Taking my socks off in the balcony of the fifth floor, I was taken aback by the sudden noise of a loud slap. It was the third floor of the opposite apartment and what I saw transported me close to a decade-and-a-half back. A time warp had abruptly opened its doors as I saw this boy in his early teens (I assumed thirteen) being thrashed and given an earful by a lady who certainly looked like his mother. The boy who was visibly startled by the sudden public humiliation at the hands of his own folks would have no respite though. His father joined in and the poor fellow now resembled a thief caught amidst an unforgiving mob. Little sister had foreseen the storm coming and disappeared in a flash. A dull summer evening meant show-time for the housewives and kids residing in the adjacent buildings. The boy desperately tried putting his case forward in Telugu which I interpreted as “Me and my wife will avenge this insult one day”
I too had spent close to seven years in the Alcatraz prison. No matter what your crime is, the sentence is fixed at seven years of rigorous imprisonment. All these years, no matter what time of the day it is, you’d always be hungry. Hair growing on your face and stranger places still would make you look uglier. Not only would you stop looking into the mirror, you’d know that it’s your face that is to be blamed for the lack of mercy from the warden. No matter how hard you’d try, your voice wouldn’t be pleasant or soothing. A strange baritone emanating from a petite thirteen year old body would raise suspicions and result in more thrashing. You’d look at the taller inmates and envy them. “I am sure they are spared of all the beatings. They’re tall. They look like men” – you’d wonder. Jars of Horlicks and Complan would do no magic trick as you’d spend all of it in carrying the bags full of bricks and stones to and fro each day.
Like in any jail, being a prisoner means you’d have no identity of your own. Hair would be cut short and neatly combed with a clear LOC (read partition) in between having no disputes. Being an ugly duckling, you’d be ashamed in front of the opposite sex of the same age. Strangely though, they’d look gorgeous and blossoming out showing no signs of prison-sickness. However your lack of confidence would mean you’d be reading the floor mostly, and hence missing out on the beauty that should have been so desperately appreciated. Each day the wardens would parade you in front of their friends who’d invariably ask you the same question each time. “What do you intend to do once free?” “The day I am free, you better watch out!!” you’d think, but you wouldn’t have an answer. Because each morning you’d wake up with a different dream – a cricketer one day, a software engineer the second, a musician some day and an adventurer again. But more practically, each morning you’d also wake up with the prayers “god no pimples today.”
The crowd meanwhile had dispersed at the culmination of the climax scene. Poor dark boy with a thin layer of moustache had wiped his tears. Perhaps a man had just been born out of the ashes. Perhaps he had made a note of every single onlooker who had laughed at his misfortune today. Too late for my explanations…
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Being a clown...
The dark smoke from the colorful candles gushed into my nostrils as I plucked the E-string of the guitar for one last time. Cake smeared on her face as everyone clapped in joy. Happy birthday indeed it was as I saw the newly-weds smile, exchanging the loveliest of split-second glances. And midnight it was, but I sweated profusely. More couples in love meant more dedications and mushy numbers. This meant I’d strum the strings of a half-known, half stranger instrument while sweat trickled down my forehead further down to my cheeks. I’d cover up the end of each of my imperfect melody with a witty comment, or a lousy mimicry of an idiosyncratic actor, making the happy-high crowd chortle. The last beer can would then be crushed, lights put off as I’d pack my guitar cracking one final joke walking out. End of the party.
Next day the clown performs yet again at the post-lunch-pre-nap session at work. Some get the jokes and laugh, while some laugh as there is nothing better to do. It’s the beginning of the week, but the party for the next weekend is already fixed. “You and your guitar are cordially invited. No stag entry” reads the verbal invitation. Crowd disperses to the respective workstations as the clown strolls towards the washroom. “Let’s get the face paint and the red cherry off the nose now.”
