NLT: Chapter Three

(Click here to read from the beginning)

Chapter Three

A Bad Dream


Ajay was having a strange dream.

He was falling into a deep dark pit. He hit the ground hard. Then a hideous black creature with huge wings pulled him up. It had golden teeth and started to laugh loudly. It took Ajay in both its hands and shook him.

He wanted it to stop.

The creature laughed and shook him.

Make it stop. Please.

The laughter faded away gradually. The shaking did not.

It took Ajay a few seconds to realise he was awake. He was lying face down. The ground beneath him shook violently. There was an eerie dim light.

Then he heard unclear voices in the background.

‘You are not supposed to take them.’

‘Aw shut up, Surya. The spoils of war belong to the soldiers of fortune.’

‘Actually it belongs to the king.’ A third voice.

‘Stop it Abdul. We need some incentive.’

‘Just behaving like some goddamn bandit!’

‘Abdul, you’re a Sagittarian right? Take this. It’s a turquoise. Lucky for Sagittarians.’

‘Ha. Proved lucky for Altaf, didn’t it?’

‘Huh boys. I think he’s awake.’

There was a long pause. The voices seemed focussed on him.

The shaking ground beneath and the throbbing of an engine made Ajay realise he’s in a moving truck. He strained his eyes to get a view of the insides of the vehicle. But the lone light bulb above seemed to shed its light only on him.

‘You okay?’ Surya’s voice.

Qureshi’s men kidnapped him, but didn’t kill him. That meant one thing. It’s gonna be a torture fest before his body ends up on the shore of some beach.

‘Kill me you sons-of-bitches. I’m only happy I killed that scumbag Qureshi.’ Ajay muttered under his breath.

Ajay could see the dark silhouettes of three men sitting over what seemed like wooden crates. One of the dark figures rose and moved towards him. As it neared towards the light, Ajay saw the gurkha khukri in the man’s hand.

He knelt beside him.

‘Sorry we got busy with other stuff. My name is Anil and you’re safe.’ He spoke as he cut off the yellow rope that bound Ajay’s hands.

Anil stood up and pushed a button on the wall. A couple of lights filled up the room. It hurt Ajay’s eyes. He turned on his back to have a look at where he was.

The inside of the truck was painted in white, with a black floor. It didn’t have much except for a pink bath tub, a tool box, some wooden crates, a few garbage bags, and three men.

‘You were the one at the airport, the one who phoned me,’ Ajay blurted out as soon as his eyes fell on Anil. ‘You must belong to Qureshi’s rival gang!’

‘Nope, just a friend. And don’t worry about Q number two. We packed him.’ Anil tossed him something which Ajay caught with his hand.

He took a look at it. It was small block of yellow metal, resembling... a tooth! Ajay threw it away in disgust. In one corner he saw what he thought were five garbage bags. They were body bags.

‘What do you want? And who are you?’

Abdul who was sitting on the crate and studying Ajay through his round reading glasses, asked the next question. ‘Why did you resign from your post?’

Neither one bothered to answer the other’s questions.

‘You can call me Abdul. If you want to continue working...’

‘..I don’t wanna work. What I do is none of your business! And I am not supposed to be here.’

‘You can work with like-minded fellows. No interfering superiors. No primitive weapons. No unnecessary paperwork. No limits of the khaki. How’s that?’

Ajay became aware that Abdul wasn’t talking about his police job.

Abdul continued, ‘How about we pay you double your salary. Good incentives. Good promotions. Paid holidays. Basically the same job, service to the nation.’

What the f**k is he talking about?

‘We just need your dedication. But no honours, no fame, no medals, no press conferences. You might be getting an idea now.’

Ajay stood up. But he was blank.

‘Well, you had a rough night and already you are a bit sloshed. I’m sure you will be having a lot of questions tomorrow.’ Abdul placed an envelope in his pocket.

The truck took a halt. The man known as Surya spoke, ‘Take your time kid. But in either case, don’t talk to anyone about this.’ Surya must be forty and seemed like a man who had forgotten to smile. He had a thick notebook in one hand.

Anil dimmed the lights and pushed open the doors. Abdul helped Ajay get down from the truck. They were back in front of Ajay’s house.

Ajay with some difficulty walked to the door of his house. The truck moved on. He watched it till disappeared round the corner. He stepped inside his house. The living room was spotlessly clean. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Ajay sank into his sofa and slept.

The clock in the living room showed 3 o’ clock.

(Supposed to be continued, but in all probability, won't be.)

The Last of the Martyrs

I come from a Land of Lotus-eaters,
where Blind men rule
over One-eyed fools.

I walk among Harlots and Theives
adorned in Silks and Laurels,
a Race of Paper Tigers.

I see hope in the Eyes of the Damned,
Life in the sun-scorched earth,
I see Light in the Asylums of Sin.

I bow to neither the Burning Bush
nor the Golden Calf,
I tread upon the graves of fallen tyrants.

I am the Lord of my soul, the Architect of fates
I will be the Last of the Martyrs
And the First among my Nation.

- Anup Asokan
Leicester, 2008

(Psst.. Since its too complicated, I have put an explanation in the comments section)

Sunday

Just today I came across my old diary. I went for a small stroll through time, and suddenly I was seven years younger. I was reliving the insecurities and immaturity of a college freshman. It just brought back memories – good, bad, ugly and the sweet ones. If any of you guys wanted to keep a time capsule for yourselves, please start writing a diary. These things work wonders.
-----------------------------------------------------
14 January 2001 Sunday
1176 മകരം 1 ഞായര്‍

Diaries always bring sweet memories. They do, also bad ones, painful ones. But the best ones are the ones you forget about and then rush upon you like a happy dog, the ones you wouldn’t believe if you weren’t there, the ones that leave you wondering what if...

