Cold Turkey

His boss, handing him an unmarked envelope, said, "Here's some money. Use it when I issue a Cold Turkey. Abort assignment. Disappear. Don't even tell me where you're going." This wasn't an instruction he'd heard before. Yet, he responded in his usual manner - with an expressionless nod.
***

He spent his days watching her. He'd wake up fifteen minutes before her, at exactly six-twenty, and position himself at his bedroom window. She would wake up and appear at her bedroom window. He'd look from behind his curtain, peeking from the side. Her house had no curtains. She'd then disappear into the bathroom. He had planted a camera for that. He'd watch her brush and bathe. He'd then walk to his kitchen. She would appear by the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee. She'd read a newspaper for a while in the drawing room, where he had another little camera. Then, she would take the car to work.

Following her was difficult at first. But soon, he mastered it. He never took his car. He depended on autos and buses. Sometimes, he ran through narrow shortcuts. Jump over a sewer, skip along a slum. Every ten minutes, he'd find her car negotiating a traffic light or a roundabout. Then, she would reach her office - an insurance company. She was fairly high up in the company. Travelled around the city often.

There was this man who came back to her place quite often.

He didn't understand why she was being followed. But it wasn't his job to know. He just followed her and reported every movement to his boss.
***

Love, he always thought, was an unpredictable emotion. He preferred lust. It was consistent, it was always there. Especially in these times when he lacked all human contact. He lived in a city, amidst people, but knew no one. His job wouldn't take lightly to his talking to anyone. The only emotion that reminded him of his humanness was lust. He wanted every woman he saw - on the road, in the supermarket, at the bus-stand. The lady who sold apples at the corner. The lady who sat at the reception of her office. His landlady who lived downstairs.

Then, there was the woman he was following. What he had for her was beyond lust. Was it love? He wasn't sure. Watching her was more than a mission. But obsession was too strong a word. He wanted her. There was no question about that. He wanted to twirl her curly locks of hair in his fingers. He wanted to hold her bare body in his arms, hold it tight and never let go. He heard her voice on the phone he tapped. Each evening, she spoke to her mother. It was everyday conversation about her work, her life. He recorded these conversations and re-listened to them when she was asleep.

Is this love? He asks himself. But larger questions bother him. About why she was being followed. What harm would come to her? What harm would she cause?

The mission takes over his life. He is as diligent as ever. But the diligence is fuelled by his need to keep looking at her. By his need to remain sane, remain alive.
***

The off-white sheet of four-inch-by-four-inch paper has "COLD TURKEY" written on it with a black marker pen. He looks out of his window and into hers. She appears, as usual, by the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee in her hand. Her curly mop of hair falls carelessly on her shapely, bare shoulders. It is time for drastic action.
***

He parks her car by the lake a thousand kilometres from where he started. The forest is dense. Humans are few. He opens the boot, puts her body on his lap, holds her and strokes her hair. He is just where he wants to be.
***

An old short story has appeared (link)in the DNA Bangalore edition today with a black and white photograph. Do check out if you live in this vicinity.

House Cleaning

The last time I was alone with a girl was when an old friend came to my one-bedroom apartment. She said, "The state of one's mind is reflected in the state of one's house."
I laughed, "Yeah. Lots of unwashed clothes in my head."
"Dirty linen," she said, wryly.

In the year that passed since that conversation, more unwashed clothes adorned floor, along with newspapers, shoes, bedsheets, mattresses, dirty pillows, CDs, cigarette butts.
***

It was New Years' Eve. I sipped on my hot filter coffee, lazily placed it on the side table and fetched some rum from amidst old newspapers. I didn't know how long it had been lying there. It surely had absorbed most of the old stories. It had become a part of them. I poured it into my coffee. The mixture was noxious, but I needed the fortification for the conversation I was going to have.

