans to meet on weekends and holidays. And I failed to notice this all because, I was distracted by another tall 11^th grader.

School ended, we all went on our own way. The tall 11^th grader was soon forgotten and replaced by equally nameless others, each unique, and oddly each with the best smile ever seen on the face of the planet. But the most savored one probably is Ms. Cherian, who incidentally got engaged last week.

Question: Guess who the guy was? Answer: Our own lover boy. The bloody git.

Moral of the day: It is not always so that you are the only one to profit from your own virtues.