I woke up at 7.00 am. Those days, Bangalore at 7 looked very different. It was cold and so foggy that you could see only a few feet ahead of you. You could see the occasional ‘bush’ speeding away on the road. (These bushes are people who carry pudina and coriander leaves to the maximum on their mopeds so that nothing else is visible; startled me the first I saw.) I was down from the room upstairs, in the hall rummaging for something in the newspapers.

A huge stomachache had hit me the other night, and i had skipped the dinner of rice and diluted dal. That left me sleepless in the morning craving for something good for my tummy. The only good thing that they made in the Hostel was the Tea. Farooq, our cook or the ‘magician’ could make only one thing to the perfection: the morning tea. Laced with cardamom and rich milk, and generously sweetened with sugar, the mallu gang often waited with the larger tumblers for their rations.

As I sipped mine, I saw the news on the bottom column of the front page of the paper. Raveena Tandon to dance in Bangalore. ‘Are you going?’ Arun was there, scratching his stomach. Still uneasy with my stomach, I said without a second thought, ‘Why not?’

I had only met Arun the previous year, at the beginning of the semester. But I still distinctly remember the encounter. I had the best room in the Hostel, the one on the terrace. It eventually became the Mallu headquarters, where we Malayali chauvinists play cards and listen to music on the tape recorders. I remember Arun barging into my room and off to the terrace (I’m not complaining here. They could access the terrace only through our room.) No introduction or even acknowledging my presence, he walked over to the edge, and shouted, ‘You’ve got an awesome view, dude!’ I don’t remember when we had a conversation.

Arun was a popular figure, sometimes for the wrong reasons. He was a non-stop talker and very impulsive. He could talk about almost anything under the sun. Whether he knew about what he was talking was totally another thing. He bragged too much. He could drive his car at a constant speed of 140 kmph, and at the same time measure the width of the highway to its last centimetre. Some things were true, like one time, Arun claimed there was a war fought between Argentina and Britain. Taking into consideration the geography, we laughed at him.. until somebody told us about the Falklands war. But some claims, like the soldiers of Rajasthan flew IAF planes low enough to hit deer so that the propellers chop up the deer into steaks they could cook, had no takers. In short, anything he talked about had to be taken with more than a pinch of salt.

‘Its in Palace grounds,’ Arun said.

‘That’s near right?’ I asked. Arun was the equivalent of Google Earth, whereas I needed a map and a compass to go to the nearest supermarket.

‘Yes it is, the show starts in the evening.’

I looked at the paper. It was a Kannada movie awards function. There will be plenty of celebrities whom we don’t even know.

‘Here it says that the show starts at 6.00. The dance will be kept at the end. So we can reach there at 9.00.’

‘Cool.’ Arun went away to brush his teeth.

The rest of the day went on as usual. As the inmates woke up, the hall became noisier and I retired to my room. At noon, I had my lunch at Kabab Corner, a small eatery near the Peekay’s supermarket in Frazer town (now called Pulikesi Nagar). I had a lassi in the hope it would soothe my stomach. And in the evening me and Arun went to check our mails in Cyber Kaytis. (I know these are unnecessary details for most of you, but it might bring out some nostalgic moments for my friends who stayed there.)

At 8.00 pm, we finished our ‘dinners’ and were ready to go.

To be continued...

(Actually I am desperate to see some comments: post and i will mail you guys when its complete.. ha ha)

NLT: Chapter Two

(Click here to read from the beginning)

Chapter Two

The Enemy of My Enemy

‘Three-year old killed in Encounter’

‘Police fire: Three-year old child dies’

‘Encounter drama: Three including child die’

For one week newspaper headlines clung to the same subject. TV news channels had runs and reruns of police interviews and eyewitness accounts. The media had a good time.

‘The police had fired indiscriminately, endangering people in the premises of the airport resulting in the death of a three-year old child,’ one anchorwoman told to the camera enthusiastically.

‘Iqbal was innocent. None of the cases against him had been proven,’ A man with a bad haircut and golden teeth, probably a relative, told the camera crew. ‘All were false charges!’ A dog’s instinct would tell he was pure evil.

Some ‘witnesses’ went to the extent that Qureshi was killed and then a gun was planted. Many debates filled the idiot box all week. Women in expensive silk sarees and obscure ‘celebrities’ in their attempt to reach beyond page three, babbled something about human rights.

By the weekend, a popular minister’s corruption case got attention, and the fourth estate scavengers went after their next prey. The three-year old child’s death faded into obscurity. Ajay’s encounter was a thing of the past.

Ajay loathed journalists. Journalists who could twist truth for sensationalism.

‘The police had fired indiscriminately endangering people…’

Bullshit! Only four shots were fired. Two on the adventurous thug. One by the don. One which killed both the don and the kid. But the police were trying to save her life.

‘None of the cases against him have been proved...’

True! He never left proof. He never left anything except perhaps blood, a mutilated body or a mentally disturbed woman who was no use to the court as a witness.

Once, Ajay respected journalists more than his police comrades. Everything changed one day when he was called in to curb a riot that broke in a slum. People who were a minority depending on their locality were at the receiving end. As the police arrived to disperse the mob, Ajay saw a strange sight.

A man was cornered in a street and beaten to pulp by four others. One of the had a butcher’s knife and was making threatening gestures. The man pleaded for his life. Ajay thought of shooting the goons, but suddenly there was a flash of light. He saw a photographer making use of the opportunity. Ajay thought he might be just doing his job. Then the photographer waded into his pocket and gave the goon a bunch of currency notes. And they left the place leaving the wounded man on the street.