"I'm a medical marvel!" I said on the phone.
"What?"
"Yeah. I have the world's first case of Writers' Block in an unpublished writer."
She said nothing for a while.
"Hello? Are you there?" I tried.
There was a pause again, before she said, "January fifteenth."
"Right. Yes. Jan fifteenth. B-b-but, I was just going to ask you for an extension."
Pause. "Also, I wanted some more advance. I'm, um, s-s-struggling with my, um, my l-l-laundry."
"January fifteenth. Or no book."
There was a pause again. I didn't know how else to negotiate. "Listen, what are you doing tonight? I mean, New Year's and all that... If you're free... I mean..."
"You don't need to know what I'm doing. You are going to sit at home and finish that bloody novel."
"Slight leniency? Old times' sake. You loved me once..."
"When we were sixteen. There's none of that left now."
The conversation ended there. As I turned around, I tripped over a bag on the floor, toppled the rum bottle over the last two clean shirts that I owned. I was robbed of my fortification for the next phone call.

"Hi. Appa. I need some money. See, I lent some money to a friend... And he has cancer."
Appa didn't bother to listen to any more lies. But, as usual, there was some money in my account by the evening. I don't think it was enough to pay my laundry bill, but it would keep me going for two weeks. Until another friend gets cancer.
***

It was seven when the bell rang. I presumed it would be my landlady. I stubbed my cigarette, hid the rum under a pillow and opened the door. It wasn't the landlady, it was my publisher, my old love, and the last girl I had been alone with.

"Can we go for a walk?" she asked.

Soon, we were on the quiet beach. But, being New Years', a crowd built up slowly as midnight approached.

"My house is really dirty these days," she said, after almost an hour of silent staring at the sea. I spat out the nail I had been biting. "Life isn't very good, you know," she continued, "My marriage is ending." I sensed a certain longing in her voice - a longing for a meaningless evening. And there was nothing I wanted more. Suddenly, she asked, "Can we go somewhere quieter? Somewhere more alone?"

I fumbled for words. My apartment was there. But there would be no space for us to do anything. Unless we settled on top of all the mess. Treat the mess as a part of our lives and live above it. Treat it as in insulation from the cold, hard, floor. I hesitated before I said, "My place?"

We walked back unable to keep our hands off each other. When I opened the door, she collapsed on a heap of clothes, and I collapsed beside her. I could smell the back of her neck. Her hands went into her pocket from where she fetched a folded, oblong sheet of paper. She opened it and read out what was written. It was a poem by E E Cummings, and it ended with those immortal lines about the rain and hands. She sat up, and said, "He sent this to me last New Year's Eve. We got married a week later."

Soon, she was crying all over the clothes. She picked up a shirt and blew her nose, as if she was adding her mess to mine. She got up, and staggered out the door and down the stairs. I walked with her until the gate where she found an auto. I walked up the stairs, opened the door and scanned my room.

It was time for some serious house cleaning.
***

The Fall

I have a knack for unwanted and unusual injuries. Although today's was minor and put me in pain for hardly fifteen minutes, it must rank as being amongst my most random.

I'm walking down one of the roads in Sadashivanagar when my mind wanders, and I think of Venkatapathy Raju. Yes, the very same Venkatapathy Raju who made a profession out of lobbing the ball up in a friendly manner. So, on this road, I begin to imitate Raju's bowling action as I walk. I do it once, but get the feeling that the (imaginary) ball wouldn't have come out all that well. Then I bowl the next one. This one's much better. But a little more speed would mean that the batsman can't wait on the backfoot.

So, the third one comes. I don't know exactly what I do. But I land funnily, half-twist my waist, lose balance and fall on the road. Two boys playing football in a corner laugh heartily. I smile to myself and resume my walk with a slight limp that sorts itself out pretty soon.

But I have a feeling that the ball would have been perfect. Beaten the batsman in the flight. Go on with the arm. Hit him on the pads in front of off and middle. Appeal. The dreaded finger. LBW!

More Reflections on the Season

I'm still in Madras, internet access is still limited. Not being able to access net on my laptop means that I'm not able to upload more of the latest series. In any case, we shall continue with reflections on the Music Season.

