Desicritics Category: Culture: Original Fiction

Fiction: Matched Frequencies

Anurag Dixit — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 07:17:27 EST

“Hey! What happened?” Randeep said to Sushmita with a big smile on his face, entering the class room.

“Uh nothing” She replied with a sigh which meant many things were going in her mind but she was too tired to explain.

“Oh come on I’m not that bad a person. OK listen first of all drink this water…” he said, sitting beside her.

“That’s the problem you are too good.” She interrupted him.

“First of all drink this water and show me that lovely smile of yours. You look pale.”

“Huh ok you and your water hmmm I just hate you.” She said with a smile and punched him on his chest.

“Hmmm… you are tough.” He said and they both laughed and then he became a little serious.

“Sush I just love this sweet smile of yours and I live for all these little happy moments with you.” He continued, putting his hand on her on her shoulder. Now she, the mother of a young daughter, was blushing like a school girl, who was in love for the first time.

She was twenty seven and was trying to convince herself that her married life was perfect and that she could always look beyond the problems until she met Randeep who was seven years younger than her. He was a little shy but both of them shared good chemistry and as they say the frequencies matched.

“And you know what every problem has a solution so why to worry. Hmmm?” He said, almost trying to convince himself.

It was hard for her to accept her own feelings but he told her that it’s not wrong to be happy; to be in love is the most wonderful thing. Now she had decided to be with him but was going through a mélange of emotions.

Fiction: Burn After Viewing (NSFW)

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 13:01:05 EST

====WARNING: NSFW====

The fan made an irritating clucking noise and rotated above the Kalyan Sabha's chief ominously. The fan had been threatening decapitation since the socialist era but the head of the Sabha, Prakash, liked to live dangerously. Everything around him was perched precariously - the journals, the photos of his wife and kids but what were stacked neatly were pictures of semi nude and nude blondes in his mahogany desk drawer. He had cataloged them by year and by the time he masturbated to them in his office. He, after all, liked to live dangerously.

Dangerously enough to masturbate in his office but not stupid enough to have a whore give him a blow job while he fondled her teen boobs and stared hard at Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch bikini. He had an image to maintain. He was the white kurta guy and those in white kurtas never squirted on prostitutes and definitely not on their all male office staff in their not-so-Oval offices. He snickered at his own joke and fingered the key that was safely tucked in his kurta pocket.

Santosh Shrivastav was due any minute but he wanted to see his dolls one last time. He smacked his lips and felt a slight rise in his shriveled penis. Wait for Santosh or take a peek? It was post lunch time and the chaprasi was asleep and the other workers were snoozing in cool rooms in the arms of their paid by the hour beloveds. And he was bored.

He opened the drawer with one hand and held his tool with the other. Just one look. His index finger began to leaf through the stacked pictures. He knew them by heart - blond with small nipples, blond with big nipples, blond with three breasts, blond on blond, horse on blond and ah! his favorite Asian man on blond woman.

He pulled the picture out and smiled. The boy in his pajama smiled as well. He caressed his dong but the knock on the door snatched him back from the exquisite blond in a motel room to his shabby Sabha office.

"Choot!" he muttered, shoved the picture in the drawer, removed his inappropriately placed hand, tied the nala and turned the key on the drawer.

"Come!" he barked at the door. Stupid Shrivastav came at exactly three in the afternoon. Who comes on time? Only morons, he muttered to himself and grabbed one of the journals.

Shrivastav let himself in tentatively. For a man of his sizable girth, he walked lightly with a delicate elephantine gait. Rumor was he was somewhat gay. Unmarried and a bit of a loner. To put it bluntly, macho men made him nervous and he never showed interest in women.

Prakash didn't like him but he seemed to be the most cultured in his coterie of crass well-meaning bumbling workers. He was the only one who had his finger on the pulse of the urban middle class youth. Pansy Shrivastav was right for the job.

Shrivastav fidgeted on the hard wooden chair and his trouser-covered bums itched due to the holes in the woven strings of the chair's seat. Prakash sir seemed to be busy writing. Shrivastav clutched his file close to his chest. He reminded himself for the tenth time not to fold the file. It held important photographs.

Prakash finally emerged from his supposed work and eyed Shrivastav with a lofty eye.

"Yes, Shrivastavji, what do you have for me?" he asked

"Sir! The women have gone wild." He cleared his throat and nearly rolled the file. He took his white perfumed handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his sweaty forehead. They have started a Kali Sena drive against our Kalyan Sabha and here is a picture they have put up to symbolize their fight."

"What is this?" Prakash gasped. "Is that a woman? Is she showing her buttocks?" His tone went up a couple of octaves and Shrivastav felt like a mouse in a lion's den

"Sir---" he tried to speak up but was interrupted by Prakash

"And where is Kali? This thing looks familiar. Where have I seen it before?"

"Sir, I don't know but it gets even worse. They took out another picture making fun of our demand that women stop wearing trousers."

A grim Prakash reached over and stared at the picture.

"Female Ninjas? Is this how they are planning to fight our soldiers on the road? See!" Prakash thrust a stubby index finger against the picture and pinned it against his mahogany table "See! they call themselves the sluttiest Ninjas! We were right! These women need to be taught a lesson."

Shrivastav cleared his throat " Sir, this one is worrisome."

Prakash crossed his arms against his chest and rocked his chair. Sweat dotted Shrivastav's forehead again. It was getting hot in his boss's office.

"The next one they sent to our office." He held the picture close to his chest and his upper lip quivered.

"Show me" Prakash muttered.

Shrivastav's adam apple bobbed.

"Show me!" Prakash barked and Shrivastav handed him the picture.