A good sense of humour is a certain entry pass to all parties in town. Most jokes work out if the crowd is intelligent, some fall flat but could be ignored or lost in the commotion. But guitar is a serious art isn’t it? “Didn’t you play the same song last time?” and “Why don’t you play what you can?” are the most common words of appreciation. But then as the mercury rises, and empty Budweiser cans stack up, “Play the high pitch…can’t you”, “I will sing”, and “I know a professional guitarist” are more frequently heard. The clown takes it all with a warm toothless smile, for his is a small performance in the greater circus called life.
It’s midnight again and a long walk back home. I switch on the lights as I directly face the mirror, the guitar still tied to my back. I look at the face paint and the guitar…”Which is a tougher art??” Yawn…
Next day the clown performs yet again at the post-lunch-pre-nap session at work. Some get the jokes and laugh, while some laugh as there is nothing better to do. It’s the beginning of the week, but the party for the next weekend is already fixed. “You and your guitar are cordially invited. No stag entry” reads the verbal invitation. Crowd disperses to the respective workstations as the clown strolls towards the washroom. “Let’s get the face paint and the red cherry off the nose now.”
A good sense of humour is a certain entry pass to all parties in town. Most jokes work out if the crowd is intelligent, some fall flat but could be ignored or lost in the commotion. But guitar is a serious art isn’t it? “Didn’t you play the same song last time?” and “Why don’t you play what you can?” are the most common words of appreciation. But then as the mercury rises, and empty Budweiser cans stack up, “Play the high pitch…can’t you”, “I will sing”, and “I know a professional guitarist” are more frequently heard. The clown takes it all with a warm toothless smile, for his is a small performance in the greater circus called life.
It’s midnight again and a long walk back home. I switch on the lights as I directly face the mirror, the guitar still tied to my back. I look at the face paint and the guitar…”Which is a tougher art??” Yawn…
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Gothic Perfection
“It’s a harmonious arrangement, a sense of completeness, a measure of excellence. It has to be a sunshine-yellow or an amber orange” - the white swan said about perfection. “It’s pitch black.” The black swan fluttered its wings violently, displaying its dictate. The two swans of course were the reflections of my imagination, perhaps steady partners of the subconscious me. The TV remote almost slipped out of my wet palms. It was early May and the noise of the rotating fan hanging from the ceiling seemed to provide nothing more than psychological cooling. Television channels had run out of juice ever since the cricket world cup was won.
Did every perfectionist in every sphere of acquired talent be it visual, or performing arts, sports or any other skill have a dark side to him? I had slowly strolled into the common garden for the residents of the gated community, not remembering if the door had been locked. The seven year old who went on to become a world famous percussionist would dip his tender palms in ice cold water for long stretches during early winter mornings before his routene Riyaaz. The literary genius would lead a painful, desolate life, understanding the sensibilities and compassion of his character, weeping late hours. The neurosurgeon who made his presence felt right from page 3 to the list of the most influential people, had his long drawn stint with the nocturnal dwellers of the mortuary. The deaf composer of numerous symphonies spent thousands of night in the dark room by the flickering lantern, gathering musical notes from the silence within. Yes, the pursuit of perfection had come at a dark, gory price.
The light breeze on my face and the giggles of little children playing twilight games diverted my attention from the grim theme. A little brawl halted the rather playful evening. In the game of hide and seek, we all cheat a little don’t we? So were the contours of the lives of all perfectionists defined by foulplays? Did the host of the colossal gaming event chop off the hands and feet of non-performers and make the rest rehearse, practice and train for years to put up the most brilliant spectacle ever on earth? Did the master sportsman ever fiddle with the selection of another upcoming talent, who also happened to be his best friend? Did the artist romance compulsively with every other person of the opposite sex to give an illustrious look to the canvas of his life?
