He never considered killing people a sin. Because his job demanded it. Because if you don’t do, then you die.
He was proud of his precision. With a custom made German Heckler & Koch PSG1A1 fitted with a Schmidt & Bender scope, he was lethal. Though his teacher had taught him in his early life that beauty was something that lay at the hands of the beholder, he considered his “job” as a work of art. As a work of craft.
Assassin.
A person of Spanish origin, he was popular throughout Western Europe as an “emerging player” in this “competitive world”. With a count of 23 under his belt, 9 of which were political assassinations, he was making an indelible mark.
He was in Espana. The southern port city of Mallorca. His latest assignment brought him to his homeland. To this city of wonders, hardly an hour from his native village. To the city which fascinated him from childhood-with its glitz, pace and diversity, all of which were absent in the sleepy village of his. It had been the city of dreams for him as a child. As a youth. He insisted on doing graduation from a college in Mallorca not because of his zeal for knowledge. But because of Mallorca.
He didn’t want to go to his native village. Because he didn’t have anything worth remembering there. Or at least, he liked to believe so. He despised villages. And continued to do so.
He seldom read newspapers. He preferred this modus operandi because he believed that knowing more about a person makes it more difficult to pull the trigger with a gun pointed at him. In fact, he insisted that he never be told the names of the persons to be eliminated in an assignment. And his clientele were in general too happy to oblige.
And hence, the Mayor of Mallorca was unknown to him. His new target. A revolutionary Left Conservative, the latter was making waves across Spain. His efforts to bring Mallorca on par with Barcelona and Madrid made him very popular among the people of Spain in general and Mallorca in particular. And in a country that was [ill]reputed for assassinations, it was only a matter of time before his political enemies got together in a cabal.
The meeting between the conspirators’ representative and Acilino’ happened in Sao Paulo, almost 6 weeks back. There were no negotiations. A black and white photo changed hands. 2 million dollars cabled to his account in Switzerland. And the deal was fixed.
October the 12th. Spanish national day. As per convention, there would be a grand parade at the Republican Square, presided over by the Mayor. The grand Republican Square was the trademark of Mallorca. With tall Gothic structures surrounding, the square was the symbol of Mallorca. And this is where the parade has been held all these years. This year being no exception. And that, hence, was THE occasion.
He had managed to get into one of the unused apartments overlooking the square. With the amount of political backing he had, that part of the work was more easily done than said. He waited there for two days, preparing himself for the attempt.
The D-day dawned. Acilino’ was fully prepared. He knew the entire schedule of the function by-heart. The ripe time, he decided, would be when the Mayor would be distributing the Gallantry Awards to the personnel of the police forces. He went about checking his automatic and its accessories and one last time, he checked the view through his gun viewfinder. At last, pulling a chair to himself, he sat behind the window, opening out to the square.
9 O Clock. Half an hour to go before the Mayor arrived. He loaded his Heckler & Koch with 5 bullets. His lucky number. Like almost every other professional sniper, Acilino’ had his own mannerisms. One among them stemmed from his childhood affinity for Diet Coke. He preferred to wait for his victim almost always with a can of Diet Coke in his hands. He took out the penultimate canister of Diet Coke he had in his bag. Sipping his drink, he eased onto the chair beside the window. This was when Acilino’s attention was caught by a distant banner. One that highlighted the achievements of Mayor Marcos.
Marcos. A name impinged in his heart. He immediately remembered a young, naive and bearded Jose Manuel Marcos. A senior at college. Someone who was inspired by Che Guvera and someone who managed to inspire a lot of others by his ideological theses. At a time when revolution was the buzzword around the world, Marcos propounded revolutionary thoughts in the college. And had inspired a lot of students as well. Acilino’ sighed. How he was inspired by speeches of Jose Marcos. To change Spain. To revolutionise the world. As in a flashback, his mind went back to his college days. To those deeds he did to usher in revolution. It all seemed like a look through the kaleidoscope.
And one distinctive feature. Of Jose' Manuel Marcos. That famous Winston Churchill type double chin.
An announcement stirred him back to reality. The PA system announced the arrival of the Mayor, which was accompanied by a roar from the crowd so enormous that Acilino’ was almost shaken. Grimacing, he got up. He was irritated to find that his Diet Coke was only half finished. He had dreamt a little too much, he reflected.
The cavalcade, he could see, was approaching from a distance. It came till the crossroads next to the Civic Corporation statuette before it stopped. The Mayor and his wife alighted from the car and moved towards the podium. The stage was set. For the celebration of independence. For maybe something else.
As per the itinerary, the program began with the Spanish national anthem followed by the parade of the police forces. The award distribution would follow the parade. Acilino’ adjusted the telescopic lens one final time and took a sip from the half full can of Diet Coke. With his left index finger inserted into the trigger cabinet, he let out a tough breath of air.
He was ready.
Through the view finder, he narrowed in on the Mayor, who after inspecting the Guard of Honour, was on the podium overseeing the parade. He could see only half the face, but knew very well that half was lethal enough.
