The thousand words behind this picture

Two stories are related to this picture of mine, one funny, and one strange. Let’s begin with the funny one.

Last month, I put this one up as my display image on Orkut, Facebook and Gmail chat. It received several responses, from “Is that you? So cute!!” to “This just can’t be you. I refuse to believe it.” Too bad if you don’t believe it, people, it is really me.

Well, then me and my chief thought up a con job, just for the heck of it. I put up my Gmail status as “Meet Uttam G Mengle, one year old.” When people on my chat list asked me who it was, I said it was my son Uttam who had just turned a year old. Surprisingly, it worked on quite a few people. But the funniest was when three friends of mine from college days got completely taken in. Responses ranged from “what? When did you get married? I didn’t even know!!” to “Oh, married already? What was the hurry?”

Roughly, the story that I fed my victims was this: I met this content writer named Nisha a couple of months after I joined the Asian Age and love blossomed, leading to marriage. The marriage was low-key because both our parents were against it and we even stayed at a mutual friend’s place for a while. Things started changing when our parents learnt that Nisha was pregnant and they thawed a bit. We soon moved into my house and Uttam was born. Nisha quit her job to take care of him, and little ‘Ooty’, as I called him, just turned a year old.

Those who believed it lapped it up and offered opinions by the dozen while me and the chief sat back, laughed, shook hands and patted ourselves on the back.

Now for the strange one, which my mom told me years ago. I recollected it when she commented on this picture on Facebook saying, “As I look at this picture on the eve of your 24th birthday, I can’t imagine when the years flew and my baby grew up.”

Althogh I am not particularly excited about being called somebody's baby on a public forum, it nevertheless reminded me of this tale. I was too young to remember anything now but what the heck. This was before my parents got divorced and they’d taken me somewhere to get my head shaved for some religious reasons.

The head shaving went off successfully, from what mom tells me, but sometime in the afternoon, I started acting funny. Refusing to go anywhere near my parents, I wandered off on my own, and no amount of calling out or pulling back could dissuade me. All the time, my right hand was raised and the palm half clenched, as if I were holding someone’s hand while walking. This went on for quite some time, leading a couple of local vendors to comment about “bhoot badha.”

Then, suddenly, I returned to normal and like a good kid that I hope I was, let my parents finish the rest of the religious procedures before leaving for home. It was only when we reached home that we learnt that my paternal grandfather had passed away.

The time of his death coincided with the time of my strange behaviour, and the first thing my mom remembered was that I was grandpa’s dead favourite and he loved to take me on walks.

To this day, she maintains that grandpa had come to visit me before leaving this world. Whether or not one believes this is a moot point. But as a lover of fiction, I feel this makes one hell of a story. What do you think?

The Side Effects of Being a Crime Reporter

I would have titled this one ‘In Defence of Crime Reporting’, but I do not believe crime reporting needs a defense.

I have come across several people whose faces turn almost funereal when I tell them that I’m a crime reporter. As if being a crime reporter is some kind of a horrible affliction which will end only with desruction and decay. As if with every day I report crime, my soul is relentlessly proceeding towards a pit of fire, with flames hotter than the sight of Scarlett Johansson having a wardrobe malfunction.

To begin with, there are those that curse us to hell and beyond because, in their view, we thrive on murder and misery for a living. Let me tell you all, ladies and laddies, that crime reporting is more than just writing about the man who carved out his wife’s liver with a serrated knife. We crime reporters also write stuff like the latest tactics employed by law enforcement agencies to bring criminals to book, the increase or decrease in detections and convictions and the reason behind the same, latest weapons, vehicles and other facilities for the police force…lot of things. Hence, all of you who think we’re unemployed on a day when there’s no crime are in for a second thinking session.