The little outstretched arms of my watch displayed 7 PM. Twilight had just been engulfed by the obscure shade. Darkness calling aloud…
Did every perfectionist in every sphere of acquired talent be it visual, or performing arts, sports or any other skill have a dark side to him? I had slowly strolled into the common garden for the residents of the gated community, not remembering if the door had been locked. The seven year old who went on to become a world famous percussionist would dip his tender palms in ice cold water for long stretches during early winter mornings before his routene Riyaaz. The literary genius would lead a painful, desolate life, understanding the sensibilities and compassion of his character, weeping late hours. The neurosurgeon who made his presence felt right from page 3 to the list of the most influential people, had his long drawn stint with the nocturnal dwellers of the mortuary. The deaf composer of numerous symphonies spent thousands of night in the dark room by the flickering lantern, gathering musical notes from the silence within. Yes, the pursuit of perfection had come at a dark, gory price.
The light breeze on my face and the giggles of little children playing twilight games diverted my attention from the grim theme. A little brawl halted the rather playful evening. In the game of hide and seek, we all cheat a little don’t we? So were the contours of the lives of all perfectionists defined by foulplays? Did the host of the colossal gaming event chop off the hands and feet of non-performers and make the rest rehearse, practice and train for years to put up the most brilliant spectacle ever on earth? Did the master sportsman ever fiddle with the selection of another upcoming talent, who also happened to be his best friend? Did the artist romance compulsively with every other person of the opposite sex to give an illustrious look to the canvas of his life?
The little outstretched arms of my watch displayed 7 PM. Twilight had just been engulfed by the obscure shade. Darkness calling aloud…
Monday, April 4, 2011
Counterfeiters on 3 wheels
The petite headphone kept sliding off my ears as I tried holding on to the steel rod with one hand and the office bag with another. The music was more to block the loud noises from the 9 am office-going traffic than for amusement. The erratic movement of the 3 wheeler auto reminded me of a child who’d have recently started walking. With a little diaper on, he’d accelerate his way around the house, completely ignorant of his brakes. Combine this with the blazing sun opening its furnace doors at you; what you’d have is a perfect start to the day!
The actual seating space as usual went to the ladies, leaving every man for himself. You’d now sit right next to the driver holding on to whatever you’d find, to help you keep the centrifugal forces from dislodging you off the rickety little cockroach-faced vehicle. I tried positioning my hindquarters on the uneven plateau as the rocket propellant engulfed the atmosphere, marking the start of my journey heavenwards. The auto driver, an ardent fan of a south Indian superstar-turned politician pretended to be the coolest one in town, spitting more frequently than he’d blink his eyes. I was wondering why the course of the entire drive was so meandering when the auto took a sudden sharp right turn on a straight road. There was a gentleman on his way to office in his bright yellow Tata Nano. No way our driver would let a four wheeler cheaper than his leased vehicle get past us. This ensured a healthy competition between the two benefitting the 6 passengers who’d have woken up 5 minutes late than usual. As the two vehicles approached the finish line, the auto won by a whisker…fiery glares were exchanged, mothers and sisters greeted, and it was business as usual.
As I crossed the red light, a beggar tried deceiving people displaying acute pain from the limb that would have been amputated several years back. Another wait in the sun for the second auto meant more time for me to observe the urban crowd. The fair skinned twenty-something guy with tiny little eyes tried hard to look comfortable amidst hostile eyes staring at him. No matter if he hailed from Dehradun, Kathmandu or Imphal, or if his Hindi was impeccable, he was deemed to be a Chinese. The uber cool lady in her dark formal trousers and white striped shirt looked at the dark skinned women in salwars in a strange manner. Clearly she was way too superior. The young IT employee who had just elbowed a middle aged man to enter an auto first, just found himself sitting next to the same person. Covering half of his face with his hands, he looked outside, not with guilt for sure.
I got off the second shared-auto handing over a ten Rupee note to the driver. I had read the script in bold, well before it was being conceptualized. He slid his hands into the leather pouch that contained coins of all sizes and values. “Don’t bother about the change” I said as I walked off.
