Leaving Guwahati

I am leaving Guwahati, for some time, perhaps for longer than I know and I am not sure when I will be back. When I first came to Guwahati nearly four years to the exact day, the city I had observed is not the city that I see today. And as I begin to pack my bags and start saying my goodbyes, the city and its newly changing face come back to me in every corner and turn of the road that I take and urge’s me not to leave.

The city that we grow up in is not always the city that we remember and I am sure better people than me, and better pens than mine have rendered the same words and the same judgment in far more eloquent prose and poetry. Yet the city that leaves its mark on you is more often the one you remember than the one you don’t.

I was lucky to grow up in city, which I also remembered again by the fact of working in it. I had finished my studies upto class 12 in Guwahati itself, but then you cannot really know a city as a child and worse, a school going child ensconced with the kindly but firm familial embrace that did not believe in street education’s importance to a child. The first city I perhaps knew was Pune, where I went to college. Though most people today believe it to be the only city that actually started out decadent, it was quite a change from the bucolic existence of mine.

Cities change and so do people, and I had come back after completing my studies and various internships in various metropolises in India and had found to no great surprise that home was the same as it had been the 5 years before I had left it.

Guwahati to me, 4 years ago didn’t look like the Forbidden City, perhaps that’s only because it was not called the Forbidden City. It didn't look inviting. It didn't look as though it sold postcards, though we do get them now. The only souvenir you were likely to get would be, perhaps, your teeth. In a bag. Certain areas were described, in various travelogues and brochures, as being “quaint” and “folkloric” which was a nice euphemism for “you’ve been warned”. There were certain ancient parts of the city, whose inhabitants were largely nocturnal and never enquired about one another's business because curiosity not only killed the cat but threw it in the river with weights tied to its feet.

And then we had the smaller towns like Jorhat and Dibrugarh where people think us to be weird and crazy and always worried about the future and think that it comes from eating unnatural foods. Guwahati was supposed to be a wet rainforest jungle till a few hundred years ago, and it has not changed much except that it has got drier and had more carnivores now.

I started working in the city of my birth and growth and found so many things that belied description that even putting the same down in words, on paper is unreal.
Today the youngsters hang out in the trendy new chain coffee stores and drink cappuccinos, when we used to drink “laal saah” by our addas. The new watering holes have names evocative of magic and temptation, our holes were pits like Indraloy Bar where managing three drinks before a fight broke out was magic in itself.

Finding a cyber café was an achievement, though mostly the cafes would be nothing more than an enterprising young fellow with a computer at his home with a tortoise-slow dial-up connection, but we thanked god for small mercies and mailed our pals in Mumbai and Delhi and cribbed and complained about the state of Assam, pun fully intended.

Today, its hard to walk 50 feet in any direction within the city and 100 feet outside the city before seeing the ubiquitous Sify sign board, winking red temptation and speedy DSL cable connections. Guwahati has always been a city which believes in fads, and when we first saw public call offices, or trekkers, or minibuses (canters) or wine shops, it would just take a few weeks before the phenomenon would spawn crazily all over the city and everyone would jump on the bandwagon of the day. In a way, this is truly the ethos of this enchanting and infuriating place.

People who were not indigenous to the region started most of these new businesses and as with most cultures, it’s the exiles, the men and women, tough and strong enough to leave their pasts who can create something new. It is the exiles who own the earth; because they are tough enough to walk without shoes, eat stale crusts and even mate with strange women. For they will survive. Walk any road in the world, they say, and you will find a foreigner making money out of the locals. Look up in the sky and see the wild geese flying across the moon. And, while it was true that a lot of people came to Guwahati because it was a city of opportunity, sometimes it was the opportunity not to be beaten up, hung or dismantled for whatever crimes they had left behind in the villages and in the hills.

A lot of people came to the city in the past years, some for work and some for creating work for others. The latter community was swinging to boom time now, for it was a community all right. A community of students who would come in the search of specific subjects, freedom, better opportunities and the dream of bohemia.

The last few years, students have been accumulating and streaming into the city every year and like most places, they have brought the winds of change and zephyrs of fresh, new ideas and ways. Some good, some interesting, but definitely blowing the winds of change. You can find couples dating and walking about in trendy outfits and in trendier locations. Call me jealous, but I truly hate God at such times, that I was born a few years too early!!

In my salad years of a schoolboy, back in the days of yore, the sight of a girl talking to us boys would be stared at by the rest of us, in the manner of those who have heard of the species 'female' but have never expected to get this close to one. Today, you are more likely to find kids from class 10 and 12 inhabiting the city’s discos, pub’s and coffeehouses. They are young, brash and have hard cash, which is a change all right.

There is an ancient Chinese curse, it goes "May you live in interesting times"... I guess, we must have got on the bad side of some of the Chinese generals during the Indo-Chinese war and the curse was a delayed-reaction one. I am definitely living in interesting times.

The new generation has perhaps its own defence and its own bohemian ideals that they espouse. I remember the trouble I had explaining to my parents and Assorted Aunts Inc. the possibility of girls who can just be platonic friends with me, much to my secret disgust, and not mean any harm. So, I guess, its just another change, another day…

Poets have tried to describe Guwahati. They have failed. Perhaps it's the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it's just that a city with a million inhabitants and no working sewers during the monsoons is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder.

There was a certain something about the air in the city. ... You couldn't help noting with each breath that thousands of other people were very close to you and nearly all of them had armpits. This part of Guwahati was known as Paltan Bazaar and Phasi Bazaar, an inner-city area sorely in need either of governmental help or, for preference, a flamethrower. It couldn't be called squalid because that would be stretching the word to breaking point. But with the advent of the new brand stores, I am wondering how long will these bastions of consumer durables last out.
In the past, I would remember myself being dragged to these areas, by my mom and my Assorted Aunts Inc. (Its easier to term them thus, they are not countable and I would get lost even trying) These fearless women would go out in droves to sack, pillage, plunder with others of their kind and never was such an invasion by an assortment of valkyrie’s welcomed with such heartfelt joy perhaps. The narrow streets and the stifling shops smelling of new clothes and the invisible assistants up in the attics, who were shouted weird incomprehensible codes and lo, behold, the exact colour, size and shape would appear in the product demanded. It was a weird and incomprehensible world and fun to get lost in, especially with the advantages of being inundated with cold drinks everywhere we went.

Today, when my sisters and their friends, the new generation of Assorted Aunts Inc. perhaps, drag me to cool, air-conditioned swanky malls, I still get lost in the smell of new clothes, only there is no mystique and its all very quiet and organized and no fun. People would browse in silence and there is no uproar of weird meaningless phrases and the sales assistants are behind the counters. There are also no free cold drinks, sadly.

The only thing that is still constant is that I am still being dragged, will-nilly, against my will to be shopped for, to shop, or basically just to stand as porter cum driver cum sounding board for Assorted Sisters and Aunts Inc.

Something’s never change, such as the merchants of Fancy Bazaar. The shopkeepers of Fancy Bazaar knew about old money, which was somehow hallowed by the fact that people had hung on to it for years, and they knew about new money, which seemed to be being made by all these upstarts that were flooding into the city these days. But under their powdered armpits they were of business families, and knew that the best kind of money was the sort that was in their hands and not someone else's. The best kind of money was mine, not yours, as always.

As I write this, I am informed that yet another one of us has got his visa and is leaving in a day or two. I am waiting for mine and to pass the time, my remaining friends, rather their wives, which is somehow worse, are going to take me out to watch the latest release.

The movie halls are yet to be changed, but I hear underground swells about multiplexes and such. I love the old movie halls in Guwahati like Apsara, Anuradha or Vandana. They were halls of character and fading, grubby and grimy of interiors or exteriors. And we sure never noticed them as generations of school boys playing hooky and couples lost to all else but each other found comfort and security and sanctity within the dark pavilions of big screen dreams. When I had come back four years ago, the tickets cost the same as they did when I had left, a nice twelve rupees fifty paise, to my great happiness. The blacker would sell scalped balcony tickets at twenty rupees, when the same tickets in Delhi or Mumbai would cost a hundred and fifty rupees at regular prices. The tickets grew costlier, but the upholstery didn’t get cleaner or the air-conditioners start working. The floor was still slimy and slippery with the debris of previous shows, but people still remember and still come to form huge queues for new releases. I wonder, if any of these will be around when I next see this city?

There is so much else to say, but so little time or space to say it in. A lot of us are leaving the shores of the home country, some with secret hopes of never returning, others with hopes of returning which might not get realised. Most of us are leaving, chasing dreams and grabbing reality, materialism and, of course, success. And as we all pack our bags, apply to foreign universities and rave and rant about visa problems, I wonder how many of us are thinking about this city of ours which has nurtured us and which perhaps has need of us in these changing times.

Perhaps, we need to think of our returns as much as we think of our departures, from this city of ours, Guwahati.

The non-profit solution to legal aid

I have a solution to the legal aid crisis. The problem is simple. Lawyers for years have been accepting cases for one reason and one only: they want to get paid.

Now I submit that this philosophy of working in order to get paid is perverse and runs against the moral fibre of our society, as far as lawyers are concerned.

Lawyers should be taking on briefs for one reason and one reason only, and that is to see justice done.

The answer therefore is to ensure that only those candidates who go to law school for the right reasons get accepted.

And how can we determine who these noble people would be? Why not discreetly slip in several choice questions into those merciless entrance exams of law schools, which would help us weed out the mercenaries?

Following are a sample of possible questions, which should help us eliminate the avaricious money-grubbers:

As a lawyer your hero would be:

Charles Sobhraj;
Byomkesh Bakshi;
Mother Teresa;

A gentleman calls you from a police station on a second Saturday at 5:30 p.m. asking that you come over to advise on his arrest. He says he has no money and there is no one to defend him as he has no money. You:

Tell him you really would like to get paid;
Tell him your family is expecting you for dinner;
Tell him until this moment your day has been unfulfilled but now his call has revitalized you and you're on your way.

