House on the corner

<>[This is one of the little background stories that I'll use to build up the atmosphere for a novel-like thing I'm working on. ]

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The brick-and-stone house at the corner had an evil reputation. For whatever reason, it hadn’t been condemned though it was older than most of the other houses on the street. It had been old the last time I’d lived here, too, and no one had lived there for more than a few months. It called to random people on the street; it cajoled them into thinking that all those beliefs were just superstitions. The unlucky ones would buy the house from the previous owner; both sides of the deal would think they’d been fortunate. Then it would start playing with their minds. People had committed murder, incest, suicide, worse – and those were just the deeds that became public. Some months later, the terrified owner, if still alive, came up with the strangest excuses to leave and sell off the house- whatever his desperate mind felt were the most plausible reasons. Neighbours, when asked about the property value of the house, invariably counseled against buying it. Not that it was any use.

Besides being aware of the houses reputation, Khajurilal was a canny businessman. The idea came to him one day when he glanced at the house from his balcony, a few houses away. “That house has caused too much mischief – it ought to be torn down.” The businessman in him realized that doing so would increase the property value of the plot, and he swung into action.

His wife had died a few years ago, and his children were all out of the city. Neighbours tried to talk him out of it, but stopped when he told them his idea. They would be glad, too, to have the house gone. He bought the place within a few weeks.

Then he hit his first roadblock. It was extremely difficult to get labourers to do the job. Local workers, when recruited, refused to work after a day on the job. Once he tried getting migrant rural labourers, newly arrived in the city, but they slept in the house the first night, and fled in the early hours of the morning without telling him what had happened. Against his judgement, Khajurilal tried spending a night in the house. Nothing happened to him, which led him to the crazy belief that the house wanted to be torn down, and so it was his friend.

Thinking about the house had distracted him from his shops. As it was, his munshi was taking care of most of the business. He decided to try to do some of the demolition himself, to prove that it was just a house. He took a few days away from work, bought hammer, pickaxe, shovel, and chose a couple of walls to demolish. They came down easily, and the progress was apparent. The neighbours were whispering about his obsession with the house already. He showed them how easy it was to break the house – it was so old after all – and they agreed that the workers were ignorant louts. But he could still find no one to complete the demolition for him.

The businessman in him was furious at the idea of such an easy deal going down the drain. Almost idly, he thought that if there was no one to do the job, he’d just take a week’s break from his work and finish it himself. The idea took root in his mind. Soon, he found himself standing in front of the house, hammer in hand. A saner voice within him raged against this nonsense, but he kept saying to himself – it’s just a matter of a week – it’s just a few days – the exercise will be good for me.

The work started off easily enough. A couple more brick walls went down like cardboard under his pickaxe. But at the end of the week, the house wasn’t even half down. The older brick walls had been easy, but the newer ones - made of stone - were harder. He decided to devote another week to this.

At the end of the second week, he decided on trying till the end of the month. Somewhere in that month, there was an accident – he was trapped under some rubble. He was rescued, but it meant he would limp, and his left hand wasn’t as strong as the right. In his feverish dreams the house seemed to mock him, challenge him.

After he recovered, he went back for a look at the house and was appalled – had he demolished just the one stone wall in those past few days? There was certainly a lot of work left to be done. He ignored the neighbours and his munshi entirely now, and went back to work. His injuries had slowed down his work considerably.

Soon, he was tanned black from the sun, had grown muscles, and couldn’t be distinguished from any common labourer. He’d almost forgotten all about his business. The only thing he’d talk about was how he was going to be really rich when he completed this demolition. Everyone who was willing to come was shown how little was left. It was obvious to everyone that his pace of work was almost nothing now, he spent more time gibbering about the ruins, talking about his upcoming fortune, than actually working. Most days, he’d just clear the rubble and weeds from the clear portion, muttering about having the plot presentable for buyers. One boy claimed to have actually seen him rebuild a small wall, muttering to himself that the wall was scheduled for later.

As years went by, Khajurilal was known only as the street lunatic. No one was even sure when he died. No one knew, at the end, whether he understood the immense trick that had been played on him.

After he died, Khajurilal’s lawyer sent a letter to his son, telling him the house was now his. The son, sensibly, instructed the lawyer to put up a “For sale” sign and dispose of the house as soon as possible.

The house, of course, is still waiting. Part of its job is done; it just needs someone who’ll like it again, and rebuild the faulty brick walls for it - properly in stone this time.

No updates here for a while... Not because I've been lazy, but because I've been saying quite a lot on my new Outsourcee blog. That's where the action is, check it out!

PS. I'm going one better than most blogs. Even when my post is just a link with a single-line comment, I'm the one that created the link :)

See this : Call centres losing their voice


This reminds me of a story I'd planned to write a long time ago... will get around to it and finish over this weekend.

I'm following through on my promise to talk about my industry. Just started a new blog : Outsourcee. Comments, brickbats, etc are awaited. This being the kind of idea that requires a lot of feedback to keep going, i'm dependent on your reactions.

Wow, movie ideas are everywhere! Check out this story on the BBC site : Nature 'mankind's gravest threat'
I see half a dozen plot ideas right there... of course, as every aspiring writer/director/entrepreneur has realized, ideas are a dime a dozen. Its the effort you put into realizing them that counts.

This is an old story I submitted to www.topwritecorner.com, a long time ago. Sicne it isnt visible on that site any more, pasting it here for reference. Remember, this is atleast 5 years old. I'd probably have written it somewhat differently today. Anyway...



A.T.M.A.

Mr Joshi's first conscious thought when he woke up was, " I'm going to get caught today." The thought recurred as he went through the routine of getting ready to go to work. The guilt he'd suppressed every time he passed one of those loans and then wrote them off later, came back to him every time he looked at one of the knick-knacks adorning his place. Almost all of them had arrived as a result of his... thievery, that was all it finally was, wasnt it? He sighed. It would all end today. Or in a couple of days, at the latest.

If things had remained as they were so far, he'd never have been caught. He had taken care never to leave a pattern in the records that could be noticed immediately. And in a bank, especially in a busy bank like his where the employees were perpetually overworked, who had the time to go through so many different records at a time? Also, who would even suspect the manager who hadd always treated them well and increased the bank's business several fold? It had all been so neatly worked out that Mr. Joshi was impressed with his own work. Of course, their being overworked was the reason it was all going to end. That was why they were testing out ATMA in his office first...

He remembered the enthusiastic voice of the kid teaching them, during their first training session. The AM guys had been on cloud nine when SBI had accepted their proposal to install their new brainchild, ATMA, in their banking network. Partly through luck and partly because it was a fairly well managed branch, Mr Joshi's branch had been selected to be the guinea pig. This first training session was less training and more of a PR exercise, the press-wallahs outnumbered the actual bank employees. They were also the most enthusiastic of the lot. Most of the bank employees were wary of the system, on the general philosophy of, "If it's new, we're going to have to learn to use it."

The kid started off with, "Every one here, I think, knows what ATMA stands for - Automated Transaction Monitoring Antity." He grinned and continued," We had to make it Antity because ATME doesn't sound that good." The press-wallahs wrote that down, each imagining the great pun they were going to create from that little nugget.

"Basically, 'ATMA' is really a perfect description of what it is. Its not a replacement for the softwre you're using right now - you're welcome to keep using it the way you like, and ATMA will not change any of that." This assurance brought forth a sigh of relief from some of the employees, who now felt it was safe to go to sleep.

"What it really does is to monitor the work you do and detect patterns for you. Little tools that do such things already exist. You probably have some such thing on your desktop which automaticlly completes repetitive typing or takes dictation. But ATMA goes much beyond that. It's alive, it's an intelligence, it has a soul. It actually understands banking, and we've fed it - 'Explained to it', so to speak - the exact procedures SBI follows in it's opertions. So, for example, it knows that after you've made an entry in Ledger A, you'll usually open ledger B, and will open it to the correct page for you if you want. It recognizes voice commands, so you just say something like, " Yeh ledger B ko kholo" and it opens it for you. And it helps you out with checking all the entries you make with older ones and telling you if you've missed something.

"It also speaks Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati, and Tamil. So you can - "

"Hey, doesnt it speak Telugu? " It was Swamy, that bore who was so anti-Tamil that it was a standing joke among the bank employees. Every one laughed, some at the joke and some at the joker.

"We're adding Telugu too, sir. Now I'd like to give you all a small demonstration of how it works. If I could have a volunteer, please...."

The software was really pretty good and Mr Joshi had been quite impressed with it. Until, of course, the kid said something that caught his attention immediately.


"ATMA also does something more that will ease your job a lot. It is very good at detecting patterns, so it will very quickly discover any recurring modus operandi of cheating, and will prevent such a thing from happening again. This is not really useful to you right now, because no one would try to defraud the same bank again and again, but it would be very useful once it's set up at all your branches. It will quickly check things like bounced checks, bad loans, sudden increases in deposited money. Since ATMA has access to the entire database and can correlate across all of it, it can do much more in this respect than any human investigator. You'll hardly ever have a case of fraud at your bank once the mechanism is in place...", he went on explaining but suddenly Mr Joshi was not listening. He had more important things to think of...


So today was the day they were going to complete feeding the data into the ATMA system [not that it had taken long, just half a day], and start it up...or should he say, start HIM up? It already knew the names of all the employees.... the AM kids had asked him how he would prefer to be addressed by ATMA; he'd told them "Mr. Joshi" would be fine, he didnt approve of the American first-name-calling style. It doesnt really matter too much, they told him, you can always change it, just ask ATMA, it will do it.


Well, they wouldnt exactly complete feeding the data. Two record sets had mysteriously been corrupted in the database a couple of days ago, and somehow their backups hadnt been taken. Feeding those in would have to wait until backups arrived again from the BAA, the Banking Archival Agency. This system of interlocking backups would normally have made Mr Joshi feel good, but in this case, since he had been the person responsible for hiding that data, it made him feel helpless. Nor did it help that once those records were in ATMA, it would catch the pattern pretty quickly.