The actual seating space as usual went to the ladies, leaving every man for himself. You’d now sit right next to the driver holding on to whatever you’d find, to help you keep the centrifugal forces from dislodging you off the rickety little cockroach-faced vehicle. I tried positioning my hindquarters on the uneven plateau as the rocket propellant engulfed the atmosphere, marking the start of my journey heavenwards. The auto driver, an ardent fan of a south Indian superstar-turned politician pretended to be the coolest one in town, spitting more frequently than he’d blink his eyes. I was wondering why the course of the entire drive was so meandering when the auto took a sudden sharp right turn on a straight road. There was a gentleman on his way to office in his bright yellow Tata Nano. No way our driver would let a four wheeler cheaper than his leased vehicle get past us. This ensured a healthy competition between the two benefitting the 6 passengers who’d have woken up 5 minutes late than usual. As the two vehicles approached the finish line, the auto won by a whisker…fiery glares were exchanged, mothers and sisters greeted, and it was business as usual.
As I crossed the red light, a beggar tried deceiving people displaying acute pain from the limb that would have been amputated several years back. Another wait in the sun for the second auto meant more time for me to observe the urban crowd. The fair skinned twenty-something guy with tiny little eyes tried hard to look comfortable amidst hostile eyes staring at him. No matter if he hailed from Dehradun, Kathmandu or Imphal, or if his Hindi was impeccable, he was deemed to be a Chinese. The uber cool lady in her dark formal trousers and white striped shirt looked at the dark skinned women in salwars in a strange manner. Clearly she was way too superior. The young IT employee who had just elbowed a middle aged man to enter an auto first, just found himself sitting next to the same person. Covering half of his face with his hands, he looked outside, not with guilt for sure.
I got off the second shared-auto handing over a ten Rupee note to the driver. I had read the script in bold, well before it was being conceptualized. He slid his hands into the leather pouch that contained coins of all sizes and values. “Don’t bother about the change” I said as I walked off.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
From the diaries of a loner...
His cell-phone played a popular western classical number as NB watched it blink. He had just ignored the twenty-eighth call from friends and family and the unknown. Hate messages kept pouring in as he stared at the ceiling fan with blank eyes. He could mute the cell-phone but not the loud sarcasms exuding out of the text messages. A sudden loud bang jolted the otherwise lazy evening. NB who was visibly jarred for a second came back to normal realizing it was Diwali, a yet-another festival in the long list of a lousy Indian calendar.
His social networking account displayed over 500 friends, far too many to the credit of a loner. NB couldn’t trace back the origin, the journey, and his final transition to a polar bear in hibernation. The dormant hide-away phases had become far too frequent now, almost to the extent where NB started doubting his own sanity. A strange sense of sadism had crept in his life as he stared back at his mobile, waiting for another call he could ignore.
Winter was unusually cold this year and NB’s addiction to a cup of warm ginger tea had intensified manifolds. As he walked into the kitchen, the steel pan with remnants of a previous midnight tea fended him off. To feast his sore throat on a cup of hot tea, he’d have to diligently wash the tea powder and the sticky leftovers. “Your problems aren’t as big as you present them. You love being in pain” – one of the several text messages read.
NB rubbed his palms as the boiling water made his kitchen a little warmer. Over the past few years, he saw close friends losing their patience on him. Once greatest admirers of his art had now turned passive, and the nearest ones gotten withdrawn. Serial blasts of firecrackers lit up the world outside as NB added tea leaves to the simmering water. Ginger, pepper, eggs, guitar, harmonica and books…perhaps these were his only trusted friends now. They wouldn’t seek your attention nor shower you with guilt trips when on certain day; bouts of speechlessness shackled your tongue. Some of them would perhaps decay, displaying colours of contempt while some would stay intact, not uttering a word.
NB wouldn’t stare deep into people’s eyes anymore, as a strange fear would engulf his conscious each time. What began as a slight discomfort in public gatherings had now turned into a complete lack of composure in long lunches and coffee breaks. Happy, smiling people would get him anxious. NB couldn’t connect to anyone. Or was it just momentary? A power cut and the subsequent darkness were perfectly timed. Just when NB had prepared his profound mind to accept the implied meaning of the power failure, fireworks lit up the window pane displaying his own dark shadow amidst the bright walls…
His social networking account displayed over 500 friends, far too many to the credit of a loner. NB couldn’t trace back the origin, the journey, and his final transition to a polar bear in hibernation. The dormant hide-away phases had become far too frequent now, almost to the extent where NB started doubting his own sanity. A strange sense of sadism had crept in his life as he stared back at his mobile, waiting for another call he could ignore.