Prakash stood up abruptly and his chair fell. The sound of metal thumping against the floor made Shrivastav jump and he delicately eased back in his chair while his chief began to stalk the office. Shrivastav's head sank into his chest. It was getting from bad to worse and it wasn't even his fault.

Prakash thundered. "They are telling us they will ambush us with assault rifles. Get in touch with the Home minister and tell him that these renegade women are threatening bodily harm and have AK-47s. Call them now!!"

Shrivastav seemed to fold over his chair. Prakash turned and looked at his quaking worker "What?! Didn't you hear me?"

"Sir! There is more!"

Prakash walked over to Shrivastav. "How many more?!"

Shrivastav whispered. "Only one sir." He kept his head down and handed over the last picture

Silence prevailed as Prakash stared at the picture. Shrivastav croaked "There was a letter with it. It said - we know about Pamela and others."

"Out!"

Shrivastav jumped up and ran for the door. He wanted out. As he opened the door he heard his boss speak to him for the last time for the day.

"No one is to know, Shrivastav. I will have your balls if this gets out!"

He paused, handing back the first three pictures and saying, "Burn these ones."

Shivastav nodded and left the room with a quiet click.

Prakash straightened his chair and sat down. For once, Pam didn't do anything for him.

Love: A Short Story

Desh — Mon, 2 Feb 2009 10:45:04 EST

"Now, drink your milk Sonu!" shouted Reema. Sonu didn't quite like milk so he was pushing it away. Angry at his stubborn-ness she slapped Sonu loud and hard. Uma was standing near the door - she had come to ask for some sugar as usual - and was aghast. "Reema, he is handicapped and still you don't spare him?"

"But that is why he needs the milk!" Reema said in tears. "This milk is not cheap... you know that! It is only for him... He needs the strength in his legs.."

"Haan... that's true.. What does the doctor say?" Uma inquired.

"What will he say.. Its polio.. Its for life now.. " Reema said matter-of-factly. "but Guruji is coming next Sunday. I will make sure we meet him after his Satsang, so he can bless Sonu. His love is very healing. I am sure he will heal Sonu also." Hope was the eternal medicine known to mankind... and it often found its most potent culmination in the faith in divinity, irrespective of its deliverance.

"What is it about the Guruji that takes you all there?" Uma enquired. She was a Tamilian who had been living in Mumbai for a long time. The Chawl complexes make for interesting neighbors. Reema was from UP.

"Our love for him, what else? We love him as he is enlightened and divine." Reema said with a sense of reverence on her face.

"Hmm... I can understand that...." Uma replied and wandered off to her room.

Sunday was a morning of a lot of hustle-bustle. Everyone was on his/her toes. Pandeji, Reema's husband was at the receiving end, as he seemed to be the delaying factor for everything. He did not really believe in Gurus but could not really tell Reema much. Reema got Sonu ready. Put on the tilak and was ready for the journey.

Somehow, they reached the vast pandal (tent). Reema wanted the front seat. She wanted to have the darshan (viewing) of her Master from up close. His beautiful face full of aura and light was a sight to behold! She believed her love for her Guru was from the day she was first initiated by Him. But would she have felt that same love if she had met him before the "initiation" into the congregation? Or if she had not ever known him as a Guru? If not, then was this love for "Him" or "His power"? We only love divinity, as we describe it. Or in other words, we love our own divinities. Others' divinities are not worth that love. After all our love is not for free! Our love is not the love of the Sun - equal and same for all - but our love has a "Purpose". Purpose is euphemism for selfish love. When our love and passion is directed towards someone or something, it is also directed away from someone or something. It is purposeful and has a direction.

She pushed her way as much as she could - given the obvious discomfort that Sonu was facing ploughing through the crowd. Somehow, pleading about Sonu's condition and handicap she got to reach the front row.. From here, her Guruji was the closest and she could easily have his "darshan".

Guruji walked in on time, clean shaven, with a cap and white robe. As he sat down to give his lecture on Gita, he looked at the people in the front, and God knows how he looked at Sonu and Reema. "Kaisi ho Maayi?" (How are you, Mother?) Reema was pleased beyond words... she was shivering at the stroke of her luck! She knew that this was her moment to ask her Guru for the blessing. "Guruji," she started off with tears rolling down "My son has polio... please give him your blessings". "That is always there, Maayi", the Guru replied with unusual calm... "We just need your kripa (blessings), Sir. And thank you for visiting us .... We love you so much but we didn't get this opportunity for last 3 years." The Guruji started laughing very uncharacteristically. "What do you mean you love me?", he asked.

Reema blushed and was taken aback.. What kind of question was that? "Well... we can do anything for you Sir.. You are God incarnate.. Our love for you is as deep as anything. Since you are our Guru, we all have to love you, Sir!", she added without much thought.. almost naturally.

"Oh, you have to love me?" Repeated Guruji with special emphasis on the word "have". "Don't you love your kid more?"

"Yes, but.... ". Reema was embarrassed, and could not finish her sentence.

'Thank you, Maayi, I am blessed. Let's start the Gita paath."

Today's lecture on Bhagwad Gita was good, but Reema's mind was constantly on that question from her Guruji and it would keep going back to her husband. "What was he doing? " Hope he had gone to get the wheat flour.. Or there wouldn't be any tonight to make the food. In the middle of the lecture, Reema's cell rang and embarrassed again, she saw it was Pandeji, so she obediently took it and ran outside the pandal. As far as she could go so she would not disturb the others.

