मेरो मन अनत कहाँ सुख पावे

आज ना जाने क्यों हिंदी में लिखने का मन हो उठा।  शायद पुराना समय याद करते करते यह भी याद आया की एक वक़्त अंग्रेजी परायी हुआ करती थी।  IIT  कानपुर मे एक मैगजीन छपती है Meander।  पहली बार उसमें हिंदी में ही लेख लिखा था और कमाल देखिये वह पसंद भी किया गया।  कुछ दिनों बाद अपना ब्लॉग लिखना शुरू किया पर जीवन जैसे आगे बढ़ा अंग्रेजी की प्राथमिकता आने लगी ।  

अगर आपको लग रहा है की मैं यह लेख अपने हिंदी प्रेम के लिए लिख रहा हूँ तो ऐसा नहीं है।  मैं तो सिर्फ जीवन के कुछ पुराने दिन फिर जीना चाहता हूँ।  अभी डीएम दार्जिलिंग के राजसी घर में बैठा हूँ पर जाने  क्यों याद आता है उस छोटे से शहर का वो घर जहाँ माँ सर्दियों की धूप में बाहर बैठाकर हिंदी पढ़ाया करती थी।  माँ हिंदी की टीचर है और इसी साल रिटायर होगी।  

क्या भूलूँ क्या याद करूँ की तर्ज़ पर बहुत सारे ख्याल समय और स्थान की सीमाओं को तोड़ते हुए चले आ रहे हैं।  दादी की गोद में सुनी हुई वो लोरी और वो कहानियाँ , वो समय जब जीवन माँ से शूरु होता था और माँ पर ही खत्म और फिर युवावस्था में इंजीनियरिंग के लिए कोचिंगों के चक्कर।  

वो दिन याद है जब IIT में सिलेक्शन हुआ पर उसके बाद IIT में पढाई की जगह याद है पीसीओ की वो लम्बी लाइन जिसमें पांच मिनट फ़ोन करने के लिए घंटों खड़े रहना पड़ता था।  यह भी याद आता है की उन दिनों हम लेटर लिखा करते थे (जो अभी भी घर के किसी कोने में पुराने एलबम्स की तरह पड़े हैं)।  आज के मोबाइल इंटरनेट और सोशल मीडिया में रचे बसे लोग वो दिन शायद ही समझ पायें।  आईएएस में सिलेक्शन के बाद वो दिन याद हैं जब सेलिब्रिटी की तरह महसूस होता है।  उतनी ख़ुशी तो शायद जीवन में कम ही नसीब होती है।   

जीवन में सपने तब भी थे, सपने अभी भी हैं।  दुनिया देखनी है, पढ़ना है, संगीत सुनना है, सीखना है, ग़ालिब, फैज़ और मीर जैसे शायरों को समझना है, शायद लिखते भी रहना है।  कुछ सपने शुरू से ही आँखों में हैं पर कुछ नए हैं।  इस बात पर ग़ालिब का यह शेर कैसे भूल सकता हूँ 

‘हज़ारों ख्वाहिशें ऐसी की हर ख़्वाहिश पे दम निकले 

बहुत निकले मेरे अरमान फिर भी कम निकले’ 

आप में से कई लोगों ने Ship of Theseus मूवी देखी होगी।  इसका नाम एक फिलोसोफी के सिद्धान्त पर है की अगर एक नाव के धीरे धीरे कुछ पाटे  बदलें जाएँ और एक समय बाद अगर नाव में कोई भी पुराना पटरा  ना हो तो क्या वो वही नाव रहेगी या पूरी तरह से नयी हो जाएगी।  मैं वही हूँ के बदल गया हूँ इस बात का जवाब आसान नहीं होगा।  

आज ये लिखते हुए शिव कुमार बटालवी की यह पंजाबी नज़्म याद आ जाती है  

'किन्नी बीती ते किन्नी बाकी है, मैनु एहो हिसाब लै बैठा'

आपने अगर इसे नहीं सुना है तो तुरंत youtube पर इसे जगजीत की आवाज़ में सुनें।  जीवन के कई मलालों में सबसे बड़ा मेरे लिए जगजीत को कभी लाइव नहीं सुन पाना रहा है।  