Deadly enough.
Suddenly he caught the Mayor turning to his side. He noticed, through the narrow confines of the telescopic lens that something in that person intrigued him. He didn’t want to search for the answer.
Until he noticed the double chin.
He was taken aback. No!! It couldn’t be Jose’. He zoomed further. Looking for that mole on his nose. There it was. No doubt. It was Jose’. Jose’ Manuel Marcos.
He took his left hand away from the trigger. He knew he had to shoot. But he knew equally well he couldn’t shoot.
After a gap of years, he found himself muttering the name of God.
He sat back onto the chair. He didn’t like it but his mind was on a flashback. He made attempts to drag it back, but all futile. He tried to weigh his options. Kill his childhood idol? Or abort the assignment at the last moment? He knew the latter option was impossible. Because that was treachery and his clientele would make him pay for it with his life. Then??
Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck ten. Ten melancholic beats drowned in the hubbub of the jostling crowd. He felt light. He had made up his mind.
He went back to his position. The award distribution ceremony had just begun. Now he could see only the back of the Mayor. He wished he had seen him only like this. The third name was called for the award when he took aim.
Muttering the sermon of God under his breath, he fired.
He was sure his count had incremented to 24.
Then with a placid expression, he knelt on the ground, with the automatic by his side. He was thankful that there was a picture of Holy Mary in the room he was in. He stood, as if in a trance, for over five minutes.
Possibly the five longest minutes of his life.
He got up. Went to the wash basin and washed his hands. He wondered if he was doing it on his own or was it more like some external irresistable power was making him do so. This was no Pilate act, he knew.
Picking up the automatic, he went to the chair. The chair which had possibly been the sole witness of the assassination.
The image of the falling idol of him was the last thing that flashed across his eyes as he pulled the trigger of the automatic with the barrel pointing against his temple.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Compassion
Indian Railways. One of the largest employers in the world. And he was a part of that.
He was a typical South Indian by any standards. Long and gaunt by stature, he was respected by everyone in his circle. He had started off as a class IV employee in the Indian Railways at a very tender age of nineteen and through his dedication and hard work, had risen to the position of Station Master of a class C station.
He was 8 years old when tragedy struck. A small family consisting of his parents and a younger sibling other than himself, it was further shortened when his father and brother were killed in a stampede at the local temple utsav. That was nearly half a century ago. He had to abandon his studies and opt for menial work as his mother was taken paralyzed a few weeks later.
Yet, he survived. Because he believed he could.
The mounting medical bills on his mother’s ever deteriorating health didn’t deter him. Instead, it motivated him. To work harder. He was a person who believed that one shouldn’t compromise, at least on primary education. So side by side, he attended night classes and went on to pass his matriculation as well.
It was around this time that his mother too succumbed. In fact, she, in her later days, had frequent and acute attacks of psychosis that he often prayed that she be “relieved of her pains quickly.” And he, till date, didn’t know the answer to the question as to what the emotion in his mind was when he first saw her lifeless.
He went to Hyderabad. Sarkari naukri was the objective. And with his determination that seemed to please even the Gods, he got through into the South Central Railways. Class IV job, but nonetheless a job.
And he was a devout employee. One having a credo putting organizational benefits ahead of personal ones. He even receive a Best Employee award for South Central Railway from the Railway Board. With periodic promotions, he was now the Station Master at Tangkuttur, a remote station in Ongole district of Andhra Pradesh.
Meanwhile, his life was prospering on the personal front as well. He found his life partner in Radha, a beautiful daughter of one of his colleagues. They had two sons. And this part of his life, he often reflected, would be called prosperity. Or maybe the pursuit of prosperity.
Though his elder child was a little weak in studies, his younger one was different. A mature father he was, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his children, he helped the elder one setup a shop with a part from his savings. And he encouraged the younger one to study. And he studied. Completed his graduation.
This is when problems arose. A country with lakhs of graduate degree holders and with under one tenths of them lucky enough to find a job, unemployment was often a villain in many middle class Indian family contexts. He could sense the pulse of his son as the latter frantically searched for a job. Almost an year and a half had passed since he completed his studies and he was still unsuccessful in hunting out a job for himself.
The whole mood of the household too turned downcast as a result of this. It seemed as if a pall of evil gloom had descented. Rather destined to descent.
Until that day when he had a “brainwave.”
That very evening, when he reached home, he had a long talk with his son. His son was actually surprised to find the unusually composed tone of his father.
The next day, he went to the Vinayaka temple, after a long hiatus. He offered a dozen coconuts tro the Lord. He knew, from inside, he was a lot relieved. Because he believed, he had found a way out of this predicament.
He had evening duty that day.
As is the case with a lot of railway employees, he too was emotionally attached to a lot of trains. Quite a bunch of them which he used to show the green light to almost on a daily basis.