A woman comes to your office indicating her husband of 20 years has thrown her and their two young children out of the house. The husband, a builder and contractor, tells the wife he needs the house to entertain his secretary and she's in his way. He also threatens to hide his assets and tells her she'll never see a single rupee. She is broke and she needs a stay, a maintenance petition and a criminal case for cruelty against her husband. What is your response?

You clear your throat and tell her you're about to go on a lengthy holiday;
You ask if she can borrow any money against her jewellery to at least cover your expenses;
You say: "You've come to the right place. Excuse me while I empty my bank account, mortgage my chambers and car and auction off my wife and kids!”

Girish Letipeti has been dismissed from his job of 15 years as an office clerk at a powerful city corporation. His manager just came over to him out of the blue and said: "You're fired. If you don't like it, go cry." Girish is penniless and he asks you to fight for justice. It's your move.

a) You refer him to another lawyer saying this area is foreign to you;
b) You tell him you'd like to help him but you really would prefer some assurance of payment as your rent is due next week;
c) You say: "No problem. After all I run a non-profit organization. Let's sue the bastards."

Falu Faizal wakes up after a tonsillectomy only to find out that his entire right side is paralyzed. Chances are somebody goofed. It would cost several thousand rupees in expenses for experts to determine if there's any medical malpractice. Faisal, who is now without any income, pleads to you to take on the case. You respond by:

a) Offering to get Faisal some ice cream;
b) Telling him malpractice suits are risky, and usually vigorously fought by the insurance company;
c) Liquidating your kid's college fund, as you know he would have wanted it that way.

If any of the candidates answer (c) to all of the above questions, they would get accepted into law school. Now wouldn't we all want to be represented by lawyers like that! Perhaps in this day and age, we need such lawyers to bring back some faith and hope…

Pre-Marital Woes

Why did you get married?

I have asked this question more times that I know or can remember. Its usually a nice way of getting two partners fighting, which of course enlivens the general atmosphere and its also a nicer way of getting boring people in sad parties to smile awkwardly and cough or giggle and move on.

Some decide to answer the question and the best reasons I have got could be listed as follows;

“I was in love” –the most famous though funnily it is not the most repeated;
“My parents thought it was time I was settled” is quite popular,
“I was bored”, this also has its followers.

However, hats off to the best of them all – “I don’t know”, the most repeated and most quoted.

Hello folks, it is 2006 and the most popular and most often repeated answer to a question, which poses one of our life’s turning points, is that most of us do not know what or why we took such a step. One of the greatest queries of our lives, the turning rudder that will in fact decide the rest of our meaningful or meaningless lives, is answered in blankness and lack of knowledge.

Is it me or is it wrong that I should be outraged at such, today?

Spare me the sentimental drivel and the petty rationalizations of the human mind; I have heard them all and they are all drivel. We are humans, the difference between apes and us is not the fact of a spinal column being erect, but of the gray matter on top of that same spinal column which defines us.

So why do we not utilize the stuff referred to as the brain and think as to the reasons for which we should marry or did marry?

Parents and family can be quite a deterrent in this aspect of introspection. I suspect that this is mainly because they were not allowed to delve into the same query themselves before commitment and now they are out for revenge!!!

Being in love is basically a trick question of make-up and entrapment and girls know this fact,a bit too well despite people taking pains to tell them that beauty was only skin-deep. As if a man ever fell for an attractive pair of kidneys or a classic large intestine!!!

And, then the boys should also know that girls are pretty, they have style, beauty, grace and that’s what matters. If cats looked like frogs we would all realize what nasty, cruel little creatures they are.

But then, when was the last time the dogs stopped chasing cats?

Some things are just not meant to be....

In any case, it’s the 21st century, the second millennia since Jesus was six years old and most of the young people of today think that marriage is a very serious step that ought to be done properly, so they practice for it quite a lot.

That however does not answer my query; why do people get married? Or even want to do so? It cannot be that in today’s world, two people can be so idiotic as to get married only for the fun of being prepared to swear that only the other one snores.

If we are to look at Hinduism and its teachings, we find that Hinduism encouraged early marriage as a preventive against Sin, although any activity involving any part of the human anatomy between neck and knees was more or less sinful in any case.

It strikes me that whatever the young kids today are practicing, they do have some wonderful precedents in our gods and our ancestors if all that mythology being shown on TV was to be believed. I might be blasphemous, but if that stops those weird ham actors and those fat kinky babes in sagging brasseries and their equally mad directors from demonizing my gods, I would happily hold forth a blasphemous rant .........

I got some amazing stories from the sub-registrars of the family courts and the marriage offices about the reasons for marriage. Some have to do with usually a grim brother and father pair and a submissive husband and a rather large bride. Other stories deal with kids who think they are in a Bollywood presentation and are more in love with themselves than each other. More often than not, some classic gems do come up for top reasons of being bound in the locks, pun not intended, of holy matrimony

A civil marriage is usually a mere signing formality, performed by the registrar but there was once enterprising fellow who had carefully made a ceremony up. This was because there is no official civil marriage service in India, other than something approximating to "Oh, all right then, if you really must!!!"

Last I had heard of him, the fellow was doing brisk business for eloping couples. He even gave them references for divorce lawyers if unhappy with the product he was offering.

And then there are the night guards around my office who are better still at the query. They quote the case of a senior friend of theirs who owed thirty years of happy marriage to the fact that the Mrs. worked all day and her husband worked all night. They communicated by means of notes. He got her dinner ready before he left at night; she left his breakfast nice and hot on the stove in the mornings.

They have three grown-up children, all born, I can only assume, as a result of extremely persuasive handwriting.

In any case, most guys I know, would usually accept the fact after a few drinks, that they married so that they could at least look at a pretty face in the morning instead of their ugly mugs in the shaving mirror, which might not be very sentimental, romantic or nice, but is definitely true of guys, in most cases. Which is why, most husbands say this only after a few drinks and never in hearing of their wives.

Men generally don’t have much in the way of extra sensory perception of sixth senses, but upon marriage they suddenly get a whole lot of extra senses bolted into their brain, and the first reaction of the new extra senses is to tell a man that he's suddenly neck deep in real trouble. Most men rue this fact and wish that the senses got bolted on before the marriage.

There is of course the other reason, which is experienced by those people who are frequent fliers. Amongst them, it is felt that beauty was even more likely to be in the eye of the beholder if the feet of the beholder were not on something solid. At ten thousand feet up, the eye of the beholder tends to water and anyone on the ground looks good. Most of my frequent flier pals are married, it can be understood.

Being in love and worse, being married is a slight but subtle difference from being alive. It's like the difference between seeing a beautiful new star in the winter sky and actually being close to the supernova. It's the difference between the beauty of morning dew on a cobweb and actually being a fly. It’s a whole new world and we suddenly need a map and a compass.

In any case, I lost track of what I was asking and time. Talking of time, I need to fly, my parents want me to meet a girl, you see.

Do you pity her or me?

Mahisashuri Vs. IOIOI Moon Life, Insurance and Prudential Corp.

Author’s Note:

[I saw a Durga Puja pandal some time back depicting Mahishashura being poked with a trident by the goddess Durga in rage for his apparent invasion over the disorganized three worlds for clarity in administration knowing fully well that this was a no-no.

I subsequently watched, quite recently, the movie version of this scene and there was some rather plump babe poking the merry hell out of some poor southie actor and the subtitles ran something on the lines like thus, “If you will not live and let live in chaos of the Devas babudom, then you will die under the shakti of my filing system or trident” or some words to that effect

The poor pumped up southie actor is then poked at again and all hell breaks loose and the earth swallows up all the offending rebels, including the poor southie and a host of extras

Now being a lawyer who spends some time handling death and disability claims cases I inevitably found myself viewing these depictions from a different perspective.

It occurred to me that Mahishashura was quite a ripe specimen of manhood or rather ashura-hood and that trident did look a trifle unwieldy for the purpose of poking, leaving aside all references of symbology and rather heavy tridents in the hands of kinky babes with a death fetish

By comparison I was remembering attempting to hit my errant brother with a bamboo stave about the same length for a similar misdemeanor and I had difficulty even touching him, much less poking him hard enough, that dratted boy. And it's not like I was practicing everyday with it unlike Jet Li, planning for just an eventuality of my bro deleting a weeks worth of drafts and petitions from my computer.

I therefore concluded that Mahishashura at his age and level of fitness was being the subject of an injury or worse the victim of some sort of fraud and coercion resulting in his unfortunate demise.

I decided to research this enigma and with the assistance of legal mythology Professor Angshamun Rabo of the University of Patal Lok, I came across little before known information about Mahishashura. In fact the professor actually discovered a legal judgment wherein Mahishashura’s wife sued for accident benefits arising out of this very incident. The Honourable Justice Gojo, of the Swarglok High Court rendered this judgment]:

Gojo J.:

The plaintiff Mahisasuri brings this action against IOIOI Moon Life Insurance and Prudential for accident benefits. A brief summary of the salient facts is in order.

The plaintiff, the wife of the victim, claims that the victim was 46 years old and a a liberator by occupation. He was not always into this work but one day while he was being psychiatrically counseled for the unfortunate demise of his kith and kin by the accursed Devas, he manage to channel his energies into the plight of the three worlds and the apparent mismanagement of the same and undertook a mission for seeking a solution to the same.

That, the said victim did register his organisation in Brahma’s Court and that upon receiving the necessary jurisdiction and powers for the proposed upliftment and clarification of the state of affairs of the three worlds, the victim did so undertake the said project with utmost vigour and dedication

The Devas resisted initially but after a bit of gentle coaxing from Mahishashura, which included the doling out of various writs and PIL’s leading to forfeiture of privileges and barring enjoyment of the apsara’s. Upon such, the Devas mellowed and agreed with and allowed the victim to proceed with his intentions for decentralization of authority and delegation of leadership for greater transparency and optimum efficiency in management of the three worlds.