The incident shocked Ajay. He couldn’t help the man or pursue the goons, as there were more people in more need. When the mob was dispersed, Ajay went back to the area but couldn’t find the man. Ajay could only hope that he found his way back home.

The following week, Ajay chanced to come upon a magazine which had a feature on the riot. On the cover page there was a picture of a man pleading for mercy. Ajay was never sure it was the same fellow and never told it to anyone. Later he learnt that the photographer received an award for his work.

The incident made Ajay look at the press from a different perspective. He no longer trusted everything that came in the papers. He forced himself to cross-check facts that came in editorials. He no longer saw a journalist as an angel but as someone who could be misguided buy misinformation, ideology or sensationalism, or he could be a scum who wrote for money.

And now he has got a real personal experience to solidify his beliefs. By the end of the week, Ajay was reduced to a crazy police officer and Qureshi was elevated to the status of an angel.

Without waiting for a suspension, dismissal, or an enquiry, Ajay wrote his resignation letter. He placed it on the table of the indifferent commissioner who had other things to worry like Qureshi’s brother’s hit-men or the electricity bill of his three-crore house.

Ajay came home home, and sat down with a bottle of old scotch, expecting his worries to disappear along with the brown liquid. He sat till it was late night.

Then the doorbell rang.

Ajay swayed a little bit and walked to the door. With some difficulty he unlocked and opened it.

It was Sajan. He immediately sensed the aroma of Johnny Walker.

‘Hello Sajan, come inside.’

‘No sir, It’s okay. Like you said, I had enquired about the informers at the airport.’

‘Good. But don’t call me sir. I resigned.’

‘I know. You shouldn’t have.’ Sajan felt he was the last of his kind.

‘And there won’t be a comeback. That’s a final.’

Sajan sighed and gave his report, ‘the phone calls we received at the airport were through a fake exchange. We’re looking through it right now. The tea vendor boy remembers them. They gave him a fifty rupee note. Didn’t have change, he said. They left before the shooting took place.’

‘That’s all?’ Ajay frowned.

‘No. They came in a black Qualis with a Maharashtra license plate, but the number’s fake. It belonged to a white Maruti 800. The vendor boy says he can identify them positively. So far he failed to find them form our photo collection. So they seem outsiders.’

‘Whoever.. They did a good job, whatever their intentions were..’ Ajay was disappointed at Sajan’s report.

‘Sir, well then.. I’ll be leaving.. Good Night,’ Sajan turned.

‘Good Night, Sajan.’

Sajan left in his jeep. Ajay locked the door and sat down with his scotch.

He thought of Sajan. A good man and a good friend. Sadly he had to leave him. Ajay drank to the health of the media and the police. He drank till the bottle was empty and it was half past one in the morning.

The bell rang.

Ajay staggered and walked to the door. He didn’t give much thought to who could be behind the wooden plank. With some difficulty he unlocked the door. He didn’t have to open it.

The door was pushed open and four men barged in with lightening speed. Two held Ajay’s hands behind his back. The third gifted him a kidney punch. The fourth held a gun to his chin. He had a tuft of yellow plastic rope with him.

A fifth man entered the scene. He was wearing a white kurta, and had a heavy gold chain across his neck. He scratched his unshaved cheek, ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Altaf Qureshi. I’m probably the last thing you will ever see.’

He gave a wide grin revealing his golden teeth.

Ajay just realized what he was facing. He suddenly shoved his elbows into the pits of the stomachs of those held him, and his fist knocked out four front teeth o the man who held the gun. But the guy who hit him first banged his knee into Ajay’s abdomen. Ajay was simply too drunk. He was beaten and pushed to the ground by the others.

‘Kasim, stop crying and get up.’ The new Qureshi was cold. He scratched his cheek.

The man called Kasim pocketed his teeth and grabbed his mouth.

Altaf held Ajay by his hair and pulled him up. Ajay showed no pain or fear on his face.

‘You’re gonna suffer for what you did to my brother.’ Altaf shoved his fist into Ajay’s face.

Ajay took the punch bravely and looked back at him in anger.

‘You might have been superman if you weren’t drunk.’ Altaf displayed his gold again.

Whaam! Ajay’s knee made contact with the new don’s groin. Altaf was in shock and slid back into a chair with the pain.

‘I’m still superman.’ Ajay laughed madly.

Whaam! Kasim hit Ajay with the butt of his gun. Ajay lost his consciousness and fell to the ground.

‘Don’t kill him you bastard.’ Altaf shouted, now almost recovered from the pain. ‘He shouldn’t die that easily.’

One of the goons took the yellow rope and started binding Ajay’s hand and feet.

‘Kasim, wipe your blood off the floor. We cannot trust the police on this one.’ Altaf did not want any bad news while he’s partying.

The four men dragged Ajay out of his house. Altaf walked before them. Then they stopped dead in their tracks.

There was sixth man at the gate.

Altaf reached into his pocket and felt reassured by the presence of his gun, ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Right now, my name is of no concern to you.’ The man held a lighter to his cigarette. The glare revealed his round reading glasses. He was at least six feet tall.

Altaf Qureshi felt his throat going dry, and perspiration forming on his forehead.

‘But it might interest you that,’ the man continued with a smile, ‘I’ll be probably the last thing you’ll ever see.’

Click here to read more..

