Rat in the Hole

The rat came out of the hole. He watched intently as it went into another hole. This was fun. More fun than the party his father had dragged him into.

The party was plain boring. There was no one of his age around. His father was the most reputed surgeon in the town. Funnily, this reputation actually came from him being a rather good businessman than a very good doctor. He had a chain of hospitals in this part of country and this party was for some anniversary for some such hospital of his. Though he had not performed a single surgery in the last five years, his reputation preceded him. He wondered if his father even remembered the difference between a pancreas and a spleen anymore. But of course it didn't matter. He looked around and saw his father surrounded by two beautiful interns. The world, as they say is ruled by powerful men and pretty ladies.

Meanwhile the rat was again out of that hole.

He knew what it was doing. Courtesy a bit of National Geographic Channel and a bit of his zoology course books, he knew that the rat can have affairs. That is they have multiple sexual partners. It only appeared amusing to him and not immoral. It’s only humans who attach the tag of morality to something as natural as sex and then validate it by attaching the institution of marriage to it. Or, so he thought.

It had been sometime since the rat went into the second hole. Possibly it will take time. He got up, put on his shoes and walked back towards the party. Only one intern was hovering around his father now. His father  had probably made his choice. Or in the rat-race for his father, this intern had won. Rat-Race. The world suddenly felt normal.

Walking out of the party, from his father’s overcoat he took his car keys. He knew that tonight his father won’t need them. Besides he needed time to think of a satisfying excuse for his father’s impending absence to give to his mother. As much time as roaming around the city in this BMW could get him. Poor soul his mother. As if she didn't know. Somebody has rightly said that doctors should only have doctors as spouses.

By the way, in all this he had forgotten how much he had begun to look forward to his tomorrow’s zoology class. They were to be taught dissection in it. Dissection of a rat. 

The Dabang.

पहली क्लास थी बारहवीं की.

अभी 2 दिन पहले ही हम छोटे से शहर रांची से दिल्ली आये थे. अब ऐसा भी कोई छोटा शहर नहीं था रांची. पर कहते हैं न कि हर सेर का सवा सेर होता है. और फिर ये तो दिल्ली थी. बचपन से सुनते आ रहे थे कहावतों में. “अब दिल्ली दूर नहीं”, “बड़ा दिल्ली का सुलतान समझ रखे हो?”. पर बस इतना बड़ा शहर था कि घर से स्कूल आने में करीब पौने दो घंटे लगते थे. हमारे घर के तरफ इतनी दूर किसी का ऑफिस होता था तो वो आना जाना ट्रेन से करते थे. वो भी हफ्ते में बस एक बार आना होता था और एक बार जाना.

एक भैया के साथ रहने दिल्ली आये थे. एक सहमे से लड़के के लिए जिसके आँखे थोड़ी चुंधिया सी रही थी, उसके वाबस्ता feminist के लिए जो term उपयुक्त होगा बस वो इस्तेमाल कर लीजिये हमारे भैयाजी के लिए. हम यहाँ मिमिया रहे थे और वो बस हमें छुट्टा सांड समझ बैठे थे. पहले दिन स्कूल जाने के हमारे instructions कुछ ऐसे थे.

“बेटा, ये 764 नंबर की बस सीधा तुम्हे स्कूल ले जाएगी. बस स्टॉप पूछ कर उतर जाना. वहां से बस 800-900m पर तुम्हारा स्कूल है. किसी से भी पूछ लेना. वो बता देगा.”

अगर हमें पहले से पता न होता तो अब तक पर हमें पक्का यकीन हो जाता कि वो सरकारी मुलाज़िम हैं.

“बस पॉकेट में कुछ पैसे रखना हमेशा. कहीं भुतलाओ तो चट से ऑटो पकड़ कर सीधा घर. वैसे भी ये दिल्ली है. लड़कों के लिए ज्यादा घबराने की ज़रुरत नहीं होती है.”

हम सब समझ गए थे.

कहते हैं कि “Boarding life makes a man out of a child”. हम तो यहाँ पर खासे साल बोर्डिंग में बिता कर आये थे. उस हिसाब से काफी man up हो जाना चाहिए था हमें. पर अब ये महानगर क्या जाने क्या करने वाला था. बड़ा शहर शायद यूँ कह लीजिये puts man in Haraaman. कुछ दिनों में सीख लिया था कि प्राइवेट बसों में सफ़र करना DTC से कहीं ज्यादा फायदेमंद है. उसमे २ रुपये की  टिकट ले कर कहीं भी जा सकते थे जब तक पकडे न जाओ. और जो पकडे गए तो भोली शकल बना कर बाकी के पैसे दे दो. DTC में तो सीधा 100 का fine होता था. और भी कुछ कुछ ट्रिक्स थे. खैर पर अभी पहली क्लास की तरफ वापस चलते हैं. ये भूमिका चावला के होंठों से भी बड़ी भूमिका बाँधने का मेरा कोई इरादा नहीं था वैसे.

