i know who did it !! it was LORD VOLDEMORT..

As I settle in the front seat next to driver of my cab at 5:40 early morning today, with guilt of being late for like good 10 minutes. I smirked. I smirked on the guy sitting behind me and grinning for wasting his precious 10 minutes when he cud have reached office early and lech the girls around, some more, I smirk on myself as I could see from the corner of my eye that the dogs were getting piled up to assault me and I dodged them like “harry potter in a quidditch game” and I smirked the most hearing a song on FM where lata mangeshkar was singing, “….. wo burai kare, hum bhalai kare…” and suddenly TAJ hotel and café Leopold comes to my mind.

Unaware of the latest developments (if they have made any) bout the whole episode made me shudder as well. I heard this addl commissioner on some news channel, yellin as if he was goin to die next minute, but what he said made some sense to me. We have all the money in this God damn nation to sponsor, all paid trips to ministers and their kids and wife and sometimes (if they are lucky enough) for the maids also, to give as compensation to people who keep dying all round the year, but we don’t have enough money to buy arms and ammunition for the cops to practice once in a while. I still have this major notion that the commandos who died in last 3 days were not properly trained to meet a situation like this. I won’t be surprised if they hadn’t fired from the time they were recruited. Israel wanted to help, but as usual Sonia auntie shoved up a piece of stick up uncle Manu’s ass and he did as he was told. “NO, we can and we will”, I think was what uttered from his mouth. 5 Israelis were killed outta 7. I wish they wouldn’t have asked before doing it.

Cab driver drives as if he is also pissed off with all this, but after looking at him, my all doubts are gone. He is nothing, but drunk. I smirk again, or did I shrug?? Don’t know. I come out of cab, light a smoke and start thinking about my loveliest of them all thoughts. If I am given a sniper rifle and allowed to shoot the one responsible for such things, “WHOM DO I KILL”? As usual its too much of competition there also, CAT ain’t only thing. I would like to kill hmmmmmm raj thackrey for sure, pratibha patil, whole of BJP and Congress and CPM too, well the list wud never end, but I am restricted to current state of mind.

Kalindi, last night was trying to convince us (or may be herself that) its all BJP’s fault. Another case is with Ritika, she has a special hatred for muslims. None of them give a damn if you are a terrorist or not. One only and only cries when the assault is on muslims and keeps drinking otherwise, while other doesn’t even know how much deeply rooted is it. She believes in forwarding messages and hoping that it would help to fight againt terrorism, as mobile companies earn money as u forward ur msgs, but its ok as long as Airtel is owned by a hindu.

Opening my mailbox is no different. Forwarded mails flooding my mailbox and media at its best, showing limbs scattered, commandos dying, and saluting the dead cops, who cud have been alive, if it was a little bit more efficient hierarchy. One of the mails is from my reporting manager. As usual, I need a dictionary to figure out what she wants to say. “I think you have not to take action only by the flowchart. The long running request for "Memory-based" had been running for more than 14 hours and no action will be taken”, I look here and there trying to find someone ho went to same school, but alas. May be she went to Texas and stayed with pitbulls for way too long, before she decided to “let them live” and came here. I think it would be best to send either her or Bond (the deadliest mistake Ian Fleming ever did), to the site of action. All of the terrorists would have surrendered within hours.

When Taj was feelin heat, Modi came with a statement like, “terrorists were not from Gujrat”. How does it make any difference to me or to someone else, where they came from and from they didn’t? It happened and it kept going is what I am talking about. Advani talked about national integration and something like that, which I am sure he doesn know about, and when its now gonna be over, it has started once again. I am saying since beginning that I wont be surprised if this time also its politically motivated. I know I have more points to discard it than to accept, but I can never disrespect the image that our beloved politicians have earned hard. Most surprising of this all is the legend of Marathi Manoos, no no, its not Shivaji the great, its Raj Thackrey ( the bad, worse and worst) this time. I have no idea where he has fled. No reaction from MNS, I wish they had said that we would not allow north Indian army guys to enter TAJ, instead MARATHI MANOOS wud storm in and rip everyone apart. Then they would have separated people depending on north and south India, like US n UK citizens were the “chosen ones”.