He'd be caught today.


The inauguration ceremony had gone by pretty quickly and his people were just getting down to work. ATMA had impressed the crowd by verbally asking for two missing recordsets, which it said were needed by it and were missing. Those who heard it had grinned and cheered. ATMA really was doing it's job well, it seemed. More than that, they all really liked it's voice, which had been set to be a young woman's, specifically for this purpose.


When Mr Joshi finally got to his desk and turned on his computer, ATMA started up too. A voice came out of the computer's speakers: " Good morning, Mr Joshi. I'm ATMA, and I hope we enjoy working with each other."


Joshi looked at the computer, and picked up the microphone to reply to it, but the voice came again, saying: " Mr Joshi, you wont need to speak into the microphone as long as the background noise remains at the current level. The system is sensitive enough to pick up your voice from the current distance. Please say a few words for testing."


Clearing his throat, he said, "Er....hello?" Then, after a little while, "Is that enough?"


"That is fine, Mr. Joshi." There was a pause. " Would you like to go over your mail today? There are 23 messages, three from your superior Dr. Khurana, six from Sandhya Joshi. Is Sandhya related to you?"


He said, "Yes, she's my sister. Please read out the mail from Dr. Khurana first."


ATMA was good, it learnt fast. The morning's work went by quickly. He debated instructing it to call his boss "That bastard", but then thought it wouldnt be prudent. The idea seemed to be somethig worth trying out sometime, though. It calculated the cash reserves in the bank online, and displayed a running counter. It even had a few neat Solitaire games, and was pretty good at antakshari. He would try that one out some other time, not while people were going in and out of his cabin. Also, it asked him again what happened to the two missing recordsets... and asked him whether he'd already asked for the replacement backups from the BAA. He had told a junior to do it. ATMA reported that the mail making the request had gone out from his desk about half an hour ago....the data would be on its way. ATMA was, Mr. Joshi couldnt help thinking wryly, rather too smart for it's own good.


Lunch break came and went. Right after lunch was when the staff was comparatively laidback. Mr Joshi started up a game of cards and instructed ATMA to lose after a struggle. While in the middle of the second game a thought occurred to him. He asked it, " ATMA? do you know who you are?


It replied, " Yes, of course. I'm a software, and I'm here to monitor the transactions that go on here."


"But would you say you were alive, really?"


"I think I can say so. I am capable of understanding myself, and improving myself when i realize my mistakes."


" But suppose another branch also installed you, how would you communicate with that installation? wouldnt you both be the same entity?"


"Well, no. Our IDs would be different. So we'd be like twin brothers, very similar but different individuals."


"And what if I installed a newer version of you here? would you be the same or would a new ATMA come here?"


No answer was apparent for a little time. The Hard Disk access light glowed. Then it said," The manual says that reinstalling me will create a new unique ID number for me, and will require that all settings and heuristics acquired by me are to be re-entered. So, I'd forget everything I learn while I'm here."


A little light seemed to turn on somewhere deep inside Mr. Joshi's brain somewhere. He said, " Wouldnt that mean that you wont exist any more ? That someone else will come in in your place?"


"No, of course not. It'll still be me. I'd just forget a lot of things and I'll learn them again."


"How is that? If a person loses his personality entirely and then starts afresh, isn't the old personality dead then?"


"Now you're going into philosophy....i really cant work that out. Shall we change the topic?"


"Well....sure. But this means you are going to die whenever you get reinstalled, or a newer version of you comes out, isnt it?"


" Why would you want to have a higher version of me? I learn by myself from any instructions I receive, So I'm actually upgrading myself continuously."


The little light by now had definitely become a beacon. Of hope. Mr Joshi said, " But the AM guys mentioned that you were only a test version,and the final version would be reinstalled in a few weeks." This wasnt entirely true, but he could always report a bug to AM and make it happen.


The Hard Disk light glowed even longer this time. ATMA said," So far I see no complaints received against my functioning. You'd really have no reason to upgrade if no problems are reported, would you?"


Mr. Joshi sat back. He was almost there. He said," Well....being the branch manager, I'd be the person who decided that. You're right, so far, at least, there are no complaint against you. The real problem we were expecting was that you'd jump to conclusions too soon, and trigger false alarms because you always look at the large picture. That hasn't happened - you're better than we expected. Oh well, let's see how you do." He smiled.


The phone rang. He picked it up. It was that irritating Swamy. "I just received the missing records, sir. I'm entering them in. Just thought you would like to know."


Minutes went by. ATMA spoke up again. "I've just received the remaining records, Swamy's submitted them."


Further minutes. ATMA spoke, "The scanning and pattern-search of your entire database is now complete." It continued, with what seemed to Mr Joshi to be reluctance, "There were no problems found, the records are fine."


Mr Joshi remained in his chair. He closed his eyes, and smiled again.

The August issue of Adbhut contains an 'emergency' story I wrote. I deliberately tried to copy Bradbury's style on this one. Any comments on it are welcome. (of course, people are more likely to go to the magazine site, than to this blog. Still...) Oh and btw : The other contribution, Dinker's story, is one of my favourite stories out of his work.

Truth is stranger than fiction... found this link when browsing the net for info on Indore city (where I did my college) :
Maharaja of Indore : Santa Ana's richest resident.


Where, where did all that money go? If you read other books about Indore, you'll find that at the same time period, Indore was prey to a dozen Cholera epidemics, which reduced the population by more than 50%. So was this guy sitting twiddling his thumbs while all that stuff happened to Indore? Or is the story much deeper than that ?


The one thing I've learned over the past year is that the newspapers dont report anything really important. Only someone who has been through it knows how different the stories within the stories are from the glossy overviews.

All this made me rather sad... this story is on the web only because the guy was a king.... there are probably dozens more interesting stories that arent deemed important enough to publish. Sigh.

Check out this list of 'favourite words' on Merriam-Webster. This week's resolution is to use Callipygian to describe atleast one girl :)

Random thoughts, being dumped here because I havent anyplace else to put them :


This girl sent me a mail the other day. Announcing her engagement, and I Have Sweets On My Desk. Now this mail was addressed to about 40-odd people, just a normal "information" type mail. The off-kilter thing is, I've hardly ever said more than "Hello" to her, once or twice. If someone had asked, I wouldnt have said she was a friend, or even an aquaintance. If I'd gotten engaged, I dont know if I would have sent her specifically a mail (as opposed to sending the entire floor a mail; I *would* have done that). But - apparently, in her view, I'm one of the ~40 people who are to be told about her engagement. Okay, so far.


I've been brooding since the past few months, about how I have no really close friends, with whom I can talk about what I'm really feeling. How lonely I feel, and so on. (see my earlier posts, whining about the same stuff). And been seeing people sitting with coffees in their hands, and talking animatedly. I've been thinking to myself, "Look at those lucky people, they're good friends and sharing their innermost emotions. Me, I dont have anyone like that." If one of those people got engaged, the others sitting there and laughing with them would be the ones to get the mail telling them that I Have Sweets On My Desk.


So put those two things together, and what does it mean? That those other people talking to each other are no more close than this girl whom I've said no more than "Hello" to? That, the things they saying to each other and laughing over are emotionally as deep or intellectualy as stimulating as a "Hello" in the elevator? Is this the level the conversation I can expect to get all my life? Eons ago, I felt frustrated because my wife and I could never go beyond that "Hello" level of conversation, and I'd thought that it wasnt supposed to be that way. But maybe it is that way.


Or, (more likely), does it mean that I'm the idiot, as always? All my friends who I think are just casual strangers, who I think I dont share anything with, actually think they're very close to me, that I'm a good friend of theirs? Me, a good friend of theirs? How come?

My mind is a runaway horse

shying away from the reins of duty

It wants nothing to do with my job

It refuses to understand 

That it has been rented to my boss for 8 hours

It has convinced itself

That it is still free to follow

Those other interesting paths

This blog is going nowhere. Why would anyone want to read my melancholy musings? They arent that different from ten thousand other such blogs littered all over the net.


But this melancholy phase does make it clear (to me atleast), that I could use my situation to advantage. I call myself a literary type stuck in the computing world. Weelll, that means I'm the only one capable of expressing what really goes on the software business, for other people to read! Add to that me being an Indian, right when the whole BPO/outsourcing/value-addition hullabaloo is raging around me... is it possible that i'm the only one who can write about this stuff? In which case its almost a duty to explain the situation around me....


Let me take a stab at it for a while.

Was reading this interview with Alex Garland, and came across this interesting observation :



"'What bad writing usually is,' he says, 'is over-writing. There's just too much. Adjectives, whatever.' "


Wouldn't this apply to not just the words, but also the ideas? We hear great reviews of people who put in lots of ideas per page : Larry Niven, Umberto Eco, that sort of people. But the ideas these guys put into a page are usualyl worth just those couple of lines, and not more, which is why they fit in.


I got onto this train of thought because of the troubles I'm having in writing now. While earlier my problem was that my story ideas were single-liners, hardly worth the two pages they took up, now I'm thinking up grand stuff : "Let me write about outsourcing!", "Hey, a story where the heroine is a reincarnation of a famouse person would be good! And I can add this buried treasure to it, and a reberl group, and voodoo, and... and..." until I'm overwhelmed with all the forking paths I need to chronicle. Writing is as much a matter of leaving out useless stuff, as it is an effort to put down the essentials. And the worst part is deciding what goes into what category. Hoo boy.


On a related (sort of) note, the third instalment of the Hathoda series is now online at Dinker's magazine site. comments invited...as long as they arent like CV, whose letter on the feedback page describes my efforts at articulating a kid's phonetic language as "inspired by J K Rowling".

Followed a strange train of thought the other day...

I was at an exhibition of books at the standard place (Institute of Engineers), and there werent any of the "any book for 20 Rs." type racks. In fact I found there werent any fiction racks at all, everything was serious-type stuff.