Telos: Part 2

(Click here to read from the beginning)

I had to move to the centrifuge tube. The centrifuge tube or centrifuge accommodation module or simply CAM provides artificial gravity. The outward centrifugal force of the gigantic rotating tube would stimulate gravity to protect astronauts from nausea, osteoporosis, and hallucinations. I wanted to update the reports and the recorder. I wanted to doze off even though I was ‘asleep’ for two years. Some how I made it to the centrifuge tube switched it on and dozed off…

I had the strange feeling I was being shaken up from sleep. And it was true. I must have been sleeping for hours. I turned off the centrifuge tube and noticed that the ship was shaking in real and violently too. I noticed my voice recorder slowly moving, accelerating towards the front. I stared at it blankly, then it came to my mind: gravitational force! Real gravitational force! The ship was approaching Telos. It must have entered the atmosphere. The air resistance was shaking it up, probably setting the ship on fire.

I took my voice recorder and ran towards the controls. Two times I fell flat on my face. I had to literally climb down to the controls. Somehow I managed to push myself to the seat and strap my seat belt, and then I gazed at the screen. The word WARNING! appeared in red letters and at the same time the siren sounded: possible collision in twenty minutes. The ship was nose-diving. The friction must have peeled off the heat resistant tiles and set the ship on fire, and might blow up before it reaches ground. I survived the death by cold to yield to the death by fire? The ship had a very bad infrastructure. In 2740 AD, Integra still doesn’t have many resources and it is still a poor colony. Here I was paying the price for it, by death. Davis was already dead. I switched on the rocket boosters and the autopilot, and then I rolled up in the seat.

I wished I would lose consciousness, but didn’t. I was mercilessly kept awake every second till the twentieth minute.

The screen gave a view of the terrain of the planet. Wavy patterns on yellowish land: a desert. The auto pilot had adjusted the thrust pods to slide the ship over the terrain. And maybe the parachutes are open. I was bracing myself for a violent crash. I waited and then it happened.

The slow jerking was given away to me being tossed in my seat. I was afraid the seat or the belt straps will snap but luckily that didn’t happen. I could feel my organs being thrust against my ribs. Above everything I could hear my heart pounding like a gunning engine. The initial tossing had then given way to a roller coaster ride. I could picture the ship sliding over the dunes, for miles. Suddenly there was a loud roar of an explosion. Then another. Then a large whiff of hot air that burned your skin like a lobster in a pan, poured into the cockpit. Then finally, I lost my consciousness…

I didn’t know how long I had slept. When I woke up I was moist all over with little grains of yellow sand sticking over me. I felt terrible. The ship had tilted to one side and I was dangling from the seat held only by my belt straps. I was hungry too. I was thinking how all the sand came in. Probably the airlock from the mid-deck might be opened in the impact or perhaps it was the emergency exits. I tried to grasp the edge of the seat, but I came to know I had something else in my hand – my voice recorder. For two days this was going to be my logbook. I tucked it under my belt, unbuckled my seat belt, and jumped out of the seat.

I tried hard not to lose my balance in the hot sand. They were all over the place. A pungent smell hit me. I had vomited a bit over my suit. I wiped the last drops of the revolting viscous yellow liquid from my chin.

(To be continued)

Telos: Part 1

(A science fiction story)

It has been quite a long time since I was awake. But I lied down still in the hot bursts of air showered over from the ceiling tubes. I still had the strange feeling that I was freeze-dried in the inside. I lied down, not because I couldn't move. I didn't want to, I wasn't sure of what to do after I get up. In fact, I wasn't sure of anything. I didn't remember anything.

The hot air flow died out slowly. Still lying down, I gazed upon the surroundings. It was gloomy around with those eerie lights shining in their circular frames. I noted a huge screen lighting up slowly. And in its light, I studied the pipe maze coming to and going from the various tubes and tanks, the dials and buttons, the gearboxes. I knew no fear, no curiosity, and no urge to get up. I knew nothing.

I was lying on my belly, and with great difficulty I turned myself on my back. I was wet and water droplets were flying here and there. No gravity! A belt ran across my waist and its magnetic buckles had kept me to the floor. I got up. Everything came to my memory. I am Jason. I had volunteered for this mission.

I am Jason, astronaut. I was the inhabitant of the planet Integra, a planet soon to be destroyed by a huge comet like its mother planet Earth decades ago. Then it was an emergency. Details were not known to the public. The government needed a mission to Telos, a lonely planet suspected to a planet of life because it had resources similar to our Integra. They had the equipment, the robots, even androids for the mission. They did not require men. It wasn't necessary. At least, I hadn' t the faintest idea, I still don't have. Yet when they asked me to volunteer, when my friend Davis did, in that stupid moment, I felt stupidly brave and I was here.

Only when the D-day arrived I found how stupid I was. It was a two-man crew among tens of electronic gadgetry and robots. I was not allowed to take my Bible my grandpa gave, nor the wristwatch my sister got me for my birthday. After intense annoying I was allowed take my cross and a family picture. That was all. They pushed me naked into a translucent box, drugged me, froze me, and threw me into space.

That was two years ago. Two years that seemed like yesterday.

Once I land on the planet I have to live for two days. Gather some air, water, and earth samples and if possible specimens of the life forms that probably might be running all over the place. God knows what microbial parasites would kill me in spite of the universal vaccination stuff they injected. After that we have to supervise the robots in assembling our return craft and then freeze ourselves back in suspended animation. The bigger craft, it was ordered, to be left back.

I removed the magnetic belt and waded through the air to get dressed. I took the suit and stepped inside the centrifuge tube, which is actually the widest section of the ship. The centrifuge tube was to provide artificial gravity. I dressed and then I thought of Davis. I put on the magnetic shoes, and walked off.