Then there’re those who feel we’re in a negative field. Like this lady who’d come to office the other day, representating a religious organisation. She wanted to discuss possibilities of her religious head writing edit pieces for us, and for some reason (possibly because the bosses believe I’m a born charmer and adept at handling all sorts of people) I was deputed to go talk to her. So, I’m kicking my legs to surface from a sea of piety and devotion that the Woman in White is trying to drown me in, when she flew off on a tangent and asks me what beat I cover. And when I replied, ‘crime’, she looks like a kid that chanced upon a treasure trove of goodies. She then embarks on a discourse as to how crime reporting is ruining me and why I should be attending religious lectures delivered by her gurumata. Nothing against either you nor your guru, ma’m, but I suffer from neither depression nor insomnia, thank you very much. In fact, my bouts of insomnia became less frequent after I started working.

Also, there’s my Mom, and an aunt, among other relatives, who firmly believe that someone has to do crime reporting, but why can’t it be the neighbour’s son. The two ladies have made it their favoutire pastime to try and talk me into joining some other profession…any other profession, in fact. Like there was a phase when Mom would without respite was telling me to lose reporting and be a sub editor, because the post carries with it the word ‘editor’ and hence bears ‘respectability’.

“Wouldn’t you like to tell people that you’re a sub editor?” she asks me. No Mama Dearest, I wouldn’t. I’d rather tell people I’m a crime reporter and watch their reactions. I get a kick out of those, I really do. And no, this is not meant to belittle any sub editor, senior sub editor or chief sub editor who, for lack of better pastimes, happens to read this blog.

The aunt, not to be outdone, has been trying to convince me to be a banker. Herself an officer with a nationalised bank, she keeps assuring me that she’ll help me all she can to get into a bank. The only reason why I keep laughing it off instead of getting homicidal is that I’m her favourite nephew and have grown up being pampered by her. However, the next time she tries to pull that stunt, I’m gonna threaten to lock her 15-year-old in a room full of policemen who’ll introduce him to cigarettes, alcohol and corruption.

We might not be in a very attractive profession, although that is a matter of perspective, but we still supply you all with a lot of juicy gossip. And don’t tell me that you don’t enjoy to discuss gory murders and tales of grim revenge. And it is due to our hard work that all you parents are able to tell your children to stop spending so much time chatting on the internet unless they want to end up being kidnaped and killed by their orkut buddies, a la Adnan Patrawala, God rest his soul.

We look into the city’s grimy underbelly and bring you the news. All we ask for in return is to be left alone. Kindly oblige.

Having thus put my rant down on paper, I’ll now go back to hunting for developments into the case of a young man victim of brutal roadrage. A guy in a car caught his neck and the other guy in the driver’s seat started the ignition. Kid was dragged for several meters before being flung to the ground, and his head got crushed underneath the car’s rear tire. Yeah, go ahead, wrinkle your noses. Pity me and my breed.

Zulfein toh utha, Raju

A year ago, I had come ambling into the office on my weekly off because there was supposed to be a belated celebration for our chief’s birthday.

So I saunter inside, cool as ice, and my chief turns and gives me a look.

“Are you a crime reporter?” he asked.

“I like to think I am,” I replied, ever the wise ass.

“do you have any idea what has happened?”

of course I didn’t. back then, I believed that a weekly off was meant for purely uselss purposes and hence refused to touch newpapers on that day. No wonder then that the crime branch had arrested five men for their alleged role in the serial blasts in the country, and i knew nothing about it. We had a new terrorist outfit: the Indian Mujahideen. I was clueless.

Five minutes later, me and a photographer were on our way to Cheetah Camp, Trombay, to the residence of one of the accused. I was to interview his family – something I had never done before.

We got to Cheetah Camp, which was overflowing with outside broadcast vans, reporters, cameramen, photographers and curious onlookers. An enthusiastic local yokel guided us to the house of Mohammed Sadik, alleged computer expert for the IM.

We spoke to Sadik’s father and elder brother, trying hard not to be intimidated by the hostile looks we were attracting from the 100-odd men and women gathered outside the small hut, or by the buzzing of my cell phone – it was 9:30, way past deadline, and the editor himself was calling.

The crowd was getting damn near mutinous by the time we started to leave. There were shouted allegations of communal discrimination, and some of them were openly baying for blood. A few social worker types were trying to calm the crowd to no avail.

In the midst of all this, as I am concentrating on getting the hell out of there, shaking my head to get my then long hair out of my face, a eunuch in the crowd says, “Zulfein toh utha, Raju!” – a legend that still lives on.