Unfortunately the Devas soon reneged and approached the tripartite appellate court of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. That the said bench did so advise the appellants to consider creation of a new post, namely the Deva Aid Group, bearing in mind the recently adopted anti-gender discriminatory practices and policies as well as the tendencies of the feminine gender towards organisation and clarity, and thereby appointment of a female bureaucrat, fulfilling the quotas so adopted, for dealing with the issue of Mahishashura and his planned upgradation of administrative practices.

The same was so seconded, nominated and ratified and set into motion.

Various departments contributed to this new approach of solution of the problem of “operation clean up”, the name of Mahishashura management project and assigned various committees and sub-liaisons for the effectiveness of the new post, including the Bench’s prized and feared filing system, the deadly trident of misplaced, misnamed and simply lost sections.

So, armed, the said bureaucrat did go to war against Mahishashura and his proposed reformation, relocation and responsible management team.

Just as things looked hopeless Mahishashura still stood at the helm of his works and defended his stand most magnificently. It is of significance that Mahishashura stood to his principles and defended them at all times and I shall deal with that issue shortly.

When the plaintiff’s husband, the aforementioned victim did so see the havoc caused amongst his team members and project leaders, he was appalled at the breach of trust by the Devas and their reneging upon the agreed upon change in management. The Devas offered a secret cut out deal to the victim, which were actually a compendium of "Thou shalts" and "Thou shalt nots", which was roundly refused, though the new post and the holder were much appreciated for the forward thinking shown by the Devas.

No one is sure exactly what Mahishashura said but his second in command one, Ghatashura did hear a soft "AiiiiiYo".

Mahishashura was then provoked and a sting operation launched against him, in the form of the deadly filing system of the famed and trident, due to arrival of which, the victim was substantially disabled. Though taking recourse to various forms of escape and administrative bottlenecks, he finally met with his unfortunate demise at the hands of the newly appointed head of the Deva Aid Group

By chance the victim had taken out death and disability insurance and so the present plaintiff applied for benefits. The defendant however sent back this letter to his wife (exhibit 6):

"Dear Mahisashuri,
After carefully reviewing your application we must decline benefits. We thank you for choosing IOIOI Moon Life, Insurance and Prudential Corp. and we hope to be of service again. Remember, with IOIOI Moon Life, Insurance and Prudential Corp. you are in our hands."

The plaintiff subsequently launched this action.

The defendant denies the claim on a couple of grounds. Firstly it claims that Mahishashura when applying for insurance did not disclose certain material information.

The application form (exhibit 12) asks at question 41," Do you ever engage in any of the following:

Mortal Combat games;
Mount Meru climbing;
Bungee jumping;...
Sorcery."

It is noted that the plaintiff ticked off "No" to all of the items. The defendant claims that Mahishashura in fact engaged in sorcery in that he had performed a number of tricks, including turning himself into various forms and committees during his final desperate encounters with the newly appointed head of the Deva Aid Group. Had it known this IOIOI Moon Insurance and Prudential claims it would have declined coverage, as this was a material misrepresentation of facts.

I disagree. This act was not sorcery. Counsel for the plaintiff referred the Court to the authoritative definition in White’s Law Dictionary. White defines "sorcery" as an act of magic performed by a "sorcerer", which is in turn defined as a man wearing a conical hat with stars and moons on it and performing feats of magic."

There is no evidence before me that Mahishashura in performing the said trick ever wore a conical hat with stars and moons on it. The only evidence of any hat at all worn by the plaintiff’s deceased husband is that of a large crown bearing a large letter "M", besides a lot of jewellery.

The plaintiff’s husband, the victim in the instant case accordingly does not fall into the sorcerer category.

The defendant then argues that the insurance is for injury caused by an "accident" and not a pre existing ailment. It claims that Mahishashura was not really killed by the trident filing system but rather he suffered from mortality, as is the cause with all creatures, before even consideration of his project, which led to his unfortunate demise as in the normal course of events.

There was evidence given by an investigator, one Chugalshura son of Nakashura, who testified that while at the initial meeting with the new head of the Deva Aid Group, that Mahishashura said, "Oooh Boy, I am but a man."

Even if Mahishashura did have some issues with mortality, does this change the nature of the occurrence? The evidence is clear that Mahishashura was able to perform all of his duties before that faithful evening. It is obvious that the trident filing system did cause his death

Nor do I buy the argument that coverage should be denied as Mahishashura was the author of his own misfortune by willfully undertaking the project of reformation of the Devas babudom and initiating reforms for clarity in management with greater emphasis on change in administration teams and therefore the incident was no accident, emanating rather from his deliberate act.

As counsel for the plaintiff has demonstrated, Mahishashura in getting angry and throwing the Devas out of administrative duties within his job description as a liberator and manager. Clause 18 of the job description (exhibit 43) in fact reads as follows: "In addition to the foregoing the employee may occasionally have his wrath wax hot and he may discipline the people using any reasonable means as may be necessary."

I find that the action of the plaintiff’s husband, the deceased in the instant case, came within the ambit of his duties. He did not in my view over wax.

This leads me to the final question, namely, is the plaintiff disabled from substantially performing the essential duties of his occupation?

His duties are wide, ranging from judging the people to trouble shooting to creation of new projects for the greater benefit of his people. The victim was frequently asked to appear in the presence of his people and lead them by example. In doing this he finds that the things go better for his people. The minute he is not around, the ashuras start taking a beating, as happened when his upon his demise, the babudom of the Devas is back in full swing and there is corruption, inefficiency and irresponsibility to the prayers of the common man for averting the chaos of the three worlds.

It is obvious from all the evidence that Mahishashura is disabled by being death as defined by the policy and that his wife is entitled to benefits. The plaintiff will have her judgment as claimed plus interest plus 50,000 gold coins (swarna mudra’s) punitive damages as the insurer acted insensitively by suggesting throughout that Mahisashuri was playing games. If the monies are not paid within seven days Mahisashuri is free to use any means she chooses to recover. And if I were the claims' manager of IOIOI Moon Life Insurance and Prudential Corp., I would not give Mahishashuri another chance at reviving her husband’s NGO for reformation and projects for clarity in administration.

- - Judgment accordingly

Show me the money?

In my law practice it happens that occasionally I sue people. Usually, people owing my clients money, one-way or the other. And it happens as well that at least just as occasionally the debtors try to discourage my pursuit by dropping subtle hints that they are broke. They all suggest that if we ever get a judgment against them we could paper the wall with the order, decree or judgment, as it would be unenforceable. Some debtors are not as subtle in suggesting where we could put that judgment. I have concluded that there are no limits to the imagination these people employ to try to convey to me that they are financial deadbeats.

I recently wrote a letter on behalf of a client to a gentleman who simply refused to pay for some furniture sold to him. The man called me back. I expected him to say something like, “No problem, your letter has driven the fear of the Lord into me. I shall send you a cheque the minute I get off the phone”. Instead he bellowed, “I have no money. If your client sues me, it will be futile...after all you can’t squeeze blood from a stone.”

We ended the conversation with an equally bold comment by myself wherein I said, “watch me”.

After I got off the phone I conceded to myself that perhaps my comment was a bit cavalier as my surname was Goswami, not Sorcar.

His comment did however make me think. Certainly it would be quite a scientific achievement if we were able to get blood out of a stone. I can just see some patient in surgery who needs a transfusion and the doctor says, “Mr. Sarma needs a unit of A positive. Nurse Rita, please squeeze that red stone twice.”

A few days later I sent off a missive to another character asking for money. This guy did not call me back but he wrote a curt note concluding with the words: “Tell your client I don’t have two pennies to rub together.”

I wondered what that inane English expression was supposed to mean. I am over a quarter-century-old and I have never witnessed anybody with money rubbing two pennies together. I almost felt like delivering two new rupee coins to him and see what he does with them.

Both these expression evoked some magical quality. You squeeze a stone and presto, out comes a liter of blood. Or you rub two pennies together and Bingo, out pops a piggy bank.

The third character I tried to educe money from was not as discretionary in his choice of expressions of impecuniosity’s. He called me back and said, “Tell your client I don’t have a house to live in or even a toilet to piss in.”

I thought that at least he had his priorities in life straight. I can just see him winning a lottery and then after he picks up his cheque his first stop is to the contractor’s to get himself a flat with a toilet

Then there was the character who tried to put a guilt trip on me when I pushed him for money. He said, “I know I owe your client the money. To get it however, I would have to steal from A to pay B.”

Being a totally ethical advocate I simply could not allow that. There was no way I wanted A to one day and come after me for inciting a felony. I suggested B would wait a bit for the funds. I am still waiting for B to pay my bill.

I also sympathize with the deadbeat who appeals to my nature-conscious heartstrings. He will say something like, “I would gladly pay your client but I am as poor as a mouse.”

So far whenever I hear that one I always ask my clients to be indulgent. I am however considering investigating the financial status of mice, as you never know. Just maybe the Pied Piper shares some of its fabled opulence with its mice. Who knows?

Some deadbeats try to argue their case with me by using contrasts. For example I had a smug debtor once tell me, “Your client wants to get paid? Who does he think I am, King Midas?”

Along the same lines, some of these guys suggest that my clients don’t need to collect this debt and that they should waive it. One guy told me, “J. Kalita doesn’t need my Rs. 40,000. He has money to burn.”

I have yet to meet someone who practices this luxurious habit. When I imagine someone doing it I also visualize that character without the toilet putting the fire out.

Then occasionally you get the philosopher. He agrees with everything you say and he concludes with, “Tell your client money isn’t everything”.