For how long, we have to live in this ignorance? For whom to vote and whom to elect?
I seriously cant think of a political system made out of the trash e have right now in front of us. Who wud take decisions? PM? Who I don’t think can even go to pee without madam’s permission or Mr. Thackrey? Who loves to lick marathi asses with all his might and shoo away all the North Indian army men in taj, trident and nariman house and promise marathi people to reserve quota for them in army in maharashtra. I am pissed, I m furious, I cry, I yell, but I don’t know on whom. I look in complete darkness and I realize, its not the animals hidden in that darkness, I am scared of, it’s the darkness itself that scares me most.

Life Is Beautiful

“I’ll catch you later, Ma. Have to board the bus”, I hang up as I can see 332 approaching and my built was of no match to the crowd gearing up to make the dream come true. Moved along the crowd and soon I was on the upper deck. Surprisingly, I get a seat and soon I start enjoying the beauty lying along the roadside, the strange patterns formed by the street lights. Conductor asks something in Marathi which surpasses me like a Concorde, I take a wild guess and try to figure out what he might be asking. “J.B. Nagar”, I reply swiftly. Satisfied, he gives me a 2 rupee coin and the ticket to Kurla Station and suddenly I recall this headline I read some days back in some newspaper, screaming, “Marathi Day celebrated all across the city”.
The bus moves along the periphery of international airport and I am busy looking at the illumination along the runway and compare it with my hometown on Diwali and I am sure the airport would win with a thumping victory as far as illumination is concerned.
“O Fuck! You have to call at home”, and I start dialing the number. Mom tells me about car prices being slashed down, she being the next probable principal of her college after this “biggest mistake of God” completes her tenure, our maid not working properly and finally she starts on her all time favorite topic. “You need to be extra cautious in a city like Bombay. I heard, they killed some north Indians some days back”, “It was in Nasik, mom”, I reply somewhat irritated, but as usual she is ready with her next weapon. “Its all the same, Nasik, Bombay, Goa”, and I just smile. “A lot of people will make a fool out of you and take all your money. They are too smart. They wont even let you know”.
I know I can’t take it anymore, so I start talking about my relatives and neighborhood and feel relieved when she says finally, “I am going to sleep now. Call me tomorrow for sure”. I assure her and continue leching outside the window.
Platform is almost empty, just the way I expected. I finally stop at a place where generally I find a blind man singing hindi movie songs and making his livelihood, but he is not to be seen in the vicinity. It is actually a landmark for me where 1st class compartment comes to a halt. “Just the way, I thought”, I say to myself as the compartment’s door is just in front of me as the train stops.
This is for the first time I am traveling at this hour of the day when the guy standing in front of me, hanging on the door of the compartment, lost his grip and fell. He really lost his grip or he wanted to die, is a question that keeps on coming to my mind every now and then and I give up after struggling to find an answer after 15-20 minutes. I scan all the people in the compartment, sitting as well as standing, trying to find any similarity between them and the guy who fell the other day. After not being able to find anything interesting to look at, I start looking outside, hanging to the same pole, he was holding.
I don’t think there is any hour of the day when you won’t find people sitting on the railway tracks with a bottle of water next to them. When I started traveling initially, it used to piss me off real bad, but gave up with the advancement of time and got acquainted to the smell that was impossible to escape.
I put my head phone and press the play button. James Blunt screams into my ears louder than the thunder of the train, “Goodbye, my lover. Goodbye, my friend”. I smile looking at the phone as it brings some old memories back to me and I am getting lost in the web of the past.
The crowd yelling at me, makes me realize that the last station and my destination has arrived. “VASHI”, the board in front of me reads. It is Friday evening, so I decide to take a walk to the flat. “There won’t be any traffic on the roads”, I say in order to motivate myself not to look at the queue of the auto rickshaws standing on my left, looking at the people coming out of the railway station like the vulture waiting for the kid to die, in a picture of Sudan during the famine of’94, I saw long time back.. I stop at the paanwala and buy four Benson n Hedges lights from the money I saved, by not going by the “rick”.
I continue walking, thinking about the stray dogs on the street and the hullabaloo they create when they smell someone approaching their comfort zone, but it doesn’t affect me anymore, as I know how to handle them. After all, as most of the people say, “I am also one of them”.