पहली क्लास physics की थी. जिस जंतु (या जीव) ने दरवाज़े से एंट्री मारी थी उसने कतई मेरी बचपन की यादें ताज़ा कर दी थी. उनको देख कर मुझे अलिफ़ लैला में आने वाले जादूगर की याद आ गयी थी. मोटे, लम्बे और यूँ बिलकुल फ्रेंच बकरदाढ़ी की extension के माफिक झूलती हुई सी.

“म्हारा नाम A M Malik सें.”

घर्भवती अल्पविराम (Pregnant Pause) वातावरण में छा गया था.

थोड़ी देर में उन्हें यकीन हो गया था कि हमें रत्ती भर भी फरक नहीं पड़ता कि उनका नाम A M Malik है या A M Naukar.

“मैं तुम्हे Physics पढ़ाऊंगा. और बाकी ये है कि मैं All India Kendriya Vidyalaya Teacher Association का General Secretary भी हूँ.”

घर्भवती अल्पविराम नंबर 2. ये थोडा ज्यादा गर्भवती था.

पर हम तो बच्चे थे. मन के सच्चे थे. ये adult बातें हमारी समझ में कहाँ आने वालीं थी. तो ऐसा हुआ कि आखरी लाइन का न तो हमें मतलब समझ आया और न ही महत्व. आ जाना चाहिए था.

“यो की तुम सबने पहले ये बताओ कि दसवीं में तुम सबने कितने कितने नंबर प्राप्त किये? अच्छा रुको. ये म्हारे पास लिस्ट है.”

“ये सुमित दास कौन है? भाई खड़े हो जाओ. तो आपने सबसे ज्यादा नंबर प्राप्त किये?”

कैसी सी क्लास है. मेरे से ज्यादा नंबर भी नहीं लाया कोई. ये सोचते सोचते आपका ये नाचीज़ खड़ा हो गया.

“देखो ऐसा है हमारे सोनेपत में 60% लाने वाले बच्चे भी all-rounder होते हैं. ये अच्छे नंबर प्राप्त करके घणा खुश होने की कोई ज़रुरत ना है. म्हारी क्लास में सभी बच्चे बराबर हैं.”

जी, पल भर में ये आपका ये नाचीज़, नाचीज़ बन गया था. 

मुझे ज्यादा बातें याद नहीं है सर जी के बारे में. असल में वो GOD particle की तरह थे. मतलब exist तो करते थे पर ज्यादा उनके बारे में पता बस चुनिन्दा लोगों को ही था.  और जैसे आज God particle की पूछ है वैसे ही उनकी थी. और हमारे यहाँ चाहे भगवान हो या राजनेता, पूछ उसकी ही होती है जिससे सबकी फटती है. और बिलकुल God की तरह उन्हें इस बात से घंटा कोई फरक नहीं पड़ता था की किस किस की उनसे फटती है. प्रिंसिपल साहब भी उनके सामने चूहे बन जाते थे. स्कूल के दरबार में तो वो ऊपर थे, पर वो जो “बड़ा दरबार” था उसमे तो प्रिंसिपल एक अदने से employee ही थे.

वो आते थे, वो जाते थे. बाकी सब उनके नाम की बीन बजाते थे.

कह कुछ भी लूं, पर सर जी ने हमें बहुत कुछ सिखाया था. मसलन ऐसे पेपर में कैसे पास होते हैं जिसमे पास होने लायक आताजाता न हो. यही एक चीज़ आगे इंजीनियरिंग में हमारी इतनी काम आई जितनी अदनी physics, chemistry, mathematics अकेली कभी ना आ सकती थी. जैसे कि अगर पेपर में 8 सवाल आयें जिसमे से 5 करने हो तो exactly 5 सवाल attempt करके वो ही आते हैं जो अव्वल दर्जे के घिस्सू हो या फिर वो जो निरे बेवक़ूफ़ होते हैं. ये जो choice होती है वो कमज़ोर बच्चों के लिए होती है ताकि वो पास हो जाएँ. अब जब ये पास करवाने के लिए ही है तो जो लिखा नहीं पर intended है वो भी तो समझिये. 5 सवाल मतलब फुल मार्क्स 70. 8 सवाल मतलब फुल मार्क्स 112. अब बताइए, पास मार्क्स यानी कि 29 किसमें लाना ज्यादा आसान है?