I once relayed that massage to my client and I regretted having done so. He then turned around and refused to pay my bill.

Another expression falling into the philosophical was the one used by a client’s ex husband whom I was pursing for arrears in support and maintenance to his wife. He casually told me, “Chase me if you wish but remember, you can’t get the shirt off a naked man.” He left me in no doubt that after marriage; public nudity was not an issue at all.

What I do not like is the cocky debtor who rubs my face in it. He says, “If your client wants to sue me, he’ll have to stand in line.” When I hear a comment like that, I say to my client, “Go for it. Take a number.”

One thing about the approach of all of these clowns is that they are consistent in their pleas. They claim they are broke, insolvent, belly up. They plead that they are down on their luck (although I still wonder about the plight of the mouse).

The individual I most detest is the dishonest one. We all know this guy. He says, “No problem, will give you the cheque by next week.”

When is the last time you ever saw delivery of this coveted cheque? And if it should ever arrive are you over the hurdle? What happens when it does not clear? You hear an array of excuses for this unfortunate but not totally unexpected event:

What? It bounced? Those guys at the Bank of India are incompetent.

My cheques are as good as gold. (Makes you wonder why anybody would ever want to hoard the yellow stuff when you can get this man’s cheques.)
What, my Rs. 5000 cheque to you bounced? You must be kidding. Just the other day I transferred Rs. 50,000 from my account in HSBC, Singapore which would more than cover this piddly sum.
What do you mean my cheque is no good! Are you accusing me of giving you a bum cheque? Do you know my reputation in the business community?

At least this last guy probably isn’t telling you lies.

Sometimes it all makes you want to bring back the days of Dickens when debtors were often put into prison. These days if they go there at least they could probably derive some benefit and learn about financial planning when they run into the likes of executives from Enron or maybe ex-MLA’s or even Mr. Telgi.

Caveat Pizza Emptor

There is a pizza outfit in town that boasts that if you order a pizza and it does not arrive within 30 minutes, it's yours free. Caveat pizza emptor!

I was curious to see how anybody could possibly bake and deliver a pizza within 30 minutes. My usual pizza man, when asked how fast it'll take, retorts, "Twenty minutes". Subsequently it hits my doorstep piping cold about an hour later. I always get the feeling the driver is instructed to deliver everyone else's pizza firstly, and that the boss, in referring to my pizza says to the driver, "He likes his cold; why don't you go to his house via Siliguri."

And so I recently decided to go for it. Hey, it was guaranteed to arrive quickly and hot. I placed my order and when I queried, the gentleman, one Chintu, assured me that I would have my order delivered within 30 minutes from the time he said goodbye or it was mine free.

My kitchen clock read 10:33 P.M. If all went well I would be enjoying either a hot pizza while watching the news or alternatively a free pizza while watching the latest movie Bluffmaster on DVD. Then again if all went well the wolf should have been able to enjoy that third little pig.
I started waiting in anticipation. I had visions of a large assembly line with baker’s frantically working, almost like in E.R. trying to save the order. "Jatin, pass the mushrooms, STAT".

Suddenly at 10:47 my doorbell rang. It couldn't be. It wasn't. It was only the newspaper delivery boy asking for payment.

Tension continued to mount. It was now 10:57. I saw no cars on my street. I started to feel like part of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I recalled the thriller, "North by Northwest" in which Cary Grant nervously waits on an isolated highway for a mysterious character to pull up in a car and suddenly to his shock he is attacked from the sky by an assassin piloting a small airplane. I cautiously ventured to gaze into the sky.

It was now 11:02 and the news was on. There was some mention about Brazil not paying its debts. I thought to myself that I wasn't gong to be paying for this pizza. I empathized with Brazil.

At 11:16 there was a knock at my front door. It was the pizza. (Actually the pizza deliveryman did the knocking). "That'll be Rs. 136", he said as he handed me the box and two cans of Pepsi.

I told him he was late and that I was relying upon the provisions of the contract. I advised him that the pizza was forfeited by him to me, free.

He protested, denying liability saying it was my fault.

When I ask for an explanation of this ludicrous suggestion, he noted that I lived on a street called Bashista Road. He said that the computer instructed him to go to a street called Vishwamitra Road, which street did not exist. He told me that I must have misled the order and accordingly I could not rely upon my own wrongdoing in order to procure a free pizza. He added, "You must eat a free pizza with clean hands."

I promptly denied telling anyone that I lived on Vishwamitra Road and I told him that I didn't give a hoot that he was a few minutes late even if he was trying to serve the pizza on the Father of Creation, Brahma himself. I insisted the pizza was mine free and clear of all claims. I also showed him my hands.

He then told me that in any event time was not of the essence. He said that he was only about 15 minutes late and that it was implicit in the contract that the purchaser would allow the vendor a reasonable extension for the delivery should same be requested.

I reminded him of my discussions with Chintu wherein I was assured that it was 30 minutes or mine free, gratis, no charge. He queried, "Who's Chintu?" He insisted that either I pay up or he would call the police.

I invited him into my house (the one on Bashista Road) to use my phone to call the law enforcement forces if he so chose. As we walked by my TV there was now a commentary on about third-world countries not paying their debts. He looked at me as Shylock would have looked at Antonius. I turned off the set. My case was clearly distinguishable.

He called the police. I listened in on the other extension. The official asked what the nature of the emergency was, indicating that police resources were strained as it was due to a rash of accidents, robberies and assaults. When he told her what the problem was he said he'd have some people sent over promptly. After he gave the official my address, he asked, "Where is Vishwamitra Road?"

I figured the police would arrive in 3 hours. Had the pizza arrived as fast as the police, I would have been eating a sizzling and paid for pizza.

The cops weren't taking chances." Bring out the pizza, " bellowed an Inspector through my windows, nearly shattering the glass.

After a couple of minutes the officer waved away the back up police van full of havaldaar’s, armed and ready for action. The other two Sub-inspectors promptly took off their bulletproof vests. I wondered where they’d got them.

The lead officer took out his black book and pencil in hand he asked eloquently, "OK, what's up eh?"

I started to unload but he indicated he wanted to hear submissions firstly from the pizza man, who identified himself as one Faridi.

Faridi insisted that I was trying to retain his pizza without a colour of right. He then rambled on about me misleading the computer by advising Chintu, who he said did not even exist, that I lived on Narada Road, which also did not exist.

I started to protest and the officer asked to see the pizza. I handed the pizza (now cold, the way they usually deliver it) to the policeman. He carefully inspected it and marked his initials on the box and assigned it to be sent to the malkhana.

I asked him to return my pizza, advising him of the vendor's representation that the pizza would reach my house within 30 minutes or it's free. He had a short conference with Faridi and turned to me and said, "That was a mere advertising gimmick".

I protested arguing that it was a condition going to the root of the contract. I insisted I would never have ordered the pizza on the strength of a mere gimmick.

The officer and Faridi had another conference and the officer replied, "This case is distinguishable from the Carbolic Smoke ball case".

I told them they could keep the pizza.

After these asura’s left my house, I realized they had forgotten about the Pepsis. I pondered the situation. I considered calling up chintu or his alias and having the outfit pick up the 2 cans. Then again I didn't want them to come by at midnight and wake up some poor guy on Agastya Street.
On the other hand I considered drinking them. Forget it. I took the 2 cans and dumped them into the trash. The way things were going that evening I had a sneaking suspicion that one of the cans was probably inhabited by a snail.

The Counsellor, the Lawyer and the Fish

It has definitely not been one of my regrets that lawyers in India are not addressed by formal titles as Doctors are. I do not mind being called, “Sir”, "Mister" and worse.

And I am not envious of the fact that our brethren on the bench, the judiciary, are distinguishable from the laymen as they are referred to as "Judge" or “Justice”. Their names are preceded by the abbreviation "J." Nor am I upset that lawyers in many parts of the world are addressed as "Counsellor". There is not one ounce of vanity in me. Humility is still my name.

Now for the fish story;

I recently went to lunch with my colleague Tublu. Rather than go to the usual momo shop I followed his suggestion and we sprung for a recently opened fish restaurant near by the courthouse. He said lots of lawyers eat there. The place was called, "Simply Pisces”

I had my misgivings about the restaurant right off the bat. Firstly as we entered, there was a long line of patrons waiting to be seated. Secondly, the menu’s boasted luncheon specials, which were rather pricey. Worst of all, the place smelled fishy. The scent knocked you off your feet.

"Why is this place so packed?" I asked Tublu. My learned friend suggested that it must be the ambiance.

"And they don’t even have a non-smoking section here Tublu", I further complained, self being an incorrigible smoker. "Let's leave".

Tublu contemplated my suggestion as the manager, very snappily dressed, buzzed around the front of the line busily endeavoring to seat the hungry mob. I added, "And I also don't like pretentious restaurant managers who dress well in snazzy uniforms."

He came near the front of the line and in a Westernized accent he said to two colleagues of ours, "Follow me please counselors."

As Tublu mumbled to me something about having that plate of pork momo’s again today I said, "Good idea, but just a minute."

The manager returned to the queue and approached three more lawyers in front of us. One said, "Table for 3 Swapon".

Swapon replied, "Certainly Adv. Choudhury. This way Counselors."

"It's starting to get a bit late," Tublu said.

"Hold on Tublu, Swapon is coming right back, "I insisted.

As Tublu was buttoning up his coat, Swapon said to him, "Welcome back counselor."

I tapped Tublu on the shoulder and cleared my throat loudly. Tublu introduced me as his colleague and eminent litigation counsel.

Swapon greeted me with a broad smile, "Welcome Adv. Goswami. We have an excellent selection of fish today."

I replied, "I'm sure you do, Swapon. The magnificent maritime smell is simply enchanting."