2615. Chennai-New Delhi Grand Trunk Express. Was a train he was seeing almost on a daily basis for the past decade and a half. At this time of the year, the train would be filled with students going home for vacations. The overall mood in the train would be one of joy, enthusiasm and expectation.
He didn’t know what was the word that could describe his state of mind at present.
The telephone in his cabin rang. He lifted it. The train had left the previous station. It was on time. Tangkuttur was just under 15 minutes in sight for the Grand Trunk Express.
He took out the green flag. As if driven by someone other than himself, he found himself going towards Krishna’s stall in the station for a cup of tea. The tea seemed all the more delicious tonight.
At a distance, he could hear the increasing rambles of 2615.
“Siren of prosperity hopefully,” he thought.
He moved to the centre of Platform No. 1. Now the train was in sight. And as the custom, he started waving the green flag.
When the engine was under 200 metres from where he was, he closed his eyes. Images of his family and Lord Vinayaka came rushing to him like a flash.
He didn’t open his eyes. And the flag was still in his hands when he leapt onto the track.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The letter that was found in his office drawer the next day read
“
To,
Divisional Railway Manager,
Vijayawada Division
Respected Sir,
SUB : Application for job in your organization on compassionate ground.
My father Ch. M. Thanappa was an employee with S. C. Railways of the Indian Railways for over 35 years. He was unfortunately killed in an accident that occurred in Tangkuttur station on xx-xx-xxxx.
I request you to intimate me the proceedings for applying for a job on compassionate grounds.
Thank You
“
The green flag, still lying on the track, had long turned blood red.
He was a typical South Indian by any standards. Long and gaunt by stature, he was respected by everyone in his circle. He had started off as a class IV employee in the Indian Railways at a very tender age of nineteen and through his dedication and hard work, had risen to the position of Station Master of a class C station.
He was 8 years old when tragedy struck. A small family consisting of his parents and a younger sibling other than himself, it was further shortened when his father and brother were killed in a stampede at the local temple utsav. That was nearly half a century ago. He had to abandon his studies and opt for menial work as his mother was taken paralyzed a few weeks later.
Yet, he survived. Because he believed he could.
The mounting medical bills on his mother’s ever deteriorating health didn’t deter him. Instead, it motivated him. To work harder. He was a person who believed that one shouldn’t compromise, at least on primary education. So side by side, he attended night classes and went on to pass his matriculation as well.
It was around this time that his mother too succumbed. In fact, she, in her later days, had frequent and acute attacks of psychosis that he often prayed that she be “relieved of her pains quickly.” And he, till date, didn’t know the answer to the question as to what the emotion in his mind was when he first saw her lifeless.
He went to Hyderabad. Sarkari naukri was the objective. And with his determination that seemed to please even the Gods, he got through into the South Central Railways. Class IV job, but nonetheless a job.
And he was a devout employee. One having a credo putting organizational benefits ahead of personal ones. He even receive a Best Employee award for South Central Railway from the Railway Board. With periodic promotions, he was now the Station Master at Tangkuttur, a remote station in Ongole district of Andhra Pradesh.
Meanwhile, his life was prospering on the personal front as well. He found his life partner in Radha, a beautiful daughter of one of his colleagues. They had two sons. And this part of his life, he often reflected, would be called prosperity. Or maybe the pursuit of prosperity.
Though his elder child was a little weak in studies, his younger one was different. A mature father he was, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his children, he helped the elder one setup a shop with a part from his savings. And he encouraged the younger one to study. And he studied. Completed his graduation.
This is when problems arose. A country with lakhs of graduate degree holders and with under one tenths of them lucky enough to find a job, unemployment was often a villain in many middle class Indian family contexts. He could sense the pulse of his son as the latter frantically searched for a job. Almost an year and a half had passed since he completed his studies and he was still unsuccessful in hunting out a job for himself.
The whole mood of the household too turned downcast as a result of this. It seemed as if a pall of evil gloom had descented. Rather destined to descent.
Until that day when he had a “brainwave.”
That very evening, when he reached home, he had a long talk with his son. His son was actually surprised to find the unusually composed tone of his father.
The next day, he went to the Vinayaka temple, after a long hiatus. He offered a dozen coconuts tro the Lord. He knew, from inside, he was a lot relieved. Because he believed, he had found a way out of this predicament.
He had evening duty that day.
As is the case with a lot of railway employees, he too was emotionally attached to a lot of trains. Quite a bunch of them which he used to show the green light to almost on a daily basis.
2615. Chennai-New Delhi Grand Trunk Express. Was a train he was seeing almost on a daily basis for the past decade and a half. At this time of the year, the train would be filled with students going home for vacations. The overall mood in the train would be one of joy, enthusiasm and expectation.
He didn’t know what was the word that could describe his state of mind at present.
The telephone in his cabin rang. He lifted it. The train had left the previous station. It was on time. Tangkuttur was just under 15 minutes in sight for the Grand Trunk Express.
He took out the green flag. As if driven by someone other than himself, he found himself going towards Krishna’s stall in the station for a cup of tea. The tea seemed all the more delicious tonight.