Pandeji was lost and couldn't find the flour shop. The usual one they used to go to was closed today and now she was explaining to him the other one. "Ohfo.. Pandeji... the lecture is going on.. And you are making me late.. " But Pandeji was undeterred. Suddenly there was some noise and she couldn't hear Pandeji properly.. So she moved further. Somehow, she was able to explain to him and as she turned back. A body came and hit her from behind!

She fell down with a thud. As she looked in that direction, she grew pale! The pandal was on fire.. And people were running out. "The stage caught fire...." someone shouted. "the lamp.." She didn't have time to think.. "SONU!!!" she shouted and ran inside. Against the tide. The stage was in flames and smoke..

She could barely make out the white silhouette of her Guruji behind it. Sonu had fallen down, but was still OK. She quickly grabbed him and pulled him as hard as she could. He was all of 13 and young now, but somehow, the urge to take him out of the fire, gave her strength she had never known. By the time she realized that she was in pain as well. She and Sonu were out and safe.

People were pouring water on the stage. Panting volunteers had brought in the fire extinguishers but the blaze was strong.

She suddenly realized her Guruji was probably engulfed in that flame! "Oh" she cried... "GURUJI!!"... she started crying inconsolably.

Guruji was no more. Everyone who loved Him was safe though. The "need to love" is not the same as love. Nobody had taught Reema to love Sonu. No instruction was ever given to her by any scripture.. No Prophet ever extolled its virtue... not even her Guruji ever mention it to her.. She was never asked to repeat her own son's name so many times so her love for him could be so much. It still was. She could have died while she attempted to pull Sonu out, as her Guruji looked on engulfed in flames.

Love cannot be taught, but every faith still tries. And fails. And people kill each other over the proprietorship of their unique brand of love - the love that always "has" to be taught, but never has been.

Fiction: An Office Incident

Vinod Joseph — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 12:59:56 EST

Armaan walked up to Kritika as she waited for the lift and tapped her lightly on her bum with the flat of his palm. Kritika ignored him, though a small hiss did escape her, raised her right shoulder a little in a defensive manner and summoned the lift yet again. Armaan did not bother to hide his lascivious intentions or his smirk when he repeated his action, his body language conveying a sense of anticipation rather than any fear of retaliation. Kritika lifted both her shoulders by an inch and stared straight into the closed lift doors.

Unfortunately for Armaan, the Human Resources Director, a smart and snappy lady who had just moved back to India from Philadelphia, was just a few years behind him and saw everything. Shocked beyond words, it took her a few moments to express her indignation, by which time Armaan had repeated the outrageous act. Since it was obvious that Kritika was going to be a passive victim, the HR Director took it on herself to protect Kritika.

‘How dare you?’ she shouted, as both Kritika and Armaan spun around in stunned silence. They stood there in silence, which infuriated the HR Director since there was no reason for Kritika to remain silent now that someone had spoken up for her. ‘How dare you?’ the HR Director repeated yet again as the lift arrived and opened soundlessly. This time Kritika’s face actually paled as though she had done something wrong while Armaan’s face had the look of a naughty boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar. This made the HR Director angrier still. In fact, she was a lot more bugged with Kritika’s passivity than with Armaan’s behaviour. She knew that women put up a lot of shit without complaint in India, but it was nevertheless shocking to see it played out in front of her eyes.

‘Can I have your name please?’ the HR Director demanded of Armaan and immediately felt like a fool. Both Kritika and Armaan dangled around their necks their corporate identity cards which not only gave away their names, but also their employee numbers. The HR Director noted down Armaan’s name and employee number and then decided to take down Kritika’s details as well. If Kritika should decide to disappear in order to avoid the enquiry that would follow, as she might well do, being the timid creature that she was, she would find that the HR Director had other plans.

The HR Director made Armaan sit in a room all by himself (to stew) whilst she had a word with Kritika.

‘Do you know how important it is to report incidents like this? Why on earth do you take this shit lying down?’ the HR Director asked. Kritika was silent.

‘I just don’t believe it,’ she declared, more to herself than to Kritika.

‘Has this happened before?’ she demanded of Kritika.

‘No,’ Kritika said, speaking for the first time.

‘You are senior to him. Nine years senior!’ Kritika was a team leader despite her youthful looks while Armaan was a puppy, not more than a year old in the company.

‘Even if you don’t make a formal complaint, I intend to take action against that bbbass…...that guy,’ the HR Director grimly added. Kritika did not look particularly happy at that and so the HR Director added softly, ‘don’t worry. He’ll never enter this office again. Today is his last day here.’ It was so tragic; a team leader was scared of reporting a one year old programmer who had the audacity to sexually harass her at her workplace.

Armaan’s project leader had not sounded too pleased when the HR Director demanded that Armaan be fired, but the HR Director had reminded him that they were a subsidiary of HeptaCorp Inc. which prided itself on the highest standards in matters such as these.

‘Can’t we please drop the matter?’ Kritika asked the HR Director all of a sudden. By that time, the branch manager had joined them.

‘Why are you so scared?’ the HR Director asked Kritika, her voice dropping to a whisper.

‘If my husband hears of this, I won’t be allowed to work again,’ she said, close to tears. To the HR Director’s surprise, the branch manager seemed to be in empathy with Kritika. He looked at the HR Director with sad eyes, as though it was the most obvious thing to happen. As the HR Director racked her brains for a diplomatic response, instead of the ‘for Christ’s sake, which century are you living in?’ the branch manager to his credit said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll make sure not many people get to know of this. We’ll fire Armaan, but I’ll make sure he keeps his trap shut.’

The HR Director was tempted to ask how the branch manager planned to make sure Armaan kept his trap shut, but she decided not to. That was none of her business.