या फिर इस सवाल को ले लिजिये.

वो सवाल जो objective किस्म के होते हैं. मसलन true-false वाले. वो ना आयें तो बस ऐसा करना होता है कि एक जगह true लिखिए और 2 पन्नों के बाद false लिखिए. A,B,C,D वालों के साथ भी यही करना होता था. कहीं न कहीं तो ठीक होगा ही.

(Disclaimer- ये हमें मलिक सर ने सिखाया नहीं था, पर फिर भी सिखाया ही था.)

जैसा हमने पहले कहा सर जी को किसी बात से फरक नहीं पड़ता था. सिलेबस ख़तम करवाने से तो बिलकुल भी नहीं. कॉलेज के उल्टा स्कूल में सिलेबस ख़तम करवाने की फ़िक्र टीचर से ज्यादा बच्चों को होती है. वैसे भी स्कूल की क्लास में कॉलेज की क्लास से ज्यादा front-benchers होते हैं.  तो हरेक पेपर से पहले एक सिलेबस ख़तम होने की क्लास होती थी.  

तो ऐसी ही एक क्लास हो रही थी जिसमे सिलेबस ख़तम करवाने की जद्दोजहद ज़ारी थी. जो पढ़ाया जा रहा था उसपे बिलकुल भी ध्यान न देकर उस प्रयास में हम भी अपना पूरा योगदान कर रहे थे. ध्यान देने लगते तो सिलेबस पूरा नहीं हो पाता.

“This ray come from this side. This convex lens is. This ray from the other side. इसके साथ भी same ही होगा. When the ray pass from both side, mutual induction happen and they converge.”

कोई ध्यान दे नहीं रहा था उनकी बातों पर. वो अपनी बकवास किये जा रहे थे और हम अपनी कि तभी एक आवाज़ आई.

“सर”

ये वो था जो नहीं चाहता था कि सिलेबस कम्पलीट हो पाए. कहीं किसी दिमाग में तांडव होने लगा था.

“’Mutual induction? समझ नहीं आया.”

“बेटा, तुमने दसवीं में कितने नंबर प्राप्त किये?”

“सर 78%. पर वो बिहार बो ..”

“How you got admission? यो कि such low marks. अच्छा sit down. कोई बात नहीं कम नंबर आये तो. अब आ ही गए हो तो पढ़ लो.”

पिछले 5 मिनटों में उस को ना तो lens समझ आया था न mutual induction और अब न ही ये explanation. बेचारा नासमझ. इतना कि फिर से कोशिश कर बैठा.

“सर, ये focal length की equation कैसे derive की जाती है? पिछली बार पेपर में आया था.”

सर जी ने ऐसा look दिया मानों ज़िन्नातों वाली ईईहाहाहा ईईहाहाहा वाली हंसने वाले हैं. पर वो ज़ब्त कर गए और प्यार से बोले, “बेटा सारी बातें मैं बता दूंगा तो अपने पैरों पर खड़े होना कब सीखोगे? खैर. ये दोनों side की lens equation लिख कर add कर लेना. मिल जाएगी focal length की equation.”

उसकी नासमझी की सारी हदें पार हो गयीं थी. अब वो क्या बोले वो भी समझ नहीं आ रहा था उसे.

जिन्होंने physics न पढ़ा हो या जिन्हें याद न हो, उन्हें बता दूं कि अगर आप convex lens के दोनों side के equations add करते हैं तो 0 = 0 prove होता है.

हमारे सर जी exams के paper खुद चेक नहीं करते थे. जैसे कि अपने introductory speech में उन्होंने बताया था कि वो बच्चों में भेद-भाव नहीं करते. सब उनके लिए बराबर हैं. तो फिर वो किसी को कम और किसी को ज्यादा नंबर देने का बीड़ा कैसे उठाते? तो ये नाहक काम उन्होंने कुछ बच्चों के जिम्मे छोड़ रखा था. ये एक ऐसा top secret था जो सबको पता था. तो एक बार ऐसा हुआ कि ये जो privileged बच्चे होते थे उनमें से एक की कुछ बच्चों ने स्कूल के बाहर धुलाई कर दी क्यूंकि उसने पिछले पेपर में कुछ को कम नंबर दिए था. तो किसी ने उसके substitute के तौर पर सर जी को मेरा नाम सुझा दिया. लो बेट्टा, सांप-छंछूदर सी हालत हो गयी.  डरते सहमते हम सर जी तक पहुंचे.