जीवन भी विचित्र है और अगर यह समझ में आ जाये की इसे क्या चाहिए तो समझिए आधी समस्या का समाधान हो गया।  मैंने अपने काम और जीवन को अपने ब्लॉग से अलग रखने का निर्णय लिया था पर आज ऐसा लगा की कुछ दिल की बात भी लिखनी चाहिए।  बचपन में गांधी जी की जीवनी पड़ता था, उसमें उन्होंने सूरदास की ये दो पंक्तियाँ हैं और मुझे अपनी स्थिति भी आज ऐसी ही महसूस होती है: 

‘मेरो मन अनत  कहाँ सुख पावे 

जैसे उडी जहाज को पंछी पुनि जहाज पे आवे’ 

Rest in Peace

Sleep eluded him even tonight.

It had been twelve days but the picture of that girl was clear in his mind. She would have been only seventeen or eighteen, and had piercing eyes. She was not beautiful but there was something strange in her face. It was without any facial expressions but she looked sad.  

Death came to her by hanging. She was found dead in her bedroom and her husband who reported it first. All this was mentioned in the post-mortem report. It was there he had seen her picture for the first time.

He had seen her dead body too, but he hardly recalled that. Faces change after suicide, and moreover before he entered the morgue, he got himself fully drunk. How else can one withstand the disfigured dead bodies and then tear them to do this work? People think post-mortem is done by some forensic expert, but they hardly give five minutes to this job; it is actually done by Doms of the morgue.  

He had never imagined that some obscure little girl could disturb his peace. He had doubled his alcohol, but it hardly helped. Initially he lost his sleep but now there were hallucinations too. At times this girl came in the morning and accompanied him to the morgue. She was always quiet and sad but she never looked at his face.  Whenever he tried to ask reason for that, she was gone. There were voices too, but he hardly listened to those.

‘It must be that ring.’ He thought to himself.

 The girl was wearing a diamond ring when her body was brought to the morgue and he had quietly slipped it into his pocket. Her finger was stiff as stone and he had to struggle hard to take that out. What use would that ring be in the grave?

‘I should have sold it that day itself. She might have been fond of this ring and that is why she is bothering me.’ He murmured.

He never believed in ghosts. A person who spends more time with dead bodies than with living beings has hardly any fear left. These dead bodies had taught him that living beings that sent these bodies to the morgue were more dangerous than souls. This time also it was not fear, but a poignant feeling; something told him that the soul of this girl was not at peace.

She was not going to leave him like that. Today was thirteenth day after her death and he decided to settle the matter. He quietly left the house and started for the graveyard. The night was darker than soot but he had no trouble in finding his way. For him graveyard was like some deserted old city. It had concrete structures which were never repaired, there were trees growing all over the place and all this followed no pattern. He found it inviting in a way.

No one noticed him as he entered the graveyard. He had to struggle hard not to step his feet on any of the graves. He did not care while he tore through dead bodies, but that was his work; he could not insult those who lay here in eternal sleep. There was an eerie silence and the only sound he could hear was his feet crushing dead leaves.

 ‘Why should a soul be so concerned about a ring?’ He thought to himself. He had stolen things from dead bodies before, and no soul had bothered him.

‘Here you greedy woman, take this ring, and leave me alone.’ He would reach her grave and tell her to settle the matter straight. He practised in his mind all what he would say.

Suddenly he noticed that she was walking with him.  Silently, she accompanied him to her grave. A large marble tombstone had been placed there. The epitaph read:

Here lies our beloved Mehrunnisa; a lovable wife, dutiful daughter-in-law and a perfect human being. She left us for her heavenly abode but her memories remain with us to cherish for all our lives.

May her soul rest in peace.

‘Your family really loved you. I saw that your husband was inconsolable after your death. ’ He squatted next to her grave and initiated the discussion. For the first time her expressions changed.  He took it as a sign to continue.