Winter was unusually cold this year and NB’s addiction to a cup of warm ginger tea had intensified manifolds. As he walked into the kitchen, the steel pan with remnants of a previous midnight tea fended him off. To feast his sore throat on a cup of hot tea, he’d have to diligently wash the tea powder and the sticky leftovers. “Your problems aren’t as big as you present them. You love being in pain” – one of the several text messages read.
NB rubbed his palms as the boiling water made his kitchen a little warmer. Over the past few years, he saw close friends losing their patience on him. Once greatest admirers of his art had now turned passive, and the nearest ones gotten withdrawn. Serial blasts of firecrackers lit up the world outside as NB added tea leaves to the simmering water. Ginger, pepper, eggs, guitar, harmonica and books…perhaps these were his only trusted friends now. They wouldn’t seek your attention nor shower you with guilt trips when on certain day; bouts of speechlessness shackled your tongue. Some of them would perhaps decay, displaying colours of contempt while some would stay intact, not uttering a word.
NB wouldn’t stare deep into people’s eyes anymore, as a strange fear would engulf his conscious each time. What began as a slight discomfort in public gatherings had now turned into a complete lack of composure in long lunches and coffee breaks. Happy, smiling people would get him anxious. NB couldn’t connect to anyone. Or was it just momentary? A power cut and the subsequent darkness were perfectly timed. Just when NB had prepared his profound mind to accept the implied meaning of the power failure, fireworks lit up the window pane displaying his own dark shadow amidst the bright walls…
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Mangrove Chronicles - Part III
The lump in my throat was a lot more prominent now as I tried to feel the wooden platform beneath my numb foot. We were ten criminals on a dwindling ferry who could no longer face each other. Once again I thanked the fading lights. Everyone pretended to look into the dark, each one knowing the limits of his vision and morals. More than a minute had passed since the boy jumped into the tides. More than a minute had passed since we tried closing our eyes hoping that the world would turn blind. Every passing second made us believe that our tender offering had reached the predator.
I tried hard to spot any trifling signs of despair on Kashi da’s face. He stood still, like an old tree that didn’t bear new fruits or fresh leaves for anyone to read what it was going through. Ever since the boy met the tides, there wasn’t a single clamour that would suggest his condition. Our worst fears were coming true. Suddenly a hand appeared out of the rapid tides pleading for help. Kashi da didn’t waste a second to get his kin on board.
There was no warm clothing to offer to this panting, half-dead boy who was shivering with cold. His face shouted aloud the horror he faced in the swirling undercurrents. His breathlessness prevented him from realizing the attention he was receiving from the worthy city dwellers for the first time. He would have been too shy to notice anyways, as he avoided eye contact. “I was dead…I was dead” is all he could utter. Not a single leaf moved of the old tree.
The boy opened up a little once his shock gave away to the euphoria of being alive. The tide had greeted him with animal corpse and thick vegetation from the swamps that entangled his body. Something down there was making him choke. Something would not let him hold his breath. Restlessness kept growing on Kashi da’s face, a face that lacked the ability to portray compassion even if he was left with any. He wasn’t interested in the young boy’s stories anymore. Maintaining the fine balance of the shaky boat, Kashi da asked him to do the unthinkable.
With the tide reaching its full fury, and the constant fear of poachers, Kashi da would give it one last fight. He asked the young boy to give himself to the tides once again. This time he had to try and start the boat’s motor whose blades seemed to have been jammed. Did the ferocious predator rip his heart off during one of those seven encounters, and leave Kashi da’s body intact to decay among other living souls? While we made livid glances at him, his nephew looked at the full moon with blank eyes.