As I approach the shortcut between the two parks of sector-17. I see a middle aged man, with a girl, who appears to be his daughter, and an old lady, who is supposedly the mother, all sitting under the street lamp and next to the park’s periphery. It is surprising to see something like this at this hour of the day. As I continue walking and staring at the path, a voice from the same direction stops me. “May I ask, what is the time?” It is hard to find people with such a fluency and especially after coming to this city, it is rarer. “Twelve thirty”, I say, without taking my eyes off my phone and continue with my pace and my cavalcade of the three dogs following me. “Are you a Christian”? It irritates me and I feel like asking back, “Is it mandatory to be one, in order to use this path”? , but drop the idea. “No, I am a Hindu”, I reply in a way to hurt him deliberately. The look on his face, tells me that I have succeeded in my attempt. “Actually we are in problem and we want help, brother”. Brother? I am surprised to hear that, as still the previous question is fresh in my mind. I know the answer, but still ask the question, “what kind of help”? “Financial”, the reply is swift and I get it before I can finish. “I have to get my mother operated and we don’t have even a place to stay”. I want to ask the story in detail, as I know it is impossible to escape from it now, but something in me doesn’t allow me to. “Can you lend me some money”? I look at him, hoping that he would say something about returning it or continue with his “story”, but nothing like this happens. “How much”? I ask hoping that he would stay within the limits. “Do you have one thousand”? I can’t believe what I just heard. “I know it is a lot of money, but we need it. She doesn’t have clothes to wear”, he continues as he gets up and comes close to the wall. “We are from good family, brother. It is a shameful act, but she is my mother after all”. “Let me check how much do I have”, I say peeping into my wallet, even after knowing how much do I have precisely. Seeing more than twelve hundred rupee notes at the same place where they were, I feel a bit relieved and reply back, “not more than hundred and fifty”. Suddenly, I realize that out of the seventeen thousand I got as my salary some hours back, I have debts of more than six thousand and bills to be paid are somewhere around five thousand, six hundred and fifty. He seems a bit disappointed when he says, “not even two hundred, brother”? I take out two hundred rupee notes and as my hand moves in his direction to let the transfer of funds happen, a question pops up again. “Can’t you take some money from your friends or ATM”? I just can’t take it anymore. I decide to carry on with my escapade, and say, “OK. I will get you something more from my room. It is nearby only” and start to put my two hundred back to where they belong. “Give it to me and bring the rest from your room. Can you arrange eight or nine hundred, BROTHER”? I think again if I really want to help him or not. Seems as if he is doing me a favor by asking money. I hand him the money and think what to say next as he continues, “My mother is ill”, and the tears start flowing. I just wish, he wouldn’t have done that. “I’ll come back, with whatever I can arrange”. “Will you surely come, brother”? He asks in such a voice that forces me not to tell him the truth. I don’t know why, but I am behaving as if I am hiding from him and want to be out of the scene as soon as possible. I scan him from top to bottom before leaving the scene. He is dressed like a middle class man. A pair of kolhapuri chappals with a pair of grey trousers (this is what it seems like, under the influence of street light), a roughly used white-grey shirt with a HOLY BIBLE in his left hand. I don’t want to believe him, but something in me is not allowing it to happen. “If I get something, I’ll return in half an hour or I won’t”, even though I know I won’t return. “I will wait for you if you are coming back, otherwise we will leave”. It again pisses me off and this time I say it in a harsher tone, “OK. I am not coming back. You can carry on with your plans”, and I leave without bothered to hear his reply.
“A lot of people will make a fool out of you and take all your money. They won’t even let you know”. Mother’s words are echoing in my head and I fail to categorize whatever happened as right or wrong, good or bad. I don’t know if what mother said was true or not.
I look up in the sky and say, “your wish” and continue with entertaining my team of the 2 dogs following me and leading them proudly to the middle of the road, still thinking about the whole incident that took place some minutes back.
As I enter my so called “Cooperative housing society”, I can see the security sleeping with a comfort, I have not witnessed since long.
Out of habit, I ring the doorbell, with a surety that no one would open it, so without waiting I start looking for the key in the bag. Before, I could find them, Shabbar opens the door. He looks tired, but happy. I walk into my room and jumps into bed. I am removing my shoes when he enters room with an invitation. “You want to see a movie? I got this DVD today”. “Which one” I ask, even though I am sure I won’t be able to stay awake for next two hours or so.
The reply is swift. “LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL”. It makes my eyes go up and look at him. Once again the park scene comes to my mind and I smile at him and say, “Sometime later”.