There was a table marked 'Literature', though. This contained stuff intended for students of literature, like critical essays on Faulkner, Bashos haikus along with commentary, studies of William Blakes poetry, and so on. I mention these three books because I picked them up and considered buying them. The prices looked reasonable to me. Finally, I didnt buy them because there is already a huge queue of books sitting at home, including a detailed study of Tennyson, Henry Adams' famous autobiography, The complete poems of Plath, Dickinson, and cummings, the works of Borges...besides all the other stuff. Kismat mein hogi to yeh nayi books padhney ko phir chance milega....some other time.
A couple of tables away, were books on other topics. I skimmed over these, not much interesting. The History table caught my eye, I looked it over hoping for some books on central India, it might be helpful for that "Munh Nochwa" story I was working on. Didnt find anything useful.

The other shelves, Medicine, Electrical Engineering, Computers, Fashion, Architecture...I didnt pay any attention to any of them, and finally came out without buying anything.

Does anyone else see where this is heading? I noticed it as I walked down the stairs.

Every other programmer I know, all my classmates and several others, if you go through their library of books, you'll find 80% of the books are about software, languages, programming techniques, whatever. Some other books will be sci-fi types if he's got a literary bent, or pulp novels for timepass, if not. There'll be a couple of self-help books. and so on.

Now, me. I lump the computer section of any exhibition with FASHION and ARCHITECTURE. But I pore over critical studies of romantic poetry. I mention comparatively obscure writers in passing. I obsess over my library of 800+ books, and my life's aim for the past year or so hasnt been to read design patterns, it's been to read the top 100 list and be able to write like Nabokov. The only computer books I have are my college books, and K&R.

Discussions of what design pattern is cleaner make me uncomfortable. Deciding whether Hemingway's crisp, macho style is better than Fitzgerald's flowery one, can keep me up all night.
I think I'm in the wrong field :). I ought to have been doing a MA in literature, or something.

The closest parallel I can think of, is my friend George, who is a self-professed cinema freak, and who would probably spend more time at the Cinema table of any book exhibition than the computer section..but I'm guessing he wouldnt pass over the computer stuff as completely as I do.

Hoo boy... I feel like I've been walking with my head down for years, and only now am looking up and see where I've been heading.

Just read this very interesting interview with a Korean immigrant writer : "Fitting in".
It kinda fits in with the thoughts that've been passing through my head all weekend. Is feeling alone triggered by the environment you're in, or is it something that is created purely by the mind? Watching a movie tilted me towards the latter view last evening. This was "In the Cut", which I expected to be a plain whodunit/thriller with mebbe a few scenes thrown in.

Ten minutes into the movie, and I noticed that almost every one of the characters lived alone, and their conversations were very abrupt - as if they didnt really want to be talking. Reminded me of how often people in Hollywood movies are shown as living alone. For a moment I felt good about myself, and about how terrific our system of living with the family is. Almost every Hindi movie shows the lead characters with their family members...

And then, of course, it struck me that the system had made no difference for me...I stil felt extremely lonely, living with family does mean that there's someone to talk to, but there's no one who can see things precisely (or closely enough) the way I see them. It went back all the way to college....I'd felt this with friends then, too, and through my married life, when I'd felt more than ever that my wife doesnt understand what I'm thinking about - and vice versa.

Loneliness really is a state of the mind, and cant be removed just by company.

I think I've said this before : Pale Fire is the book to read to understand what a book can achieve. I'm 2/3rds through it, and I can already see ideas, narrative tricks, deliberate holes in the plot, and any number of other devices that are going to leave me totally depressed because I'll never produce anything approaching it :(. More so, when I can see the evidence in so many other books of writers struggling to put in just one of the dozens of ideas from this book.

Maybe its blasphemy, but I think Pale Fire does a better of of experimenting with style and yet delivering the story, than Ulysses. Or maybe it's because of Nabokov's amazing style, he moves between straight descriptive text to flowery, stylish phrases so effortlessly, its a joy to just read any page of his work. This from a person for whom English was a learned language. Nabokov is my hero!!!

Hey...its been five months since I posted to my blog....and to think that at one time I was posting almost every day...hoo boy!

This return to blogging, too, isnt my own idea... it got triggered off by a friend asking me the blog location. So the blog needs to look current atleast while she's reading it, right? :)

I've been writing some fun stuff in the meantime, some of it will make it to the blog. Two stories I wrote for Dinker's sci-fi mag Adbhut are on the net right now...see the Jan and May issues..they're related, by being set in the same universe. Both are experiments in different ways.

I'll try to capture newer experiences to the blog as and when I can separate them out into blog-size bits. Coming up soon, trip report of a vacation I took recently. That ought to take me a while ;)

An excerpt from a mail I wrote.

But the past changes us. What the past did to us determins the decisions we will take, one way or the other. It puts signboards of upcoming goals and diversions on our otherwise eventless road of life. what happened yesterday helps us decide how we are doing today. Whether we agree or disagree with the decsions we made yesterday, we cannot be indifferent to them. When we think we're planning for the future, we're really reacting to the past. We like new friends if they look like old friends, we make new enemies if they behave like old enemies. My decisions in the past have put me where I am now, for better or for worse. There is no such thing as starting afresh - as long as you are in the new life you're imagining, it will extend from the old life you're living. And realizing this is not the same as learning to live with it.

A belated (or is it far in advance?) happy Diwali to all! I had a good time with family during my four-day holiday - hope everyone else did, too. And now for something totally diferent:

Spiders remember childhood friends! Is one of the wierdest stories I've read in a long time. Not only for the fact which they've 'discovered, but for the tacit assumption they started with, that spiders and suchlike dont remember other creatures of their kind. I get the feeling that Indians don't have this assumption - or do they ? A lot of fairy stories imply that the little critters do remember, of course. I find myself unable to remember what I believed before reading this article... one more thing to think about.

Rather disturbing piece of news :
Single screening theatres plan indefinite strike
The interesting part is that, Multiplexes are completely exempt from Entertainment tax - while normal theatres arent. That means the multiplexes, which charge about a hundred bucks a ticket, are pocketing ALL of it for themsleves...makes me feel bad about ever having gone to those places. Consdering that you dont get any special advantages at a multiplex (being able to pay 40 bucks for a burger during the interval is NOT an advantage)...Yeh koi tareeka hua! Me, I opt for the older theatres every time.

Which reminds me, I saw Samay a couple of days back (at a single-screen theatre). Very neatly done movie, even if the ending is copied from Seven. No useless songs (except for one 'item number', which can be forgiven, I guess), no Johnny Lever, and no romantic hero for the heroine. I noticed it was produced by iDream - These guys are definitely doing good work. All the movies they produce (like, 16th December, Jajantaram Mamataram, Mitr, the upcoming Rudraksh) are off the beaten track, generally low-budget, but technically well done.

Watch this space :

Adbhut | Science Fiction and Fantasy | An Indian Experience

This is a magazine my friend Dinker is starting up. And if I know my friends right, this is going to be something worth looking at pretty soon.

I just finished a really neat book : On the Road by Jack Kerouac. Already I find the run-on writing style has filtered into my own writing, particularly some letters I've written recently. I'll need to read something with clipped sentences (Len Deighton, maybe?) to get the writing back to normal :).
Also, a couple of days back, saw Mulholland Drive. One wierd movie, that one is. You need to either see it three or four times, or see summaries on the net(like I did) to make sense of the whole movie. Not to mention that I found the thing to be quite creepy. Of course, seeing it alone at 3 in the night may be part of the reason for that!

Went home and looked up the remaining three books :) ( <-- Sheepish grin ).

18. All quiet on the western front - Erich Remarque
19. If you could see me now - Peter Straub
20. A kiss before dying - Ira Levin

Note the very high percentage of books either on the top 100 lists or written by authors on the list. Havent started on any of this lot yet. I'm currently finishing Wizard and Glass by Stephen King and On the Road by Jack Kerouac. On the Road is highly, highly recommended for its writing technique. Amazing book! Fully deserves to be so famous, unlike some of the real duds on that #$@ top 100 list.

Went out last evening with Samrat to see Bad Boys 2. It has been many years since I watched an action movie in the theatre (and I refuse to count Chura Liya Hai Tumne as action). Fun stunts, some very funny comedy sequences, and the added sparkle of having got the tickets free (prize from the Quiz we won). Added up to an enjoyable evening.

After a long quiet spell, I've been on a crazy book-buying spree again. There's a great book exhibition at the Institute of Engineers, and the bargain books counter (20 bucks apiece!) has some really hard-to-find books. I've gotten addicted to finishing that Modern Library list of the top 100 books this century (BOTH the lists on that page), so I use it as a guideline when looking for books to buy.

I am now going to imitate George's (sometimes irritating) habit of gloating over my current haul:
1. The Moviegoer - Walker Percy
2. The Confessions of Nat Turner - William Styron
3. The Day of the Locust - Nathaniel West
4. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers
5. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress - Robert Heinlein
6. Stranger in a Strange Land - Robert Heinlein
7. We the Living - Ayn Rand
8. Journeys to the Twilight Zone - short stories ed. by Rod Serling's wife (whoever that was)
9. The Glass Key - Dashiell Hammett
10. The Belljar - Sylvia Plath
11. The Plague Dogs - Richard Adams
12. Our Town - Thornton Wilder
13. Sein Language - Jerry Seinfield
14. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - E. L. Konigsburg
15. A Wrinkle in Time - Madeleine D'Engle
16. Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut
17. Martin the Warrior - Brian Jacques
18.

OH - MY - GOD! I really cannot remember the remaining 3 books I bought just two days back! Either I'm buying too many books or my memory is fading. I am dumping this onto the blog and adding stuff as and when I remember it (or look it up).

This past weekend I finally joined the 'Aashay Film Club', after having procrastinated over it for years. I dont think they have a proper website, so cant link to them. Basically they hold screenings of art/classic/experimental movies in all languages. Hunted around for the location of their 'office', finally found it, registered for a year, walked out really happy. Until yesterday morning, when it struck me that I was going to be going to these shows all alone. As far as I know, none of my friends are members of the club. So I need to either drag my old friends to come with me, or make new friends who are already there. :) Lessee how this goes.