In the tide country, they don’t question the old and the experienced. Another big splash, another violent tremor and the countdown began. My count had reached close to eighty when I heard a thudding sound that gradually grew with each second. While most of us expected it to be a rescue boat having forest rangers, it turned out to be our own motor. The little boy had given it a new life while risking his own. As Kashi da helped him up, he looked happier despite the shiver in his teeth. He had successfully detangled a large fishing net trapped under the boat’s propellers. The boat had finally started, making the loud thudding noise of the motor perfect music to our ears.
As the boat finally cruised along, taking us back to safety, we spotted the natives of the delta waiting at the edges of their little islands. They constantly gazed at their large fishing nets, completely ignoring our presence. The nets lay submerged inside the water, with only large, dark, kerosene-jugs attached to the nets acting as the floating markers to be spotted. Strange how the full moon creates beautiful yet scary mirages in the water. The cigarette was lit again as the Gangetic dolphin debate resumed…
I tried hard to spot any trifling signs of despair on Kashi da’s face. He stood still, like an old tree that didn’t bear new fruits or fresh leaves for anyone to read what it was going through. Ever since the boy met the tides, there wasn’t a single clamour that would suggest his condition. Our worst fears were coming true. Suddenly a hand appeared out of the rapid tides pleading for help. Kashi da didn’t waste a second to get his kin on board.
There was no warm clothing to offer to this panting, half-dead boy who was shivering with cold. His face shouted aloud the horror he faced in the swirling undercurrents. His breathlessness prevented him from realizing the attention he was receiving from the worthy city dwellers for the first time. He would have been too shy to notice anyways, as he avoided eye contact. “I was dead…I was dead” is all he could utter. Not a single leaf moved of the old tree.
The boy opened up a little once his shock gave away to the euphoria of being alive. The tide had greeted him with animal corpse and thick vegetation from the swamps that entangled his body. Something down there was making him choke. Something would not let him hold his breath. Restlessness kept growing on Kashi da’s face, a face that lacked the ability to portray compassion even if he was left with any. He wasn’t interested in the young boy’s stories anymore. Maintaining the fine balance of the shaky boat, Kashi da asked him to do the unthinkable.
With the tide reaching its full fury, and the constant fear of poachers, Kashi da would give it one last fight. He asked the young boy to give himself to the tides once again. This time he had to try and start the boat’s motor whose blades seemed to have been jammed. Did the ferocious predator rip his heart off during one of those seven encounters, and leave Kashi da’s body intact to decay among other living souls? While we made livid glances at him, his nephew looked at the full moon with blank eyes.
In the tide country, they don’t question the old and the experienced. Another big splash, another violent tremor and the countdown began. My count had reached close to eighty when I heard a thudding sound that gradually grew with each second. While most of us expected it to be a rescue boat having forest rangers, it turned out to be our own motor. The little boy had given it a new life while risking his own. As Kashi da helped him up, he looked happier despite the shiver in his teeth. He had successfully detangled a large fishing net trapped under the boat’s propellers. The boat had finally started, making the loud thudding noise of the motor perfect music to our ears.
As the boat finally cruised along, taking us back to safety, we spotted the natives of the delta waiting at the edges of their little islands. They constantly gazed at their large fishing nets, completely ignoring our presence. The nets lay submerged inside the water, with only large, dark, kerosene-jugs attached to the nets acting as the floating markers to be spotted. Strange how the full moon creates beautiful yet scary mirages in the water. The cigarette was lit again as the Gangetic dolphin debate resumed…
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Mangrove Chronicles - Part II
There was a sudden lull in the atmosphere, the kind you’d feel in late winter evenings only to be broken by the routine azaan from the nearest mosque. Except for there were no mosques around, not even human beings, only a pin drop silence caused by the sudden outage of the boat’s motor. High tides had just set in as everything around seemed to move in a hurry. The tide carried vegetation, waste, animal corpse and everything frail it found on its way. As nature displayed its might in full fury, the most atheists of people stared out with their mouths wide open.