‘After your dead body was taken from morgue, I went to your place. I somehow felt that it was my duty to participate. Everyone was sad. You must have been really lucky to find in-laws like that. You had everything in this world. How could a girl like you commit suicide?’ His last question was more a statement of fact. Tears started rolling from his eyes.

‘You know my wife gave birth to dead baby girl. I have always felt that vacuum in my life. She would have been your age.’ He started sobbing. After sometime he started again.

‘I went to meet your mother too. She was in a pathetic state. That woman never cried after your death. She silently sat for hours staring at blank and then suddenly spoke at length. She told me strange things. Once she said that she was extremely happy when you were married four months back. You know she even showed me your wedding robe.’ He took a deep breath as if to recollect what all had to be said.

‘Then she started crying and said that it was her fault she did that. She probably lost her mind. She kept on saying that you were killed. Poor lady, what would she know?’ He said as if explaining it to himself.

A cool wind blew and he shivered in his torn coat. This was his first sense of bodily discomfort after a long time and he felt relieved at that.   

‘No, I did not talk about your pregnancy. It would have increased her woes. There are some secrets which should go in the grave. ’

After this he took a long pause. What was he trying to explain? He had not done anything wrong. Yes, he had stolen a ring but why should it matter. There were people who committed greater sins and no soul bothered them. He had an urge to walk away from the graveyard but her eyes told that she expected something more.

‘Why do you want to know; Yes, I have seen your post-mortem report, you committed suicide. I am not saying this; I only mentioned what was written in that report.’ He felt that she was not convinced.

‘Yes, I had seen injury marks on your body. You might have fallen somewhere and developed those. I know one does not develop cigarette burns by falling but we are not required to go into the details; we only establish the cause of death. I showed them to the Coroner but he confirmed you hanged yourself to death?’ He turned his face to avoid her eyes. He was feeling suffocated there and took a deep breath.

‘Here, take this ring and leave me alone.’  Although it was dark, the diamond sparkled at her grave. He buried his face in his palms and started crying. When his tears dried, he started in an accusatory tone.

‘That day when you were buried, I overheard your neighbours. No, I was not interested; everyone was talking about it. There were hushed voices that you killed yourself because there was something you were ashamed of; really ashamed. Is it necessary that I should say that? Only if you insist; they said you were carrying someone else’s child. They had tears in their eyes but they mischievously smiled when they said that. They even said that you were pregnant when you got married four months back. …….. I am not blaming you, it was what people said.’ When he lifted his head, she was gone.

He waited there expecting she would come back. The girl would have been hurt but there was no reason why he should not have told her. It was she who had started bothering him. The voices in his head told many tales but only he had the right to decide what he spoke.  

When she did not come back, he started feeling a pain. It started as a small tinge but soon he had a heavy load on his heart. He desperately tried to look for her in the graveyard and even tried to dig her grave. The first rays of dawn pierced through the night and it appeared that everything was coming to an end. He felt that he would go mad and he started screaming her name.

‘Mehrunnissa please forgive me; you cannot go without relieving me of this load. I was the one who took your husband to the Coroner. I am a poor man and I do not know what happened next. I was drunk. It was your husband who gave a lot of money to the Coroner. I took only a pittance.’

 ‘Mehrunnisa I would not have done that had I known. I had a feeling that there was foul play in your death. I even told the Coroner that age of foetus was not more than three months. It was he who wrote your cause of death. It was he who wrote that your foetus was six months old. Mehrunnisa……… please………. relieve me of this load.’

A Sincere Insult!

Dear Facebook friend,  

  I had forgotten your existence and hardly spared you a thought but now when you display your life on my Facebook wall, I should tell you that you are the rightful owner of the Biggest Moron Award. I am not candid enough to tell this on your face but I hope you will get my sincere insult (do not blame yourself if you don’t, some people still have chimpanzee’s brain due to evolution’s fault). Though we have virtually known each other for years, I should tell you that my area of interest is finding faults and you will learn it now:

1. Stop sending Candy Crush requests: I know you do not do this by intent but games like Candy Crush thrive on the dumbness of your likes. They can use your account to spread such requests and I hate to learn that you just mowed a farm and Mr. Dick, Tom and Harry settled in neighborhood . I doubt I am surrounded by idiots and your actions reinforce my ideas.