My lensman kick started his bike and zoomed out of Cheetah Camp, only to realise that he had a flat tyre.

I cursed a blue streak, called up the office and dictated the story over the phone while the tyre was being mended. When we got to office, the editor patted my shoulder and told me to keep up the good work.

I look back over the last one year and realise how much I have changed, professionally as well as personally. I don’t get nervous before interviewing families of victims or arrested accused as often as I used to. Whenever a tip off comes in, I am no longer clueless as to how I go about confirming and getting more dope on it. Not having the number of the concerned officer is no longer an obstacle, just a minor wrinkle.

On that day, when my Mom learnt that I had been sent to work on my weekly off, she said that The Asian Age doesn’t deserve hard working people like me (I had laughed for half an hour). Now, she’s given up hope as I eagerly spend half my weekly offs at work.

To all my friends, Zulfein toh utha Raju is something they can use to make fun of me. For me, it signifies one wonderful year of addictive crime reporting.

Addiction

The familiar atmosphere of the police stations. The way they look from outside, forbidding but laden with curiousity nevertheless. The camaraderie and espirit de corps under the official veneer. The friendly banter across desks, sometimes across the room. The smell of old files. The expletives punctuating one sentence in three.

The taste of the tea, served in small helpings, always on account. Aaropi, panchnama and station diary. Remand and jail custody. PSI Shinde and API Patil. The surprise at discovering a PSI Patel or an API Sharma. Senior saheb and his orderly. Peter One and bandobast duty.

Double murders, gang rapes and housebreakings and thefts. The pleading with officers for at least a confirmation. The complaining to seniors about officers who won’t speak. The ever-present question, “Ajun kay vishesh?”

The daily vists to at least three police stations. The kick that comes from violating a DCP’s ‘post-4:30 pm’ visiting hours. The haggling with cops over quotes, photographs and contact numbers of complainants and victims. ‘Reliable informants’ and tapas chalu aahe.

The jokes shared with cops after the cameras stop whirring. The scraps of info ‘between you and me’ and ‘don’t quote me.’ IPC, CrPC and Arms Act. First time offenders and history sheeters. Gavthi katta, chopper and preparation to robbery.

The mind work that begins from 4:45 pm. Wide angles and special stories. Construction of a brief to help ‘sell’ the story. The pressure of having a good story before the ‘kuch hai?’ telephone call.

Word counts and stylesheets. The myriad things that police officers say on conditions of anonymity. The daily game of chess with over inquisitive reporters who refuse to respect the words, “I’m filing a special.”

When I began as a crime reporter, it seemed a very difficult task, enormous and intimidating. But it sort of grows on you.

Loco, the gangster

Loco leaned against a telephone pole and quietly observed the movement in the shop across the street, while his brain played out a familiar scene.

He was closing shop, when they came in, two men, both heftily built and mean looking. One of them pushed him backwards, while the other pulled down the shutter. They were the local don’s henchmen, and he hadn’t paid protection money.

It was a small laundry, and the owner, whose name was Shibu, stayed in the back with his wife and son. The son, a little boy of 10, had been dragged inside the shop by a sweetmeats seller 5 minutes ago. The sweetmeats guy had left two minutes ago, and if Loco was right, the kid was being shouted at for stealing a sweetmeat.

Inside Loco’s head, the flashback continued.

They were quiet, and quick. One of them turned him around and pinned his arms behind his back. The other slipped on a set of brass knuckles on his right hand.

“Don’t…” he begged.

The goon swung. Once, twice, thrice. His teeth broke, he could taste blood.

Shaking his head, Loco straightened and crossed the street. Going into an adjoining alley, he pushed open the side door and entered.

Shibu had his son by the arm, and was hitting him on the rear with a cane. He looked up when Loco entered. Fear replaced anger on the launderer’s face.

The goon continued to pound his face, until it was all bloody. Then the one pinning his arms flung him to the ground. Kicking him in the ribs, they walked out.

“Why’re you beating that kid, Shibu?” Loco asked calmly.