That evening Armaan sat on the sofa in his bachelor’s pad, nursing a glass of whiskey. His mobile rang.

‘Where are you?’ he asked the person at the other end.

‘Almost there. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

Armaan finished his whiskey in two gulps and kept the glass on the mantel piece.

The door bell rang and he opened the door. Kritika ran into his arms.

‘How was it?’ she asked him breathlessly without bothering to disentangle.

‘If only that bitch wasn’t around, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I warned you so many times to not to try that in office.’

‘Not my fault. You were irresistible. Your butt, that is.’ Kritika bit Armaan on his neck by way of a response.

They were silent for a minute. Then Kritika said, ‘you’ve been drinking.’

‘Just a small one.’

‘Tell me what happened. Have you been fired?’

‘Yes. Immediate termination! Not even a month’s notice. But I will get a reference, provided I keep my mouth shut.’

‘Thank God for that!’ It must be the branch manager who arranged for that, Kritika thought.

‘Why don’t you ditch your husband and come and live with me?’

‘Especially now that you are jobless,’ Kritika teased Armaan.

‘Of course. I’ll get a job soon, just a matter of time.’

‘Fine, get a job and I’ll come over with both my kids. You will enjoy looking after them, won’t you?’

‘Why don’t you bring over your husband as well? We’ll make him look after the kids while we have fun.’

‘You bastard, you,’ Kritika said as she kissed Armaan and they both laughed out aloud.

Fiction: A Few Reasons to Return Home

Vinod Joseph — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 00:47:28 EST

Sreejit's face has a look of intense concentration as his fat index finger glides over his Blackberry's scroller. No, Tim hasn't replied to his angry email yet. To be honest, Sreejit isn't expecting a reply from that bastard. Tim's last email had made it clear that the next round of discussions would take place only after three months.

The man sitting to Sreejit's left has a respectful look on his face. A Blackberry is not a very common sight in Kerala, not even in the first class waiting room at the Ernakulam Junction railway station. The man wants to tell Sreejit something, but Sreejit refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he opens old emails and reads them, his eyes focussing on the screen intensely as if he is reading something very important, as if they are unread emails.

An announcement is made over the loudspeaker. 'The Netravati express is 'shortly expected to arrive on platform number 3.' Sreejit rolls his eyes in exasperation and puts the Blackberry into the travel pouch around his waist. 'I don't believe this,' he says loud enough for his neighbour to hear.

Sreejit's neighbour does not let go of the opportunity. 'This train is always late. Today it is late by only forty minutes. Usually it is late by at least four hours.'

Sreejit exhales and tells his neighbour, 'before leaving for the station, I called up Railway Enquiries and asked them if this train was on time. And they said it was.'

'IST stands for Indian Stretchable Time. Forty minutes late ... that's not late at all!' the neighbour guffaws. 'Once this Netravati Express was twenty four hours late. It came exactly on time, the next day!'

'I guess I've got used to seeing things done in a different way. I've been away from all this for almost five years now.'

The opening is not wasted. 'Are you from the States?'

'No, from the UK. I mean, things are not perfect over there. Trains do run late once in a while. But, this ...' here Sreejit stops for emphasis. 'This is incredible. They don't even apologise for the train being late. And of course, there is no need to explain to us why the train is late.'

Sreejit's neighbour becomes an apologist for Indian Railways. 'Netravati is coming all the way from Bombay. A journey of over 24 hours. So it can be a little bit late.'

'I ought to have taken a taxi to Trivandrum. I was told the train will be more comfortable. Now I'm not too sure.'

'My name is Babu. What's your good name?'

Sreejit is trapped. As a rule, he does not talk to strangers when travelling on trains. A habit inculcated over five years cannot be ignored. But he does not have a choice. He is forced to admit that he answers to Sreejit.

The train enters the station majestically. There is a rush of activity. People rush to the doors and mill around. Some people start getting inside even before the passengers have got off the train. Sreejit and Babu are travelling first class and so they don't have to fight their way into the train. They settle in a section of the compartment which has only two other people, an old man sleeping in a corner and a woman in her thirties.

The first class seats are reasonably comfortable, but there's dirt on the windows. Sreejit takes care to ensure that he doesn't touch the window sill.

The train has been at the station for fourteen minutes now. Sreejit looks at his watch and gives Babu an enquiring look. Why not? Babu is more than happy to explain matters. 'This train has come all the way from Bombay. At this stage, it won't be very punctual.'

'Makes a lot of sense to me. It's a 28 hour journey to Trivandrum, isn't it? Why be punctual for the last leg from Ernakulam?' Sreejit does not hide his scorn.

'It's scheduled to stop for ten minutes. Since it is late...'

'Since it is running late, I would expect it to leave as early as possible. It's been here for almost fifteen minutes now.'

Babu changes the topic. 'Are trains very punctual in England?'

Sreejit sighs and gives Babu a happy smile. He takes his time in replying. 'You know, I have a rather long commute to my place of work. I live in Reigate, that's in Surrey and I catch a train to London Bridge from Reigate everyday. Once every ten days or so, a train will be late, by a couple of minutes. And once a month or so, a train will be held up for say, ten minutes.'

'Is that all? In India we are used to trains running late all the time....'

'When a train is late by a few minutes, we start cribbing. In the UK, people complain about minor things. Out here people are passive. People don't care if the trains run late.'

'There's not much point in cribbing in India. We have too many people and not enough ...'

'I don't think so. It's also a question of attitude. If a train is late, there will be an announcement every few minutes explaining the reason for the absence. They'll tell us the train is held up at such and such a place due to such and such a reason.'

