The Comeback

The Signal

there's a disfigured carcass lying at the traffic signal near the New Friends Colony Community Centre.

roadkill, probably a blueline bus. weathered grey trousers. white shirt/top soaked in blood. the boy/girl is lying in a twisted heap by the further side of the road. you can't make out it's face. there's a crowd gathered about it. the bus didn't stop. someone noted the number and is making a police officer note it down. you can see a hand poking out of the mess. it's unbloodied and clean. you can see three stars on the palm.

some people are concerned. others stand about the place, uninterested. in a greater circumference, some even pass by, ignoring the scene like it doesn't exist. happens often. delhi is a harsh city.

sometimes you have to wait a long time to cross this road. it leads from a wide, unfettered distance into a flyover. the traffic, therefore, is speeding either side of the road. they've set up a miniature garden on the divider. a small boy with a painted nose and a pebble attached by a string to the top of his cap dances with a hoop here. he shakes his head in a circular motion and makes the pebble move in circles above his head. his mother/older sister plays a song on a steel plate sitting behind him. he starts this when traffic stops at the signal. after a performance, he goes down to the road to beg people for money. he goes to firangs/college students first. i'm standing right there, behind him, as he's running from auto to car to auto. behind me, the traffic is whizzing past. people are wating on the other side of the road. they'll probably have to wait for another 10 minutes. i'm standing here looking lost.

ten minutes earlier, my mum called. she's coming with the man servant, parimal. he'll need a place to sleep. my set in lajpat isn't large enough. i tried fixing up a thing for him at a friend's place, didn't work out. they'll be arriving tonight.

earlier, in the same day, i'm sitting in ogilvy, trying to work on a brief for a banner inside an office, celebrating it's 10th anniversary. later, all my lines get scrapped, as we start work on an idea based poster campaign.

around 4 months ago, i'm sipping apple juice outside my office, another agency called fcb ulka. i'm considering moving to another agency because an idea i thought was great got scrapped because the client didn't understand it. actually, i messed up while narrating the script. i hate myself for it.

6 months ago, i'm waiting for the response to my application to soas for a course in development. i got the letters of recommendation from my favorite teachers. one of them made me write a paper for it. i wrote it on the reservations issue. i used a friend's credit card to pay the application fee. i spent about a week writing an earnest statement of purpose. they didn't get back.

three years ago, i'm in college. i'm in the finals of acropolis, a parliamentary debate organised by hansraj college. we were up against lsr. one of the girls we were debating against was very pretty. she met me around two years later in the saket barista and told me she was going to yale to study. the dramatics in her resume helped, she said. we were debating the imposition of the uniform civil code. the other team got their facts wrong. we got best team and i got best speaker.

four years ago, i'm standing in a senior's room in st. stephen's college, pretending to give myself a handjob. i'm also telling him what i want to do with my life. i tell him, i want to be a development professional for the undp.

six years ago, i'm in loreto convent, lucknow. i'm representing my school, la martiniere college, in a poetry competition, because uday, the boy who was supposed to do this had to participate in the prose competition which was happening at the same time. i'm frightened because i misspelt a word in the slogan writing competition and the teacher asked me who my english teacher was. they announce the results of the poetry writing competition. i win first prize. i believe, for a moment, that i can do anything.

sometime before the accident, i'm standing on the divider. the man servant has no place to sleep. there's no place at my friend's place. if i wasn't there, there would be space for the man servant . the boy is running from auto to car to auto. i see a bus whizz past behind me. others follow.

earlier in the day, i draw three stars on the palm of my left hand.

_

THE ROAD

“The killer awoke before dawn,

he put his boots on

He took a face from the ancient gallery

And he walked on down the hall…”