“He…he’s been a bad boy,” Shibu answered defiantly.

“Well, you’ve been a bad boy too, Shibu,” Loco said, almost sadly. For some reason, after 10 years of being a gangster, he suddenly didn’t want to do this.

“I…I…well…” Shibu stammered.

“You haven’t paid your taxes for two months now. We gave you enough time. The boss is really angry, you know,” Loco cut in.

Shibu had released the boy and was slowly backing away. His wife came out of the small inner room, shivering with fear. Loco turned to her.

“Take the boy outside,” he told her. “Neither of you need to see this.”

“Please…please spare him…” the woman began.

“Can’t, sorry. If I spare the rod, I’ll spoil this sod.”

“One chance…”

“Go. Now.”

She quietly picked up her son and exited the shop.

Shibu came forward.

“Look, this is extortion…”

Loco swung hard, and his fist connected with Shibu’s face. The launderer stumbled backwards. Loco kicked him in the chest, then in the stomach.

“No offense, Shibu. But I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson,” Loco said, pulling out a bicycle chain from the pocket of his cargoes.

“Please…” Shibu begged, as Loco coiled the chain around his palm. Three punches would be enough to smash his face.

Years of tolerance finally cracked. In a week, he had killed both goons, stabbing them till their guts spilled out. A month later, he was recruited by a rival gang. Ten years later, Loco’s name alone was enough to strike fear in people’s hearts. He now headed the protection money racket.

Loco kicked the man thric more, making him curl into a fetal position. Kneeling down, he clutched a handful of the man’s hair.

“48 hours,” Loco said. “And next time, I’ll mean business.”

Turning, Loco uncoiled the chain from around his palm, slipped it inside his pocket, and walked out.

‘The last thing this city needs is another one like me,’ he thought.

How I celebrated Valentine's Day

Picture this. it’s valentine’s. the entire city is immersed in gifts, romantic dinners, and stolen (or bought) moments of privacy. And I am on my way to the vile parle police station to get details about some two idiots who fired a gun into the door of a congress corporator.

I don’t know why, but for some reason, it gave me a big kick to be thinking about a shootout rather than what I would have given my girlfriend, if I had one.

So I go to the police station, speak to the police, to the corporator who’s come there to give a statement, and to her political opponent, who she has named as a suspect. And while me and some other reporters are joking about outside the police station, in comes a tip off that the senior inspector, santacruz has beaten up a woman officer so bad that she is in the hospital.

Instant chaos.

We all rush to the santacruz police station, while frantically trying to get some confirmation, dialing every number we know. We finally get to the police station, only to be told that there is no woman officer there. The senior inspector’s orderly tells us the saheb is out for patrolling. I suspect he was sleeping inside his cabin.

We then meet some other cops there, then come back to office.

The end? Don’t bet on it.

It was a crazy day, really. Tip off after tip off came coming through, and I had to scramble to file a story on every one of them.

Some guy killed himself outside the MMRDA office in BKC, and blamed an offical in the suicide note.

A wall collapsed in navi Mumbai, and killed two people.

A bride turned all “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” after her would-be in-laws tried to stall the marriage for dowry and went to the police.

Some idiot stabbed a woman, and rumours flew that it was the moral police punishing her for celebrating V Day.

Some college girl ran off with her Romeo, and her father filed a kidnapping complaint against him.

And after I leave the office, I learn that an airlines employee hung herself in her andheri residence.
Tiring? Well, yeah. But you know what? It was fun. Every minute of it. In spite of the headache, hunger, exhaustaion, I was enjoying my work.

Which is when I realised, my work is my Valentine, and I had one heck of a Valentine’s Day.

I'll Ruin You! Ruin You!!

Last night, I saw her again.

My downfall began the day she entered my life, and she has been haunting me ever since. The whole thing is so crazy I have stopped trying to make sense of it. and she still won’t leave me alone.

I first saw her years ago, perched atop the cupboard in my bedroom. This was long ago, when I was yet to reach the stage where I could afford a mahogany wardrobe. I had two cupboards in my bedroom back then. She was sitting on the one on the left.