'You must find it so difficult here after living in England.'

'I hate to say this, but after living in the UK, it's so difficult to adjust to the way things are done here.'

The train moves off and Sreejit heaves a sigh of relief. 'Finally,' he exhales. Babu sighs in relief as well, as if he is too embarrassed at having been let down by Indian Railways in front of a foreigner.

Sreejit decides to re-read the email he received from Tim a few days before he went on leave. It doesn't matter how many times he has read it before, Sreejit feels a fresh pang of rejection each time. Tim's email was very blunt and to the point. As discussed at the review meeting held the previous day, Sreejit's performance was not satisfactory. They didn't think he was capable of fulfilling the requirements of his role. They realised that Sreejit had a demanding role, but if Sreejit could not improve his performance and meet the five objective parameters set out below in the next three months, they would ask him to leave.

A vendor arrives with lunch boxes - there's chicken biriyani, sambhar rice, curd rice, fish curry rice etc. Sreejit buys a chicken biriyani while Babu settles for some curd rice. They start eating.

'I heard that food in England is very bad. Is that true?'

'Not at all. It is very hygienic and clean. You won't fall ill if you eat food from a vendor on a train.'

'Oh! Do you have people selling food items like this?'

'No, but each train, especially the long distance ones, will have a buffet trolley with an assortment of sandwiches and beverages.'

'Sandwiches! Is that all you get? It must be very difficult to live on such things?'

'I am used to that now. Actually, these days, I don't like spicy food. Come to think of it, why add spices to food? They don't have any nutritional value. In fact, they deflect the real taste of food. If you eat spicy food all your life, your taste buds will slowly die. You won't be able to appreciate subtle flavours. In fact, Indian food doesn't have subtle flavours.'

They go back to their foil packed food. Sreejit chuckles to himself. At the pub the day before he went on leave, he had nicknamed Tim Dr. No and everyone had laughed. Hopefully the name would stick. Tim had a habit of starting every sentence with a No. They all hated Tim and his joke had made him very popular. But Sreejit was the first of Tim's victims. Why had Tim picked on Sreejit?

Sreejit finishes his lunch first, because he doesn't eat half of it. He looks around for a bin to dump his foil pack, but doesn't find one. 'Just throw it out of the window,' Babu tells him. Sreejit is disgusted beyond words, but he reluctantly opens a window and throws out the wrapper. He then goes to the end of the compartment to wash his fingers in the tap. When he comes back, Babu is the process of disposing his lunch wrapper through the window.

'I just don't understand why there can't be a few bins in every compartment? Labour is cheap in this country. It won't cost too much to have the bins emptied at every other station!'

'We are used to all this,' Babu put in mildly.

'I guess I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. Each time I return to India, I get a jolt when I see the way things are done here.'

They are silent for a while. The train reaches Allepey, but no one enters the first class compartment.

Sreejit opens Tim's email once again. He goes through the five parameters they have set for him. They appear objective but they are not. His technical knowledge apparently is not good enough. How the heck can such an allegation be called objective? Before Tim arrived on the scene with a mandate to 'trim' the company, no one had complained about his technical knowledge. If at the end of three months, Tim 'objectively' decides that his technical knowledge is still not good enough, they can fire him and there is precious little he can do about it. He has consulted an employment lawyer. His company is entitled to fire him as long as it follows all the procedures, he has been told. He can take his company to the employment tribunal claiming unfair dismissal, but unless he can prove that his termination is on account of race or religion, he is unlikely to win. No, he can prove nothing of that sort. All his colleagues are polite to him outwardly. No one has assailed him on account of his religion or skin colour. He isn't a homosexual or anything is he? his lawyer had asked him wistfully. If he is and is being harassed about it by his boss, he might sustain a claim that he is being terminated on account of his sexual orientation. No, I am not gay, Sreejit had politely replied though he wanted to scream at the lawyer who charged him 300 pounds an hour.

It is actually the last of the five parameters which hurts the most. He can live with an allegation of inadequate technical knowledge since he knows that it is a lie. But he cannot live down the allegation that his client handling skills need to be improved. He has been asked to work on his verbal skills so that clients can understand him better. It was the last parameter which forced him to shoot off an angry reply to Tim just before he caught the flight to India. Yes, I do speak with an accent. However, I've never had trouble communicating with anyone. That idiot who complained about my accent last month is prejudiced. He is biased. He is a racist. You don't have to believe him. Surely you know me better than that. I have been in the UK for 5 years now and my accent had always been legible. It was not as if I spend all my time talking to clients. Not more than ten percent of my time is spent with clients. I have been with the company for three years now and there had been only one complaint so far.

He knows that Tim won't reply to his email. The Human Resources department has prepared Tim's email and any response will also be prepared by HR. They have done it many times before. The UK has some of the most employee friendly laws in the world, but if an employer wants to fire an employee, he can do so, provided he is patient and is willing to pay lip service to all the rules.

'So you don't see yourself ever returning to India, do you?' Babu asks him.

'Actually, I might. There are so many things about India I don't like, but India is still home. I will come back to Kerala one day and settle down here.'

'Really! That's very good. I thought you are....' Babu hesitates and then continues, '..you are one of those who hate India so much that they will never return.'

'Ha! Ha! Of course not! I have gained so much from my experience in the UK and when I return, I will have a lot to contribute.'

'I'm sure of that. When are you likely to return for good? Anytime soon?'

'I don't know. I may come back in a year's time, I may return after ten years. It all depends.'

Babu is too polite to ask what it depends on and merely gives Sreejit a smile as he goes back to his Blackberry.