Varali suggested a couple of days ago that I put up something on the perils of attending kacheris. Here are some:

1. Irritating Mamis/ Mamas: There are many varieties in this category.

The first are the Singing Mamis/ Mamas. They probably attended paattu class at the age of ten, and believe today, at the age of sixty-five that their voice is in perfect shape. More irritatingly, they believe that they can match the singer's voice. They get emotional and sing along. Cold stares help sometimes. But the really stubborn ones sing until you tell them to stop. Then they act all wronged, and look at you angrily throughout the concert.

The second sort are the Cell Phone Mamis/ Mamas. These people have full-fledged, loud phone conversations in the middle of a Bhairavi Alapana. You will hear Bhairavi from one side and instructions on chaadam and rasam from the other side. It doesn't make for a great mix. There is also the variety that doesn't know the existence of a silent mode on their phone. I've educated two Mamas on this matter.

The third sort are the Chatty Mamas/ Mamis. It starts innocuously with, "Enna Raagam idu?" Soon, they're talking about the kacheri they attended at the other Sabha where the 'young boy' (now, for a seventy year old, most singers are 'young boys') sang really well. And then he shows off his Kutcheri Buzz, and his notebook where he has noted down each song and ragam rendered at each concert.

Next come the Wrong Taalam Mamis. I haven't seen a Mama in this category, strangely. But I've seen all kinds of wrong taalam Mamis. The funniest one was at Mylapore Fine Arts who decided that she must put Khanda Chaapu taalam to every song in the kacheri. It led to some of the most interesting situations. When the singer finally sang in her favourite taalam, she had the tempo all wrong

Then, there are the super-appreciative Mamas/ Mamis. They shake heads vigorously. They mtch-mtch away. They exclaim 'Shabhash!' or 'Bhale!' to the most innocuous singing. They move their hands about too much.

2. The Queue: The most frustrating feature of the Music Season is the queues. They're unavoidable. And I guess it is better than having stampedes. But, why do Tambrams reach venues disgustingly early and form queues? For instance, at Music Academy, the afternoon concert ends at 3.45. The evening concert starts at 4.15. But people for the evening concert start queueing up at 3.15. So, for people like me who listen to the afternoon concerts, it becomes a pain. You're flushed out at 3.45, and you have to join a queue that starts in Pondicherry and leads to the Music Academy gate.

3. Choice of Ragas: During the season, artistes try and show off their vast knowledge and the ragas they've learnt most recently. I've been in the situation where a raga seems exciting one afternoon, and you're dreaming of performing it elaborately in a kacheri. But, over a period of time, you realise that as pleasing to the ear as Karnaranjani might be, you'd much rather explore Dhanyasi or Thodi. Sometimes, artistes don't understand that. Nithyashree chose Karnaranjani. The Hyderabad Brothers chose Hamsavinodini. Some years ago, I went to Yercaud. It was a nice, little holiday with the family and all that. But by the second evening, we realised that Yercaud had just one view from the top of the hill. It was a random one-off hill, with a one-off view. There wasn't much more to it. Same with Karnaranjani - there's one (and a half, maybe) interesting turns to the raga. But one the whole, it is just a lot of the same thing. Hamsavinodini was even more random because the Silent Brother sang the neraval and swaram for it as if he'd heard the raga for the first time in his life. Really, the raga isn't worth all that time.

Bring out the heavy artillery any day - Bharavi, Kalyani, Shankarabharanam, Mohanam, Kambhoji, Thodi. Sometimes, there is nothing wrong in being cliched.

4. Exhaustion: In many singers (more than instrumentalists), by the end of the season, exhaustion shows in their music. I remember listening to Sanjay Subramaniam early in the season last year, and again at Music Academy late in the season. They was two different singers. Saketharaman (who is a must-hear, I think) was much more vibrant and fresh on the 20th as compared to this afternoon. Neyveli (who sang my favourite Kacheri of the season so far - last week at Music Academy) also showed signs of faitgue today.

5. Seating: While seating is by and large comfortable, getting in and out of your seat in a crowded kacheri is a pain. The gap between the rows is are minimal as it can get. My aunt aptly described it as a 'surangam'. So, if you're not going to last the whole concert, or have a weak bladder (which will be fuelled by the air-conditioning), sit at the edges.