I was reading the newspaper, having come home early. My parents and wife were in the living room. I wouldn’t even have noticed her, had she not spoken.

“What’re you doing, relaxing like that?” she asked me sternly, as if it was against the law.

I looked up, and there she was, sitting corss legged, wearing a grey saree of coarse material.

“You’re reading?” she said again?

“So what do I do?” I retorted sharply, not knowing what I was doing. It didn’t cross my mind to think how she got in the house, and how she managed to climb atop the cupboard without anyone knowing,

“Where’s my child?” she demanded.

“What the hell do I know where your child is?” I asked hotly.

My wife and parents came running into the bedroom and asked me what happened.

“This woman’s pestering me about her child. What do I know?” I said to them.

They turned to look where I pointed. I turned too.

She was gone.

*************************

“Do you have nightmares?” my wife asked me out of the blue.

I looked up from the novel I was reading.

“No, why?” I didn’t even dream that often.

“You push me away in your sleep,” she said accusingly.

“I … what?” I had to make sure she really said that.

“You push me away. Viciously. You did it last night as well,” she was on the verge of tears.

I didn’t know what to say.

*************************

It was past 2:00. my friend had dropped me off at the railway crossing some 10 minutes from home. We’d gone out for dinner, and the party ran till late.

Lately, I had fallen into the habit of dragging my friends along. Listening to them griping was better then running into her.

The railway crossing was closed for vehicles due to some maintenance work. So I left the taxi and set off on foot. My friend took the same taxi back home.

I crossed the tracks and was walking homwards when she stopped me. I was lost in thought and didn’t see her till she called out.

“Excuse me,” she said. “can you tell me where the railway crossing is?”

“Straight ahead,” I said, pointing behind me, not really looking at her.

“Could you walk with me till there?”

Like hell I was going to walk with her anywhere in the middle of the night. I had to go to work the next day.

“It’s really close, ma’m. I have to get home. I’m sorry,” I told her.

“No, please. Come with me,” she insisted.

“I can’t ma’m. I’m sorry,” I said, as politely as I could.

“Didn’t I say come with me?” she said raising her voice.

“And didn’t I say I can not?” I said, losing it myself. Women! I thought.

“Do you know why I’m telling you to come?”

“Why?” I couldn’t care less.

“Because I can’t see.”

I looked at her closely. Her face was covered with the ghoonghat of her saree. As I leaned forward, she raised her head slowly, till I could see her face under the saree.

Only there was no face.

Honest. There was just a wide, gaping chasm where the face should have been.

I stumbled backwards. She took a step towards me.

“Walk me till there,” she repeated. I said nothing, concentrating on getting the hell out of there.

“Come with me, or I’ll ruin you,” she said, louder now.

I turned and ran.

“I’ll ruin you! Ruin you!” she shouted after me.

I ran as hard as I could. Her screams followed me all the way home.

*************************
“Do you still see her?”

There was no reason why a total stranger should have asked me this question while I was on a pleasure trip with my wife miles away from home.

He had stopped me in the middle of the street and spoken to me. That alone was reason enough for my wife to get suspicious. That question did nothing to help the situation.

“see who?”

He only smiled.

“You know who I am talking about.”

It suddenly hit me like a shoe thrown in the face of a bad orator by a bored audience.

“Her?” I asked, praying that wasn’t who he was talking about. I hadn’t seen her in a long time.

No such luck.

“Her,” he said, with a fatalistic smile.

“No, not lately,” I said defiantly, as if it made everything all right.

He shook his head.

“She’s not going to leave you,” he said and walked away.

*************************

Two freak accidents have rendered one of my legs useless.

Five men I trusted have cheated me out of every penny I had. I have sold the three offices I owned, and my three cars, to clear my debts.

My wife has left me after the same men falsely implicated me in a scandal involving a small time model.

I have even tried killing myself, twice.

I am struggling every day just so that I can eat two meals every day.

And last night, as I was dropping off to sleep, I saw her again. She was standing near the bed, this time wearing a black chiffon saree, face covered as usual.

I immediately turned on the light. She was gone.

I sat up in bed the whole night, wondering what more she could want from me.