सर जी देखते ही चीखे, “तू यहाँ के कर रहा है भाई? यहाँ बच्चों को आना allow नहीं है.”

“सर वो पेपर चेक करने आपने ही बुलाया था.”

“तो तुझे किसने बुलाया? पहले तो ये बता कि तुझे बारहवीं में आने किसने दिया? पास कैसे हो गया तू? जब देखो तब तो तू क्लास के बाहर ऊदबिलाव की भांति देखता रहता है.”

मैंने अपने चेहरे पर जो expression आ रहा था जो कि हंसी, ख़ुशी और राहत की खिचड़ी थी उसे किसी तरह दबाया और उल्टे पांव वापस हो लिया. असली का उदबिलाव भी इतना सरपट नहीं भागता होगा. ये भी नहीं बोलने की ज़हमत उठायी कि वो मुझे किसी और से कनफुजिया रहे हैं.

ये 2nd pre-board के पेपर के टाइम की बात थी. 3rd preboard आते आते सारे बच्चों ने स्कूल आना बंद कर दिया था. Board के पेपर के लिए study leave मिली हुई थी जिसमे हमने करीब करीब study को leave ही कर दिया था. क्यूंकि IITJEE में अभी टाइम था और हम सारे बिहारी यहाँ board का पेपर पास करने तो आये नहीं थे. कम से कम उस उम्र में हम तो यही सोचते थे.

3rd pre-board के बाद एक दिन स्कूल जाना हुआ तो पता चला कि  मलिक सर को पेपर चेक करवाने के लिए कोई मिल नहीं रहा. तो हमारी मैडम जी ने उनको मेरा नाम सुझा दिया. हम उनके पास फिर से डरते सहमते पहुंचे. पर इस बार उन्होंने हमें कुछ नहीं कहा. शायद वो मुझे भी भूल गए थे और उसे भी जिसे मुझे पिछली बार वो समझ बैठे थे. वैसे उन्हें हमसे काम था इस बार. और वो किसी teacher association के general secretary बिना किसी राजनीति का ज्ञान रखे तो बन नहीं गए होंगे. कुछ instructions दिए उन्होंने जो कि सामान्यतः नेताओं के instructions जैसे ही थे जिनका सार इंग्लिश में कहें तो यूँ था कि  “Cover my shit”. पर हम भी कम थोड़े न थे. सब कुछ समझने के बाद, बिलकुल “Who will Police the Police” वाले लहजे में कहा, “और सर मेरी कॉपी कौन चेक करेगा?”

उन्होंने थोडा सोचा. ये सवाल उनसे शायद किसी ने आज तक नहीं पूछा था. फिर बोले, “रै पूरी क्लास के पेपर चेक करने हैं. तू ना आवे है क्लास में? बस बेटे, खुद को पूरे नंबर न दे दियो. बाकी सारा चलता है.”

पेपर चेक करने बैठा और सारे answers जो repeat कर रखे थे वो काट दिए थे. जिन्होंने objective questions के एक से ज्यादा answers लिख रखे थे उनके सारे answers काट दिए. Science के पेपर को literature की मानिंद चेक किया और जब final marks की लिस्ट बनायी तो पता चला कि highest marks मैंने दिए थे 44 . 70 में से. आज हमारे आगे के दांत सलामत हैं, हमारी उंगलियाँ धनुष के आकार की नहीं हैं और हम लंगड़ा कर नहीं चलते. इसकी शायद एक ही वज़ह है कि board exam से 6 हफ्ते पहले होने वाले 3rd mock पेपर के नंबरों से न तो किसी को और न किसी के बाप को कोई भी फर्क पड़ता था.

हमारा chemistry का final viva कतई eventful रहा था जिसका ज़िक्र मैंने इस पिछली कहानी में किया था. हमारा physics के viva में कोई ऐसा हो-हंगामा नहीं हुआ था. वो क्या था न, हमारे सर जी दबंग थे. कुछ ज्यादा ही. Practical हो रहा था. सब के सामने ही External एक एक कर बच्चों का viva भी ले रही थी कि सर ने एंट्री मारी. External को जा कर साफ़ साफ़ बोला,

“मैडम सब बच्चे नूं अच्छे अच्छे नंबर लगने चाहिए.”

मैडम थोड़ी अवाक् रह गयी थी.

“क्यूँ सर? ऐसा कैसे हो सकता है? कुछ बच्चे अच्छे होते हैं पढने में कुछ उतने अच्छे नहीं होते. सबको एक से नंबर दे दिए तो उनमें अंतर क्या रह जायेगा?”