6. Air-Conditioning: Most sabhas with air-conditioning want to prove to you beyond doubt that they have air-conditioning. This makes you feel like you're in the Arctic and the singer's oscillations are caused by all the shivering. If you're particularly affected by the cold, carry a shawl. Only, you'll look ridiculous outside the hall in the Madras heat.

In the non-airconditioned halls, carry copious amounts of mosquito repellants. Astute research tells me that the mosquitoes in Mylapore Fine Arts and Parthasarathy Swamy Sabha are immune to Odomos. I think it is a sign of evolution. Himalaya has some mosquito repellant. I've shifted royalties to that.

Oh, another peril at Mylapore Fine Arts. Make sure you sit in the front. The back part of the open air hall is adjacent to the canteen. You will hear wiater chatter, grinder grinding, dosas hissing on the dosa-kallu and various other cooking noises.

There. That's the list. You know any more?

Lastly, I wrote this (with pen and paper) sitting in the fourth row of Music Academy at some kacheri (don't remember which one). It is unedited - reproduced just the way it was written that day. (The photo has nothing to do with the rest of the piece. Its the only photo of a violinist in my collection)

His eyes twinkle with mischief as he sings those cute phrases. They widen when his scale gets larger, and they close when he concentrates. His hands flail about, his head shakes with the music. He smiles, he laughs, he pleads, he cries. And the most beauteous Behag ensues.

On his left, you sit. Your eyes are devoid of all emotion. Cute, grand or meditative, they look on coldly. Your head doesn't sway, it stands stiff on your neck. You don't smile, you don't laugh; your face looks like it is cast in stone. Why, you're long earrings don't even dangle. Yet, your violin emotes for you. It laughs, it pleads. It traverses Behag's passages with rare softness.

I sit in the fourth row wondering how you do it. What do those pretty eyes hide?

There's been a hiatus. There's a series waiting to be finished. There are a million thoughts. A million ideas. One short story. One real-life tenth-standard type meaningless non-romance to write about (just for the sheer hilarity of the thing). One movie to review. Couple of super-interesting train journeys to share. But, since I have limited internet time, it is 2.20 am and I have a long day ahead tomorrow, I shall just state some brief observations on the Season so far:

1. The crowds at the Music Academy canteen have thinned since last year. The food is still equally good, though prices have gone up.

2. After many discussions with various Mamas and Mamis over the last week, I conclude that it is better to hit the T Nagar Sabhas - Vani Mahal, Germal Hall, Bharat Kalachar - all of them have 3 hour concerts in the evening. As opposed to Music Academy or Narada Gana Sabha, where the slot is two and a half hours. Sanjay Subramanian for more than three hours at Vani Mahal was one of the most satisfying kacheris I've been to in a while.

3. The girls at Academy have gotten prettier. Or maybe, my expectations and standards have come down.

4. Some people working at NGOs know nothing about the world they're out to change. They still are self-righteous about their work and take great pride in it. The attitude sure helps them. You don't want chronic acute self-doubt in NGO people.

5. Abhishek Raghuram's Neelambari was simply exquisite.

6. I have severe internet addiction.

6. Short story written a while ago. Tried to strip down my writing to its barest essentials. Lots of description, emotion etc was actively deleted. Some sentences make me cringe. I must edit this, but I don't have the requisite energies. Here it is:

His Daughter

He was relieved when he heard the man say, "She got married. Lives with her husband now." But he didn't end his search there. He had to make that trip to his hometown in the hills to see her. His friend (and prime advisor) never understood this part of the plan. "But you know she isn't a whore or a cabaret dancer or a terrorist! That's a huge relief. She's married. Now leave it at that!" He never listened. He found her address and made the trip back home.