I started to look forward to a good fish lunch. But there was one hitch. We were seated right next to the chain-smoking public section. On this there was no compromise. I am not paranoiac about cigarette smoke but there is of course a limit to the amount of second-hand smoke in the vicinity. The place looked great but I was in no hurry to meet The Great Whale Above personally.

Tublu summoned Swapon. He told him about our predicament.

Swapon said, apologetically, "We are full today, there is nothing we can do gentlemen."
With that I stood up making a side comment to Tublu about the menu being too pricey in any event.

Swapon then smiled and said to me, "I can perhaps set up another table for you near the kitchen entrance, counselor."

I sat down again. After all I am always ready to listen to reason. And Swapon looked very convincing and professional standing there in his rather well fitting uniform.

Tublu replied, "We won't like it in front of the kitchen. Too much waiter traffic next to the swinging doors."

"Relax Tublu, " I retorted. "It's part of the ambiance."

Swapon called out directions to the waiters, "Set up a table there immediately for the two Counselors. They have no time to loose."

My colleague was ready to leave and once again go for the momo’s when I riveted him to his seat. "Chill out, Tublu. What's this momo’s business? This place is great. Where else can you get fish and rice for Rs. 180?"

Swapon nodding his approval added, "That's correct counselor."

Tublu was adamant about not eating in the face of the swinging doors. As it was getting a bit late we reached a compromise. I agreed to remain near the chain-smoking section. So what's a bit of smoke? After all don't we eat smoked fish in fancy restaurants?

The meal was most enjoyable. And in appreciation to my colleague I sprang for the tab. It set me back a few bucks but what the heck I could afford it. After all I am a counselor.

Tea on the rocks

A few days back, some friends and I decided to go for a ride in the country, out of the city, gas fumes and general stink, which we also contribute to. We visited a nearby quaint old village just outside of Guwahati, recently on a sunny afternoon. Around teatime we came across a little tea garden that attracted our attention by the size of the crowd that was gathering to enjoy light refreshments under the huge magnificent banyan trees.

But this was a restaurant with a difference. It was buffet style, but with no cashier in sight. You just put what you wanted on the tray and enjoyed it in the garden. On your way out you were expected to take a detour through the neighbouring gift shop, see the cashier there and declare to her what you had to drink or nibble.

The place's income depended entirely on the trust system.

I thought to myself that times being what they were the people running the place could no doubt get short changed. After all there is a reasonable possibility for some ravenous but perfectly honest individual to finish his food, take a few deep breaths of fresh country air and forget just how ravenous he actually was.

He or she might just miss that obscure detour to the gift shop while in this state of euphoria. Alternatively when asked by the good cashier, he might simply say, "Oh yeah, I did have some tea, I think."

But a strange thing happened. I noticed that the patrons bent over backwards to be honest. Actually they more than bent over backwards.

Firstly I observed a distinguished elderly gentleman who walked over to the cashier after consuming only a beverage. The cashier asked him what he had purchased and he declared a cup of tea. When asked if he had anything to eat, he said, “I’m not sure. But those pithas looked delicious. Why don't I pay you for a pitha too."

The gentleman paid for the phantom pitha and left appearing very content.

A couple of minutes later a young couple sauntered over to the cash. Neela and Mriganka as they apparently called one another, each had bought a cold drink and a pastry. I am certain that's all they bought because they had stood in line in front of us and they scooped up the last two fluffy home made pastries depriving me of the pleasure. And I remembered being annoyed at them for hoarding the pastries as I had a sweet tooth, or rather sweet teeth to be more honest.

They too were suddenly hit by an overdose of honesty. Without even being asked by the cashier, Mriganka said, "We had two cold drinks and four pastries. The pastries were superb, out of this world."

Like I said the guy was an obvious glutton.

The cashier rang up the tab for four pastries which no doubt included the two I would have bought had they been in existence. I thought to myself that on the other hand at least this guy was treating. A gentleman indeed.

As they left, the man said to me, "Have you tried the pastries?"

I noticed that the honour system was working overtime as by now massive and inexplicable integrity was becoming contagious, affecting even non-customers.

One man came right off the street, walked over to the gift shop, selected a couple of post cards and paid for them. As he was about to leave I said to him, "The tea here is excellent."

"Really?" He remarked. With that comment he took a tenner out of his pocket and handed it to the cashier. "That's for the great tea," he said.

Our turn to pay came up. I did not know what had overcome the other patrons but I was determined to just pay for what we had ordered and to make our escape. After all we hadn't eaten any magic lotus seeds, which might bring on a sudden surge of generosity.

The cashier, an old yet spry lady, gave us a radiant smile. Her face was saying something like, "This place is run by an orphanage. It is here for your benefit so that you can enjoy a refreshing respite in the country. Be our guest. Payment for the refreshments is secondary really."

I told her we had had two teas. But suddenly I was overwhelmed with a sudden burst of guilt. I said, "I'm really sorry that's all I had. I would have had the pastries but Mriganka ate them all.
She nodded understandably.

I added, "I will however buy that five foot Japi from your gift shop. And give me a dozen bamboo decorations as well. You pick them. Is that alright?"

She indicated that it wasn't really necessary but that my patronage was appreciated.

After we left I had a thought. As we are all probably honest at heart, wouldn't it be interesting if the spirit of that tea garden would infect all witnesses taking the stand in our courtrooms? It would certainly make the job of lawyers easier. We'd never have to cross-examine. The presiding judge would always comment, "I find that both sides were credible."

Pastry anyone?

***

To Party or Not to Party?

A few days past, I was privileged to overhear, a polite way of saying that I was eavesdropping, a rather interesting conversation at a social function, namely at a marriage. The participants were both of the elderly feminine gender and the tone was rather hushed, a combination not to be sneezed at, especially when one is bored out of his wits. Now, placed as I was strategically, close enough for hearing and far enough not to be suspected, with keen anticipation, ears assumed supreme importance.

The subject of the conversation was a certain pair of younger ladies being dissected for the purposes of nuptials with some unfortunate of mine gender. Apparently, one was a rather docile and amenable young lady of no specific attributes or qualifications, except that she was of “good” character. The other lady being so scrutinized was wonderful in every possible manner, being a good academician and excellently trained domestically as well as taking care of her parents and working in a well-known company in the city, however the rumour was that she was not of “good” character as she went to, (in scandalized whispers) Parties!!!

My well-meaning though autocratic parents pulled me away before I could take in more escapades of this enthralling adventuress and though I could not hear the end of the story, I am sure that the two, shall we call them well-wishers, must have definitely pressed the cause of the girl who was docile and of ‘good’ character for the impending nuptials of the poor unfortunate.

Is it thus that the generation gap of today could be best expressed? To party or not to Party, with a capital P?

Our parents have brought us up with much love, care and attention to details and without them we would have surely faltered. I know that I would have. However, as much as I love my parents, there is definitely a rift in the manner of understanding, or maybe, today there is too much scrutiny of unnecessary detail.

This is nothing new, nothing original or fresh as one would say, it’s called the generation gap, only I call it the Party Crack.

Our parents, the folks, the old guys, call them what you will, have had the same issues with their parents, their folks, their old guys, whatever. The issue that I am wondering at is not how to bridge the generation gap, but why it evolves and what it signifies.

Today’s generation leads a far more frantic pace of life than the one a generation ago had lived; this is not what we say, but also what our parents had also stated in very loud tones to their parents. We just say it, but apparently THEY sang about it and led a revolution about it!!!

The killing pace of schooling and grad college life is merely the start of the race, for it’s now that the Darwinian theories of survival of the fittest are becoming applicable into human existence. With the frenetic velocity of our lives equaling an F1 racing car, the pit stops, the relaxation periods have also become more demanding.

So also, with spending power, a cup of chai has evolved into a cappuccino and an evening out has evolved into a party. This is the new twist in the tail, as Gen Y would say to Gen X, whose tail is already in enough knots as it is what with the Generations A to W preceding.

This is not an excuse or an apology for our lifestyle today, merely a perspective on the evolving lifestyles that have been occurring since the industrial revolution. More spending power than the previous generation, influx of western ideas and social idiosyncrasies over the generations preceding has created an interesting hybrid of concepts of traditional values and a mélange of viewpoints.

Most people would say that it’s the advent of responsibilities that creates the GAP, maybe that’s how the company was formed, pun not intended, but that’s not the reason to condemn and castigate or even discriminate.

Its not the fate of the enticing adventuress who goes to (in shocked and scandalized whispers) Parties, that I am affected about, but about the discrimination on the basis of merit, and for the first time, discrimination DUE to merit. Do we have to discriminate about anyone who wishes to live life upon his or her own terms?

Do grades make or break a child? Similarly, does a social life beyond parents and the workplace today define a person as to discriminate or even to be praised or condemned?

A parallel story also evolved which further alienated my views on this existing structure. At another social event, plans were being made for an outing, ostensibly for a movie with dinner afterwards, when a name was proposed which was roundly disapproved. Seemingly, the very attributes, which endeared the previous person at the earlier, i.e. “good” character were a bore and definitely not appreciated as the discipline and lack of fun loving characteristics would create “issues” and spoil the “mood”. Were values such a burden or care and respect such onerous responsibilities as to infringe upon our lives and our entertainment, I wondered then.

Was the very definition wrong or is it merely the crack getting cracked?

The answer is not out there, but nor is it here. In the changing milieu of the social animal, what is the outcome? What is acceptable and what is not? Do we make our beds on an uneasy truce of surface acceptance or do we need to explore this imbalance of identity and image in the ever-changing face of the social order of civilized living?

Possibilities

His head was buzzing very familiarly and he woke up with a great thirst. His tongue felt all furry and twisted up in his tonsils and larynx. Opening his eyes was a disaster, which had to be managed. The usual bottle of water was not where it usually was, so getting to the bathroom was a necessity. The dark bathroom was a relief to the eyes he thought as he groped for the faucet on the sink and cupped his hands beneath the steady rush of water that emanated from it.