At a distance, he could hear the increasing rambles of 2615.
“Siren of prosperity hopefully,” he thought.
He moved to the centre of Platform No. 1. Now the train was in sight. And as the custom, he started waving the green flag.
When the engine was under 200 metres from where he was, he closed his eyes. Images of his family and Lord Vinayaka came rushing to him like a flash.
He didn’t open his eyes. And the flag was still in his hands when he leapt onto the track.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The letter that was found in his office drawer the next day read
“
To,
Divisional Railway Manager,
Vijayawada Division
Respected Sir,
SUB : Application for job in your organization on compassionate ground.
My father Ch. M. Thanappa was an employee with S. C. Railways of the Indian Railways for over 35 years. He was unfortunately killed in an accident that occurred in Tangkuttur station on xx-xx-xxxx.
I request you to intimate me the proceedings for applying for a job on compassionate grounds.
Thank You
“
The green flag, still lying on the track, had long turned blood red.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
DIWALI
"Demoralize the enemy from within by surprise, terror, sabotage, assassination. This is the war of the future. "
Adolf Hitler
Diwali. The festival of lights.
Vikramjeet Singh was a Punjabi. Just another Punjabi. Into his late sixties, Vikramjeet always sported a smile. So beaming a one that a hundred diyas couldn’t provide a luminescence so charming. A small scale shop owner. At one of the oldest localities of Delhi, Paharganj, Vikramjeet owned a shop that sold curios- soap, talcum powder, baby clothes et al. He had a thick white beard, reminiscent of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and eyes as sharp as Om Puri’s. I used to frequent there for buying clothes, especially winter clothes for my kids.
During the time of partition, Vikramjeet was 7-8 years old. His ancestral home was close to Lahore. As someone satirically put it, ‘It became two after partition-Pakistan and Bakistan.’ Vikramjeet’s family was a tiny dot among the thousands displaced as a consequence of the partition. Initially, he was in a relief camp at Purani Delhi-for about 4 months.
He faintly remembered Jawaharlal Nehru as a person with a red gulab in his pocket and a charming personality that had a natural wound-healing effect, visiting his camp at Purani Delhi area. Within a short span of time, the Government allotted land for his family, as along with thousands of others, at a Muslim dominated ilaaka near Paharganj. Initially, he always used to say, that they were very much helped by a Moulavi of the local mosque-to the extent, he recalled, from possible suicide.
His shop was an extremely small one. Possibly smaller than a paan ki dukaan. But there was scarcely anything that was unavailable there. He once took me into his godown, a few hundred metres away, tucked away unnoticeably in the large gullys of Paharganj. I distinctly noticed a rugged map of undivided India hanging over the godown wall.
He missed his home though he was at home. He missed India.
2005. The eve of Diwali. Terrorists strike at the heart of the capital, with three bomb blasts occurring at three distinct and crowded markets in the capital. As ever, dozens of common men bear the main impact. It is that time of the year when cold starts setting in over Delhi and North Indian plains. A week after the blasts, I went to Vikramjeet’s shop to buy a few winter clothes. It was not odd to find Vikramjeet’s son managing the shop.
Until I noticed a portrait of Vikramjeet hanging on the wall, with a diya lit underneath.
His son started sobbing on seeing my countenance. "It happened that day. There was no polythene cover in the shop to pack goods. He went to a nearby shop to buy covers. Hardly half a kilometre. We couldn’t identify the body. "
I bought a red coloured sweater that time.
2007. Navratri. I forced myself to make a visit there. I found Vikramjeet’s widow, sitting at the entrance of the shop. With a visage, as if she had pardoned the entire world for whatever happened. Behind the dull and cheerless decorations, a speaker kept chanting those verses of Guru Gobind Singh,
" Eeshwar Allah tere naam
Mandir Masjid tere dhaam"
I still have that red coloured sweater, but I haven’t used it yet.
Adolf Hitler
Diwali. The festival of lights.
Vikramjeet Singh was a Punjabi. Just another Punjabi. Into his late sixties, Vikramjeet always sported a smile. So beaming a one that a hundred diyas couldn’t provide a luminescence so charming. A small scale shop owner. At one of the oldest localities of Delhi, Paharganj, Vikramjeet owned a shop that sold curios- soap, talcum powder, baby clothes et al. He had a thick white beard, reminiscent of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and eyes as sharp as Om Puri’s. I used to frequent there for buying clothes, especially winter clothes for my kids.
During the time of partition, Vikramjeet was 7-8 years old. His ancestral home was close to Lahore. As someone satirically put it, ‘It became two after partition-Pakistan and Bakistan.’ Vikramjeet’s family was a tiny dot among the thousands displaced as a consequence of the partition. Initially, he was in a relief camp at Purani Delhi-for about 4 months.