“मैडम बच्चे कोई अच्छे –खराब ना होते हैं. सारे बच्चे एक से होते हैं. सारे बच्चे भगवान् का रूप होते हैं. समझे ना?”

GAME. SET. MATCH.

Viva ख़तम होने के बाद  सर ने मुझे अलग रूम में बुलाया. मेरे सामने एक लिस्ट रखी जिसमे सारे क्लास के बच्चों के नाम थे. फिर बोला, “देख ये लिस्ट है. इसमें तू अपने और जो जो बच्चे पेपर चेक किया करते थे physics के उनके 30-30 नंबर लगा दे viva के.”

GAME. SET. MATCH. CHAMPIONSHIP.

P.S :- जब board का रिजल्ट आया था तो मैंने चेक किया था. बस जी उनके physics viva में 30 नंबर आये थे जिनके मैंने अपने हाथों से लगाये थे. न कम न ज्यादा. 

The Half Empty Glass

He jumped across to have a look at his phone while his brother was off to the loo. He wanted to check the count of girls his brother had in his contact list. There were 29 of them. He felt slightly annoyed. As the last time he checked, there were only 23 of them.  And these were the girls his brother kept contact with or tried to keep contact with. He usually received scores of these calling cards from girls at any of his concerts. He played guitar for a mildly famous band. He didn’t even know if his brother played lead guitar or base guitar. He assumed that it must be lead guitar as he made quite a decent amount of money. He looked like an emaciated scarecrow with a crow’s nest on his head pretending to be bunch of hair. He remembered that once while he was home, their mother got after him to sew up his torn jeans. 

He didn’t ever imagine that any girl will consider him to be a more eligible bachelor than his brother. But somehow he thought that he will definitely make a better husband. But it was irrelevant. It hardly mattered if his brother was going to have a bear belly at 35 if presently he was rockstar enough to get laid. As for him, he already had a belly. In an empty home he occasionally cooked, had beer, sometimes Old Monk as well and wrote in the remaining time. And since he was not Colin Firth from  Love Actually, doing no physical work at all did make him fat. And if you want to get girls while being a writer and a fatty at the same time, you got to be Salman Rushdie –which he wasn’t. 

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This was his father’s home. He left it long back when he started to make decent amount of money out of his concerts.  The person who planned this home must have been smoking the weirdest stuff ever. Right now he could have done with some of that. The way to the toilet in this house went through the study! Or maybe his father decided to make use of this small space and turned it into his study. But on the way to the toilet!! His father might have been smoking that stuff then. Every morning his father after his bath , pooja and breakfast sat here with his bunch of newspapers for about 2 hours. It was funny imagining him with a newspaper in one hand and a bong in another. His brother wouldn’t find it funny though. He was the darling of the house when his parents were alive. He would react just like a practicing Hindu will if you ask him to have beef. He had lied to his brother that he needed to use the loo. Actually he wanted to have a look at the new manuscript his brother was working on. While young, his brother often used to show him the short stories he wrote. Slowly but steadily, he stopped. He could never figure that had something to do with the increasing count of his girlfriends. He once asked his brother to write a love letter for a girl he wanted to impress. The girl couldn’t understand a word of it. But dumb that they are, she fell for him. His brother had used words like “happenstance” and “serendipity” in the letter and he had to take extra lessons from his brother just to pronounce them properly. But nevertheless the letter was beautifully crafted. He almost wanted to keep the letter with himself. But then he gave it to the girl. The girl later realized that such ball freezing language writing was beyond him and asked him about the original writer. So he uploaded the letter on a blog and told her that he copied it from there. He didn’t want to tell him that it was written by his brother. Possibly he was afraid that his brother –already the apple of eyes of their parents- will start getting more attention even from girls than him. Never mind, the girl still dumped him. Like all of them who get dumped who have a girlfriend in adolescence. . 

Till date he wished he could write like his brother. Shivani. One of the girls he slept which with he thought he could fall in love with as well. There weren’t many of the likes. Guess HE didn’t make her kind anymore. Sometimes she spoke like Ayn Ryand , often descending into words of Wordsworth. Of course he could have been drunk when he heard those. Or more likely she was drunk when she spoke thus. He had read them while young because of his brother. So could tell. One day she left him for a guy who she said spoke like Scott Fitzgerald and recited like Hemmingway. Of course he had no fucking idea who these gentlemen were. Possibly even she didn’t. She was drunk when she left, you see. 