I stood in front of the second capsule, the first being the one from which I came from, trying to figure out how to open the box. Probably because the manufacturers knew that a tin can will be smarter than a drugged astronaut, they had pasted a flashy sticker over a red button which said PUSH TO OPEN. I stuck my thumb into bright red button and it sank into the socket. Though my instincts told that something was to happen, nothing did. Maybe I didn’t push hard enough. I stuck my thumb again harder. It came to me either the button was designed for gorillas, or something else was wrong.

I peered through the glass and tried to make it out, his face. It wasn’t clear. Then I moved over to the side and ran my finger over the panels. The screen had a message: equipment failure. That gave me a sickening feeling. I checked his status: dead. Dead?! Davis was dead! I checked again. His breathing was nil, so was his heartbeat. But that was nothing; they are supposed to be nil. The temperature stood so dangerously low. That would’ve killed him. Cryogenic experiments were still experiments. I took one last look at his coffin. And walked away to the cockpit.

I sat at the seat and fastened my seat belt. I took a look at the statistics, graphics, and tables displayed on the screen. I was thinking of Davis. He was a jolly good chap. One of the fittest astronauts. He could spend hours at zero gravity without any nausea. One could never count on cryogenics. Cheap and inaccurate machinery, and leakage could cause deaths. Davis’s death left me the only human aboard the ship. It reminded me of the Volta incident where five of the six crew members succumbed to a small repair accident. The survivor was the least lucky. When the rescuers found him a fortnight later, his condition was worse than death. He had become mad left there with those terribly mutilated bodies floating around him. The thought sent a shiver through my spine.

(To be continued)

NLT: Chapter One (Part 2)

Click here to read the previous entries

Chapter One

Don't Shoot!

(continuation)

‘Stand aside inspector. You don’t want the kid to die,’ roared Qureshi.

‘You bastard, you sick bastard, leave the kid,’ Ajay felt his anger pounding up.

‘Drop your gun, you B^#*ch*d,’ Sajan was trying to hold his gun in his sweaty hands.

‘No, you drop your guns. You can’t touch me now.’ Qureshi laughed maliciously, ‘Commissioner, order your men to drop their arms.’

‘My child…’ the girl’s mother was wailing, and Sajan was holding her back.

The commissioner ordered his men to back away, ‘Back away, drop your weapons.’ The constables put their arms down. Then he turned to Ajay. ‘Let him go Ajay. We can’t put the child’s life in danger.’

Ajay wasn’t listening. There were a hundred thoughts going on in his head. I can’t shoot him in the leg or torso, he’ll kill the kid. I have to shoot him in the head, turn him off like a switch. But the don was holding the child as a shield.

‘Give it up, Qureshi. Its over’ Sajan tried to negotiate.

‘No… you’re finished. Once I’m through with this, I’ll wipe off your entire family’ Qureshi laughed insanely.

Ajay’s mind was teeming with thoughts. Mass-murderer! The only thing that gave this man power – fear! The fear of losing one’s life. The fear of losing one’s family. The fear of losing everything one knew!

‘Don’t shoot, Ajay, let him go,’ the commissioner was trying to convince him.

But Ajay was lost. His mind was elsewhere. The testimonies of the victims. The old man who saw his entire kin shredded to bits. The mother who was forced to watch her daughter raped repeatedly. The father who showed the photographed of his four sons who were mutilated and murdered. The three-year old who was left at the mercy of Qureshi the pedophile…

‘No! you swine.. Qureshi, you son of a whore.. you’re dead meat.. you’ll not leave this place alive!’ Ajay’s anger was as though he was going to explode. Everyone was stunned.

Voices sounded so distant. The commissioner’s (‘Drop your gun Ajay, that’s an order’). Sajan’s (‘You can’t escape, Qureshi.’) Time slowed down.

Take the chance, Ajay. You’ve never missed. You’ll never miss. Voices within him spoke, Egg him, egg him so much that he’ll point his gun at you. Then you can nail him. Shoot him. Finish him. He’s too dangerous to be left alive.

‘You pimp.. you beast.. You’re a mother-_____’ Ajay spat out. He could see the don getting restless. That malicious grin had faded from his face.

Remember the testimonies, Ajay. You know about the cases that even the press did not carry. Remember six months of hard work. Remember the victims. Remember the old man. Remember the mother. Remember the father. Remember the three-year old…

‘Qureshi, you motherf___ing piece of shit, you pedophile. I even heard you f___ your own daughters..’ Ajay made his final move.

‘Aargh’ Qureshi pointed the gun at Ajay and pulled his trigger in a fit of rage. But he gave enough time for Ajay to pull his.

Bang! Bang! Two simultaneous shots!

The bullet hit Ajay in his arm. He felt it, but there’s was no pain.

Almost the same time, Qureshi and child fell back. Qureshi gave a loud cry which registered a hit.

Ajay knelt down, and pressed hard to stop his bleeding, still clutching his handgun. People began to crowd over the fallen don. Then he heard the commissioner, ‘He’s gone.’ He was pale as a ghost.

Ajay gave a sigh of relief. He didn’t miss. The Don is finished once and for all.

‘Call the ambulance,’ Sajan told a constable. That made Ajay look at him.

Something wasn’t right. Sajan was staring at the don. There was concern on his face. Something wasn’t right.

The girl’s mother was pleading to Sajan who was holding her back, ‘please let me go, I want to see my daughter.’ Sajan paused for a moment and let her go.

Suddenly Ajay felt his wound throbbing. He could smell his blood. There was pain. He clutched his wound even harder, letting go of the pistol. There was more pain.

A woman’s high-pitched wail pierced the air. Ajay raised his head. An unfamiliar fear rose in him. He saw Sajan walking towards him. ‘What’s wrong, Sajan?’ Ajay asked eagerly.

‘The paramedics are on their way. Stay calm,’ Sajan replied.

