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.