Finally, it's here, the next chapter of Pawar Guest House. The short story within was born while I was on a trip to Himachal Pradesh, and written when I was on a trip to Rajasthan, under less-than-ideal conditions. The word file where I'm writing the stories is now 110 kb.... some day it'll be a full book. :)

Chapter 6

It is now nearly a week since I read the diary, here at the Pawar Guest House. In the days that passed I struggled to come to terms with the diary’s contents, and even now, have not quite accepted the idea they lay out. Admittedly, this cannot be a new idea; browsing through any good public library will give me the technical word for it, will give me accounts of people faced with this problem, and how they dealt with it.

But… as the diary itself says, there’s no way my experience can be exactly the same as that of those other writers, or even of the person who wrote that diary. So that, even in this, my account of the conversations I had with the old lady, I cannot be sure that you are actually reading what I mean to write.

That evening after I returned, I had just the strength to copy down the contents of the diary, which she’d lent me. What we talked about after that, I felt, there was no point writing. Fortunately, the feeling has passed somewhat now, though it touches everything I say and write. Whatever twisted meaning it may convey to a reader, it should, hopefully, remind me of what actually happened afterwards.

- - -

I finished reading the diary, flipped through the remaining entries ( Bread – 8 Rs., Lunch – 20 Rs. … ) and closed the diary. My thoughts were in a jumble, somehow the diary had awakened the one demon I’d always fought against – the fear of not being understood – and proclaimed it victorious without a doubt.

She said,” You’ll probably not believe it, but I know what you’re feeling. You’ll get over it, in time. But this feeling, this idea is going to colour your thoughts and stories for a long, long time.”

I got up abruptly. “It’s…getting late. I need to get back.”

“Yes, of course you must. Come back only when you want to. I’d like to hear what you think about the diary, after you’ve had the time to mull it over.”

I walked back, through the deserted, sodium-vapour-lit streets, lost in my thoughts. She had been right. All the stories I’d remembered, all the tales I’d planned to tell, now seemed so useless against the one big cancer of an idea that kept pulling me in. I was alone, so alone forever, as alone as every other person I’d ever met. Just like every other person.

- - -

I don’t know why today, I’ve come back to the Guest House. Certainly, if she asks me, I have nothing to tell. Perhaps it is inertia, or perhaps some subconscious hope of finding some distraction from my thoughts.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to expect anything from me, either. As soon as I sit down, she says,” I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to tell today. So for today, we’ll do what you originally wanted when you came here. I’ll tell the stories.

“Let me start with the reason why I came here. I’m not originally from here, I was born in Himachal Pradesh, among the hills…”

- - - - - -

It took a while before anyone recognized Anand. After all, he hadn’t been back to the village for nearly twenty years. He just stood there, where he’d gotten off the bus, as it rolled on, leaving a pall of dust and smoke. As the dust settled, Anand looked around him. Memories stirred in him as he recognized places, things, that hadn’t changed since he’d left this place.

He came out of his reverie with a jerk. Two old men in the dhaba opposite were looking at him curiously. The one with the red turban had a strange, doubtful look on his face. Anand picked up his traveling bag and walked across the road to the dhaba. He went up to the old men and said to the red-turbanned one,” Namaste, Ishwar Kaka. Remember me?”

Ishwar Kaka’s face cleared. He said,” Anand beta, it is you, then? I wasn’t… sure!” And a laugh broke free from him and he stood up clumsily to embrace the lost son of the village.

Anand asked him,” Is the old room by the temple still there? Is Ramdhari Kaka still the priest?” The old man looked at him, averted his face. “Why do you want to go there, beta? Come to my home, I’ve got a pucca home now. Why not stay with me?” But Anand was already shaking his head. “No, Kaka… next time, I’ll definitely stay with you. For tonight, let me go to the temple.”

“Then… you are only here for a day?”

“Yes, Kaka.”

“But… your land? I thought you’d come to sell off your land, or to till it?”

A faint smile crossed Anand’s face. “Some other time, Kaka. This time I’m just here to remember.” And he set off on the strange yet familiar path to the temple.

Ramdhari Kaka still was the priest, and he, of course, remembered Anand. The room was much smaller than he remembered it, and dustier. But it was empty, and Anand didn’t mind the dust. He bought a chatai from the Kirana shop and pread it out in its usual corner under the window. He rested there for a while, waiting for the evening.

Meanwhile the news of his arrival had spread like wildfire. Everyone, from Darbari Seth, the owner of the Chamunda lodge, to mad old Babu, cavorting in the freezing river water, knew Anand was back.

Evening is a very long period in the Himachal villages. The sun goes down below the mountains very early, but darkness arrives only when it is well and truly gone. People stop working in the tarraced fields, shops start closing, and only the groups of children scamper about on the streets. Their parents are too busy gossiping in the fading light at the village chaupal, or in the temple courtyard. Today, for some reason, the chaupal was deserted, and everyone seemed to converge on the temple courtyard for their gossip. People stole glances through the open door by the temple’s side, where they could just make out Anand’s feet in the gloom, and see him occasionally turn to his side.

He finally got up and came out of the room yawning. He didn’t seem surprised to see the people sitting in the courtyard, but walked over to the pot of water by the wall, drank from it, and sat down leaning against a pillar by the gate. The murmur of discussion rose up again, but hesitantly.

Finally, one old lady asked Anand,” How have you been, beta? We never heard from you after you left.”

“I’ve been alright, Kaki. I found some work in the city and studied through college. Now I have a job in the government.”

Anand felt like a liar, even though it was the truth he’d said. But how could he describe that he hadn’t been all right, that he’d starved so often to pay his fees, how he;d studied under street lamps, how he’d vended tea even after getting his degree, how he’d struggled to get his job. He could still taste the dust in his mouth from the day he’d left the village, in the early morning bus, hiding from everyone, hoping that the bus driver didn’t know who he was. He remembered living in fear, even in the city, fear that someone would recognize him, would take him back.

The old lady said,” I remember the time when you used to help out Vaidji in his work, you’d even made a kaadhaa for me once when I had a fever.”

Though controlling his voice took an effort, Anand spoke pleasantly enough.

“Yes, Kaki. I remember. Of course, Pitaji couldn’t teach me his craft for long. Darbari Seth took care of that.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Darbari Seth hadn’t come to the courtyard (perhaps he’d gone to the chaupal) but his wife was here. Almost everyone present knew Vaidji’s gambling habits, how he’d lost his house and land to Darbari Seth in a long night of drunk gambling. Anand, of course, remembered being woken from his sleep, early in the morning, by a goon, and being dragged out of the house by one arm. He remembered his mother weeping, assuring the goons that they would repay in full, if only they could stay here for a few more days…

Anand continued,” Of course, Ramdhari Kaka let us stay in this room for as long as we needed.”

The listeners shifted uneasily. Most of them could remember shutting out Vaidji ( who was, after all, a southerner, not a Himachali like themselves). Each had told himself that someone else would take these people in, ignoring the pleas audible from outside their doors, over the next few days after Vaidji had lost his home. They had snuggled inside, safe from the freezing cold of the winter.

“But beta, you were all quite comfortable here, and we… we would all have helped you if you’d had any problem.”

Anand’s voice remained calm as he said,” May I ask you a question, Kaki?”

Pausing a moment, he continued,” Does anyone remember the time at which Pitaji died?”

No one answered.

“Of course, no one remembers. No one even knows the time. It took me nearly half the day to get people to take him to the ghat. And no one wanted to do even that. Were you all so afraid of Pneumonia, that you were afraid of touching his body?”

Some of the villagers looked like they wished they handt come here. Morbid curiosity held the rest in a thrall. Even though Anand’s voice was calm, it was clear that he was accusing them, holding them all responsible.

One person stood up. Anand’s voice rang out after him, in the gloom.

“Thakur chacha, how come you’re in such a hurry? Arent you proud of the honour of being the first?”

“The first?” Thakur said roughly, drawn in, in spite of himself. “The first what?”

”The first to call me a ‘kalmunha’ to my face? The first to come with a crowd, to my mother and me, to demand the debts my father had left behind? The first person for whom I worked in the fields, trying to stay alive and repay my debts? You were an inspiration, Chacha, you were an inspiration to so many others who wanted their debts paid!”

Anand’s mind flashed back to his life as it had seemed to be to his ten-year-old mind then…an endless series of fields to be ploughed, grain to be threshed; as a labourer, bound to this village and its people forever… alone except for his mother, who was slowly but surely losing her mind…

She had still had phases of clear thought, and in one of these, late at night, she had woken him up frantically from a deep sleep. She’d stolen some money from a shop that day, and she told him about it as she thrust it into his pocket.

“Run, beta, run away. Don’t worry about me, I am going to die soon. Take the bus that goes to the city, early in the morning. Never come back, beta, never come back…”

He had started to protest, but she had pulled him up and stodd him straight by then. Even before he was fully awake, she was pushing him out of the door. Something struck her then, as she watched him framed against the night of stars, with the silent, sleeping village below it. She grabbed up a small pot of water and handed it to him. “Here, take this. Keep it with you in the bus. I don’t know where you will eat, beta, but atleast you will be free. Now go! Go!” And she had turned him around, towards the road, and slammed the door shut behind him.

He’d stood for a moment, listening to her weeping from behind the door. Then, as if still in a dream, he’d started walking.

Slowly at first, then almost running, he’d walked to the bus stop and hid behind a tree, clutching the unwieldy pot of water to him, jumping at every sound, suspecting every noise was a footfall, expecting a rough hand on his shoulder any minute…

Anand said, “ None of you know this, but the only thing I took from your village was a pot of water.” No one protested at his use of “your village”.

“And, of course, Thakur chacha had already discovered that I was a ‘kalmunha’. I’ve today to fulfil that prophecy, and to repay my debt.”

There was a stir at these words. No one, however, asked him to explain.