Fresh and cold water in his belly was like a reviving agent. He blearily brushed his teeth, taking his time over it, a habit from his childhood encouraged by a healthy fear of dentists. The eyes were bloodshot, though the cheeks looked cheerfully hollow and the jaw line was definite, took a long time to get all that puppy fat off it he thought with satisfaction. He ran a hand over his shaven head and scratched his stubbly French beard. He decided to skip shaving as it was a Sunday and emerging from his bathroom, he headed straight for his gym downstairs. Nothing like working out a drinking binge and sweating out the alcohol in his system.

Working on his free weights and later while running on the treadmill, he thought he heard noises but then the music system was on high as always during his workout. As he wound up his exercises, he heard the clatter of crockery, very definitely this time. He coolly wiped off his sweat as he alerted his security and went in search of the noise and the noisemakers. After all, his penthouse was on the top floor of the fifth floor and his security people were trained to deal with emergencies in any case. Maybe, it was just his imagination, as the place was empty.

There was definitely a smell of burning in the air as more sounds came, as far as he could make out, from the kitchen. As he went in through the main hall, he could identify the smell as well….it was coffee. Badly burnt, as smells go. Not something his brother would do, if he was back, he thought but then his brother was in the states on a vacation with his family.

On reaching the kitchen, he could also make out someone singing under his or her breath and turning through the door warily, he was surprised to see the back of a slight creature, with shoulder length black hair, wearing one of his dressing gowns. There was a saucepan full of coffee burning up on the gas burner but the person was seemingly unaware of it as he or she rummaged in the wall fitted fridge.

He quietly switched off the burner and asked, “Need anything?”

The person did not react or even look around, “Don’t you have anything besides fruit juice and coffee and carrot and celery sticks?”

He was amused and replied, “No, not really, I usually diet.”

This time, the person turned around and looked at him with a rather large grin. It was a girl, woman, he corrected himself. High cheekbones and a grin larger than her face, his first thought was that she needed feeding up.

“Good, then get some eggs, milk and bread, I need breakfast.” The grin was infectious.

“I don’t eat bread or drink milk.” He replied

“I do and if you cannot cook, don’t worry, I can.” There was a definite challenge in her eyes, but the grin was still on the face and it seemed sincere. The dressing gown was a present from his brother but he never wore it. As he assessed the woman wearing it, it looked good on her and by the look of it, she was not carrying anything concealed under it. He went to the wall phone and reached security and told them to ignore the alert and get some bread, eggs and milk and then turned back.

“Ever tried making coffee?”

“I made some, but its not smelling like it should.”

“That’s because it is not instant coffee, not something to be boiled and burnt.” This time, he grinned back at the girl/woman. The poor creature looked mortified and the blush was rather fetching. He picked up the saucepan full of the evil smelling concoction and emptied into the sink, took out the coffee jar and measured three heaped spoonfuls into the percolator in the corner of the brunch bar in the kitchen and added water. He also poured out two glasses of orange juice and handed one to the girl/woman. She had hopped onto one of the stools lining the brunch bar and was watching him with rather large eyes and faint grin as she sipped from the glass.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They both sipped the juice in companionable silence till the percolator chimed to say that it was ready to pour. The waft of the coffee was like a smell of heaven as compared to the smell preceding it. He gestured for her to keep on sitting as he rose to get two coffee mugs and poured coffee into them.

“Sugar?”

“Yes please, two spoons.” Her voice had the faint singsong catch of the convent school educated girls of his childhood.

“Sorry, the milk is on its way, you’ll have to have it black now.”

“No problem.” The grin was back as she mimicked his manner of speaking.

The coffee felt good going down as the sweat had dried and chilled his body. Time for some questions, he thought.

“So, what are you doing here? Who are you?”

The girl took her time answering as she sipped her coffee and looked at him. The stare was unaffected but it was sort of questioning and he was a bit uncomfortable with it. He knew he had shed the fat that had clung to him all his life and though he was no body builder material, he knew that he was in good shape for a guy in his thirties. However, the feeling of being obese and silly looking had still not left him and this steady gaze was a bit uncomfortable, as if she was seeing him when he was fat. Silly and idiotic, he knew, but it was there.

“Hmmm, feel like answering anytime soon?” he gently asked her as the doorbell rang simultaneously.

It was his security guy looking a bit silly as he tried to waggle his eyebrows in a very significant looking way. He had his right hand inside his tracksuit jacket, clearly holding on to his gun and the other hand was gripping the groceries in a brown paper bag. Taking the groceries, he grinned at the guy and winked. The security guy visibly relaxed and smiled back.

Back in the kitchen, he started taking out the groceries and again gestured to her to keep on sitting. Quietly and efficiently he made four poached eggs and toasted the bread on an old toaster of his mom, god bless her departed soul and her huge store of kitchen appliances, cutlery and crockery. Half his house was stuffed with kitchen appliances, cooking utensils and similar accessories.

He set out the eggs and toast on some plates, which he rinsed first, boiled the milk and made some fresh coffee. Setting the food on the table, he helped himself to two eggs and a fresh mug of coffee,

“Dig in. Sorry, I don’t have any butter. Fat free house, you see.”

“My name is Radha.”

“Okay, rads, dig in.”

Radha grinned at this mutilation of her name and started eating. She ate like a hungry sparrow, daintily and with relish.

“Why do you call me rads?”

“Old habit, got it in college, shortened everyone’s names. Sorry, did not mean to offend.” he replied indistinctly, with his mouth full.

“I am not offended. I like it. Nice habit.” She grinned back again, with a mouth full of food also.

That grin was really infectious. Anyway, his mind churned with possibilities. Entrapment or sexual molestation was out of the question if she was a plant. He was a lawyer in another life, still kept up with his old friends in the Bar, so rape was also out of the question, as she would have screamed it much before. His work was political and social but this was India and not the west and his private life was more or less clean. The only thing that could trouble him was if this girl, woman he reminded himself was a runaway from her family.

“So, how old are you? What are you studying?” he asked

She grinned again and replied, “Thanks for the compliment, but I finished my studies quite some time ago. I am actually a doctor.”

He mentally gave a sigh and smiled back weakly as he fished for his cigarettes in his tracksuit pockets. He lit one, his first of the day.

“You can call me dabz, I guess.” He tried tentatively

She finished eating and took the plates to the sink and picked up his pack of cigarettes and lit one.

“Yeah, I know who you are. You were in Illusions last night and got into a fight because someone was troubling me. I tried to break it up, you stormed out and I was almost dragged along. You assumed I was with you and you drove back home at such speed, I was almost stuck dumb. When we got here, you passed out on your bed and I slept in one of the other bedrooms. You have a nice place here.”

The speech came out flatly and as if rehearsed and he was too good a lawyer not to spot a fabricated piece of explanation but he kept a poker face as he remembered nothing much of last night.

“Sorry about whatever happened. I should have been more responsible and hospitable.” He said.

“Nothing to be sorry about, you were being very chivalrous and old fashioned. I should be the one saying thanks.”

It was his turn to blush and grin.

“Where do you work? Any specialization?”

“Thinking of running a background check on me, just in case? I work in Dispur Polyclinic, as a pediatrician, that’s child specialization to you.” This time the grin was a bit forced and the eyes glinted a bit. They really were rather big eyes, nice eyelashes too.

He grinned back at her and the eyes softened a bit.

“Can I borrow some clothes, I don’t think an evening dress is fit to go home in. A tracksuit or sweat shirts and shirts would be fine. I can return them back here at the gate later.”

“I hope you can float? Because you are going to swim in my clothes.” He grinned and asked as he went to the sink to wash the plates.

“Okay, pass on a belt as well then. I am going for a shower.” She called out as she walked out of the kitchen

***





Possibility A

She looked liked a fresh young student in his oversized college sweatshirt and his spare tracksuit lowers with the cuffs rolled up and as he drove her back to her apartment, she folded her legs in that peculiar double jointed fashion that only the female sex could seem to be able to do. The entire picture was so breathtaking and attractive that it was all he could do to keep his eyes on the road and not on her softly curling black hair that fell around her face and framing those huge eyes.

As he dropped her off her apartment, on a sudden impulse he asked, “Any chance of you returning the favour with my clothes?”

He got an uplifted eyebrow, which seemed encouraging, so he went for broke, “I mean I cooked breakfast, any chance of getting a dinner. I am about done with the hotels in the town.”

He got a grin and a searching look, “Flat No. 302, Eight p.m. okay? I have to be on morning shift tomorrow.”

She looked around at the children hanging on her words and caught sight of her husband leaning on the edge of the doorway looking at her with a familiar fond expression. The grandchildren were arraigned around the kitchen and the twins were sitting on brunch bar. The softly curling black hair had turned white but the eyes were still full of laughter and glints as she looked back at him with that old look that she had given him when he had asked for his return favour and said,

“And he has since then been cribbing that his breakfast was better than my dinner. So you lot can now judge who was the better cook, right?”

***

Possibility B

As he washed the dishes in the sink, he started whistling. It had been a long time since he felt as happy as this. He was almost done with the plates and mugs as he set them on the steel rack above the sink to dry off when he heard a soft whisper behind him. He turned and barely registered the ice-cold shock of the viciously swung knife reaching his heart in an expert and much rehearsed move.

He looked down at the hilt of his kitchen knife as it protruded from beneath his ribs and looked at the now still and cold eyes and the face which did not sport any grins now as suddenly the darkness loomed and he could not see any more

She removed all traces of her presence in the apartment and wiped down all the surfaces that she might have touched. Finally when she was satisfied, she took a shower and dressed in a pair of his old tracksuit lowers with the cuffs rolled up and one of his old college sweatshirts. She opened the bathroom windows and climbed down the drainpipe from the back of the penthouse, the same way as she had come up.