Sometimes between the times that girl left him because of the forged letter and when his father started to get a bit disappointed of him, he decided to become an antithesis of his brother. He envied him all right, but what is the use of all the envy if he couldn’t use it to show his brother that he was better. That he was the real deal. As far as girls were concerned, he has proved it. Ok, change that to, “As far as sex was concerned, he has proved it.”

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He could never understand girls. He still remembered one of the earliest ones he had come across. She once was his brother’s, only to somehow find that a letter his brother had given her was actually written by him. And she dumped him. Somehow she found him out to be the original author and wanted to be friend with him. Now, that she dumped his brother over a fucking letter should have been warning enough. After sometime, she wanted him to get smarter. You know, keep up the appearances. He wanted her to like him not only for his writing capabilities, but what he was, in totality. Alas, he didn’t notice that his totality also included his growing paunch. She did. He was pissed and of course got dumped. After all he never asked her to be a mixture of Aishwarya Rai and Arundhati Roy.

Those days he loved his brother a bit too much. And with deep love, as they say, you subconsciously imitate each other. He even felt bad proxy-dating the ex of his brother. Suddenly around the time his brother had decided to be opposite of him, his brother started collecting girlfriends. With his modest means at charming a girl, he struggled to keep pace. To keep pace with his brother’s changing life. And ultimately his regard and love for him were outstripped by a person he didn’t recognize much.

Anyways, he quickly copied some of the numbers of the girls. Calling them and telling that his brother has left the mobile or some stuff like that worked with some of them. Though, obviously the results were not always spectacular and left much to be desired. 

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The prose of this manuscript was beautiful as ever. Some of the lines were what you call in layman language- “Killer”. He took out a pen and scribbled some in minute letters on his hands. He will have to keep his hands in his pockets for the rest of the time that he was here. But it was worth the effort. Those lines worked with some of the girls he liked. Though, obviously the results were not always spectacular and left much to be desired.

55 word story . Theme "Wonder"

After a long time I wrote a 55 word story. The theme is "wonder" and here it is

The poor kid wondered how it will be to be the man on bike.

One on bike wondered about the guy on bike with a girl on pillion.

That guy wondered about the one in car.

 Fat guy in car wondered about the fit guy on that bike, with a girl behind.

Everybody dies wondering.

Beta

“ बेटे. 7 रुपये दे दे. बहादुरगढ़ जाना है. बस कि टिकेट के पैसे ना हैं म्हारे पास.”

ऑटो से उतारते ही आवाज़ उसके कानों में पड़ी. जाटों सी बोली. पारंपरिक हरयाणवी औरतों से बेरंग कपडे. कोई खास भिखारन वाली बात थी नहीं उस औरत में. पर ज़ाहिर सी बात थी कि acting अच्छी कर रही थी वो. तभी भिखारन लगने कि ज़रूरत भी नहीं थी.

पर वो भी गुडगाँव में 8 साल से रह रहा था. खूब पता था उसे. भिखारियों को ज्यादा इज्ज़त न तो वो दे सकता था ना ही उनकी झूठी कहानी पर यकीन कर सकता था.पच्चीसियों बार यहाँ से गुज़ारा होगा और दसियों बार इसी “भिखारन” ने टोका होगा. कभी झिडक कर कभी नज़रें झुका कर कन्नी काट जाता था.

पर आज काफी दिनों के बाद वो ऑफिस के लिए लेट नहीं हो रहा था. 1-2 दिनों में दिवाली का बोनस भी मिलने वाला था. उनके झूठ का इल्म आज भी था उसे. तभी शायद जेब में 7 रुपये छुट्टे होने के बावजूद उसने 10 का नोट निकाल कर पकड़ाया था. पर मानों वो तो गले पड़ गयी. ज्यादा अवाक् नहीं हुआ पर वो. बल्कि उसे पता था कि शायद ऐसा होगा. तो थोडा तैयार सा था.

“बेटा, 20 रुपये और दे दो. बहुत भूख लग रही है.”

“पर आपने तो बहादुरगढ़ जाना था ना. और वैसे भी इतनी सुबह सुबह कहाँ खाना मिलेगा आपको?”

आँखें थोड़ी कनफुजिया गयी थीं उसकी. 

“और ताई, वैसे बहादुरगढ़ क्यूँ जाना है आपको?”

तब तक एक और ऑटो आ गया था. उस महिला कि नज़र उस तरफ जाने लगी. हमारी कहानी के हीरो ने 20 रुपये निकाल कर उस “भिखारन” को पकड़ा दिए. और वापस ऑफिस की तरफ मुड़ने लगा. तभी पीछे से आवाज़ आई.