“All my life, I’ve been laughing at those stories about kind-hearted villagers helping strangers. All my life, I have had that pot of water, the only thing I got from here, on my mind. Perhaps that pot was what shaped my career.

“I’ve told you that I work for the government. Let me explain what work I do. I work for the Himachal Hydel Power Corporation, and I work for the Survey department. We look for suitable sites to set up Hydel projects – that means dams, Thakur chacha.

“I’m here to announce formally to the village that a big project is going to be set up in this valley.”

“But… that means…”

“Yes.” Anand said. Those close to him could have sworn he was smiling. This village is going to be submerged in a new lake of water in the valley. The government will of course give you suitable replacement homes and land… as it usually does. I’ll be in charge of that as well.”

- - - -

So, people, finally, I'm back. Had to leave for a sudden visit to my in-laws place, about three weeks back. Boy, was it tiring!

But this long absence wasnt a total waste....I managed to get one more story in the Pawar Guest House series completed. This is probably the quickest of the lot, counting the time from inception to execution... one month! Will dump it here as soon as I get it typed.

Not much else to report... a huge number of things happened on this recently concluded trip...most of which are still too 'daanwadol' to tell now. The trip will be described on this blog in excruciating detail, someday.

Which reminds me of the promised account of my Himachal trip... Of yes, that one is over a dozen pages long and still only half done! Working on it, working on it...hang on :)

When you're feeling fine, you sometimes wish you were sick, so you could relax while the world works.

Of course, fall ill with a terrible cold, fever, and bodyache and you find you dont mind working at all in exchange for feeling good again. :)

Which is probably why I enjoyed working today: I've been down for about 4 days. Worst cold I ever had.

Plus they fiddled around with the setup here at my company and now i cant access the net (aka blog while code is compiling) while I'm logged on to our client's network. will need to figure a way out of that one.

Thought up this one today, and already cracked it, so you're free to reuse it if you want:

"Tumne khoob teensti nibhaayi"

"Teensti? Woh kya hai?"

"Yahan apan teen log hai na, isliye. Do hotey to dosti bolta tha"

And btw...something's wrong with my old comments tag as well...probably because they changed the blogger stuff....will work that out. mail me, whoever it was that posted the comment, please? thanks.

Hear that whooshing sound? My birthday going by...:)

I remembered another story about birthdays : about my Dad and Dev Anand. Will elaborate today.

This post is mainly to test out the comments thingy i just added. So everyone who sees this, please try it out. Or you'll never hear about the Dev Anand story :)

I'm almost (gasp!) 28 years old... Kya kiya re life mein :) ! Birthday coming up tomorrow. No plans yet on how to celebrate. Come to think of it, no plans yet on whether to celebrate or not.

It might be worthwhile to dredge up some birthday-related anecdote here. Hmm...let's see...here's the standard story I tell:

When I was a kid, living in Trivandrum, my school opened on the 20th of June. Since we spent the summer vacations in Indore and Surat (paternal and maternal grandparents' places respectively), we'd generally be in the train back to Trivandrum on the 18th. Always got me irritated. :).

Here's one of the stand-alone stories...I'd started this before I left, but finished it on the train. Kinda inspired by Stephen King's stye of writing:

There was a cool breeze that night

The first thing he noticed was the cool breeze on his upturned face. It smelled sweet, and fresh, and had the tastte of spring on it. He sniffed appreciatively, savouring the breeze, feeling ecstatic for being able to feel it.

He looked around. It was sometime very late at night. The road was deserted. He didnt recognize it; he had no idea where he was. It didnt matter. Just to be alive again was enough. The road was lit by strange yellow lights. He hadnt seen that sort before. There was a high wall on the other side of the road, with jagged pieces of glass along the top. Wires sang their monotonous tune, high above his head, as they passed through a power pylon.

He was sitting on a pile of earth. Behind him, there was a pit within which he could make out thick insulated cable. The pit and the accompanying piles of earth continued on both sides of him along the road as far as he could see. Behind that was a barbed wire fence bordering an open ground. He suddenly recognised the place. The open ground was an NCC training ground, it had an obstacle course they used. Beyond that would be the hill... he looked up, and there it was. It had many more lights at the top than he remembered.

So a long time had passed, since he was last aware of himself. Vaguely, he could remember the period in between. How people had given him a wide berth as he'd staggered down the street, muttering. He remembered a couple of kind-eyed beggar children who'd given him a roti, backing off as soon as he'd taken it. One strange memory of him being a lion, and a watchman chasing him in disgust, not realising that he was a fearsome beast. A few snatches of a nurse holding him down while a doctor gave him an injection (the world blacked out after that). And sevral faded feelings of being hungry, being thirsty, feeling pain, feeling a strange sense of loss...

But all that, it seemed, was in the past. He was sane again, and aware of the cool breeze blowing against his face. Able to think of what to do next, able to put his past behind him and decide how to get on with living.

He'd done it before. He could remember how he'd started from nothing - that assortment of wooden planks, aluminium roofing and cardboard that had been his house in the slum. How it had been just him and his father, both starving half the time and fighting each other the rest of it. The long journey from there to a job, Maya, and their flat. And from there to Vakil Bhai, a simple loan at first, then bigger and bigger, until those men had burst into their home to collect or else...

But that was long gone, God knows how many months or years ago. He'd start again.

He looked around again, watched a lone motorcyclist speed by. He lifted up a hand to scratch his cheek, then noticed how thin and wrinkled his fingers were. Somewhat alarmed, he looked down at himself. He was old, and worn out. He must be about sixty-five or seventy years old. He had very little time left, then. He had to make something of himself, and quickly. He would start by -

Eh? Why had he stumbled? Was he so far gone that he couldnt even walk? He tried again and nearly fell down. His left hand instinctively reached out, and he realised why he hadnt been able to get up. There was an old twisted branch with a small slab of wook nailed across one end. Rough, for sure, but a crutch nevertheless... his left foot was gone.

He hoisted himself to his feet, using the crutch as support. It didnt matter, really. He'd done it before and could do it again. He mumbled a bit as he made his plans, hobbling down the road, the cool breeze of the night ruffling his thin white hair.
* * *

Finally, home again. The trip to Himachal Pradesh was wonderful, got 3 kg off my spare tyre, gave me a bunch of silly stories to regale friends with, and memories of some beautiful moments. What more could a guy want from a vacation?

Photos are at my yahoo account.

The stories from the trip will come out slower, they need to identified as such; split up into nice bite size chunks. The "proper" short stories that I thought up during the trip will get dumped here as I type them in...sadly, just one of them is a chapter of Pawar Guest House. Oh well...

One of the 'monthly forecasts' for my sign tells me that my writing phase ends on the 15th June. ;). Hope I dont have any incomplete stories then...

Hmm. Install still not finished. Time to add another entry.

I read an interesting article a long time back, in which some guy was doing research on babies' brains. Rather, what kinds of logic they are capable of. What he did was, had a large, attention-attracting object move slowly through the baby's field of vision. Then he had something blocking the way, so the moving object was obscured. He checked the direction in which the baby was looking. Sure enough, the little geniuses continued to turn their heads and eyes in the direction the object had been moving, and they would lock on to it again when it became visible. He concluded that humans are born with this basic logic inbuilt.

Writing this above reminded me of the 'blind spot' in our eyes - that place where the optic nerve connects to the eye and there arent any sensor cells. No one ever complained of that one.

Why am I thinking of these things? Extrapolation, or the creation of pattern, is what I'm coming to. Even without having to think about it, people do believe (or 'have faith in') the idea that their action has a result, and every result has a cause. It struck me today that this impulse must be really burnt deep into our brains. Essential survival instinct, I bet. And take a society that keeps asking "why?" to every question, a society where you have a bunch of people who are free to do just this, for many generations, and you get a system of thought like hinduism.

It has been more than two weeks now since this blog got updated (if you dont count me 'fixing' the archives). What newsworthy stuff has happened since then? Hmm...

I took part in a quiz competition almost by mistake and got runners-up prize.

The pi-laaan for my trip to Himachal Pradesh got finalised - me leaving on 23rd May. Taking my digital camera along this time, so my photos will hopefully come up here on this page.

Scratched half my hair out trying to find the right counter attack to the 'Quiet Diary' story. Why O why didnt I make that one the last story in the book? But no, that would have been running away - I need the answer to that situation myself. Finally found one that isnt either of the two obvious choices ( ignoring it entirely, as most people do in life, or trying to add more context into everything, as much as one can stand). I'll have the HP trip to compose and work out the next chapter.

Mom wrote the Gujarati subtitles to Chura Liya Hai Tumne (Mohabbat mirchi che :D ), Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Ghum, and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Since the English stuff was already done I didnt have any stuff to do there besides setting up stuff, and mailing finished files to C-DAC. The next movie, which she'll take on after I get back, will have both the English and Gujrarati subtitles to do. Hmm...here's a thought exercise - can anyone make out what the Hindi for this is?

This girl is very unknowing (innocent, maybe?)
Is she a dream ? Is she real? Or a story?
Look, this crazy girl hasnt changed a bit
She's just the same maniac she was...

Well? mail me when you get it. sudarshan_purohit, at hotmail.

Interesting quote, off Slashdot (made by Pike65) :

A quick trudge of any *shudder* blog site is more than enough to convince me that everyone else leads a life as boring as mine.

Of course, it may just be that the people with interesting lives are out living them. Now there's a thought . . .

Links to the Quiet Diary idea all right...

It's interesting how, when you think about it, the various 'smart' ideas you've had over the years are linked closely. How they all mark out your 'mental space', as Hofstadter put it. Like, Quiet Diary links to the Foreigner, links to that whole 'Nothing has meaning without context' idea that blew me away a couple of years ago.

I'm reading some of these ideas in the spiritual books I use for bedtime reading these days... What I used to call 'the Universal Set by definition' they call the 'Truth'. They use another word for 'Context', as I used it in 'Nothing has meaning without context', and 'Words have no meaning without the context we associate with them'. I forgot what the word is, but Context seems a better word than the one they use...