And then he… reached the road. The road… it stretched from the ends of one civilization to the start of another. Civilization, if you identify it by the shining glass buildings and air-conditioned shuttles moving from point A to point B, carrying in them people dressed quite inappropriately for the season with stiffened collars and cold faces. These were the people who traveled by the road apart from others who are seldom talked about in stories.
The road in itself was as peculiar as the characters that used it. And he loved it. He traveled from one end to the other joyously hunting out his victims. And the victims were not too hard to find.
The road was somewhat straight except for a bend or two. At places it was being dug at the very centre to install pillars to support a rail line in air. The road was a mess at such places, making them his favorite hunting grounds. Then there were the trees. A road with trees would look beautiful if the trees were not in the very middle of it. To add to the charm, illegally built buildings brought down by the municipal corporation lined the road on both sides. The government guys had not cared to bring down the structures completely. They just hung in balance dying a painful death, making the place look like a war ravaged country. Such characters of the road were too irresistible for him and let him work like an artist. An artist he was. Who else uses the perfect balance of all elements and creates such a beautiful piece of art.
Something that makes people stop and admire it on their way home.
They are always careful enough to not disturb its completion by the slightest interference. The travelers of the road had long since become true admirers of his art. The pattern, the balance, the finish was always on their mind. It was the new ones who weren’t aware or the one who forgot under the influence of alcohol or anything that was more attractive.
These were the kinds he despised and always longed to make them a part of it, submerge them in the beauty of it so that they never forget or nothing else remains to be remembered.
And then there was his favorite element – the human mind. Its depths, its richness, its beliefs, its contradictions, afflictions, addictions …such a vast subject to study. The slightest of contradictions and errors of the human mind were like his perfect traps.

Naren wasn’t the most difficult of minds for him to work on. A non-descript farmer from a non-descript village looking for a non-descript job. He was crossing the road at its very end. He reached the other side and realized he was one slipper less. The slipper lay at the middle of the road he had just crossed. He had to make a decision now to walk back to get his slippers. Such decisions are made in a fraction of a second. What may be the time you take to blink your eye, was a whole period of action for the killer. he acted quickly and Naren went back. A speeding radio cab hit Naren first on his head which he had bowed to pick up his slipper, and then his legs. It all happened in a single massive hit which sent Naren flying in the air only to fall back crashing his head on the glass pane of the car.
There lay glass and blood, splattered all across, in a pattern that could inspire any successful merchant banker to give his profession and start painting.
Passersby stopped and admired the work, giving the killer a kind of applause only he could hear, sitting in the corner smiling.
And then they moved on.

Stranger Than Fiction

“Wow! She’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I feel overwhelmed, I feel like my heart is going to explode.” BOOM!

Udayan: Dial 911. 911... 9... 1... 1... God Damn It! This is so arbit. I'm going out for a drag.
Abhinav: This is SO turning me on.
Kingshuk: Khoon! Khoon! Aaaaa!
Copy trainee No. 7089: Dude, this would make an awesome ad for...
Avinash: Behencho....
Deshwal: ...aur phir maine us ladki se kaha, yaar tum...
Random Baby: Waaaa Waaaaa Waaaainnn!!!
Shivi: Fuck! I’m late for my tennis match! Fuck!
Goat: Udayan, I really don’t have all day.
Overworked Servicing Executive: Who gives a damn about him? I haven’t slept in three days. Feels like my head is going to exp...

Project WRMHLE01

Hi. I really am quite excited. Oh gOD, I wish you could see me right now. See what I’ve created, or maybe discovered, unearthed. I really don’t know what I did, or how I did it. I just know that this will change everything. Everything! Because at this very moment, right before me, is a wormhole. A gateway into another universe, dimension, time, maybe even heaven, or hell. I don’t know, yet.

Now, how I did what I did. In retrospect, it was quite simple. It’s just how you manipulate dark-matter, the bringer of all existence. You know matter, right? What we’re made of, what everything’s made of. And therefore there must exist anti-matter. Why? For balance, like a south for a north, a negative for a positive, a man for every woman, a hell for all of heaven’s rejects. God I hope I don’t end up there. There’s so much space, time, matter... I hope probability is on my side tonight. Pardon me for digressing, but it’s really hard to contain all this excitement.

Anyway, like I said, there’s matter, and then there’s antimatter. And when the twain shall meet, who knew? All I did was close my eyes, twist inward reality and suck out all that was there till nothing existed. And when I opened them, there was fusion, birth. I wouldn’t like to call it my child, but I will have to name this wormhole eventually. Maybe even worry about its college education. Sorry, I am digressing, again. It’s just hard, you know, the excitement. It is after all my baby, my own. I somehow feel there is a part of me in there. I mean there is a part of everyone and everything in it, but I feel more so of me. I feel... I feel these strange feelings, uncanny emotions. Is this what maternal love is? I think I’m going to cry. Oh god, my baby... my beautiful, black, light sucking, all engulfing baby. I love you so much. So much that I can’t contain it any longer. Come here you, give mamma a hug. Give mamma a big fat hu9893200 688elp0932 666008vil93274 120011 01001100 0010000 000000 000000 000000 000000 000000 000000