“बेटे अगर मेरा बेटा मुझे यहाँ छोड़ कर गायब नहीं हो गया होता ना तो आज तुझे बेटा कहने कि ज़रूरत ना होती शायद.”

सुना उसने. पर अनसुना कर दिया. वापस मुड़ने के लिए न शब्द थे न हिम्मत.  

Smoking Spills

(He hated smoke. It made him cough. It made him feel allergic. It made him feel imperfect . But it also made him feel different, a fact which he loved. Even as a kid , this confusion did nothing to mitigate this unambiguous hatred towards smoke. His worst nightmare was to be made to sit through a havan in his house. A nightmare,which often came true in his religious household.

But cigarettes. Ooh, they were a different matter. They were always fascinating. As a kid, he always loved how in Hindi movies smoking was used to create hierarchy in villain’s world. The top villain used to smoke pipes or cigars. His henchmen had cigarettes and the guys from the lower rung who did all the dirty work managed with the beedis. You could gauge the growth of a bad person by the change in his smoking habits. The way cigarettes were used to portray characters felt cool to him. Of course he never smoked. He was too young to do that. But once he rolled up a paper , put an end on fire and tried to inhale some smoke from the other end. He didn't remember if he managed any smoke but the soot and ash which settled in his throat left him coughing for hours. Maybe, days. He couldn't remember well at the moment.

Then he got into college where many of his friends smoked. He though didn't allow any of them to smoke in his room. He felt asphyxiated due to smoke if anyone did so. And apart from that he was also afraid that living in a room full of smoke will make him grow allergic to the allergy of smoke robbing him of the trait of being different from his mates because he didn't like smoke. But still cigarette was sacrosanct in his fascination. That cigarette came with smoke was its only drawback.

It was dark, the room. But his eyes were lightening. So was the matchstick in his hand. Within moments, the cigarette he had smuggled in this dingy, secluded store room of Mechanics Laboratory of college was also lit.  He lifted the cigarette up to his lips. Hands trembling, he dropped it soon enough without any action. He hurriedly took his mobile out, turning on its flashlight. He was almost afraid if anybody around had heard the sound of the cigarette falling. This time he was more determined, so steadier. He pursed the cigarette between his lips to avoid it falling again and lit it. He didn't want to be termed a mouth-fagger by his friends. A term for those who didn't take the smoke in. Those who didn't burn their lungs. Jo bas munh kadwa karte thay. So the cigarette lit, he took a deep drag inside. And, he choked out.)

After a night of hash-session ,this was all he remembered in his trance. Remembering even this much was a chore while being what one calls “being high”. Even the Pink Floyd sounded slower to him, if it was humanly possible that is. But he wanted to think and try to remember. It sounded like a good story to him. And he hoped that thinking will help him to fall asleep.

When did it all start then? It must have been when that bitch broke his heart when he had his full cigarette. He didn’t want to think of her as a bitch. After all, she helped him fulfill his lifelong ambition to smoke a full cigarette, albeit inadvertently. Besides she was his first love in life. She could never be a bitch. But some fucker with the music control had played “Good bye cruel world” and the bitch turned up. The pain might have made him forget that he had to choke over after every drag.  And thus it started, or maybe not. The day on which he had his first full cigarette might have been a different day for all he remembered. But this heartbreak and the bitch made a good story and a comforting thought.

He understood the allure now. He once went to a high end working place in Delhi for a job interview. Coming from a small place, he was amused to see girls smoking openly with others. He searched on internet for the videos of girls smoking when he went home. Only then did he realize that what he thought as amusement was actually a form of sexual gratification. And only later during a post-coital smoke when he offered the cigarette to the girl and she refused did he realize that the gratification did not come from the girl, but from the cigarette she smoked. Since then he had only dated the girls who smoked as well. Did he date the girls or the cigarette, he couldn’t decide at the moment.

He started regular smoking by placing a table fan behind him while he smoked so that the smoke coming wouldn’t bother him. But as the frequency grew, it became cumbersome for him to get hold of a table fan whenever he had the urge. Soon, this pretence was also done away with. And from then, the present day was never far off. This smoke filled room was slowly disjointing him from the memories of the havan room full of smoke of childhood and of his first love who didn't smoke either. He was slipping into sleep. Somebody had changed the music to “Have a Cigar”.