He faintly remembered Jawaharlal Nehru as a person with a red gulab in his pocket and a charming personality that had a natural wound-healing effect, visiting his camp at Purani Delhi area. Within a short span of time, the Government allotted land for his family, as along with thousands of others, at a Muslim dominated ilaaka near Paharganj. Initially, he always used to say, that they were very much helped by a Moulavi of the local mosque-to the extent, he recalled, from possible suicide.
His shop was an extremely small one. Possibly smaller than a paan ki dukaan. But there was scarcely anything that was unavailable there. He once took me into his godown, a few hundred metres away, tucked away unnoticeably in the large gullys of Paharganj. I distinctly noticed a rugged map of undivided India hanging over the godown wall.
He missed his home though he was at home. He missed India.
2005. The eve of Diwali. Terrorists strike at the heart of the capital, with three bomb blasts occurring at three distinct and crowded markets in the capital. As ever, dozens of common men bear the main impact. It is that time of the year when cold starts setting in over Delhi and North Indian plains. A week after the blasts, I went to Vikramjeet’s shop to buy a few winter clothes. It was not odd to find Vikramjeet’s son managing the shop.
Until I noticed a portrait of Vikramjeet hanging on the wall, with a diya lit underneath.
His son started sobbing on seeing my countenance. "It happened that day. There was no polythene cover in the shop to pack goods. He went to a nearby shop to buy covers. Hardly half a kilometre. We couldn’t identify the body. "
I bought a red coloured sweater that time.
2007. Navratri. I forced myself to make a visit there. I found Vikramjeet’s widow, sitting at the entrance of the shop. With a visage, as if she had pardoned the entire world for whatever happened. Behind the dull and cheerless decorations, a speaker kept chanting those verses of Guru Gobind Singh,
" Eeshwar Allah tere naam
Mandir Masjid tere dhaam"
I still have that red coloured sweater, but I haven’t used it yet.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
MONSOONS
Of all the seasons, she particularly had a liking for the monsoons.
As she sat there, looking to the world through the open elegance of her windows, she realized how time virtually flew. The light drizzle came with the message- Gods’ first tears of the season was coming down.
The first rain was always special. The appetite of the dead, dry soil would be quenched by those little life-giving drops of water. The fragrance accompanying the first rains, all those zoological phylae getting active, those ‘sweet’ hummings of the odd little cricket- all added a particular charm to the debutant.
Her mind rewound. It was twenty odd years ago. She used to dash out of her home when rains came by. Her mother used to chase her. She remembered her commitment to protect her colourful umbrella from getting wet. And by the time her mother caught up with her, she used to be happily drenched.
Happily!
As time travelled faster than she did, those ‘qualities’ disappeared. Childhood pranks!
“ Nirmala ! ! Nirmala….. ”
She was stirred back to reality by repeated calls from her mother. Slowly, taking a deep breath, she moved to the verandah.
As she reached the verandah, she saw her mother rubbing her little daughter’s head with the tip of her sari. She saw, her daughter was all wet.
As she unpacked her daughter’s school bag, she saw a dry little umbrella.
From the corner of her eyes, Nirmala saw her mother fighting off her tears……
A GLORIOUS OBLIVION
As anyone else, he never relished the damp, cold prison air.
But he was not anyone else. A solitary prisoner in the most heavily fortified section of the prison, he was waiting for his oblivion. The narrow shaft of light, pouring in from the dull incandescent lamp of the jail warden’s room was contrary to the state of his mind. He had lost the last ray of hope long ago. His clemency petition had long been negated by His Excellency the Governor.
Through the darkness of the night, the clock struck 12 beats. 12 melancholic beats. From his battered trouser, he took out the crumb of paper which possibly was his last possession for the past two days. He crossed it one more time. 5 more hours. To oblivion. Till justice is served. Five more hours till he was hanged, five more hours until he was free for ever from the shackles of law.
Official homicide, or in more refined terms, capital punishment, added an extra dimension to death, he felt. As he sat there, he was surprised that being a graduate degree holder in English Literature, he was unable to find the right word to represent the state he was in. Shock?? Nostalgia?? Agony?? Didn’t matter anyways. A deluge of memories gushed through him – right from a noble childhood, a turbulent teens, a frustrated middle age and a college life marred by drugs. But through it all, the image of the shining smile of his wife and the cherished moments they spent together pierced his heart with a penchant so strong that he felt like tearing his chest out. As he sat there, he was sure that she would be, at this very moment, running around to submit the clemency petition to His Excellency the President himself. But he was sure that nothing would work out. All the more because he deserved this.
The mood of the prison was aptly depicted by the dead silence of the night, regularly hindered by the ticking of the century-old Gothic clock. It felt as if the clock was doing a countdown by itself as to the moment when the world would be made a better place by reducing the overwhelming number of criminals by an insignificant unity. With a deep sigh, he recollected his pledge a few days ago, to spend his final moments in this world with composure. The swarm of thoughts swirling inside his head was interrupted by the chime of the clock, as one more hour of his life ebbed away. The startling noise finally destroyed whatever resistance he had and he broke down, sobbing like a child. Even the walls seemed to mock at him, as it reflected back his wails in endless echoes that loosened him further, till he lay back exhausted and drawn-out.