Now, he stands at the gate of her house. Her garden is lush and beautiful, like the rest of the little hill town. There is a jeep in the driveway and a driver sleeping in it. "Hi. I am a friend of Mr. Nayak, your neighbour. I came here for a holiday, but I don't have the keys. Mr. Nayak is on his way. Can I wait inside? Its a little cold..." he practices. It wont be that easy when she actually stands before him.

He gathers courage and walks to the door. An ornate door has an even more ornate knocker. He hasn't seen one in ages. He knocks. He waits. There isn't any response. He knocks again. This time, the driver wakes up, walks to the door and rings a bell hidden behind a bag hanging next to the door. The driver goes back to his jeep and resumes his nap. After an eternity, the door opens.

She opens the door, they look at each other, and freeze.
***

His last trip home was eight years ago. That was a year before he got married. It was a month before he met his wife. A week before his college results came out.

The bus made its way up the narrow, snaking road. It was off-season for the tourists, and the bus was nearly empty. He sat at a window reading a book. A girl sat at the other window on the same row. Twenty minutes into the climb, the light faded, and he put down the book.

Almost immediately, the girl asked him, "What book?"
He noticed in the semi-darkness that she was pretty. Plain, but pretty. He showed her the book. She said, "Oh! I love this book!"
"You do?" he asked, "That's lovely. I like it so far..."

They smiled and said nothing for a couple of seconds. Then she asked again, "Are you a lawyer?" He was. He asked her how she had guessed.
"Oh, you have an advocate sticker on your bag."
He smiled. Without asking him, she sat next to him. She made conversation over the din of the bus. At times she was screaming to be heard, other times, she whispered in his ear. He said a lot of things too, whenever she gave him the chance to speak.

Soon, her head was on his shoulder and his hands were in hers. He was telling her something about his hometown, and how it had changed over the years, when he realised that she had fallen asleep. He rested his head on hers and dozed off. When he woke up in half an hour, she had her arm around him. He watched her sleep until they reached the town at the top of the hill. He woke her up. She looked around groggily, stood and left without a word. By the time he could collect his bags and his thoughts, she had disappeared in the market.

The next afternoon, his friends convinced him to accompany them to a whorehouse. Though he always knew it existed, in all his years of living in the town, he had never been there. He almost predicted that he'd find her there. But when she appeared at the end of a hazy, dingy corridor, he hoped he was imagining things. He wanted her to be a student at the college, or a caretaker at one of the tea estates. But she wasn't.

It was like a scene from his dream. She was dressed in exceedingly white clothes, and she didn't walk towards him: she floated down the corridor. Mist entered through every inlet and blurred the scene. She came to him and said, "Thanks." He asked her why. She said, "I wasn't okay last night. I tried running away. This guy who used to come here quite often promised he'd take me away. I was to meet him in the bus stand down the hill. He never turned up." He asked her what she was thanking him for. She said, "You held me. And did nothing more. Few men do that to me."

He wanted to ask her why she left, but he couldn't bring himself to. They stared at each other for a while before she said, "Can I kiss you?" He was embarrassed. She said, "Don't be shy. People do a lot more here." She kissed him, and he could feel her gratitude. At first, he had an inexplicable feeling of guilt, but that soon turned into a strange sort of affection. The kiss degenerated into a lot more, like kisses tend to do. Especially in whorehouses.

It was morning when he got up to leave. He asked her for her name. She smiled, "You don't need to know."
***

The resemblance is evident - the same lips, the same eyes. She gave birth to his adopted daughter! Now, if his daughter asked him, he could tell her that her mother was the loveliest of women. He had planned to subtly find out who the father of the girl was, but he struggles to say anything. He mutters something about having come to the wrong house. She asks him a couple of questions about his life before he leaves.

As she watches him disappear beyond the bend towards the market, she hopes that the girl they conceived all those years ago found a good home.
***

In the last two weeks, there have been all kinds of responses to the Mumbai attacks in the blog world. Like most blog posts on 'issues' (and I'm not referring to the 'my girlfriend/boyfriend dumped me' type issues), the quality of opinion varies vastly.

One stream of thought has been most preposterous - Ratan Tata or Narayan Murthy must lead the country (see here and here).

WTF?!