He was lying in the bed of a hospital. All kinds of wires were attached to his old, wrinkled hands and was surrounded by numerous medical paraphernalia. He could see a man outside his room through the glass door on which ICU was printed in bold and in red.  His blurry vision only afforded him a silhouette of the man. It slowly raised a cigarette to his lips and walked away leaving smoke rings behind him free to enter the old man’s ICU room. He struggled wildly to shoo away the smoke but he felt too weak for that. He hated the smoke. It made him cough. It made him feel imperfect. It made him feel dead.

He woke up with a start. It was morning already. He lit a cigarette and ambled towards the toilet. He still remembered the dream vividly. Was it divine signal? An omen from the Gods, maybe? He shrugged off the thought and took a deep drag inside. He wasn't high anymore. 

55 word story , Theme "Redemption"

The theme is Redemption, and the story is ,

He felt an extraordinary juvenile calmness. The childhood returned to him which was robbed by this man who sexually abused him on his 10th birthday. Shortly, police will be arriving. He didn’t feel like hiring a lawyer. Didn’t want to spoil it, for what he saw as redemption, was revenge in the eyes of law.

55 word stroy, Theme "Skin"

The theme is "Skin", and the story is

Bit by bit, he skinned it. His eyes glinting, he gouged out its eyes. His stomach churning, he pried open its torso. His testosterone level rising, he mutilated it. It was only a dead pig. But for the teen, who grew up to be Dr Hannibal Lecter, it was not only a dead pig.

55 word story , Theme ,"Appetite"

The story is as follows

Question, “Will you turn cannibal at gunpoint?”

Some answers..

“If I get to eat the person holding the gun, I might.”

“ Go Away.. Where is Nirmal Baba?”

“Will I get free beer with it?”

“You dear come to my house at night with this question. And get some fava beans and a nice chianti.”

Just tipping my hat to one of the best, no the best film I have ever seen. 

55 word story , Theme "Adultery"

The theme is "Adultery" and I wrote two stories. They are as follows

The rat came out of one hole and went into another. Two minutes later, he repeated the process. From Discovery channel, the kid knew that it was going into different holes to mate with different females.  Watching live,  he found it  intriguing. He returned to party to find his father flirting with another lady. The world felt normal.

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“ You cheated on me”

“No I didn’t”.

 
“These pictures are proof that you slept with your secretary”. 

“Yes, but I only love you, not her.”

“How does it matter?”

“Well, Draupadi slept with 5 pandavas, though she loved only Arjun. Now still

 didn’t we name our daughter Panchali?"

55 word story , Theme "Perception"

Theme is perception, and the story is ,

 How do you differentiate between an Indian and a foreigner at a cultural function organised by a multinational company for its employees?

The forigners reach the venue when the event is scheduled. And Indians reach the venue when the event starts . And being in India, there is a two hour difference between the two .

55 word story theme "Hedonism"

The theme is "Hedonism" and the story is

Hedonism . Sometimes thy name is Vatsyayana and sometimes Mamata Banerjee. 

55 word story theme "Disdain"

The theme is disdain and the story is as follows

The ant scrutinized the sugar-speck dropped by the boy for her.  Too heavy, she thought and  moved on, oblivious to the kid’s intentions. Disappointed, confused and then enraged over what he perceived as disdain for his gift, he decided, justice must be done. Filing himself with disdain, he jumped on the “culprit” once, twice and then thrice to ensure the finality of retribution. 

55 word story theme "Maps"

The 55word story blog came to its end yesterday. So I have dug up their old themes and wrote stories on it. Today's theme is "Map" and the story is


The information it was carrying was vital. To call the police. But something was wrong. The legs- if present- were not moving. The brain-if present- was asphyxiated and the map ,forgotten. The eyes- if present- were going dim. Sorry. So said the neuron and died. 


About 90 seconds back, a bullet had fatally pierced the heart.

55 word story . Theme "Distance"

The theme is "Distance" and the story is as follows

"IM said F**K OFF to e-mails. E-mails said so to speed posts. Speed posts to postcards. Postcards to messengers and messengers said this to pigeons. Pigeons could have said f**k off to smoke signals, but they didn’t. They were nice people, you see."

55 word story , Theme "Possession"

The theme is "Possession" and my story is as follows

The 15-year possessed girl had already consumed a throbbing live heart and a pint of blood of another guy and was hungry for more. Severely drugged by the superstitious  devotees, he awaited her claws when amid chants, he heard a terrifying voice, “Bastard faggot is impure. Get me another”.

So the world now knew his secret. But he was alive. Happy or sad, he couldn’t decide. 

55 word story Theme- "Fight"

The theme is "Fight" and the story is as follows

He was killed. 

He was killed because he talked and thus broke Rule no 1 and Rule no 2.

And a high five to all those who understood it. I hope all those who read do.