A Plate of Rice

“He’s a wise little boy.”

The words uttered by the wrinkled old man sailed across the entrance of the compartment, staving off the oncoming gush of wind that was blowing in as the train furiously glided through a narrow bend in the tracks.

I was lost in thought, having surrendered to the stifling heat which nevertheless demanded beads of sweat as humiliating evidence of its influence. The old man pointed, and I followed the direction of his finger.

Next to the entrance at the other end of the compartment was a small boy. Given the opportunity of a bath and a visit to the tailor, the kid would have looked charming. Presently looking like any other street urchin, dressed in a dirty, yellowish white banyan that exposed his pencil thin arms, his face was pockmarked with dirt stains that did nothing to diminish the self-assured, arrogant look that he wore. With silky black hair that flopped onto his forehead, he seemed happy as he leaned against the compartment wall.

The Armchair Soldier

It is possible that Satish Gupta did not think of ‘The Armchair Soldier’ that evening, as his Chevrolet Cruze purred up the driveway of the plush hotel. After all, it was a story his communist-hating grandfather had told him several decades earlier. Besides, the lady in the passenger seat had his full attention. 

 

The Hyatt Hotel had over the years swung open its electronic glass doors to countless couples, but none might have matched the beauty that Esha Gupta radiated that evening. Dressed in the royal blue salwar that her aunt had hand-picked for this occasion, the 24 year old nursing graduate knew her husband had been floored. But he was charming enough to not show it too blatantly. 

 

The Silver Atlas

Without crumpling his neatly pressed black suit, Butler Meyers managed to place the last set of champagne glasses on the entrance table and entered the dining hall, where a contemplative Mr. Anthony D’Souza was peering at the mountain side from behind the thick, reinforced life size glass window.

“All ready, sir. The guests are getting dressed now, and will be down for dinner shortly.”

The owner of the freshly burrowed enclave turned around, and flashed a pleasant smile.

“Thank you, Meyers. You have performed your duties this weekend brilliantly.”

The butler smiled. “And you’ve still overpaid me, sir.” He bowed and took his leave.

The prematurely retired scientist turned back his attention to the mountain side, which was presently filled with deeply overcast skies that turned a murkier shade of dark blue by the minute.

The worst hurricane in the history of North America, the CNN anchor had predicted earlier that morning. His British counterpart was instead directing viewers’ attention towards devastating earthquakes in Asia.

10 Treasures of A Happy Childhood

Lately I've been gaining weight like the Library of Congress gains books. Which has, sadly, made me transition from the right to left side of a Loreal Anti Aging Poster.

In a bid to combat the increasingly worrying queries from relatives who are considering turning my future hunt for a bride into a nail biting, almost impossible sounding reality show, I've decided to seek refuge in the past.

Like most of you, I've been blessed by God Almighty with a wonderful childhood. Or, cynically speaking, I was allowed to experience what pure bliss felt like, before having to face the other, murkier end of the spectrum.

So I've decided to list down the ten biggest influences, memories, relics, moments - or in short, treasures - of my childhood. It would serve you well to keep in mind that I was born and brought up in Qatar, as an NRI kid. Just saying, don't expect 'Milking the cow' to be in the list.

So without much further ado, allow me to take you down memory lane. Perhaps you've had similar fond memories as well...

Vote for A Short Story

After countless short stories and articles being posted, it's finally time for an announcement.

I've been shortlisted as a finalist for the 1st Indireads Short Story Contest, held to select the best short stories in 4 genres from South Asia. Now that I've been shortlisted, the best short story will be decided by voting.

This is where your help comes in. I've come to believe that over the years there are about a handful of secret readers of this blog. If that belief is valid, then you must be reading this right now. Well, I need a favor.

Click on the link here, read my story, and if you deem it worthy, vote for it. The winner of this contest will get a book contract, which means I finally have the means to fulfill my life long dream!

Here's to hoping for success. And your cooperation. Thanks!

Chasing Parisa

“Woah!”

I grabbed the phone from Varun’s hands before he could react. Holding it tightly, I stared at the picture, feeling envy growing within me.

“How the hell – so it’s true, huh?” I said, trying to sound casual.

Varun’s face turned a shade red as he tried not to blush.

I looked at the photo again and let out a low whistle. She was beautiful. It was a picture of a girl in her early twenties, who was facing slightly off camera, with her hand in the air as she perhaps tried to stop the photo from being taken. She had fair, creamish complexion, and her thin, red lips curved upwards, causing his cheeks to swell lightly. Combined with the slight reflection of her thin long nose, she looked almost angelic. Serene, I thought.

The 18th Man - Chapter One

The 18th Man is India's first online serialized novel. A chapter will be posted on the Facebook page www.facebook.com/the18thman every Friday and Tuesday at 6 P.M. IST. The following is the first chapter of the novel, which is technically a science fiction thriller.

New York City, 11 : 13 P.M.