‘I’m okay,’ Ajay spoke through his teeth.

‘It’s not for you.’

‘What? Did.. did I.. miss?..’

‘You didn’t miss. Qureshi’s dead.’ Sajan knelt beside him, ‘the little girl..’

Ajay just stared in horror.

‘Your bullet passed through her body first.. There’s only a slim chance she may live..’

‘Slim chance?! What slim chance?’ the commissioner screamed at the top of his lungs, ‘You killed the kid, you psycho!! I told you not to shoot.’ He was quivering with rage at the death of the don.

Ajay felt darkness creeping into his eyes.

‘Enough sir, you’re not helping the situation,’ Sajan spoke to the commissioner. He made no attempt to disguise the anger in his voice.

‘Don’t give me that tone! Should I sing a lullaby to a child-killer?’

‘You’re upset that you can’t pay the electricity bill of your three crore house anymore..’

‘How dare you..’

‘Or maybe you’re scared that Qureshi’s brother will take you down ‘cause you assured him safety..’

Things were going very differently in Ajay’s mind. You killed a child, Ajay. You’re no different from them. You’ve become what you hated. You’re a child-killer!

Someone in the crowd shouted, ‘Murderer.’

Ajay fell forth and vomited. He passed out. The last thing he felt was the warmth of his colleague's arms trying to pull him up.

Click here to read more

NLT: Chapter One (Part 1)

Click here to read the Foreword

Chapter One

Don't Shoot!

‘It’s almost one o’ clock.’ Sajan was looking at his watch rather impatiently.

Ajay didn’t comment on it. He ran his eyes across every face that came out of the airport. He was searching for a face that he could hardly miss, yet it was possible that it would slip unnoticed like it had done before.

‘Qureshi could come any moment.’ Sajan was eyeing everyone like he was paranoid.

Most police officers would have winced at the mention of his name. But Sajan, a sub-inspector of the Mumbai police force, spat out that name with disgust and contempt. He was from Bihar and like all good Biharis hated politics, corruption, and crime. He worked hard to be in the force. He worked as if he had a personal vendetta against all criminals. He was ruthless to them.

Ajay too, was an honest officer in the otherwise bought Mumbai police. What other officers could achieve in years, he could do in months. But like Sajan he too had to fight against many odds: gangster threats, colleagues’ indifference, and superiors’ interference. Here, honest officers were a sort of endangered species.

‘Saab, chai?’ the vendor asked.

Ajay sipped his tea. He looked at men with turbans, beards, and glasses. In his mind’s eye he saw how they looked without those features. None resembled him. Ever since Ajay became an inspector, he was obsessed with one name: Iqbal Qureshi.

Iqbal Qureshi was an underworld kingpin. His crimes exceeded those of Ivan the terrible. The magician who could make entire families disappear. The police and the politicians eat out of his hands. Rivals in the business keep a low profile to keep their heads. Even the police commissioner used to attend his parties. So do other high officials and starlets.

Ever since Ajay first heard of his atrocities, he was working on collecting evidence on his crimes, interrogating witnesses and victims. In most cases, the FIR was written favorable to the don, proof that most police officers were on his payroll. Ajay carefully collected every piece of evidence to nail the don.

Two days ago, an informer who was afraid that he was going to end up dead soon, telephoned Ajay with a piece of information: Qureshi was coming home to Mumbai, after a pleasure trip to Thailand. Two days were enough for Ajay to make a special team of highly able officers. His plainclothes men were ready to take on Qureshi.

Two hours before the operation, the commissioner came to know of it. And that was all. Ajay and his men were posted in the parking lot. The commissioner with the constables holding .303 rifles were posted at the entrance. Ajay knew about the rifles, they were the kind used in the Second World War.

Ajay didn’t want to believe it, but he knew the commissioner was bent on saving Qureshi. The uniformed men were enough to put him on alert. Then Mr. Q would take care of himself. Or else the commissioner would even escort him to his car.

‘Sajan, move near the gate. Look for disguises, but probably he won’t try that. Be careful. His bodyguards are said to be lethal shooters. I’m moving to the entrance. Good Luck!’

‘No probs. I’ll make sure he won’t slip that way.’ Sajan walked towards the parking lot gate.

Ajay finished his tea and looked around for a garbage can.

‘Beep beep.’ His mobile rang. Could it be his lookouts inside the airport? Did they spot him?

Ajay took out his cell phone. Surprisingly there was no number on the screen. He thought of switching it off, but couldn’t take the chances. He pressed the answer button and held it to his ear.

‘Qureshi. Black business suit. Two goons with him. Possibly armed. At the entrance. Move, quick!’

Still keeping the phone to his ear, Ajay turned around. The informant should be close by yet able to observe the entrance. A few yards ahead, he saw two men. One of them had a cell phone to his ear. He had his back to Ajay. He could be tall enough to be a pathan. The other even taller wore round framed glasses and seemed to be staring at him. He had a cup of tea in his hand.

‘He’s leaving. Now!!’ The voice in the phone erupted.

Ajay wasn’t sure it was the same man. But the words sprung him into action. There was no time. Qureshi could be leaving. He tossed the plastic tumbler to the ground, and thrust his mobile to his pocket. He sprinted to the entrance.

Even at the distance, Ajay recognized the bald man in the black suit. The bastard made no effort to disguise himself. Too confident, he thought.

Ajay felt the excitement, the anger. The bleeding tales of the victims, their tearful eyes at the interviews, everything came to his mind. He pulled out his FN-35, an encounter specialist’s delight.

‘Freeze!! Police!!!’

The commissioner who stood so close to the don that he might have brushed shoulders with him, suddenly faked an element of surprise, ‘What?! Q..Q..Qureshi?’

