NLT: Chapter One (Part 2)

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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.

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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.

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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.

Leaving No Footprints

Neither Ghalib nor Gibran,
nor the love songs of Rumi
can set my soul free

The wisdom of the fakir, and
the resolve of the assassin
fail to inspire me.

Neither the gospel of the apostle,
nor the blasphemy of the apostate
could quench my thirst and pain

My reed tells no tale
My book has no chapters
I live my life in vain.