I Am Jill's Social Microscope

IdeaSmith — Thu, 6 Nov 2008 10:44:38 EST

Lunch at the cafe, alone. At long last. My thoughts and I dine together.

The host wants me to sit in any one of the dingy corners and ignore the brighter, roomier booths in the center. I make a wry face so he concedes and lets me take the bright corner. The cafe isn't even crowded after all.

They enter some five minutes after I've settled down, by which time I've placed my order and am sipping my wine. I notice him first. All I see is the back of their heads and a profile view in a flash.

He looks familiar - for a vague instant. In that not so nice way that makes you glad you spotted the person first and hope they don't notice you back. He probably looks a little like the friend of someone I want to forget. That's still too close for comfort but not so close that I want to scat. She's totally unfamiliar in a familiar way. That is to say, she's the typical nice-looking, a tad too 'healthy' to be one of the stick-insect-model-types. An Indian woman. A pretty Indian woman.

What strikes me is their clothes. Ah, his clothes. He's wearing a mildly striped full-sleeved shirt with cotton trousers. It's not quite formal enough to be workwear but it seems a little too dressy for Saturday. Unless, ah of course. One of those dates that he feels he must dress up a bit for. Still dude, it's just nearing 2pm, that shirt is Saturday evening territory we're meandering into.

For awhile I wonder what it would like if I were his ex- and he were to spot me. The carefully coiffed look would probably shatter in an instant. He's really trying very hard to be on his best behaviour and impress the girl with him. And what if he were to bump into someone he didn't treat that good, who knew him well...only too well...underneath that polish.

But he's nervous. His hands aren't quite shaking but there's that high-strung air of tension surrounding his being and I can feel it sitting 30 feet away. Like when she takes a call on her cell, he turns his face away in an attempt to appear polite and respect her privacy. But he's fidgety and the minute she hangs up, I can almost see him counting his breaths before he can turn around and resume conversation.

His smiles and laughter seem a little too eager. Not quite offensive but just like he's relieved to be able to laugh off some of the tension. She, on the other hand, is natural. Smiling just enough, movements easy. Almost. Her gaze wanders ever so slightly in each direction. Sizing up. The surroundings, the people around, the arena. She's playing and she's just taking stock of the field.

That taken care of, my attention returns to him. It's not that she's uninteresting, she's just 'figured out'. Besides his nervousness draws me again. And I wonder what makes him so nervous. He obviously wants her to like him. Why?

Is it because he likes her as much? What does he want from her? Reciprocation of affection? A night or a weekend in bed? Respect? A month or so as trophy girlfriend? Awe and devotion?

My chicken satay is here and my glass needs a refill. I set to devouring my solitary, perfect lunch and put aside the messy questions of people for awhile. When I look up again, their orders have arrived and they're waiting for the waiter to finish serving. Then they wish each other Bon Appetit and start eating. I walk out, content with a good meal and some foodside realtime entertainment.

Fiction: It Ain't Easy!

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 14:14:25 EDT

It ain't easy for me to take off my clothes. I've never taken my clothes off in front of any one. Never. Never lifted my skirt to show my satin thighs nor give a peek of my high breasts under my shirt.

I've always been a demure girl. Kept my eyes down, away from men, away from acknowledging the lust driven thoughts they had about me. My body has always been modestly clad, my behavior exemplary and my chastity unquestioned.

And yet today I feel the need to lie against your heart. Feel your breath against my naked skin, your passion burn deep within my soul. The need to be with you overwhelms my senses and the distance between us a consent away.

I watch you watch me. I watch the desire to see me as I am flicker in your eyes. My taut musculature imprisoned in satiny skin demands freedom in the orgasmic moment of the little death.

Breath flutters, fingers twitch against the edge of the lacy button. You watch. Nary a move you make. Clothes, skin, modesty , embaressment? What lies between us?

It ain't easy to throw away years of shackled thoughts and be the mistress of unbrindled desires. It ain't easy to let the words - take me like a whore leave my lips. But those are the words I want to say in the stillness of this enigmatic night.

You smile and unbutton your shirt. Cool stiff cotton falls to the ground, a barrel chest exposed, a belly button pulled taut by the six pack abs.My tongue moistens my lips as I watch you step out of your trousers.

The bulge in the tighty whities make me avert my eyes. It ain't easy. Call it years of denying taking little lookies at the male crotch.

It ain't easy. All this ain't easy. Sex ain't easy. I step back and hit the wall and lean against it like a propped up scarecrow. You take a step forward.

Some one has to. Your lips meet mine. But it isn't a kiss. A resting of sorts. You take my hand and lay it against your shoulder. The muscle under the soft skin is firm. I let my hand slide down your arm, feel the downy hair, the bony wrist and let it rest there.

Holding your hand ain't easy. Accepting my role as a sex hungry being ain't easy.

You deepen the meeting of the lips. The pressure increases. The taste of bourbon and a cigar reminds me of a world I never knew. My fingers tangle with yours. Your tongue thrusts into my mouth gently making me lean against you.

Your semi-naked body brands me. You press our tangled hands against your burgeoning manhood and I squirm. It ain't easy to make aquaintance with a man's cock.

You chuckle against my lips. My- it ain't easy reaction amuses you. The virgin in me amuses you. My gawky reaction refreshes your jaded soul. And it ain't easy for me to accept your sense of victory over my downfall.

It ain't easy to accept the label of being the chastest virgin in town. It ain't easy to deny the vortex of desire I could so easily drown in. The bulge presses against my stomach. Your tongue suggests the motions of hot pleasure and moments of forgetfulness.