2. Spend a penny, stop sharing philanthropic hoax: Let me tell you once and for all, Facebook never, let me repeat, Facebook never ever donates a penny when you share that picture of kid which an ailing heart. It is time to grow up; being in my friend list proves that you might have an iota of intellect. If you do not trust me, trust Google God and check before sharing any hoax. Start donating a penny from your pocket when you get that philanthropic pang, did anyone ever tell you that there is no free lunch.

3. Pictures of God may not bring fortune: I know that you share a special bond with God (he ensured that you exist in my friend list) but please stop sharing that picture of God with a threat. Fortune is not related to Facebook likes so have the courage to ignore something that originated from your friend with similar IQ. Leave God in peace, try posting a selfie instead.

4. Please bring that Miraculous Snake to home: I know we live in the land of blessed and that snake with seven heads is actually Seshnag. I also accept that you never doubt its existence but I have been dying to see it live, bring it home and I would give it the respect it deserves; just spare my Facebook wall. I have seen this picture a zillion times before; guess what, you got competition in claiming that Moron reward.

5. Ms. Unknown Entity, I hope you have a name: Dear friend, I know your parents (at least) loved you and they named you once. I never noticed when rechristened yourself ***Real Double Rebel***. Though I respect your privacy but use your original name and STOP using the picture of Deepika Padukone on your profile. It is an unfair world and I have you instead of Deepika on my friend list. (Pardon my ignorance of Facebook friends, is that really you Deepika? Check your inbox for meeting tonight)

6. Leave your Keyboard, embrace real Revolution: I know that revolution is not far and people around you are too engaged with their mundane lives. But take some rest and prepare for the impending rebellion. Also please continue your intellectual duels about politics and religion on private platforms and spare others. Be gentle to your keyboard and others who are forced to see your posts. Stop being an armchair Facebook revolutionary, join politics instead.

7. You are not that cool, dear selfie addict:  I have seen you in real life and so have many others; you don’t look that great. Stop posting those pouting selfies; they look to be a childish attempt to appear cool. Gone are the days when people found mates through such antics. I know you love yourself but you need a mirror and not my Facebook wall; leave others in peace, your profile picture updates may be the reason of rising depression and nightmares.

8. There is something called diary, dear itinerary updater: I know that you ate yesterday’s dinner at the Taj, I also learnt about the menu (saw that picture of leftover chicken bones on your plate). Now I do not desire to know the route for your morning jog. Respect democracy; do not take disproportionate space on my wall.

9. Something might exist inside your skull, use it before hitting that Facebook like: I know flattery is the biggest virtue but give some exercise to you brain before clicking that like (You got it wrong in childhood, you teacher was talking about conservation of energy, not brain). Last time when someone posted his dad has passed away; you were the only one to hit like button.

10. I am still trying to figure out who you are: Dear uncle, I remember that we met in last wedding and you commented how much I have grown (I am ecstatic after knowing that). Out of respect and family obligations, I accepted your friend request but please stop commenting on all pics. I already know that those are ‘nice pics’ and I have grown up a lot but be more imaginative next time.

11. I am enough envious now, stop sharing your accomplishments: I never doubted your professional competence and I am sure no one ever did. I also know that your organization exists only because of your efforts but don’t you think Facebook is too small to contain the list of your unending achievements. We are enough envious for this life, please do not torment us incompetent souls.

12. It is time to give attention to the real people around: Didn't you give birth to a daughter today (yes, saw her thirty nine pictures that you uploaded). Social media thrives on angel spirited people like you and it is your divine duty to forward but can’t sharing Genius of AB De Villiers may wait for some time. Isn't it time to log off Facebook and give attention to the real people around (You may discover next to you, a bawling newborn).