Arthur Wallace took a deep breath and opened the door. He sighed in relief. The alarm didn’t go off. Now only if the next three doors were just as easy.

Tiptoeing across the tiled floor of the bank’s back office, Arthur reached another, far more imposing door. He would have to break the lock in under five minutes. He glanced at his watch. Damn it, just over half an hour left.

As beads of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the frigid air conditioning, Arthut Wallace’s mind was racing. The fingers were stubby, he thought angrily. And he was pretty sure the ears weren’t as sharp as they should have been. Thankfully though, the legs seemed to compensate. Yes, he thought, surprisingly fast legs.

I Write, Therefore I Am

I can't remember how it all began. It's like trying to trace the beginning of a dream. The first real recollection I have of the reading part of it all, is rummaging through a drawer in my sister's room till I stumbled upon a copy of one of Enid Blyton's books. I don't remember the name of the book, though the funny British phrases in it are still familiar. After that, it sort of just began cascading. I borrowed my first book from my school library in 5th Grade (an abridged version of Dr. Jekyl & Mr. Hyde). Soon, I was reading books on a regular basis. Abridged versions of The Count of Monte Cristo, novels of Sherlock Holmes, even a few Agatha Christie and R. K. Narayan's Malgudi Days.

But I discovered my skill of writing quite unexpectedly. It was during an after school special class on Public Speaking in which a teacher of mine asked a student to speak about elephants. That just set off a chain of images in my head. Images of an elephant named Jumbo, living with fellow elephants in a jungle in Africa. They had a wonderful system, and encountered travelling elephants who mentioned the terror caused by a man named Veerappan. That was, in essence, my first short story.

Mr. & Mrs. Sampath

Ram Sampath folded the day’s copy of the Times of India, sighing deeply as he did so. The stream of sun light flooding into the living room through the open window illuminated his creased face, revealing the pensiveness he felt. He sighed once again.

Nirbhaya had just died.

It made him feel angry, reading the reports over and over again. The media had done all they could to milk the story, that was for sure. But the fact remained – the girl had died a miserable death at the hands of scoundrels.

Mr. Sampath finally shook the thought from his mind when his wife entered the hall and placed two plates on the dining table. “Breakfast is ready,” she said softly. He watched as she walked back into the kitchen. Dressed in a light, red saree with its end casually tied around her waist, she looked beautiful, even seven years after marriage. With his eyes lingering on her pale, soft cheeks, Ram Sampath secretly thanked God for blessing him with such a beautiful wife.

He had no idea then, but a week later, Mrs. Sampath would be at a police station, weeping as the sympathetic inspector registered a case of attempted rape…

The General's Exercise

Retired General Joginder Singh opened his eyes on March 12th, 2013. He’d closed them almost six years ago. As expected, it set of a chain of events, starting with the nurse in his room dashing to alert the on duty doctor, and culminated in a primly dressed lawyer sitting in front of him, brimming with excitement.

“Good morning General,” Ranvir Kapoor said reverently. It’d been far too long since he’d uttered those words.

The general, wearing a mask that silently pumped oxygen into his body, nodded his head, too tired to utter the reply. He was still weak.

Ranvir Kapoor adjusted the set of papers resting on his lap, and thought about the best way to breach the topic. “General,” he started carefully, “the doctors couldn’t give me a definite answer about whether you’ve regained…full memory?”

Beneath the plastic mask a slight smile formed. The 62 year old General could remember everything vividly.

No Country For Ambulances

Something happens to Chennai at around 6 in the evening. As though someone rang a giant school bell over the city, students, workers, teachers, parents and kids dash out onto the street, and simultaneously rush home. And like most people, I ended up in the passenger seat of a car, peering out at the endless pair of glowing red backlights in front of us.

Just as I was about to rant about the traffic, a faint wail caught my ear. I strained for a moment, until it became louder. An ambulance siren. My friend glanced at the rear view mirror and chuckled, perhaps more out of sympathy than apparent sadism. “That guy is screwed,” he remarked.

The Quickest Way To Jail

It was a clear Friday morning, with the clouds chivalrously concealing the sun, helping bring down the boiling temperature for as long as possible. With an extra spring in my steps, I settled down in front of my laptop. For those of you who are unacquainted with this ritual, let me explain. Since starting Laptop Diary as a blog, my laptop and I have had several interactions. Who says machines don’t have a heart?

Me: A splendid morning to you, Tosh!

Toshiba: (absentmindedly) I’ve told you, I don’t like that nickname. Toshiba is my surname. My actual name is Satellite L755.

Me: Fine, fine Tosh, don’t get worked up over that. Say, what are you busy reading anyway?

[Toshiba minimizes the Google Chrome page before I can glance at it...]
Me: (mischievously) Ah…what were you looking at?

Toshiba: (curtly) Let’s not go there, alright? I still have last week’s web history saved…

Me: (hastily) Right, anyways, back to work now. I’ve made a new resolution, Tosh!