The Secret Life of Gautam Mengle

It is funny how one can feel the strangest of urges in the unlikeliest of situations. Crouched behind a pillar to avoid getting shot, palms closed over the butt of his Glock 9mm pistol, the urge suddenly hit Gautam ‘Loco’ Mengle like a bullet in the head.

It had nothing to do with his current situation. Indeed, Loco had no idea why that particular urge should come to him while he was engaged in a firefight with an out-of-control junkie inside a subway. However, there it was, bursting within him, begging for fulfillment.

Loco didn’t even flinch as the junkie sent another steam of automatic fire his way, taking chunks of plaster out of the pillar he had taken cover behind.

“How the fuck did this guy manage to get hold of an M16?” he wondered as he risked a quick peek. The junkie was slapping a fresh clip in the gun.

“Great, he’s got ammo too,” Loco thought, as he took advantage of the lull to dive behind another pillar, this one a little farther ahead. The move brought him closer to the junkie, and also elicited another stream of gunfire. More plaster fell, but the bullets got nowhere near Loco.

The urge was growing stronger now, and he knew something had to be done about it. Suppressing it was not an option. He did not believe in resisting temptation. Like Lord Henry Wotton in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Loco believed that the only way to get rid of a temptation was to yield to it.

However, there was no way he could yield to this particular temptation without sending ripples of concern among his fellow gendarmes, who could hear every sound he made through their earpieces.

“Die, motherfucker, die!” the junkie screamed as he emptied the clip and crouched behind his own pillar.

Crouched behind the pillar, Loco heard the distinct click of an empty gun followed by another lull in the gunfire. Making another effort to stifle the urge, he swung into action.

Abandoning all cover, he sprang out from behind the pillar and ran straight toward the junkie, who, he could see, was just discarding the empty clip with one hand.

Race against time, Loco thought, focusing on the junkie’s left elbow, which was jutting out from behind the pillar. The way it was moving told Loco that he was fishing for another clip. He ran harder. The urge grew stronger.

The elbow stopped moving, and then disappeared behind the pillar. The junkie had found the clip and was now sliding it into place. He cocked and loaded the automatic rifle and swung around to his right, just as Loco dove to his left, rolled ahead and came to a stop on his knees right beside him.

“So clichéd,” Loco said. The junkie spun around, straight into the barrel of Loco’s Glock.

“So dead,” Loco added and fired two shots into the side of the junkie’s head, who went down like a log of wood.

“He’s down,” Loco said into the tiny microphone mounted on his wrist.

“Yeah, we heard,” a gendarme replied. “Nice finish.”

“Nice line, too,” said another.

His job done, Loco pressed a button to stop transmitting from the microphone. Then, he sat down near the dead body. He could resist no longer.

Throwing his head back, he started laughing. Funny how you can get the strangest of urges at the most unlikeliest of times.

Nothing Like The Real Thing

I’m sure it didn’t hurt, did it? When you so casually kicked me out of your life, I bet you didn’t feel the slightest amount of pain, remorse or sadness.

I stuck with you for 22 years, and never once complained about anything. In spite of your neglect, even your indifference, I was happy to do your dirty work for you, and trust me, it was indeed dirty work. If you think it wasn’t, try taking my place for a day.

Yet, I was there, always, whenever you needed me, without a thought for myself. Think back and tell me, when was I ever not there for you?

How was I to know that you would one day discard me like an old shoe, my only fault being imperfection? You, with all your faults and fallacies, have the damn gall to separate me from yourself because I’m not flawless?

And whose fault is it, pray tell me, that I’m not perfect today? Mine? Certainly not. It was you who always took me for granted. If you had been a little more considerate back when all the trouble between us began, I wouldn’t be lying here today, broken and lonely.

Believe me, it was never my intention to be a bother. But what happened all those years ago was beyond my control. It was your responsibility to set it right, and you know that as well as I do. But you chose instead to turn a blind eye, and were content to think that our problems would go away if you didn’t look at them.

And look where it has led. A beautiful association of 22 years has culminated in such a brutal separation. And all because you thought you were too good for me.