It ain't easy not to give in. It ain't easy not to let it all go to hell for one night passion with you- the priest of our parish. The town may call me a Jezabel and drive us out of town.

For the love of god it ain't easy to deny the fruit of passion that drove Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden.

Screw them all!! It ain't all that fucking easy. I take your hand and drag it up my thigh, up under my skirt, up inside my panties to that secret moist place that demands succour from the man dedicated to Christ.

It ain't easy giving in, knowing that we are sinning but what we have cannot be denied. Love, sex, sin - call it whatever you will, call it whatever the town will but tonight it ain't gonna be easy for me to deny our passion.

It ain't gonna be easy for me to sit in the confession booth and confess our sins to you come Sunday morning.

It ain't easy. It just ain't all that easy.

Fiction: The Glass Is Still Empty

Samrita Devgan — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 11:08:33 EDT

The heat was at its peak. The bright, hard light simply barged into my room through the panes, just like an unwanted acquaintance. The blades of the ceiling fan tried hard to out beat the other. The rattling of the cooler irked my senses. My lips were parched. My siesta came to a painstaking halt with a sudden choke in the throat. Clean, pure water was all I could think of to quench my thirst. I got out of bed and walked up to the refrigerator. An empty glass lay on it which seemed to be reflecting light in all its hues. I immediately opened the refrigerator and grabbed a chilled bottle of water. Pouring water into the glass seemed too much of an effort, and appeared time consuming. So, wasting no more precious time, the bottle served the purpose. As the water trickled down my throat and the satisfaction, thereafter, was nothing less than someone lost in a desert, having come across a spa of groundwater. My eyes then caught the empty glass once again, and now I greeted it with the refreshing smile of a kid after her feed.

My thoughts were interrupted by the jarring sound of the doorbell. As I looked through the peephole, I was instantly filled with wonder and excitement. I quickly opened the door and there stood my long time pal, Rhea. We had spent years of togetherness in school and college. Though I had been in constant touch, I was seeing her after five long years. As I was about to embrace her as a gesture of my happiness, my eyes lowered to where her hands were. She held a wreath. I choked and gasped for breath. It was she who now made the first move. She put her arms round me and took me in. A catharsis overtook me and as I hugged her next, it was not happiness but a sharp pain that accompanied it. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Rhea tried her best to console me, but her words seemed to be falling on deaf ears. My sister was the baby of our family, and the world was never going to be the same without her. Without Piya our home was merely bricks, sans life.

As the dusk set in, the house was full of mourners. All sound seemed to have vanished. Lips were without words. Despite the crowd, only whispers were audible. Then, as I walked up to the refrigerator once again, for a sip, I noticed the glass on it. It was still empty to all human eyes. All scientific theories could prove this fact. But to me, in its emptiness, the glass seemed to have witnessed a plethora of feelings. To me it symbolised a world in itself. As my water bags burst once more, I could now see only the hazy picture frame, of a smiling Piya, that lay behind the stainless glass.

Flash Fiction: The Breakup

Kiran Dhanwada — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 14:35:15 EDT

It was a hot summer afternoon in a crowded parking lot. Sitting in a car, sweating profusely, we broke-up. Rather, apt to say, she broke up with me, saying it was in my best interests, a fact I could neither convince nor reconcile with myself.

She was one of the best singers in college. In fact, she had represented the college in many inter-collegiate and national competitions. At first, I was in love with her voice. As I came to be introduced to her, know her and got close to her, I fell in love with her. Fortunately or unfortunately, she too fell in love with me in due course of time. Two wonderful years had passed, until recently, when cracks began to appear and the spark that once was, was doused to ash. The beginning of the end is such a cliché!

We sat in the car, holding hands, cold sweat trickling down the forehead to the chin like a little stream, only for the sounds of our breath, the little whispers of life, to break the silence. As I looked into her starry eyes, tears dancing within them reluctant to join the sweat, I saw for the first time a clueless and frightened set of eyes in what used to be a calm and confident set. What do elders always say - ah, yes - you always see your reflection in others - how apt!

As the initial blur of the break-up passed within the car, I noticed that the color of the walls housing the parking lot was not beige, but yellow. There were other cars in the parking lot, from Benz to Maruti, children playing in the parking lot with the multi-colored hoops that were the latest fad in the market, and people going past our car with their own thoughts and reflections of the life gone by. Details I would never have observed nor reflected on if I was lost in her eyes and hear her sing and listen to her constant chitter-chatter as was the case for the last two years.

With her hand held tightly in my grip, tears finally rolling down, I moved to my right to kiss her goodbye. To quote someone I knew, I said ‘love you to the extent that the measurable becomes the unmeasurable’. She…she kept looking at my direction…not knowing when her vision would allow her to see the love of her life.

I want you to sing that tune

The one you are letting go of

Because, for every memory you are disowning now,

There is a forgotten song.

Fiction: Pink Slip Cover

Suresh Naig — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 08:26:24 EDT

Necessity is mother of all inventions. Having read so many success stories originated from this ever green principle - the concept of Credit cards out of necessity by Robert McNamara, the metamorphosis of snake oil to Viagra and a plethora of successful products was the driving force behind the success of Anand Zusur.

His original name was Anand Padmanabhan, which he changed to Zusur, because it conveyed his versatility better - A to Z. Very soon he became popular among his colleagues of all directions, upwards, downwards and sideways, in identifying an opportunity in every threat and strengthening the strength, by weakening the weakness.