As she climbed into her car, she switched on the music system and mused that the guy had been quite a nice sort. She might have almost been interested in him and things might have proceeded quite far. After all, he did cook a good breakfast, but then it had been a job and opportunities were scarce. The woman started the car and drove off.

***

The Promise

The woman looked in the mirror. Golden, predatory eyes, flecked with edges of brown stared back, hard and calculating, examining a visage with ruthless scrutiny. The eyes noted the long flowing hair, poker straight and dense, the long aquiline face, the full lips, the long nose and the unlined forehead. The years had not been easy and maintaining the façade had taken its toll within her. The burned out husk within did not betray its bitter acrimony with itself on the still beautiful face.

She remembered a time when her eyes were not hard, were not gauging, had been soft and warm and had looked at wonder on the world. Had also looked with something else at someone else, but that had been many years ago, many birthdays past.

It was her birthday today, she was thirty today. Thirty years, three decades old, the start of the end, and there was nothing to look forward to. The still beautiful face made a wry grimace at the memories and banished them from her mind. She had no regrets, she had made the right choice, and she had done well. An astrologer had once told her that she was as obstinate as a mule, stubborn to a fault. Well, that seemed to have worked for her. Anyway, enough dreaming, there was work to be done.

The hot May afternoon sun slanted its rays on her desk at her high-rise office in a prestigious international law firm in Mumbai, highlighting the masses of paper and the humming laptop. A secretary entered with a memo and moved quickly to her desk, laid the paper down and practically ran out of the room. A grim smile played across her features, she ran a tight ship in her domain. Her gaze fell upon the memo, it requested her to attend a high level meeting with their foreign counterparts and as was usual with such meetings, they took place after midnight so as to allow for the time differences. The woman sighed, rubbed her temples. Once such transactions used to be fun, she lived for the adrenaline pumping excitement of such meetings, of swinging deals, of hostile takeovers, or mergers; she was in awe then of the numbers involved, numbers of amounts of monies that were unimaginable in their presence of her mind and her decisions as to their applicability. Once upon a time, this was her life, but she was getting old for these games now, they were no longer fun.

The night air was cool on her face as she left the building. It was way past midnight and the meeting had left her drained and exhausted. All she could think about was just climbing into her car and then later, into her bed in her immaculate apartment on Cuffe Parade. She thought longingly of a drink, but knew that she could not afford to, it was a working day tomorrow.

“Madame” hesitantly, her driver, his voice inflection indicating trouble

“Yes” a little harshly, she was exhausted

“Car trouble Madame, will take some time” a little defiantly, a problem not caused by him

Cars were often like men; they developed trouble the minute you started expecting something from them. She had a dream of getting her own car when she had come to the city, something small and comfy, but with the pressures of work and later her success, another dream was left by the road, like so many else. The company provided her with a car and a chauffeur to boot, just like her immaculate apartment on Cuffe Parade, spotless and furnished with all the amenities of modern day living and without a soul.

She sighed, it was just not her day or night.

“Fix the car, call a taxi, I’ll wait here”

The city of Mumbai had about a million taxis, even at night, plying their trade with utter conviction that the city would not function without them. They were ubiquitous, except when you needed them. The briefcase in her hands was killing her, stuffed with papers and her laptop; she could not leave it behind, but now wished that she had.

A distant thrumming suddenly broke her line of thoughts and turning her head she could espy a high-powered beam coming towards her. A bike, her mind told her, flipping cards of memory from her college days. She moved back on the footpath cautiously and looked around. It was always better to be cautious in the city and especially when the roads were deserted and her damned driver nowhere to be seen.

The thrumming grew in volume till she could identify it cruising along her side of the road. The bike, some sort of modified bike with outsized handles and an extended rear, which made it, look monstrous in the orange streetlights and the long shadows cast. The bike slowed down and stopped near her in the shadows; she shrank back even more and looked around desperately. There was no one on the street, no sound either, the bike’s deep throated thrumming seemed to fill the silence as the man sat on his bike which was still purring and thrumming beneath him, and regarded the woman. His helmet hid his features, but his eyes were visible in the front aperture. He seemed to be wearing glasses.

“Need a lift?” a slight tonal quality which registered on her ears despite the bikes thrumming and her own fear making her own heartbeat audible to her ears.

“N-no, my driver went for a taxi, my car broke down…. and I am waiting for my friends to join me from the office” Nervous, nervous, worst case of lying ever the woman berated herself.

The biker’s eyes went to the unlit building, the closed office doors and came back to her with something like amusement in them.

“Okay, I’ll give you company till they get back” coolly replied the man on the bike

The man switched off the bike, swung his leg off on the other side, turned his back on the woman and took off his helmet. He seemed to fumble for something in his pockets, she could not make out what it was, heard the rasp of a lighter and a moment later saw the drift of smoke from the other side.

The woman stood almost on the edge of the footpath near her office doors, clutching her briefcase in her aching hands and the biker half sat on his bike, smoking with his back turned to her.

The minutes dragged on. The woman was looking around desperately for her driver and suddenly remembered her cell phone. Taking it out, she started dialing her driver’s number furiously; all she got was a network busy signal. She tried to remember the name of any taxi company or rental, but soon realised that for the past few years, she had been ensconced within a protective cocoon of services provided by the company, her secretary and aides.

“You better call some friend of yours who can give you a lift. It’s getting late” said the man

The woman started at the sound of his voice in the silence of the street. The street was suddenly, achingly silent in the absence of the bike’s noise. The man’s voice was ringing a bell, but there were alarm bells in her mind, which subdued the familiar ring with their clamour.

The women remembered her mother always telling her about situations like this and to not get into such; her darling mother who always stood by her and gave her more advice than was necessary. Well, she was in such a situation, debating to call the police. But then, she asked herself what she would tell them…. that she was stranded in front of her office and she suspected a Samaritan who offered to stay with her till she could call her. For all she knew, the man could be a police official himself.

“I am trying to call, its just that it’s a bit late” belatedly replied the woman.

It was true, it was nearly 2:30 am and none of her few married friends would appreciate their husbands to be woken up to drive her back home and the same held true of her employees. She decided to wait a few minutes more for her driver to turn up. The smoke drifting lazily around the man’s back was driving her nuts. She had a secret addiction, but kept it in control, but this was an exceptional case she deemed.

“Could I have a cigarette?”

A leather jacketed hand fumbled and then held out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, keeping his back still turned to her. The woman leaned forward, placed her briefcase on the pavement and took the proffered cigarettes. She hastily drew a cigarette, lit it and dragged the smoke deep into her lungs. Instant coughing at the harsh taste, eyes swimming, the woman peered at the package of cigarettes. It was a cheap brand, yet the brand was familiar to her. Someone she knew used to smoke the same brand many years ago. She took a slower drag this time, slowly inhaled the smoke and let the rest dribble out. The woman took a step forward and placed the cigarettes and the lighter on the seat of the bike. The man did not seem to notice, his face was in the shadows and the light of his cigarette was a dim glow in the shadows. The woman stepped back into the light of the streetlights and thoughtfully regarded the man’s back.

“Thanks, I really needed that.”

“Yeah, I know”

Some more time passed, the man threw his cigarette on the road and ground it out. The woman continued smoking.

“Are you just waiting for me or someone or….” The question hung in the air

The man seemed to consider the question, all she could see was his back, he was wearing some sort of a fringed leather jacket, and the smoke curling around him once again.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Said the man, slowly

“Here?” asked the woman

“Not really, but it is as good a place as any, I guess.” stated the man calmly

“You are waiting for someone or something and this is the location?” asked the woman, fear returning to her voice again.

What if this guy was some kind of serial killer, she had not yet seen his face and though he had kept his distance, she had enough stories of the mysterious deaths of lonely women in the city to get alarmed all over again.

“Maybe, maybe not. It depends.” said the man

“Are you going to harm me?” fearfully, the briefcase now clutched at her upper torso.

There was a low chuckle, deep and rumbling, not so much sinister sounding as amused and truly funny from the man on the bike. It was a more comforting than terrifying.

“Maybe, maybe not. It depends.” said the man coolly

Her courage unknowingly buoyed by the slightly humorous twist made her give a slight giggle. It was a long time since she had giggled, laughed yes, frowned and screamed more often, but a long time since she had giggled. Someone used to make her giggle a longtime ago, she thought with a sudden jerk and forcibly closed the errant doors of memory.

The wind from the sea face was blowing cool and fine now and on it she could hear a distant ringing of a cycle bell. The nighttime coffee and tea sellers were about their business and one turned the corner and came towards them, ringing his bell as if to dispel the ghosties and the gloomies of the night.

“Care for a cup of coffee?’ the woman asked

The man shrugged and nodded, and lit another of his cigarettes but kept the packet on the seat of his bike. The woman waved over to the coffee seller and as the boy came over, ordered and paid for two cups of coffee, took one and directed the boy to give the other to the man. The coffee felt good going down, it was weak stuff, not the kind she was usually accustomed to, but it was still good all the same.

“So, where are you going?” a need for speech, a voice, anything.

“A new life, I don’t know, to be honest” replied the man

“How can you not know? You started out and now you are riding, right?” incredulously asked the woman whose whole life had been target oriented and focused.

“I don’t know, I am riding, I started all right, but sometimes you need to just ride and let the winds take you wherever they please. Ever tried that?” The voice was calm and yet she could feel the tremors in it.

“Sometimes you just need to let go, to go with the wind, sometimes you need to flow, savvy?”

Oh yes, she knew what he was talking about, another had talked like that and she went along and she was wild and free and in love, but it had ended badly, very badly and it was in the past. She would, could now no longer fly.