How could you? That is what really I want to ask. Not whether it hurt, not if it was bothersome, but how on earth could you do this to me?

But you won’t forget me, I’m telling you. Even though I’m gone, we both know that I’ve left behind a chasm, rather a gaping wound which you won’t forget. Oh, maybe it’ll heal, but what I’m talking about is the memories I’ll leave behind.

Even if you do find someone who might eventually take my place, you will never forget me. Because I, Mr. Perfectionist, am the original; and anyone else you get to do my job will be little more than a replacement, a substitute, a cheap imitation.

So go on. May you always be happy and successful in your life. I want you to know that I only wish the best for you, even though I feel a deep resentment towards you for the way you have betrayed me. I’m prepared to part ways sensibly, if not lovingly, even as I lie here in five pieces. Yes, five.

I can still visualize you, sitting back in that comfortable chair, feeling no pain whatsoever, while I was being yanked away from you, disconnected from the man who was my purpose, the very reason for my existence. I was being torn apart, and you were blissfully unaware of it, under the influence of that hated drug.

But always remember, a real tooth is a real tooth. It was me who helped you crunch all those nuts and chew all those bones with great relish, and no fake tooth, however superior in quality, is going to be quite like me. Because, and who better to know this but a perfectionist like you, there is nothing like the real thing.


-- Dedicated to my Dentist, as it was on her Dental Chair, getting my tooth pulled out, that I got the inspiration for this one, while she was tussling with a particularly stubborn root.

You can't battle bad weather and personal demons

Somebody once said that the past never leaves you. Take it from me, guys and gals; somebody wasn’t lying through his teeth. You might bury the shit in your past as deep as you possibly can, and place a tombstone on top to ensure the completion of the burial, but one way or the other, it’s gonna slide its filthy tentacles outta the grave to enclose you in its slimy grip.

When my parents separated, I clung to a vague belief that it was only temporary, and that one day things would be fine again. That belief was shattered when I learnt they were legally divorced. But I was…what, five?...at that time, and grew up promising myself I’d one day unite them, which was a beautiful dream until we, that is my mom and me, learnt that my father had remarried and had a kid from his second marriage.

I had a sister!

Half-sister, my mom never failed to remind me. Step-sister.

The separation was complete when mom married my step-dad in ’96. Game over, case closed, zip up your fly.

Or not.

Dad, who used to visit us occasionally, stopped doing that after mom married step-dad. Understandable. But I couldn’t let go. I kept missing him, wrote and called him at times, without my step-dad’s knowledge, of course.

That stopped gradually, as I tried to subtract from my life the memories, the ever-present influence of the man who had given me life, and then done his best to ruin it. I couldn’t. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I’m still weak.

Life was hell. I was trying to burn the bridges between dad and me on one hand, and trying to bridge the gap between step-dad and me on the other, who I desperately wanted to accept so that my life could be complete again. I was a fool.

I saw dad next when, after a disagreement, I ran away from the place I still continue to call my home. After spending one of the loneliest nights of my life on the streets, I went to dad. I knew he would understand. And he did. Sometimes, I think he was the only one who really understood me. I spent a week with him before coming back.

The past reared its ugly head once again last week, when after my exams, my mom and I went on a long overdue vacation. A mother-and-son thing. She told me some more things about him. Things I hadn’t known before, and which I could have done without knowing.

She also told me he was dead.

My father died four years ago after a short illness, which was the last time i saw him, sick and feeble on the hospital bed. How and when exactly, I don’t know. But he’s been gone the last four years, and nobody thought I deserved to know. And now he’s no more, leaving so many questions unanswered, so many things unsaid.

And I don’t really know how to react.

The past week offered little opportunity to sit and think. But now that I have the time on my hands to think about it, it’s slowly sinking in. He’s gone. He’s no more. He’s dead.

I feel an irrational sense of betrayal. I feel immense grief. I feel so lonely. And so angry at the way I was kept in the dark about this for four years.

And I realize that I’d never really succeeded in forgetting him.

Now that he’s gone, I wonder if I’ll finally be able to free myself. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of his memories, his influence.