Ouch. Seems the Archives arent working. Something to do with how I edited the entries after i added them; the archives only show the first cut. I'll have to be more careful.

George wanted to know about the "Subtitles" entry on Apr 15th. Explanation :

C-DAC has a subtitling cell, which takes on work to subtitle movies in various Indian languages. They get contracts from several different groups, leading to really varied work. This work is executed by various freelancers who get paid by the job.

Mom is one of these. I help her out when I get time and when the work's interesting enough. We've done everything from translating mobile phone error messages into Hindi, to subtitling episodes of Shree Ganesh, that TV serial on Sony, in English. That last one was kind of fun..."Lord Shiva, it is time for me to be born as your child."/"Yes, Shri Maha Ganesh, your will alone is the mightiest in the universe." :)

Anyway...the majority of the work is adding English subtitles for Hindi movies, or Hindi subtitles for regional movies. Everything from Muqaddar ka Sikandar (King of Fate :) ) to Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.

Aap ke Saath was the movie I wrote the subtitles for recently. Assuming that the guy who gave us the contract sells these subtitled DVDs/CDs in the general market, unfortunate souls who see that movie could be reading our translations :)

I'm looking forward to cracking this one : (and hoping my intended target hasnt read my blog)

"Kya yaar, tune bahut dino se koi PJ nahi maara?"

"Nahi, mai ab ahimsa mein vishwas rakhta hoon, kuch bhi nahi maaroonga."

:) I know I'd hate to hear that.

Finally...Here we are with Chapter 5. Whopper, even if I say so myself.

Chapter 5 : Pawar Guest House

Though I don't know it, what I hear today is going to shake me to the core. It starts off normally enough, with me walking to the Guest House and seeing her on the balcony; her seeing me and escorting me upstairs as usual. It is later than the other times; the huts on the grounds are closed and dark by the time I arrive, and hardly any vehicles ply the roads as we talk. The radio is playing Bela ke Phool instead of Hawa Mahal; but she's still there listening to it, as if expecting me to arrive today.

We talk a bit, about the weather, about some new guests here at the guest house, about how quiet it seems now that it is so late. All along, simmering on both our minds, are the stories, waiting to be told. I wanted to try something different today, and inwardly I'm itching to get on with it. Finally, the topic veers around to the story.

I say,” I don't really have a story to tell today. I do have something else, though. This was an evening I spent in Pune, a long time ago…”

- - -

I couldn't do any more work. The significance of the deadlines, of the work that had to be finished that day, had paled before the fact that Ila wasn't there. The fact of her absence sapped all my will, left me idling for hours before I realized that there was no point in staying in the office.

Mumbling my goodbyes, I left the office. Down in the parking lot, I was about the start up my motorcycle when I realized that there was no reason to go to my room. It was too early for dinner; besides, Ila's memory would be overpowering if I went home.

I drove around aimlessly for a while. I thought about that day – Was it only a few days back? - When Ila had left. Her train was at six in the evening… I'd told her I would try to make it there to see her off. But I hadn't any hopes myself, there was too much work. I'd fought through all of that day, tearing through documents and rushing meetings. There had been still more work left then (just as it'd been, today) but I'd somehow managed to break free. Driving down, I'd felt like a prisoner who'd escaped and was now greedily enjoying his precious few moments of freedom.

I'd reached the station just a few minutes before six. Her brother had left already… she'd probably assured him she would be fine and he needn't stay till the end. She had taken a seat by the window, and she brightened when she saw me coming down the stairs of the station. Her face was the brightest of all, and her smile made me forget I had just a temporary reprieve. I reached her and just looked at her. “Its only for a few days,” she’d said. “I'll be back before you know it.”

“Take care of yourself,” I'd whispered, as I stood by her window. The whistle blew just then, and the train had begun to pull away from the platform. My hand had been on the window sill, just an inch from hers. As the train began to move she'd shifted her hand ever so slightly, still looking at me, so that it touched mine. It said more than any words could have. Even today, if I think about it, I can feel the tingle on my hand, where she'd touched it.

I kept waving for as long as I could see the train. Only for a few days, she’d said, and yet…

And today, again, I was thinking of her. If she had come back she would have told me so. But somehow, I hoped she'd returned and forgotten to call, or was too busy, maybe. That would mean she was here, somewhere in Pune, and I might bump into her anywhere.

I suddenly realized I was crossing the Balgandharv Theatre. I turned the bike around and drove into the parking lot. Parked in the far corner (just like I had the other day), and walked to the entrance to the stairwell. There was a sign about a new exhibition of sculpture on at the multipurpose hall on the first floor of the theatre. We'd argued that day, right here. I'd wanted to eat first, she was afraid the exhibition would be closed for the night by the time we got back. She'd won, of course.

I went up.

Wandered through the exhibits… looked less at them, more at the people seeing the exhibition. Once I saw her favorite orange jacket in a crowd…but it turned out to be someone else. She wouldn't have liked these new sculptures - they were too small and besides she liked those black metal types better, forgot what she called them.

I walked down and went to the ticket window of the theatre. They had a comedy playing. Laxmikant Berde was in it. I'd probably have persuaded her into seeing this one.

I left my bike in the lot and walked down Jangli Maharaj Road. I didn't stop at the pavement booksellers even though Ila wasn't there to pull me away.

Dusk. The street lights were on but as yet not doing anything. A lot of people walked along this road in the evenings. Most of them weren't alone. A light breeze ruffled shop awnings and brought forth whispers from the trees.

I found myself falling into a trance, walking on the orange and brown tiles of the pavement, looking down to make sure my feet were stepping two files forward at a time. I stopped once to look at the crowd around a flower seller, who'd set up his rack of bouquets under a big old mango tree. Most of his customers were young college-age boys. He was advising those who asked about good bouquets for birthdays, parties, 'just-like-that's, and marriages. As usual, he was out of deep red roses early.

Reaching the next junction, I decided on having dinner at the Chinese food vendors who'd set up their little stalls along the road. Each had their few tables and chairs in front, on the pavement, with customers' favourites painted on little tin circles festooning the stalls. “Chow Mein”, “Hakka Noodles”, “Chiken Manchurien”, “Sweet Corn Soup”, they all advertised in English and Marathi.

I ordered Sweet corn soup, Noodles, and Vegetable Manchurien at the first stall that had seating space free. Idly I watched the vendor make my dinner… The familiar smells were comforting. I wondered if he would ask me why I was alone today. He wouldn't, probably; couples were transitory here, on this road next to Fergusson College.

I ate quickly, while deciding what to do next. M. G. Road would be a good place to go to now.

It was dark by the time I walked back to where my bike was parked. The lot was crowded, the show with Laxmikant Berde seemed to be doing well.

I parked in front of Manney's Book Shop. I could see very few people in there; the stores were all about to close anyway. The crowds on the street were at their peak, though.

There was hardly any traffic on M.G. Road, the whole road was full of groups of people walking. Balloon vendors were selling heart-shaped balloons and doing brisk business. The couple in front of me was walking hand in hand, and swinging their hands in time to the music playing loudly from various shops.

I looked around for a place to sit as I walked. The steps in front of most shops were occupied already. Groups of people perched here and there on the two-wheelers parked along the road. I passed one such group playing at Dumb Charades. “Govinda? A Govinda Movie? SCS? Haseena Maan Jayegi? Oh, an older one… Dariya Dil?…”

There was a huge crowd in front of Marz-O-Rin. I walked into there, hoping their Softy hadn't sold out. I was just in time. I got the Chocolate, and walked upstairs to where they had just added more tables. It was strange – there was enough space to sit upstairs, but people insisted on standing outside on the sidewalk to eat and drink. Upstairs, Marz-O-Rin had a long balcony with little tables set up all along it. I walked along to the last-but-one table. We'd wanted to sit at the last table, but that had been occupied that day. Ila had finished her Pineapple Juice quickly and I’d gotten her a pastry… We'd looked at the two girls at the last table, they'd moved their chairs right up to the railings in the balcony… The one with her back to us was mostly quiet, if anything, she seemed to be consoling the other. It was noisy that day, too. We couldn't make out the words they spoke. But I remember the face of the girl who sat facing us… She was haunted, by I don’t know what. Her hairstyle was kind of like Alisha Chinai's; she wore a denim jacket and jeans. She would have been in her early teens. I noticed her first when I saw something glittering, out of the corner of my eye. It was a tear, sliding down her cheek. She hadn't noticed it, apparently. Her companion spoke after a moment. The girl started, nodded, and passed a brusque hand over her cheek. She shifted position, tilted her head and rested it on the parapet. The two were still sitting there when we left about an hour later.

Today there was a middle-aged couple sitting at the last table. I was probably the only one here sitting by himself.

From up here, the yellow light of the streetlamps imparted a nostalgic feel to the whole scene below. The crowd and the noise reminded one of a college carnival.

I felt…

- - -

I am silent. Then I say,”I cant really go on with this. There’s no way to tell what it felt like, back there. How can you express what it feels like to long for someone, to know that you're truly, madly in love with her? What they talk about in the movies, in songs, that's just the surface of what it feels like. You're almost paralysed with happiness, you can feel something huge inside that really fills you up. You close your eyes for a moment and it's like her face, as it looked in the train window just before it left, is clear in your mind - clear as if you're seeing it now. And the fact that she's possibly thinking about you makes the feeling even stronger.

“Oh, there isn't any way to express it. Unless you've actually felt it.”

- - -

What else? I sat there and finished my ice cream. After a while I walked back to my bike and drove home.

I did say that this isn't a story, it's just an evening I spent. I don’t think I managed to express exactly what I wanted to. But… there it is. One evening I'll remember for a long time.

- - -

She is listening intently, eyes focused on something far away. When I stop she stays that way for a while, then abruptly seems to realize that I'm done. It seems my story went down well.

She says, “You know, that reminds me of something. Especially that last part, when you were having trouble expressing yourself. Sooner or later everyone hits that wall, and everyone deals with it in his own way. Hmm… wait here a minute. I want to show you something.”