Everything fell so silent that Ajay could hear nothing but his heart beating frantically against his ribs. Qureshi rather than felt cornered, might have felt insulted. The commissioner was terrified more than anyone else.

‘Surrender Qureshi, we have a warrant. There is no escape!’ Ajay’s voice was trembling, but it was furious.

Perhaps it would have led to a peaceful arrest if it weren’t for the thug in the dark green suit. The thug pulled out a gun fast. But not fast enough. He tried to pull out the safety hatch.

Bang! Ajay shot him in the chest.

The thug fell to the floor and spat blood. But he held on to the pistol, and tried to raise it.

Bang!!

He spat more blood and was no more a threat. The second shot came from Sajan. Ajay looked at him. Sajan’s expression was ruthless. In one hand he had a gun. In his sweaty other hand, his cell phone.

‘No escape Mr. Q. Surrender.’ He spoke calmly.

The commissioner woke up from his trance, ‘Huh.. Yes.. Mr. Q.. Qureshi.. pl.. please surrender..’ The policemen, like tin soldiers, raised their rifles.

The onlookers who were stunned until then slowly began to back away in panic. The other bodyguard raised his hands up in the air, kneeled down and saved his life. It was a clever move.

Qureshi’s wrath was immense. But he was quick and jumped over the railings into the crowd nearby.

‘Damn sonofabitch!’ Ajay followed suit. He couldn’t shoot. Not in a crowd. Innocent people could get hurt. Sajan hurled abuses at Qureshi and rushed into the crowd. He knew Qureshi couldn’t get far. But something spoiled their calculations.

Qureshi snatched a three year old girl from her mother. He held a gun to the child’s head. Qureshi had a hostage.

Click to read more..

NLT: Foreword

That's it guys, I have decided to write a novel. Ha, at least a part of it. This one has been in my mind for more than ten years. Actually the basic plot changed over time, and the title became no longer relevant. I haven't retitled it yet. So I'll keep it abbreviated to NLT.

The characters are amazing (I think so!) and I owe that to my brother (the dude's got a heap of talents) for creating the first draft in our minds. I used to hate James Bond movies. Come on, the portrayal of spies and gadgets is so unrealistic. Secret agents don't come in tuxedos and expensive cars. I suppose that made me write this. I have written three chapters so far, and believe me, its no easy job. So I'm going to post each chapter I have written, once I finish typing it.

Who knows? Maybe you guys will encourage me to write more (or burn my manuscript).

Adieos!

Dedicated to my bro,
Dr. Abhilash
(yep, he's a doctor now)

Thanks to my friends
Shabib and,
Sharmila
for their feedback.

Here are the links to the chapters:

• Chapter One (Part 1) Don't Shoot
• Chapter One (Part 2) Don't Shoot
• Chapter Two The Enemy of My Enemy
• Chapter Three A Bad Dream

I'll be posting the links, as soon as I finish it.

Schizophrenia

I love graphic novels. Especially the Sin City ones. Actually it might be just those. Sex and violence in marvelous ink panels, more like a cross between a neo-noir movie and a book. Frank miller's language is simply awesome. Its just mindless violence plus good story-telling. I would say, guys at least watch the movie!

This is what I tried. It actually came out better than i expected. Its been made as three parts, to be inserted at different places in a bigger graphic novel (I have already thought of the plot of that one!). Page 1 is the first part. Pages 2 - 5 constitute the second. Pages 6 and 7 cover the last.

As with most of my themes, this too is dark and disturbing. Looking forward to your comments.

The Lucifer Dialogues Part II

Click to read from beginning

So my fellow countrymen (and women), the debate between Adam and Lucifer continues..

'Hey, do you remember the question we used to ask during our fifth grade? Is fire solid, liquid or gas?'

'Yeah, yeah. to those who say its solid, we ask them how come we could pass a stick through it. To those who say it's a liquid we ask 'em, why doesn't it flow away. To those who say it's gas we ask 'em, why it being hot doesn't go up in the air?'

'Right. The thing is, fire is energy. It's just the heat and light as a result of the chemical reaction - burning of wood. Got the point?'

'Okay, the point is..'

'Don't you see the display that comes on your screen when you switch on your PC? It's the outcome of the electrical changes in the hardware. Cut off the power supply and off goes the display. Likewise the chemoelectrical changes in your brain gives rise to the mind. When you die your mind just shuts down. Period. No afterlife. No pearly gates. The mind cannot exist without the body - your brain!'

'Now that is scary. You're comparing us to some stupid machine.'

'Why don't we leave the mind part here and go back to the life part? Don't worry, we'll come back to finish this.'

'Okay.'

'Well then, what is life?'

'I tried answering that already.'

'Okay, we'll simplify it. Is a cat a living being?'

'Yes.'

'Is a phone a living being?'

'No, its inanimate.'

'Well then, what about an inanimate tree?'

'Pardon me. Yes, the tree is alive.'

'Excellent, how about a virus? It's on the border of the living and the non-living. Its inactive while not in contact. Once it comes into contact with another living organism, it infects it and multiplies. What do you say?'

'I would say its a living organism.'

'Would you say the same for a computer virus?'

'Are you kidding me? How can you call a strip of evil programming, life?'

'Any arguments?'

'It's a piece of malicious code..'

'..information stored in bits instead of DNA or RNA.'

'It doesn't exist. It's only in the computer..'

'..we live in our environment. It lives in its own.'

'A real virus behaves like other species: ensuring the survival of its kind.'

'A computer virus does the same: it replicates itself and destroys others.'

'Oh man, I'm not taking this. A computer virus - life?! Utter nonsense!!'