“Yes, I savvy”

They stood waiting, for what, neither could say, but they stood there under the streetlights, listening to the sea break on the surf a short distance away, listening to each others thoughts.

Footsteps in the distance, a white uniform, her driver approaching them.

“Madame, the car is fixed.”

“Yes, you go on, I am coming” said the woman handing the driver her briefcase

The woman turned to the man who still had his back turned to her and spoke softly

“You came back, after so many years.”

“I had to, I made a promise to you that I would. I have paid for my mistakes, repented and finished all my work” the man spoke softly too.

“But its too late, you should have come then, its far too late now.” Sadly, softly.

“It is never too late, you know that.” murmured the man

“Yes… and no” the woman looked away at the sea

They both looked at the sea, the waves were black and the foam silver in the far off moonlight.

“You know I will be waiting…wherever, kanz.” said the man, finally

“Yeah, I know. You take care of yourself, D-boy” the woman whispered.

The man swung astride his bike, put on his helmet and started his bike. The woman’s car came and stopped near them and the woman got into the back seat.

Without another look, both went their own ways.

The Fee

The wind did not blow and the sheet of water that was the mighty Brahmaputra was lying as flat as glass. The azure heavens seemed to have been scorched by the brilliant noonday sun and the dry brown earth of the embankments near the riverside restaurant seemed to crumble before eyes of the single customer sheltering from the heat. The nearby CJM and DC courthouses seem deserted and empty.

The black coat, none too clean, denoted the profession of the man nursing his tea but his ancient bespectacled eyes were far on the distance, measuring the hours perhaps till he could nurse his evening drink.

A harried young man walked in to the restaurant, asked for tea and sat down heavily in one of the rickety plastic chairs. Ancient Eyes on the distance snapped to attention though the body remained still, and the thoughts ran behind the grimy glasses covering were quicksilver.

“In trouble?” ancient eyes still on the distance, asking the glass of cold tea.

The young man started, moved and saw the coat, the man inside looking at the distance, but he saw the coat.

“Yeah, yes, I am” slowly, dragged out.

“Girl trouble” questioning yet sure.

A pause, a slow blush suffusing the handsome though heavy features.

“Yes, I need some help” stated defiantly.

“ No doubt, no doubt” the eyes moved from the cold tea to the young man, measuring, weighing, and calculating.

The young man squirms in his chair, finally gets up and draws his chair closer to the lawyer.

“Yeah, I could use some help. You see, me and my girlfriend live in Bangalore though we belong to different castes and we want to get married. Fact is, our parents arrived in Bangalore to stop the marriage, so we came back to Guwahati and now we need to get married at once. Can you help us?”

The rush of words apparently left the young man winded and he sat hunched over in his chair looking like a child in his bright coloured designer wears.

Ancient eyes regarded him for a while, till the young man flushed again and said” I have enough money, don’t worry, and we are both adults. Just need the thing done today”
“Come with me”

The lawyer and his new client paid their bills, walked off the restaurant and into the nearby District Commissioner’s Court. The floors were dirty and the paint flaking on the walls. Both walked slowly till they reached the registration branch.

Stopping outside the office, the lawyer said “Wait here, I’ll be back”

Ten long minutes later, the lawyer emerges beckons the young man into a nearby alcove

“Twenty-Five thousand and get the girl here fast”

Fifteen breathless minutes, both bride and groom are outside the office and twenty-five new thousand rupee notes are in the lawyer’s hand as he produces some forms and official notices. Things are moving along and signatures are being signed, when the earnest groom suddenly remembers his two friends who are to be witnesses and rushes off to get them leaving the lawyer and his bride standing outside the office

“Is this legal?” asks the new bride

“Very” gravely informs ancient eyes

“I mean, no way it can be cancelled or withdrawn?”

A long pause and a longer look passes.

“Anything is possible”

“Hmmmm, yes, I would like the possibility. At the going rate of course”

A pause, shorter than before, a nod, shorter than the pause.

The young man arrives with his friends and they all engage in a flurry of signing and smiles. The lawyer and the new wife are also smiling.

Out in the open, the young man turns gratefully to the lawyer

“I can’t tell you how much you have helped me out. So if everything is done, and the certificates will reach us at the given address, we’ll take your leave.”

Ancient eyes watch the young man thoughtfully from the black coat, the throat is cleared, a pause. The afternoon seemed to be full of pauses.

“Umm, there was something….”

The young man blushes again, grins and says “I am so sorry, your fee, of course, of course. I don’t quite know how much I should pay, but I hope this will suffice”. He stuffs a roll of hundred rupee notes into the hands of the lawyer and takes off with his wife.

A few minutes later, the lawyer is still standing outside the office when the wife comes back and thrusts a smaller wad of 500 rupee notes into his hand, smiles at him and asked for his cell phone number. The lawyer smiles and gives her a fictional number and pockets the money. He walks back to the restaurant and orders another glass of tea. Takes out his cell phone and makes a call.

“Yes sir, I came to the court to complete my forms for my bar licence, but it seems that it was a bandh today, so I will have to come tomorrow. I however met the peons at the registration office and got the forms. Yes sir, they were very helpful, they seem to know where all the forms are and what needs to be filled out. I also found out about the fees. Yes sir, thank you sir. I will get back to you later sir.”

Old eyes, in an old coat, in an old profession, grimly look out at the horizon. A while later, touching his shirt pocket where repose a few wads of money, there is a faint smile in the young face with the old, ancient eyes.

The afternoon is still scorching hot and the river still looks like green-blue glass.

A Boy’s Death

The pain was numb at first. It did not exist, nothing existed. The phone emitted a dull moan as the dial tone went on droning and it took some time to realise this. Things seemed to attain a new perspective as he looked around his office. The framed certificates, the affiliation license, the awful Rajasthani prints which he always hated, his large steel and wood desk, littered as always with the wreckage of paperwork and worse, his old bakelite phone whose zero needed to be pushed extra hard, his cigarettes and matches…the debris of a life lived without actually knowing it was lived, there was never enough time.

The phone was back on its hook and the words were hanging in the air, it seemed. He wondered at the feeling of loss and how akin it was to having grass…grass in a rock concert…she was there too, as were the rest of his gang, sitting on his bike, head-banging to some god-awful Indian band trying to play covers…the music, the lights….her….always HER.

Four…no, wait, it was almost five…five years of a note of music shimmering in the air, ethereal and yet alive….she had called him a poet in denial. Law school often produced weirdo’s, nothing new with that. Five years since passing out, the maxim still held true.

The phone rang…..

He reached for it….and stopped. He did not need another phone call, he needed booze, alcohol, needed lots of it. It had worked in college, it worked after college, it would work now.

But it did not…

Booze was like the law, a fickle mistress giving only as much as was taken, leaving one in the end with a sour taste and a thick head and memories.

It was late afternoon to judge by the slanting sunlight as it lit up his chamber. He had loved the sun, always had, loved its warmth and the feel of brightness and clarity. She had called him nairun, a child of the sun, god only knew where she would get her nonsense from, but it was the kind of nonsense more easily missed than most sense.

She was gone….

Everything in place, all the pieces in order and just like that, the whole board had been upset, the pieces flying, the board skittering, the players stuck dumb and still by an event unconsidered and un-envisaged.

“Its over…I am not coming to Guwahati. All the best with your NGO and your life”

He had tried to reason…. by the gods, he was a reasonable man, always had been…. reasonable only when he could not play his way, bulldoze his way in, break down and disrupt every possible bit of resistance…yes he was reasonable then, was reason not his ally then and had he not broken down stiffer opposition.

And so he used reason now, because nothing seemed to work now……but reason failed.

She was always stubborn…regardless of her stand or position.

So, it came down to this….a phone call that terminated. Maybe he should call his phone the terminator….sick jokes, bad jokes, pathetic jokes, he was always making jokes and only she got them all and also got the fact that he was joking because reality scared the hell out of him.

Five years and another five, he was in college, unfocusedly focused, just another idiot who believed that the law was like water or the air, to be moulded and illusions to be created out of, with words and craft. That’s it….he used to call it the craft, just like witchcraft. Pull off the trick and you are a magician and people are calling for encores. That’s what he liked, the looks of stupefaction and surprise when he pulled off scam after scam, be it the courts of law or the college canteen.

And then she had come along ….. and had seen through the scams.

He had seen her sitting quietly with a friend in the hostel parking lot, while he was coming along with his bunch of guys, his gang, you could call it. He had seen her and though he had poor eyesight, he could see her eyes, so he walked over.

“Do you know the colour of your eyes?”

Eyes snapping up at him, like a startled doe, a wide brow and long, oh so long raven tresses.

He asked again “Do you know the colour of your eyes?”

“No, I don’t.” Eyes down, all he can see is a crown of glorious long dark hair.

“It’s the colour of wild honey”

“Oh really?”

Of such humble beginnings are epics written and fought over….

The words, the beliefs, the years, the dreams, the views…..all seen in the haze of golden sunlight stretching through a long summer’s afternoon.

The phone rang….he let it ring.

They had built a castle out of smoke and she was the mirror for his illusions of reality and yet the castle was real, it was seen by the world and marveled at for its ingenuity and approach.

They had believed in doing something beyond what was possible and they had done it. The long years of separation and the huge phone bills were just a down payment on their dreams and hopes.

They were about to enter the castle when the doors closed down on him and she raised up the gates.

He knew why, he understood the how, the what, the when, and the who…..

Oh yes, he understood, he was good at that……

The castle was his and the walls were cold. It was now night and the bottles on the desk and the floor were just another part of the scenery. The feeling of numbness was now reached, nothing mattered and yet responsibility was a bitch who never let go.

He did not remember locking up, did not remember reaching home….perhaps he never did.

A boy, full of dreams and hopes and beliefs had left home…..he did not return, perhaps he never did.

Just another line, just another life…….