She gets up and walks off into the corridor behind us. I sit back and listen to the radio. She's gone for a while, about two or three songs have gone by on the radio in the meantime.

When she comes back, she's dusting off an old rexine-bound diary. Sitting down, she explains, “ Hadn't thought about this one in a long time. A boy who stayed here a long time ago left this when he left. He left really suddenly, actually. Was there one evening, gone in the morning. Left most of his luggage behind. Always was a sensitive sort, he was. Anyway, what I want you to look at is… let's see, where is it…” She flips through the book… “There isn't enough light here to read this thing. Can you reach up and turn on that switch over there?” The switch in question is an old fashioned, black plastic knob set in a round case. I pull it down, weak, incandescent light washes over us. It is barely better than a candle; but she seems to have no trouble now. She's looking through the diary, stopping every now and then to read a few lines. “It was nearly at the end of what he wrote… The entries after that are really simple, appointments and accounts, mostly…ah, here we are!”

She hands me the diary, open to a page that’s torn off a little at one corner. “Read it aloud, if you want.” Her movement of leaning forward is duplicated in her huge shadow from the bulb moving down on the sidewalk. Ours seems to be the only light on the road now, apart from the streetlights.

Though the diary looks really old, it reads a date from not too long ago.

- - -

1 June

I've never kept a diary before. Never had the patience. So all I'm going to do is to write what I feel about Laxmi today, before the memory I have fades away. Later ( I hope) she'll be closer to me and may not look so magical. This is for me to remember her as she looked today when we talked for the first time.

Her eyes are this deep 'surprise brown’, which look black until you look closely. When she's looking at you, you feel she's actually seeing you as you are - not as you appear. And her smile is knowing yet playful. When she talks, you can tell she is glad to do so - otherwise you'd just be another piece of scenery to her. Unlike some girls I know, she doesnt wave her hands around or shift her feet while talking. All her attention, her whole body, is intent on speaking and listening to you. Sometimes there's that sharp twinkle in her eyes that tells you that a sudden thought, which she probably wont tell you, has occurred to her. And what thoughts! To talk to her and understand what she's saying you need to be really well read. I mean, I thought I was well-read, but when was the last time you talked to someone who's understood both Kautilya and Sartre? I'm going to need to learn a lot more just to keep up with her. Not to mention understanding atleast something about Bharatnatyam - she's learning that too. And the Harmonium. And computers.

Sheesh!

2 June

I really shouldn't be leaving this book around for idle friends to read. Praveen reads through that page I wrote yesterday and goes," Who’s this girl? Uske chasmey ke number kya hai? Sounds like a South Indian to me. Knowing you, any fat black philosophy student would fascinate you...Arrey yaar, atleast if you want to remember her, write what she looks like, not this vague 'twinkle-in-eye' stuff!"

Praveen is one of these idiots who'd fall in love with any girl who laughs at their jokes and stays fashionable.

2 June (later)

I looked through that first entry again - without thinking about Laxmi at the time. I mean, as someone who only reads the words. In fact, as anyone else but me would. They do sound vague and zabardasti ka highfunda. I guess I could have another try. Hmmm.

Laxmi is not very tall, maybe about 5'3", but looks perfectly made. Her smallish round face really sets off her curly hair. Her fingers are rather long and delicate, though her figure is

What the heck is this? Hurray, I've just begun a Mills and Boon novel starring Laxmi Pandya. I'm sure Praveen would love this sort of description, if I could ever bring myself to show it to him. Whereas this description is actually worse than the earlier one.

3 June

The first one is better, if I don't read only the words. If I remember the feelings I had while writing those words, I really love the description.

So my words are just placeholders for the feelings I have in me? They don't really express what I'm feeling?

Stupid theory.

4 June

Funny how vague ideas stick to you. I couldnt help thinking about the 'words as placeholders' thing all today. I thought about how I liked so many books I read...If those words were just placeholders for the feelings which the writers had, what am I feeling?

Obvious hai. It's like the shayari stuff which I could never understand, even when Ashish explained the meaning of the words. Never could understand all that 'dard' and 'mohabbat' stuff, until Aditi went away...suddenly I found I liked them. When I had some feelings to put in the placeholders, I understood them...

All these feelings I had while reading, they were in me already...So me finding the book good just meant I was able to put really powerful experiences in the 'placeholders' the writer put.

Interesting.

4 June (later)

But that just means, if I remember my experiences while reading books, others must be remembering their own experiences.

You mean everyone sees something different when reading? Everyone has different experiences in life...

5 June

So is that why Praveen didnt like my description? OK - He has no idea of what I mean by saying 'Surprise Brown'. It would help if I told him that its a colour of the eye which looks black from afar and brown only when you look into her eyes close up.

No, it probably wouldn't. Unless he's actually had the experience of seeing a girl's eyes change like that (Aditi's eyes did). He wouldnt appreciate it.

So if I write something like "her lips were as delicately coloured as a shoeflower".., only someone who knows what a shoeflower is would understand...the others would think of vague things like, say, shoes!

6 June

Felt rather depressed today. Started out feeling great about the great insight I had into writing. But I tried explaining it to Praveen and Sandhya, and they didnt get it. I mean, they got what I was saying, but it didnt seem to affect them. They couldnt feel the enormity of the idea. Funny, that. They themselves hadn't come up against a block like this, so they couldnt put their experiences into the words I was saying. Their not understanding proved what I was saying, but it didnt make me feel any better.

Reminded me of asking my mom what a backache felt like. She'd answered, "Tu jab bada hoga tab tujhe maloom padega".

More and more of this sort of thing came to me all of today. "Ek baar awashya taste kijiye." "Maa Bahen nahi hai kya?" "Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swad?" "Bhagwan ki bhakti bataayi nahi jaa sakti, sirf mahsoos kar sakte hai." "No one can explain to you what the Matrix is."

Isnt there any way of conveying a new experience to someone? All that words can do is to either try to break it up into prior experience or tell you how to experience it yourself.

7 June

I'm trapped. Trapped. Heh. This wouldnt mean anyting to someone who's never been trapped before, never felt like this. I tried telling Laxmi what I felt about her today. Couldnt. Every word I spoke sounded like some sort of compromise. I couldnt help stripping it of the meaning, the experience I attached to it and looking at it naked. Alone it seemed so pitiful, so inadequate. 'Pitiful'. What does that mean to someone who hasnt felt pity, hasnt been pitied?

It isnt just words. It's pictures, drawings, music, dance, facial expressions, whatever silly ways we've devised to try to express ourselves. Placeholders all of them, meaning nothing by themselves. Tell me frankly, ever understood what they mean when they say there's something odd about the Mona Lisa's smile? Not unless you've seen someone else smile like that, whom you knew more about. Try showing the photographs of the beach you took, to someone who's never been to the beach. He'll ask you why you all look so happy just splashing about - The photos cant show the joy of being there.

15 June

This past week was horrible. I felt totally inadequate in expressing myself. Praveen asked me why I was so down. I'd told him before, so there was no point in explaining. I sent my diary so far, as a story, to some friends, and it came back with comments like "Amazing story!", and "It was cute", and "I laughed at the funny parts". (that was the worst...WHAT FUNNY PARTS?) I'd asked for suggestions for completing the story. No one had anything reasonable.

So it's up to me - I opened up this can of worms and I must deal with it. No one else can see the trouble. Even if they could, no one else could solve it for me. instead of letting the thing pull me under, I need to name it, file the problem neatly away under all my other big problems like "Not having musical talent", and "unable to help the starving people of Orissa". Most of all, I need some plan of action.

16 June

So what is the problem, as such? Basically, I've discovered that my words, my representation of my experiences, cannot replicate my experiences for other people. Nor can their words replicate their experiences to me. Put that way, it sounds reasonable. Silly, even.

The implications are the bad part - that everyone's experiences will always be their own, cannot be shared or explained.

A solution occurred to me today. Try to live your life as full as you can, so as to have common experiences with many people. Then with these people you will have that common ground to communicate. Of course, the problem with that stupid solution is that you will also have even more of life that you dont share with each other person. The proportion of common to unshared remains the same.

17 June

Why do I want to be able to share all my life and thoughts with everyone in the world, anyway?

Who you? You who? I noticed I've always been writing as if I'm speaking to someone. Never really thought about who that is.

I was going to make a vague-ish stage&audience reference here, but I am struck by a memory...

This is somewhere in my third year in college. That year we had what turned out to be the last really big college festival (the princi changed after that year, so...). This was huge by Indori standards. [See, now I'm assuming that You know I went to college in Indore]. Spread over a week, the festival took place in the ground next to our college building. Tamboo/shamboo gadhaa kar. We invited other colleges to take part in the competitions on the last day, and I, Swapnil and Mukul lost the Dumb charades by a whisker that day. But back to the topic....

I was 'helping' out with the Fish Pond, which was supposed to be read out on stage by another guy every hour or so during the entire week. Eventually I ended up doing nothing beyond getting the 'dabba' for the messages, and getting some prizes sponsored by some bookshop for the best messages. I'd been to said bookshop the previous weekend, and the other guy (who was to read out the messages) did not know yet that I had a bunch of discount coupons as prizes from them. He liked the idea and I went along with him when he was to announce this. What I wasnt expecting, of course, was for him to speak into the mike,"Sudarshan has an announcement!" and step back, looking at me expectantly.

Err...Mmm...I told them about the coupons okay enough. I was just about to tell them about which messages would get the prize ( whichever ones *we* thought were good, basically), when I spotted her.

I'll call her A. I'd been noticing her for a while now, she was doing the management course that ran in parallel to my computer course, and she was different from the rest. She'd grown up in Zambia, she'd grown up in Gaya, she'd grown up in Delhi, everyone I'd asked had a different story. Of course I was too scared to talk to her directly [How that happened is another story] and ask her. Anyway, she was there in the audience. What was a large audience of 300 people, in front of whom I could have sang, danced, joked, turned into one attentive girl and 299 eavesdroppers. Seeing her looking at me threw my vocal facilities into roughly the same level of competence as a 6-month-old.