13. Never before such a happy couple was born: I have seen pictures from your first date and have read those silly poems (they were really silly, in literal sense). I also saw those auto created videos that Facebook designed for stupid people in love. Indeed you never forget wishing birthdays to each other, display gifts and cards and finalize the menu for the day on my wall. It is not cute to share your lovey-dovey conversation all the time. For once but try some communication in real life; it might not be that bad.

Yes my life sucks and I have always been a jerk but wait for some time before removing me from your friend list. Pretend that you are not the person I was talking about. Keep people guessing that you are a fool rather than taking offence and clear all doubts.

                With Love,

An inconspicuous Facebook friend

In Defence of The Great Indian Chamcha!

Image prepared through  http://canva.com &
free images taken from http://pixabay.com

("An entry to the The Great Indian Blogging Contest, as a part of the Apeejay Kolkata Literary Festival 2015.” )

You laughed at me through Times of India’s columns and I bore it with grace. You made fun of me at Stand Up comedies and I did not utter a thing. But today, when you try to mock me through a blogging contest, it is time to show you the truth. Let me state it loud and clear and let it be known once and for all, I am better than all of you.

If Charles Darwin was alive today, he would label me a perfect example of adaptability. I can align myself with my master at ease. I can love Proust or Chetan Bhagat, Ghalib or Yo Yo Honey Singh and Game of Thrones or Saas Bahu tele-soaps in the same breath. I can tear them into pieces too. Do you know I even have an extra organ? Yes, Mother Nature favored me and gave a hidden tail. I wag it whenever my master wishes and my adulation are perfectly communicated. I have special spine too; it does not have any bone. I can bend backwards and crawl at master’s will.

When I was small, my teacher decided to explain investments. She preached investing on education & skill and blabbered about honor, virtue. I told her how good she was and became her pet from that day; no one ever managed better marks than me. Nothing was more remunerative than investing on powerful people. They told a man was known by his company and I was never seen with failed people. I followed successful men and moved on when there was a better alternative.

One day I woke up early, brushed my teeth and kept my self-respect in a ceramic bowl. I crushed it into tiny pieces, garnished with my pride and swallowed it deep. It has disappeared ever since and I never suffer pangs of self-esteem like you all do.

My dedication cannot be compared. I know the taste of master’s toothpick, I love aroma of his spittoon and can tell you the number of his shoes. They say there is a woman behind every successful man but I am the real reason for master’s success. Master was doing reasonably well but he was labelled as successful only when I swarmed around him. Once when my master was low, I took out my pump and inflated his ego. I pumped it hard and long and today it puts even a leviathan to shame. Master used to have doubts but I knew fault lied with the mirror master possessed. Now, master sees himself only through me and he has never been so cocksure.

And did you dare think I have an easy job at hand? The number of aspiring Chamchas increases daily like the ‘likes’ on a beautiful girl’s Facebook pic. There is intense competition and one has to be the best in business.

You still doubt I am not superior to you? Let us come to an agreement in that case, I am present in all of you.

  

Over the Seas (Part I)

Guruji gazed at Vastav’s palm, consulted almanacs and made a grim face. Guruji’s scalp was smooth as an ice skating ring. A frown came on his face and he closed his eyes; no one had put him in such doubt. After a long silence when Vastav’s fate hung in balance and everyone doubted if Guruji had actually dozed off, he exclaimed “You will cross seven seas one day!” For a family where generations settled in five mile radii, this was news.

It became a part of family folklore. “We will never let him marry a foreigner.” His mother would tell relatives or “We have strictly told him, he cannot settle abroad.” She would often brief acquaintances. Her face lit with pride when she talked about it. Others reciprocated with ‘we will see to that’ look.

Vastav achieved many things but many others from the neighborhood also did. Like all kids who did not study biology, he became an engineer. Like all engineers, he passed having no idea what course was all about. Not only that, like all his course mates, he managed a job nothing to do with engineering. Everything was as inconsequential as it should be; a decent pay, an idyllic rat race and an unremarkable human being (like all) in that city.

Vastav’s family bore this with difficulty but years passed and he could manage visiting only metro cities. Through distant signs in the beginning and accusations later on, it was made clear that he was not living up to his destiny. He was turning out another humble human being and humility gave no cause for pride of family; worse it never gave rise to envy of relatives.