(To be continued)

The Highwayman and his Harley

Alive and free, I live fast, unchained
Holding unto nothing
Without a care to the world, fearing no judgment day,
I live a free man’s life.

You call me insane.

You live enslaved
Chained to your desk, caged in your cubicle.
Seeking mirages of better wages
And rations of your rights.

I chase my dream on an open highway
Braving desert storms and coyotes.
Dragging the scent of burning tires
Leaving nothing but tire tracks in the dust.

And you call me insane.

You torture your soul in monotony
In thirty years of purgatory
Then you retire into obscurity
Counting in coins your tithe-eaten leftovers
Knowing it won’t last many winters
Then one day you die in an effort to
remember who you were once.

I take my thirty pieces of silver
The fruit from the serpent’s mouth
I live like a legend
And one day I’ll become road kill.
Till that moment
I’ll live my life to the fullest.

But you’ll live long
To tell stories to your grandchildren
But listen well my friend
The story you’ll tell might be mine

The Lucifer Dialogues Part I

I always think that there are two personalities within most of us. One is an idealist who believes there's a cosmic balance of good and evil in this world guarded by a mysterious force. He thinks there's more to the world than which can be perceived by our senses, one who sees beauty in mystery.

The Other is a realist who ponders over everything with a mind of a rationalist and the heart of a revolutionary. Of course he sees and exclaims, 'nothing! just the atom and the void!', yet he sees more. He believes in the divinity of mankind, and that the mystery surrounding everything is the last cloud of darkness before science makes its voyage till there. Hence he sees as his mentor, Lucifer - the bearer of light - who gave man knowledge much like Prometheus of Greek mythology. Hence the name, the Lucifer Dialogues.

Enjoy this piece of philosophical intercourse..

‘What is Life?’

‘That’s a Silly question.’

‘But I doubt you’ll find an equally simple answer.’

‘Okay, Life is the metabolic activity of an organism.’

‘Wow, a silly answer!’

‘Why?’

‘What’s an organism? Something which has life in it, right?’

‘Yeah. Sorry mate’

‘Ok where does life start?’

‘As a baby, of course.’

‘Why didn’t you say it began in the womb?’

‘Right! It’s in the womb.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even sperm cells have life, don’t they?’

‘Okay, I’m not sure. You tell me.’

‘Or is it from the splitting of the chromosomes?’

‘Too much biology.’

‘But if it is, then it is not the beginning. It’s a continuation of existing life, a sort of branching off, as we see in amoebas.’

‘Are you suggesting that we’re part of our fathers’ lives? How can it be when we have different souls?’

‘Souls?’

‘You know. Mind, consciousness?’

‘Mind. Consciousness. Soul. Are they all the same?’

‘Well, almost. In my opinion, yes.’

‘Then what is the mind?’

‘Don’t you know? The mind is the true self, which controls our bodies.’

‘But the mind is part of the body’

‘No, it is independent. It just controls the body.’

‘Is your personality a part of your body or your mind?’

‘The mind.’

‘So, whether you have a cheerful personality doesn’t depend on your body, right?’

‘Yup!’

‘Then you don’t know much about Brain chemistry, do you?’

‘Err.. No’

‘Look, scientists have found a chemical called serotonin which could trigger happiness.’

‘Sero.. what?!’

‘Serotonin. A chemical which could trigger happiness. There are different chemical substances in our brain that decides our emotions and moods.’

‘Are you telling me that, happiness is no longer an abstract feeling, but something which can be bottled and bought for 50p a phial?’

‘Well it could be bottled, though I’m not sure about the marketing part.’

‘Whatever. I still believe mind is different from the body.’

‘Well it is known that brain chemistry is determined genetically and by environmental factors. That brings it closer to the evolution, doesn’t it?’

‘So you’re saying..’

‘..that the mind is nothing but the resultant of the chemical changes in our brain.’

‘Never!’

(To be continued)

Insomnia

I wrote this in office (I didn't have much work that day). I came to office after hardly two hours of sleep. It was weird because I'm always a heavy sleeper. But because of some reason i did not sleep for long. After spending a few hours idle in office I thought, Why not? So here it is, the way it was written. Just edited to remove a few grammatical mistakes.

I don’t know what time I woke up this morning. It’s hard to say. When you need so much sleep, you don’t remember much. I know I woke up because I remember going to bed. Sometime early in the morning.

I don’t know how long I slept. But I know I did sleep. I know because it was one of those sleep modes where you have a dream. Its funny when you have a dream. You forget most of it during the first few moments you are awake. And just the mood you have been left in, lingers on. I get the weirdest of all dreams. I guess weird dreams are quiet normal. People don’t talk about those ‘cause they’re weird and they just forget about it. This one was weird. I remember all that. How could I not remember when I woke up, or what I did?

I do remember reading the papers. I do not remember the news or the comics. How sure can I be that I really read the papers? What if it was yesterday’s memory? Or did I just imagine all that in my head now? I remember having breakfast today. I do remember taking a shower. But somehow it seems so distant. Its like something in the past. I mean its like recovering from amnesia. You know its recent because there’s not much between that and the present. Isn’t memory relative? Isn’t it?

I need that sleep badly. Here I am sitting in my cubicle. Why didn’t I take a leave? What were I thinking? Were I thinking at all? Or Were I reacting according to my conditioning? Should I test myself? Think. Think hard. Think of a childhood memory. You know you should. But you don’t want to put in the effort to dig up a memory. Too lazy for it. You know, the biggest problem with not having enough sleep? You never really know if you are truly awake or if it’s all a dream. Wait. I heard that somewhere before. There. Isn’t that an old memory?

Now let me sleep.