At last, he made himself to get up. He made his way to the solitary wash basin at the corner of his cell. As he immersed his damp face in a handful of frigid water, he suddenly felt better. As if that was not enough, he paused to look into the mirror above the wash basin. Though nothing was visible because of darkness, in his mind he suddenly had an idea. He sensed a glint of certainty enter his blood shot eyes. A solemn moment passed before he simply rammed his fist onto the dirty mirror.
He felt a sense of detached calm as he spent the next few hours, recounting the few happy and the many painful memories that marked his life. At last, he heard the shuffle of footsteps upon the corridor, which he knew to the executioners – a sound his ears were straining to pickup for quite some time. And then with a state of calmness that surprised even him, he picked a fragment of the broken mirror and slashed his wrist deeply with it. Even as he watched the blood gushing out in a torrent, the door opened. The sight of the smiling face of his wife and the pardon in her hands was the last thing that he saw before the darkness of death engulfed him.
But he was not anyone else. A solitary prisoner in the most heavily fortified section of the prison, he was waiting for his oblivion. The narrow shaft of light, pouring in from the dull incandescent lamp of the jail warden’s room was contrary to the state of his mind. He had lost the last ray of hope long ago. His clemency petition had long been negated by His Excellency the Governor.
Through the darkness of the night, the clock struck 12 beats. 12 melancholic beats. From his battered trouser, he took out the crumb of paper which possibly was his last possession for the past two days. He crossed it one more time. 5 more hours. To oblivion. Till justice is served. Five more hours till he was hanged, five more hours until he was free for ever from the shackles of law.
Official homicide, or in more refined terms, capital punishment, added an extra dimension to death, he felt. As he sat there, he was surprised that being a graduate degree holder in English Literature, he was unable to find the right word to represent the state he was in. Shock?? Nostalgia?? Agony?? Didn’t matter anyways. A deluge of memories gushed through him – right from a noble childhood, a turbulent teens, a frustrated middle age and a college life marred by drugs. But through it all, the image of the shining smile of his wife and the cherished moments they spent together pierced his heart with a penchant so strong that he felt like tearing his chest out. As he sat there, he was sure that she would be, at this very moment, running around to submit the clemency petition to His Excellency the President himself. But he was sure that nothing would work out. All the more because he deserved this.
The mood of the prison was aptly depicted by the dead silence of the night, regularly hindered by the ticking of the century-old Gothic clock. It felt as if the clock was doing a countdown by itself as to the moment when the world would be made a better place by reducing the overwhelming number of criminals by an insignificant unity. With a deep sigh, he recollected his pledge a few days ago, to spend his final moments in this world with composure. The swarm of thoughts swirling inside his head was interrupted by the chime of the clock, as one more hour of his life ebbed away. The startling noise finally destroyed whatever resistance he had and he broke down, sobbing like a child. Even the walls seemed to mock at him, as it reflected back his wails in endless echoes that loosened him further, till he lay back exhausted and drawn-out.
At last, he made himself to get up. He made his way to the solitary wash basin at the corner of his cell. As he immersed his damp face in a handful of frigid water, he suddenly felt better. As if that was not enough, he paused to look into the mirror above the wash basin. Though nothing was visible because of darkness, in his mind he suddenly had an idea. He sensed a glint of certainty enter his blood shot eyes. A solemn moment passed before he simply rammed his fist onto the dirty mirror.
He felt a sense of detached calm as he spent the next few hours, recounting the few happy and the many painful memories that marked his life. At last, he heard the shuffle of footsteps upon the corridor, which he knew to the executioners – a sound his ears were straining to pickup for quite some time. And then with a state of calmness that surprised even him, he picked a fragment of the broken mirror and slashed his wrist deeply with it. Even as he watched the blood gushing out in a torrent, the door opened. The sight of the smiling face of his wife and the pardon in her hands was the last thing that he saw before the darkness of death engulfed him.
THE TRYST WITH MEDICINES
She sighed.
The royale entrance of the hospital did not appeal to her. Neither was it intended to. The image was so embedded in her mind that she had ceased to appreciate it.
Token number thirteen. She glared at the face of the receptionist who retaliated with a face so expressionless that she felt all the more miserable. She knew, it would at least be an hour’s wait. She moved towards the doctor’s chamber and took a seat outside it.
The routine sight disgusted her. Patients, of all sorts, with all sorts of physical troubles and anxious relatives, were present. She pictured herself as a sand particle in this mighty seashore. She opened her small handbag and took out a neat file. As she scanned through the contents of the file, her mind was scanning through her life, faster.
She was THIRTEEN when she came to know about her mother’s vocation. An extra dancer. The kind those in film industry better called extras. Or, as her mother herslf put it-“just junior to a junior artiste.”