A Big Lesson From A Little Girl

By now everyone in the household was familiar with my vacation routine. Establishing base at the computer table, systematically emptying soft drink cans, conducting marathon viewing sessions of Big Bang Theory. It was standard protocol.

On a perfectly relaxed, lazy Saturday morning, while the kitchen was bustling with breakfast preparations, I was perched next to the computer, staring at uTorrent like a compulsive horse race gambler, willing my precious downloads to perform better. Just then a call rang out.

Paging Musthafa, please report to the bedroom.

I sighed, knowing perfectly well what the situation was. My two year old niece Zara had burst into tears, apparently traumatized at being denied permission to venture out into the hot sun. And since all hands were on deck in the kitchen, it was up to me to pacify the little girl.

Children At The Diner

The fan blades creaked around,
lazily following the routine,
as bartenders and drunkards swooned,
soaking their blood in whisky and rum.

None moved, for none thought,
about dreams, hopes and desires.
With souls chained to beer bottles.
They drowned out their remaining hours.

Twenty Minutes to Sun Rise

The first time I saw Athirapally water falls, the sequence unfolded in surreal fashion. Walking down the wooden pathway that rises steady and then comes to steep downward slope, the trees surrounding the pathway suddenly parted, bringing into view the entire panoramic shot of the waterfall leaping off the cliffs. As though nature had invited me to walk through the tunnel and into its version of a hallowed football stadium. The sound of water rushing over rocks rumbled across the air, non chalantly assuming the duty of providing a sound track for my moment of epiphany.

Borrowed Love

The residents of Apoorva Colony flung open their windows, welcoming in the cool morning breeze as children rushed from bathrooms, dodging mothers yells while pulling on clothes and combing their hair quickly. Before the morning sun had firmly entrenched itself in the sky, nestled between thick white clouds, the streets were crawling with people, talking animatedly as they walked towards the nearby park.

Large wooden beams had been erected the previous evening, along with banners and silk tables clothes, adorning the previously bare green park with countless stalls and counters. The annual bake sale was about to begin, and if the warm caramel smell wafting through the air was any indicator, it would be bigger success than last year.

Walking through the crowds, along the paved sidewalk, beneath the foliage of trees was Ananya Mohan, her pale face occasionally illuminated by meek rays of sunlight. Her long, thin nose, creamish high cheek bones and angular jaw seemed to have aged rapidly over the past few days, leaving her with a face that seemed to inflate her actual age.

Letter To My 14 Year Old Self

Dear 14 Year Old Me,

I know this might sound weird, but this letter is being written by your 20 Year Old version. Now, don't mock me, I'm serious. I know of everything that's going to happen to you from now till....well, now (my now - the-6-year-in-the-future-now - try to keep up). Alright, alright, don't close your Hotmail yet! I have proof. First off, the Geography project your struggling to complete right now? The good news is, Lakshmi Ma'am wont collect it tomorrow. You and all your friends are going to have till Sunday to complete it. Happy?

Good, then pay attention to me. It's not often that you get to read a letter from your future self, so better make the best of it. There's so much I want to tell you. First things first. Those pimples? Chill, they'll go away on their own. I'm serious! I couldn't believe it myself! But they do. Within two years, all of them are just gonna fade away, though if you do use that product Mom bought last weekend, your suffering will be extended by a few months.

The Wrong Kind of Pandit

A few months ago, there was a Youtube video that went viral. Not just in the conventional sense. By viral, I mean, crazy viral. It gathered a grand total of about 167 million views. To put that in perspective, one of the leading rock bands in the world, Coldplay, released their latest single Paradise, to approximately 18 million views.

A 14 year old girl from California, USA, had done the unthinkable. Or so I thought. Until my lazy internet finished buffering the Youtube video.

The Motorcyle Diaries

About an year ago, I watched The Motorcyle Diaries. The movie was well made, showing the true story of Ernesto 'Che' Guevara and Alberto Granado's journey through Latin America on a spluttering motorcycle. I watched it, appreciated it, and forgot about it.

Today, I visited the wiki page of The Motorcycle Diaries, and felt spellbound. Ernesto Guevara and his friend covered more than 8,000 miles in the span of nine months. They covered almost the whole of South America, passing through Argentina, Chile, Ecuador, Columbia, Venezuela, Panama and Miami.

Searching For The 'Unicorn'

I lost belief a long time ago. Most around me have. None of us ever discuss about it. It's like the myth of the 'Unicorn'. Dazzling, beautiful...but it doesnt happen in real life.

They've documented it in movies, books, music videos. There are entire T.V. shows that capture the feel of the myth. But at the end of the day, you'll never see a 'Unicorn' in your life. It doesnt exist.

Whenever I watch a movie dealing with friendship, I chuckle, knowingly allowing myself to get immersed in the narrative. Like the mature guy who lets his compulsively lying friend narrate yet another tall tale of adventure. But at the end of it, like everyone else, I clear my head and walk away. The 'Unicorn' doesnt exist.