The wind hitting our faces had just grown colder. I silently thanked the fading lights that concealed the terror on our faces. “Would I have the guts to play the guitar while the titanic sank?” I wondered with a nervous smile. Just as I realized we weren’t carrying along a guitar this time, the boat quivered. Left at nature’s mercy with a dead motor, the boat started playing to the music of the tide. As the boat started moving downstream, we saw the full moon moving to our right and further. The boat was revolving in the middle of nowhere and everyone held on to the wooden railings. The whisky seemed to have evaporated off the gang as they performed the balancing act carefully.
The barely visible gloomy faces revealed that our spirits were sinking faster than the boat. Every single second of the next twenty-odd minutes we breathed a little less, and a lot slower, hoping to prolong the twelve lives hanging on a balance. It was pitch black now and our dark skins glowed under the full moon. A slight movement, a little sneeze or a minor itch could cause the boat to shake violently. Everyone hoped not to be the first one to fall off the boat with the dark creature waiting for its prey right beneath our feet. Was Kashi da waiting for a divine intervention or did his prolonged, dark life turn him into a sadist who enjoyed watching people being dragged, drowned or devoured to death? Would he live another day to tell the horror story of another kin’s loss, this time to the tides?
The kin, his fifteen year old nephew had been his helper since the last monsoons. We hadn’t bothered to talk to this young teenager throughout the journey. He had displayed several attempts to come closer to us, look at our fancy cellphones and music players, perhaps imagining a life outside the confines of the tide country. A bright city life where four legged creatures would be behind the cages, where everyone would wear bright clothes and wide smiles, and the day would start once the sun went down.
It was his time to go down now, right under the boat to investigate the issue. A man of few words, Kashi da asked him to “stay safe” as he prepared to take the plunge. The entire gang that was battling to cope with the fear of losing their lives, now had a new emotion to deal with. The air was suddenly thick with guilt as the young boy looked at us for one last time. He was to risk his life for ten drunken men from the city whose lives were obviously more prized. Before anyone blinked, he had jumped off. The boat shook viciously.
The wind hitting our faces had just grown colder. I silently thanked the fading lights that concealed the terror on our faces. “Would I have the guts to play the guitar while the titanic sank?” I wondered with a nervous smile. Just as I realized we weren’t carrying along a guitar this time, the boat quivered. Left at nature’s mercy with a dead motor, the boat started playing to the music of the tide. As the boat started moving downstream, we saw the full moon moving to our right and further. The boat was revolving in the middle of nowhere and everyone held on to the wooden railings. The whisky seemed to have evaporated off the gang as they performed the balancing act carefully.
The barely visible gloomy faces revealed that our spirits were sinking faster than the boat. Every single second of the next twenty-odd minutes we breathed a little less, and a lot slower, hoping to prolong the twelve lives hanging on a balance. It was pitch black now and our dark skins glowed under the full moon. A slight movement, a little sneeze or a minor itch could cause the boat to shake violently. Everyone hoped not to be the first one to fall off the boat with the dark creature waiting for its prey right beneath our feet. Was Kashi da waiting for a divine intervention or did his prolonged, dark life turn him into a sadist who enjoyed watching people being dragged, drowned or devoured to death? Would he live another day to tell the horror story of another kin’s loss, this time to the tides?
The kin, his fifteen year old nephew had been his helper since the last monsoons. We hadn’t bothered to talk to this young teenager throughout the journey. He had displayed several attempts to come closer to us, look at our fancy cellphones and music players, perhaps imagining a life outside the confines of the tide country. A bright city life where four legged creatures would be behind the cages, where everyone would wear bright clothes and wide smiles, and the day would start once the sun went down.
It was his time to go down now, right under the boat to investigate the issue. A man of few words, Kashi da asked him to “stay safe” as he prepared to take the plunge. The entire gang that was battling to cope with the fear of losing their lives, now had a new emotion to deal with. The air was suddenly thick with guilt as the young boy looked at us for one last time. He was to risk his life for ten drunken men from the city whose lives were obviously more prized. Before anyone blinked, he had jumped off. The boat shook viciously.
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