By the time she passed her Plus TWO, she was under pressure to take up a career in film industry. Her mother had said, ”You are beautiful, have a decent shape. With my contacts, I’ll manage to get you into some dance scene. With your panache, if you get spotted by some producer, you might eventually end up as a sister or college mate of some heroine. You may even take your career to greater heights.” Her mother’s doctrine was-if a doctor’s child can be a doctor, then so should cine artistes’ children. The bitter truth was that her mother could not afford the expenditure for graduation.
But she was adamant. She fasted for two days, received beatings and at last, was allowed to pursue graduation. She could ‘only manage’ Bio-Chemistry as no other option was available. She really did not want to know how her mother managed to earn money. She did not want to probe how else she managed to earn money when there were no film assignments.
It did not take her long to realize that she had very little aptitude for her subject. But to her advantage was the fact that her communication skills were pretty good. Her English teacher was the first one to spot it and he nurtured it as efficiently as he could.
As soon as she completed her graduation, she got a job as a teacher in a kindergarten school. Though her salary was meagre, she was happy. Because, firstly she enjoyed the company of tiny tots throughout the day. And more importantly, it gave her a reason for staying out of home for bulk of the day. Her home was the place she least wished to be-because her mother always kept on nagging her for the ‘mistake’ she committed by going for graduation.
But the scenario was soon to be transformed. Her mother soon fell ill. And her mother’s medical bills forced her to fend for alternatives. One evening her mother called her up ”One of my childhood friends was married to a small scale businessman. It was only recently I came to know that after years of hard work, he right now is the head of a vast business empire based in
With tears she bid good bye to her school children. She was packed off to
Her mother was too happy to see her daughter; the happiness seemed to be more associated with her earning potential, than to do with parental love.
She visited her old school. Her children had grown up tall. Many of them remembered her and swarmed her around. They brought tears in her eyes. She badly wanted to be back in the school; she hated her profession. But it was now too late. There was no scope of turning back. There was no scope of the luxuries she and her mother were now enjoying,with the paltry monthly pay at school.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“God has cursed me to do what I don’t like to. I hate medicines; but he has made me to live with them now” she thought, staring at her file.
“Token Number Thirteen” – announced the attendant. She shook herself and looked at her token.
“It is your turn, Madam. Go in and see the Doctor” – called out the attendant.
With a big sigh , the Lady Medical Representative of Cipla Pharmaceuticals Company,
Logically Illogical
"Someone who thinks logically is a nice contradiction to this world". I guess not many people can comprehend the innate meaning of these lines, written behind a famous matchbox, better than me because for long, I have suffered for using my neurons more than others or than what is required. Funny laws govern this world and those who think a lot, usually succumb instead of enjoying their intellectual peculiarity.
Logic is the extent to which something can be explained or attributed a reason for its existence. Effectively what it does is it gives us a platform to handle the basic ideas and queries. Had it not been for logic, we would definitely have to think a lot more. It helps us make assumptions and also, generalize things. We crave for things to be logical and consider them ominous if they are otherwise. Logic is a cover that we place upon ourselves to protect us from our worst fears (or happiness, for that matter!!!).
But if one goes into larger dimensions, omitting minor details, one would be surprised to realize the absurdity inherent in our ambiance. Everything, without exception, is illogical. You can always find an argument that can contradict the present state of things. It’s everywhere, be it our social, personal or professional fraternity.
We talk to those whom we don't like. We get what we don't deserve (and vice versa). We are misunderstood when we have best intentions. We are chastised for what we are remotely related to or sparsely believe in. We laugh when we want to cry and hug when we want to slap. We do what we don't like and then say that we could have done better. We see a girl, fall in love and within six months, she becomes the most important person of our life. Do you think it is logical?
Logic is an arrogant subset of a very humble illogic. It, at best, is a footnote and in no case, the complete epic. Being logical is a curse, not boon. It’s like offering yourselves to be chained inside a closed room when you know that beautiful sceneries are waiting outside for your appreciation.
Logic filters thoughts, which is the greatest crime on earth. Logic is neither absolute nor is it infinite. It has limitations, ifs and buts and an impulse to control. It is not free, spontaneous or vigorous. It lacks energy and happiness. It is cold and dead.
On the other hand, illogic is everything what logic is not. It is to accept, to coexist, to love, to inspire, to depress, to react, to marry(!!), to command, to express and to think. (Let us end it here because I can still write a lot more of them)
To be successful in life, we need to be illogical. "Rules are made to be broken". Nothing logical succeeds for long (like India's foreign policy). Every now and then, we face situations when we have to choose between a logical thing and an ‘odd’ option. Though deep within, we want to take our chances and do some experimentation, we usually end up with the former.
I (you too can) have observed that if you can play with this teddy bear called 'logic', this world is just the right playhouse for you. Every successful person has made his own way in his own way and it is only his defiance to accept the 'logical' that he made it to the pinnacle where he is presently standing.