Zusur, a mastermind in inventing new products in the insurance industry, took up a challenging opportunity in the land of opportunities. He knew that the insurance industry thrives on "fear concept" - fear of losing something, tangible and intangible - the driving force, forcing people to insure anything and everything. As an insurance expert he had classified threat as "safe threat" and "unsafe threat". A safe threat is one, on which insurance companies thrive, creating fear among the customers on its potential loss, yet statistically less prevalent, amounting to less than 2 or 3 percent of claims from among the total insurers.

It might be the losses of goods due to a burglar's wilful act, theft of valuables due to thieving in transit, again due to wilful human act, in the eyes of insurance companies, qualify for a claim. While allowing wilful acts of burglars and thieves towards a claim, it excludes the wilful acts of God, such as natural disasters, for a claim. While denying a claim for the acts of God, insurance companies have elevated certain human beings to the level God.

By denying claims arising out of wars - a man made misery, insurance companies equate war mongers with God. Not that the insurance companies acknowledge the presence of God, nor they respect the leaders, equating them with God, in both these cases, claims would be more than the premium collected and hence, the indemnity clause absolving the insurance companies from settlement of claims. For the insurance companies, more than the acts, the percentage of people claiming insurance money is more important. Lesser is profitable.

In other industries selling a product involves producing goods; demanding personnel, precious raw materials, machineries and factory premises to produce goods. The sale of which ensures profit for the company. In insurance industry every product is an outcome of figment of imagination, highly appreciated as creativity.

Zusur was creativity personified, when it comes to identifying, a new concept, converting it into a new product, devising strategies to market the product and enriching the company by a few billions, while converting him to a millionaire.
However he never expected that things would change so dramatically, that before one could comprehend, it left so many companies and many more individuals stranded, on the foot path of economic highways. Suddenly he felt that the road to prosperity had turned bumpy, like the ones he had often encountered in his native country. He had also realised to his consternation, that there are no matching vehicles in the land of opportunities, capable of withstanding the bumpy ride.

He was one among the early birds to get the "pink slip" and his woes were compounded, when he found to his dismay, that there were no opportunities open to him anymore. A person who would not give up so easily, Zusur returned to his native country with alternative plans. Like always, converting a threat into an opportunity, his plans were ready at touchdown at Palam air-port.
He had converted his own experience, an uncertain future into an opportunity.

In spite of the jet lag, he straight headed for the pre-appointed meeting, after a quick wash, for an impressive presentation with an upcoming insurance company in Delhi. Having seen so many giants in insurance industry biting dust, decision makers of the insurance company were non committal and their reception was only tepid, to Zusur initially. Within ten minutes of the presentation, everyone was attentive, to the magic proposal of Zusur.
He started his presentation with a question. 'How many times in the past, any one of you received the pink slip unexpectedly?' No one responded, for the answer to his question was not a pleasant one to remember and recollect. Zusur proceeded further, 'pinks slips are always unexpected, without advance notice and I had received one recently, as recent as one week back'. He continued, 'not that I deserved it, nor many of my colleagues, yet we received it'. The CEO of the insurance company with a clean shaven shiny head, sporting a recently dyed French beard growled, 'we have not assembled here to sympathise with you and your pink slipped colleagues, come to the point'.

Unfazed, Zusur continued, 'that's the precise point. My proposal is for the insurance company to sympathise with the people who have received the pink slips, by financial compensation.' Everyone was attentive now for the new proposal of Zusur.

Zusur elaborated, 'unlike other countries, in India pink slips were rare in occurrence due various reasons of culture and militant trade unions. My target customers are not the ones who are unionised, but the recent breed of professionals, high salaried, but without security for the guaranteed employment.' He purposefully paused to drink water, so that what he said would take effect slowly.

'With all the financial mess happening all over the world, everyone I am sure is shaken from slumber, to the reality of uncertain future. This lurking fear is where my product is going to be positioned. To have a better and dreadful impact I have named the product as "Pink slip insurance" with the catch phrase, "No longer would the pink slip affect the pink of your financial health".
By then everyone was convinced on the success of the product and as always, Zusur landed in a prime post in the insurance company, heading the "pink slip division". The strength of the product as explained by Zusur was, in India seldom people accept the pink slip and often submit the resignation fearing future implications. Yet the fear is real and no one would take chance in the present precarious conditions of uncertainty, yet claims would be minimal as no one prefers a pink slip over voluntary resignation.

As per the salient features of the product, a person gets equivalent of last drawn pay, on receiving the pink slip. The payment would stop on getting new employment or three months, whichever is earlier. The annual premium is a variable in accordance with the pay packet of a person. The product was an instant success, contributing huge revenue for the insurance company, by way of premium and it had surpassed the projections of Zusur. Within a month Zusur had become the hero of not only the company where he is heading the pink slip division, but in the entire insurance industry.

The change started slowly, almost imperceptible, but people in claims department started noticing steady increase of pink slip claims and before an in-depth study could be conducted, claims started bleeding the insurance company.
By the time the company realised the reasons for the unprecedented claims, it was on the brink of bankruptcy. In the absence of pink slip insurance, people did not prefer it over resignations, contributed by the subtle threat of inhuman HR managers. However many ingenious employees preferred pink slips over resignations, and confessed with the subsequent employers, by citing the pink slip insurance cover for their exit through the pink route. Another important reason was the greed of big financial conglomerates in making fast and easy money, showing way for individual greed, in making fast and easy money, by way of pink slip cover. With pink slip cover, it was no longer a taboo for employers and employees in issuing pink slips and accepting it.

When one person convinced the future employer with the plausible reason and excuse for accepting the pink slip, the news travelled faster triggering more number of persons preferring it, bleeding the insurance company out of its wits.
Though the author of "pink slip insurance", when Zusur received the pink slip from his company he never had the cover.