Vastav decided it was time to please his boss. His boss, like all bosses, worshipped perfection; his idea of perfection was himself. He believed in leading by example and his examples led to himself. Vastav worked like a donkey and smiled at donkey’s work. He brayed with gratitude when his boss patted his back. For some time it appeared Vastav was growing a tail; wagging it helps in perfect communication. He bore humiliations with grace, laughed at his boss’s poor jokes; at times he even rolled on the floor laughing (he never learnt he could write ROFL instead).

His boss asked Vastav if he wished to go abroad and he advised Vastav that he should go abroad but his boss never decided when Vastav will be sent abroad. Vastav tried to convince, cajole and claim but failed. Just when he decided to declare the grapes sour (but dreaded to tell his family so), he was nominated for a foreign training. The place was Amsterdam; even the name sounded beyond seven seas. It was not bad to have a tail!

His family immediately convened a Puja. Not only it took care of celestial concerns, it also provided an announcement platform. All his neighbors, relatives and friends of neighbors and relatives were invited. While Guruji generously distributed blessings, his family increased their awareness about Amsterdam. Kids of the neighborhood learnt that Holland, Netherlands and Shenzhen were almost same.

It took three months to plan for a ten days trip. Amsterdam was a cold place hence he was given clothes to survive at Antarctica. He was given Ayurveda ingredients with ability to keep a naked man warm in freezing cold. His supply of pickles and snacks could last a decade. A friendly neighborhood doctor studied diseases of Netherlands and gave him all medicines just in case.

Vastav’s mother had heard about the missing Malaysian plane and she instructed to inform immediately in case there was a mishap. Apart from tears and hugs, she gave a list of people to bring cheap souvenirs. Her emphasis was on cheap. Being an Indian father, who are men of few words with their son, his father’s only advice was “Avoid talking to strangers.” There was an issue with the Passport but after a processing fee to a tout and a convenience fee to an official, it became a thing of the past.

The real problem came when Vastav’s luggage was pushed through the X-ray scanner. A cacophonous “Beeeeeep, Beeeeeep” disturbed the slumber of entire security of the airport. Partly agitated and partly dreaming of reward for catching hold of a terrorist, they asked Vastav to open his stuff. Vastav took out shampoo sachets and pickles, hair gel and toilet soap and his deodorant and mosquito repellant cream. He then opened clothes folded in neat crease and shaving kit filled with cosmetics. Pockets of his trousers had currency hidden in between. There was a large box full of laddoos. His pressure cooker stuffed with Thepla packets.

The queue behind him grew like a serpent. Vastav opened his medicine bag and all those tablets, potions and bottles were spread on a sheet. After going through the prescription written by his friendly doctor (he carried it, just in case), they declared him a medical miracle. Vastav though had to bear ignominy of discussing bowel issues in a crowded place and they confiscated his large laxative bottle.

Everything else was smooth. Vastav lied on a large couch in the lounge and took three copies of free newspaper. He roamed around the duty free shops and took note of discounts. He also gawked at beautiful girls; the ones you often hear about but hardly see.

The final moment came and Vastav proceeded to board. The airliner was not a conveyance of his dreams. A large air tube had been stuffed by a diligent packer; you wondered so much fit in.  It was wrong to call it cattle class; cattle could not survive in this much space. Vastav maneuvered his way through the aisle while harrowed passengers juggled to place their luggage in overhead cabins.

Vastav was allotted a middle seat in the rear and by the time he reached, all others were comfortably seated. He had a well fed lady on his left with a kind face and a disturbing stare. On his right was a ten year old kid who was glued to his videogame. Kid’s mother gave Vastava a stern look as if she just warded off a pedophile. It needed an effort to get in, and Vastva knew it would need a miracle to get out. It was God’s signal for some bladder training.

The air hostesses were nothing like advertisements. They had a curvaceous body if you treat cylinder as a curve. Some resembled inverted cones. They smiled in a way only airhostesses could and started briefing security instructions; passengers yawned, looked sideways and listened to their earphones. The airhostesses continued their choreographed steps.