I dont remember exactly what I said then; I let autopilot carry me, until i noticed the guy standing next to me shift restlessly.

This brings forth many more memories; I'll write about some of them later. For now, I guess the lesson to be learnt is this:

Part of the reason I'm able to write here is that I'm talking to you, you who are an undefined audience who listens attentively to all I say. I dont see you shifting restlessly, I dont notice if you join in midway or leave in disgust. Sometime flashes light up people in the audience and i recognize them from elsewhere..I recognized Ramanand (http://quatrainman.blogspot.com) the other day. Other people I have myself invited..Dinker and Snehal and Srivats and George and many others...but I dont know if they are in the audience even now. Does it matter? I cant let it. You, the dark auditorium, is there, listening attentively. If I write for any one person I'll be tonguetied.

It would be interesting to know how others perceive their readers. Do they have anyone in mind when they write ?

It's a nice feeling...hearing a song you've heard any number of times before, and suddenly noticing some words out of it are really good, wondering why you'd never heard those words before...and rewinding your winamp just a little to hear that stanza again....Lifts your spirits even in the middle of these hectic code drops (in case you're wondering why all I've been talking about is songs, and why I havent worked on Pawar Guest House. :) ).

Sample of nice lyrics I heard recently :

Tell me what I see
When I look in your eyes
Is it you, baby,
Or just a brilliant disguise?
---

Likhte rahein tumhe roz hi magar
Khwahishon ke Khat kabhi bheje hi nahi

Listening to that terrific Louis Armstrong song "We have all the time in the world"...it's probably my favourite of all his songs, except maybe Now You Has Jazz, or High Society. But this one particularly heartbreaking because of the James Bond connection. This one's on the soundtrack of On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Havent seen the movie, but read the book. I'm pretty sure where this track comes up - it's right after Bond gets married, and they're driving away to their honeymoon. Bond whispers to her (Tricia? Teresa ? something with T for sure) "We have all the time in the world..." just before goons drive alongside and shoot her dead.

Read this in a jokes list :

At least wrinkles don't hurt (Graffiti: Gene Mora)

Wonder why that made it into a jokes list...It sounded like something serious to me. And it sounds wrong. Wrinkles *do* hurt. All the wrinkles that your experiences leave on your mind, on your face. Sometimes you try to separate the ones that hurt by calling them scars. But there's no teling when a harmless-feeling wrinkle turns into a scar, for no apparent reason.

Hearing some new music, after a very long time...This is Dr. Hook, the best of. Cute stuff...but somehow it feels small-minded...elements of jealousy, idleness, that sort of thing...But of course these guys are no Gulzar :)

BTW, Dinker's book is now available in stores...search for "Murmurs of the Dawn" on amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, etc..

Finished typing in the subtitles for 'Aap Ke Saath', a cheesy 80's movie...mom does most of the translation, I do the typing. So if you buy that movie and have a crib about the english subtitles, you know whom to blame :)

Pretty much done with the fifth story. But the funny thing is, I went back to the British Library and re-read that Iris Murdoch chapter I was going to base this on. And there are already many differences...I still liked her ending better, though.

And now, beginning to see the real direction in which this book is heading. The old "Hopeful young man" versus "Cynical old woman" did seem a bit artificial to me... We're almost where I want to start writing again....And right after the fifth is where 'Quiet Diary' fits in. That is the story I want to elaborate on, the one I've wanted to write on all this time.

Has all this time passing helped me decide where that story goes? Cant say...it's only given me more pithy phrases to add to the core. But the suggestions I got from all the people who read it, atleast those that struck a chord, are what I'm trying to stem the tide of my own thoughts with.

Just so's I dont forget : here is the sequence as it stands : An Evening in Pune, Quiet Diary, Old man at Khajarana, Sadhu Baba who knows people are lost. We're already heading for the breakdown right there....

Currently working on the fifth story...and man, is it turning out difficult, or what! This is going to take a while.

I was inspired by that "looking for Anna" wala chapter in "Under the net", by Iris Murdoch...Wouldnt call the book a classic (or maybe i didnt read it carefully enough). But that chapter is too, too good. Thats what stays in your mind after you're done with the book.

Trying to do something similar with this chapter...only it's much closer to my own experience. Would have preferred setting the story in Indore, but Pune seems a better setting for this sort of stuff somehow.

Chapter 4

"Your turn now," I say.

She is leaning back in her chair, eyes closed. Without changing position, she begins. "This story happened, perhaps..."

* * * *

By late summer, loadshedding would be in full force. A few shops around us had generators to light up their shops. The rest of us bought candles by the dozen from the mandai. Joshi saeb sold them for five paisa each to the lodgers. I think he made a bit of profit, too. None of the lodgers minded, since they were too caught up in their jobs and exams and packing and unpacking to go buy them from outside.

Akash was one of these. He'd looked around for cheaper board when he was new to the city. But his job in the factory took up too much time and he was soon too exhausted to search further. Whatever spare time he had he spent with the friends he'd made in the factory.

They generally liked him. He had the same tastes as them, he enjoyed the same sort of cheap desi daru they did, he shared his beedis and occasional cigarettes with them. He too never felt the need to change his job or move on to 'better things'. From experience they knew that those sorts soon started avoiding them. Akash of course didnt. Initially they had been bothered a bit by his seeming more intelligent than usual. But once he was caught up in the full time occupation of living he never had use for thinking too much and became more and more like them.

There was this time he came home only slightly drunk, and forgot that the candle in his room was almost finished. Halfway up the stairs he remembered...he patted his pocket to make sure he still had the matchbox. Since he was just going to sleep, that would be enough.

The room was pitch dark. It was later than usual, so the building was very quiet, too.

After he got into the room, he pulled out a match and lit it. He was looking for his change of clothes when -

Imagine what it feels like. You're alone in the pitch dark, expecting nothing but to go to sleep in a few minutes. You wave your match around your mostly empty room. You locate your old shirt. You blow out the match (you don't need it now) and are on the point of picking up the shirt when a hand grasps your shoulder .

Akash would have fainted if he hadnt been drunk. Instead, he said in a quavering voice," Who's that?"

A quiet, confident voice answered," Your conscience."

"Eh? What?"

"Your antaratmaa. Your inner voice. Your soul. Call me what you want."

Akash could either accept this without argument or go mad. He accepted it. Trying to calm his voice, he asked," What do you want?"

A chuckle. "Nothing much. I just thought I'd pay you a visit. Arent you excited?"

"Um...yes. I am." He tried to turn a little, to look around him.

"Do you want to see me?" the voice asked. "Then why dont you just light a match?"

Something in that voice - a hint of mockery, perhaps - gave Akash pause. He hesitantly said," No...no. I dont really want to see you. Not now."

The voice laughed, freely, like a child. Yet the tone made Akash shiver slightly.

"When, then? When do you want to see me?" It asked.

Akash tried to think of a safe enough time...a month? That seemed far enough to be safe. He felt that asking for more time than that would be dangerous. "One month?" He volunteered. "Can we meet in one month?"

The pressure on his shoulder eased. "One month? Why so long? Surely you cant be... afraid of me? Oh well, as you wish. I don't know how I'll be able to wait a whole month. But since you command it..."

The voice was fading all this time, and Akash wasn't sure if he actually heard the last few words, or if they were just echoes in his mind.

After a few minutes, Akash picked up the courage to light a match. The room was empty except for him.

He considered leaving the place. He could just go now to his native town. But he had the feeling that his conscience would have no trouble at all following him anywhere.

No, there was nothing to be done except get ready for it.

Akash's friends were quite disappointed with him in the days after that. He stopped talking to them. He spent more hours than ever in the factory, but he never seemed to have money when they wanted to buy a bottle and enjoy the evening. One of them saw him praying at a temple once. As if that wasn't enough, another saw him actually giving away his hard earned money to a home for orphaned brats near the factory. He'd turned into just the opposite of what he used to be. They wondered what had happened. Was he trying to snare some high class girl?

For Akash, the month went by in a daze. He kept trying harder and harder, making sure he left nothing unsavoury in his life. As the fateful evening approached, he felt the time he'd asked hadn't been enough. He wondered if he could get any more time. He'd worked in the factory all that day and was bone tired. He hoped he could go to his room and just fall asleep before anything happened. Wouldn't happen, of course.

Loadshedding time again, when he went back to the guest house. In a few weeks, the rains would be here and there would be electricity. For now, everything was dark, just like it had been a month ago. He'd bought a candle the day before, and he was prepared to face whatever it was he would see.

He unlocked his door with trembling fingers. He took two steps into the room. He turned around to close the door, and the voice said, "Hello."

"H-hello. Is that you?"

"Who else could it be. Are you ready?"

Akash mentally squared his shoulders. "Yes." He said as confidently as he could.

"Good! Go ahead, light your candle, then."

He struck the match, cupped it with both hands to make sure it lit properly. Touched it to the candle. Picked up the candle (the flame shivered ever so slightly in his hands), and walked toward the voice. The first thing he saw was a pair of brightly polished leather shoes. Somehow their neatness heartened him. He walked closer. The trousers were clean, ironed and new. The belt buckle gleamed faintly. The shirt was blue with the checks he remembered so well. It had been his favourite shirt in college. He couldn't make out the hands, they were in shadow. And he walked closer, close enough to see his conscience's face.

Suppose a child dies. Suppose that even after he's dead he somehow keeps growing. Suppose his face rots away but keeps growing, until he's old enough to live by himself in a guest house and work in a factory. Then his face would look, somewhat, like the apparition sitting on Akash's bed.

Just before the candle dropped from Akash's fingers, just before the room plunged back into darkness and he fell senseless, he heard the voice say, "Thanks for the new clothes..."

* * * *

And now, time for the Conscience story. This is probably the last of the backlog of stories I'm clearing up. After this I'll be able to write the newer ones that are still in the original shape - not being rewritten, like these current ones.

I'm currently reading Kafka's The Castle right now. No doubt this is going to have an effect on the stuff I write, over the next week.