On the contrary, if we accept 'logic' among our decision variables, we would be doomed in the banality of our existence. Logic is not an identity. It’s a burden. Illogic is the mother's lap. Logic is living in Patel hostel, double seated and super deluxe!
Illogic is what, Shrimad Bhagwad Gita tries to teach us. "Karmarev adhikaraste ma falesu kadachan | ma karm phal heturbhuma te sangostvakarmari". You have only the right to action (i.e the karma). The return ('phal') is not under your control. How much logic can you find in this philosophy?
Logic is stopping us from what we are actually capable of doing. In the corporate world, so much emphasis is given on the out of box thinking. Look at Steve Jobs, Nintendo or even the open source phenomenon. Illogic is the absolute truth. It’s omnipotent and omnipresent.
Everyday we should practice to be more and more illogical in our routine life. We should laugh when not needed to and talk when we don't want to. We should behave in eccentric ways. We should do things in ways that cannot be explained. We should avoid taking logical decisions, at least for things of minor importance. We should stop searching reasons behind things and do them just because we want to!
Though I have still not practiced this 'illogic' meditation (but I will someday), I am sure, if done properly, it can help us to free ourselves from the chains of logic and we would have a more rationale attitude towards our life. I believe that once our minds transcends the limits of logic and stop questioning the 'illogical', we would be as much a God as a human can be and would achieve what we call in the Hindu culture as 'Moksha' or salvation.
Logic is the extent to which something can be explained or attributed a reason for its existence. Effectively what it does is it gives us a platform to handle the basic ideas and queries. Had it not been for logic, we would definitely have to think a lot more. It helps us make assumptions and also, generalize things. We crave for things to be logical and consider them ominous if they are otherwise. Logic is a cover that we place upon ourselves to protect us from our worst fears (or happiness, for that matter!!!).
But if one goes into larger dimensions, omitting minor details, one would be surprised to realize the absurdity inherent in our ambiance. Everything, without exception, is illogical. You can always find an argument that can contradict the present state of things. It’s everywhere, be it our social, personal or professional fraternity.
We talk to those whom we don't like. We get what we don't deserve (and vice versa). We are misunderstood when we have best intentions. We are chastised for what we are remotely related to or sparsely believe in. We laugh when we want to cry and hug when we want to slap. We do what we don't like and then say that we could have done better. We see a girl, fall in love and within six months, she becomes the most important person of our life. Do you think it is logical?
Logic is an arrogant subset of a very humble illogic. It, at best, is a footnote and in no case, the complete epic. Being logical is a curse, not boon. It’s like offering yourselves to be chained inside a closed room when you know that beautiful sceneries are waiting outside for your appreciation.
Logic filters thoughts, which is the greatest crime on earth. Logic is neither absolute nor is it infinite. It has limitations, ifs and buts and an impulse to control. It is not free, spontaneous or vigorous. It lacks energy and happiness. It is cold and dead.
On the other hand, illogic is everything what logic is not. It is to accept, to coexist, to love, to inspire, to depress, to react, to marry(!!), to command, to express and to think. (Let us end it here because I can still write a lot more of them)
To be successful in life, we need to be illogical. "Rules are made to be broken". Nothing logical succeeds for long (like India's foreign policy). Every now and then, we face situations when we have to choose between a logical thing and an ‘odd’ option. Though deep within, we want to take our chances and do some experimentation, we usually end up with the former.
I (you too can) have observed that if you can play with this teddy bear called 'logic', this world is just the right playhouse for you. Every successful person has made his own way in his own way and it is only his defiance to accept the 'logical' that he made it to the pinnacle where he is presently standing.
On the contrary, if we accept 'logic' among our decision variables, we would be doomed in the banality of our existence. Logic is not an identity. It’s a burden. Illogic is the mother's lap. Logic is living in Patel hostel, double seated and super deluxe!
Illogic is what, Shrimad Bhagwad Gita tries to teach us. "Karmarev adhikaraste ma falesu kadachan | ma karm phal heturbhuma te sangostvakarmari". You have only the right to action (i.e the karma). The return ('phal') is not under your control. How much logic can you find in this philosophy?
Logic is stopping us from what we are actually capable of doing. In the corporate world, so much emphasis is given on the out of box thinking. Look at Steve Jobs, Nintendo or even the open source phenomenon. Illogic is the absolute truth. It’s omnipotent and omnipresent.
Everyday we should practice to be more and more illogical in our routine life. We should laugh when not needed to and talk when we don't want to. We should behave in eccentric ways. We should do things in ways that cannot be explained. We should avoid taking logical decisions, at least for things of minor importance. We should stop searching reasons behind things and do them just because we want to!
Though I have still not practiced this 'illogic' meditation (but I will someday), I am sure, if done properly, it can help us to free ourselves from the chains of logic and we would have a more rationale attitude towards our life. I believe that once our minds transcends the limits of logic and stop questioning the 'illogical', we would be as much a God as a human can be and would achieve what we call in the Hindu culture as 'Moksha' or salvation.
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