Vastav tried to concentrate, who knows when a plane lands at the sea. He had to watch the glowing lights, move towards the exit gate and slide from the wings. He was also supposed to blow jacket kept under his seat (he checked it just to be sure), pull the string and help himself before helping any child. The child sitting next to him stressed him; kid might become an added liability. He had to wear oxygen mask too when it automatically comes down.  

Suppose there was low pressure when plane landed on sea. How could he blow the jacket while wearing oxygen masks? Or what was to be done in case plane crash landed on land instead of sea. He decided to seek clarifications these nuances. There was a button on the top labelled stewardess and it made an amusing sound when he pressed it. He pressed it, waited, and did it again. Nothing happened. The kid next to him found it amusing and started doing it too.

The airhostess did come after an hour but this time it was to serve food. Vastav focused on claiming free liquor advertised in the menu.  It recommended cocktails but when he asked for it, she gave him vodka and lemon juice. “You can easily prepare it” was her curt reply. The Vodka shot was of help and he decided to ask some more. She said she will come back again. The kid spilled his curry on Vastav’s lap. Kid’s mother looked angrily at him and as a habit; Vastav immediately apologized and caressed the kid. The kid continued to nibble his food indifferently.

The airline offered unlimited beverage but he one had to ask unlimited times to get it. After three shots of Vodka, Vastav felt his stomach inflate but getting out of his seat was a challenge. The queue for toilet resembled one at temples on special days. His long cherished dream was finally coming true. He wanted to tell this to someone. The auntie sitting next to him did not appeal. The kid was again hooked to videogame. He looked around and saw an old man chatting with a brunette. The girl was really beautiful. She would have understood how Vastav felt but God had been unkind to him. The auntie next to him started snoring. It was an unfair world.

Vastav decided to catch some sleep instead. He closed his eyes and saw clear blue sky outside. He was passing through large clouds and he could feel fog on his face; he could smell the wind. He was flying on a king sized bed, just like Aladdin.  They were about to put him inside the scanner along with his luggage. His mother reminded him to bring cheap souvenirs. His tail was almost feet long now and his boss loved it. There was a large balloon in his stomach and he needed to pee. The brunette was now sitting next to him. She giggled and they hugged in the cramped washroom. She then shook him real hard.

“Wake up and fasten your seat belt, we will land in fifteen minutes.” A stern looking steward was standing next to him.

To be continued…

PS: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real events or person, living or dead is partly coincidental and partly author‘s inability to veil.  

Farewell Children, May You Find a Better Place!

               My son rides his bicycle, smiling next to me, uttering gibberish. He is singing a rhyme he learnt recently and now he has totally jumbled it. He giggles when he passes by. When he comes again, he notices my stare and looks enquiringly. I hold him in a tight embrace, a tear trickles down unknowingly.

            Somewhere in the land of enemies (or so are we told) hundreds of kids are killed.  

            I try to imagine the assassins. They would have planned it meticulously. Months ago they would have selected target; months ago they would have decided to slaughter these kids. During nights, or in the time of leisure when they not working hard for their chosen deed, they would have been with their family. Did their children recite rhyme in gibberish? Before leaving, would they have kissed their children on forehead, like parents do before dropping wards at school?

          They would have checked their ammunition, lifted their guns and started for school. Would they have carried one bullet for each kid? On reaching school, they would have taken positions, loaded their gun and started firing. Would they have smiled after hitting target? A small skull opened from middle, blood oozing and a white school uniform turning red. Bull’s eye! Bravo!

          I try to calm myself. It is a far far place. What it means to me? My eyes do not relent and tears start tricking in. I curse them from the bottom of my heart. My curse is as sincere as anything can be. I can feel the heaviness of heart of bereaved families. May you rot in hell! If this is religion, no man can have anything to do with it. I feel ashamed to be a fellow human being. We failed you kids, we seriously did. You deserved a better place.   

         My son senses that there is something wrong. He insists on playing with him. This time it is clay castle and I am asked to plan it properly. Trust me son, I will not fail you!