Tag Archive for 'Bangalore'

Yesterday

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on April 29, 2011 in C'est la vie. 15 Comments

I’m not that bad a cook actually. Serious, ask my friends.

But as I cooked breakfast the other day, an elderly gentleman rang the bell. Not exactly well dressed.

“P.N. Rao?”

“Umm.. no you have the wrong house.”

“No no, P.N. Rao? A-1?”

“This is H-2. A-1 is in that other block over there.”

He continued to stare at me. Probably the language, I thought.

“A-1 doosre block mein hai. Basement se doosri lift lijiye aur first floor pe jaye” I said, gesticulating quite animatedly.

Still staring.

I went back to English.

Then to broken English and Hindi.

Not too sure why I do that. I’m probably thinking, he doesn’t understand English or Hindi, so here’s a brilliant idea. Let me mix the two. Surely he’ll get that. Surely.

He moved closer and finally spoke with a sheepish smile.

“Actually… I am little new here.”

Oh. So you’re lost. Poor man!

The cat had run into the corridor by then. She has this explosive mixture of curiosity and fear. She continues inspecting the new area but with a tail so puffed up  you’d wonder why there’s a christmas tree at the other end of that cat.

I latched the door, picked her up and walked towards the lift. The elderly man trudged along slowly, resting most of his weight on the railing. He looked tired mentally and physically.

We got into the lift and I asked him what languages he spoke.

“Hindi. Angrezi. Sabko aate mujhe.”

My Gult-radar shot up from Low Intensity Risk to Critical Exposure.

“Ghar mein Telugu bol te?”

“Haan”

As soon as I started jabbering in his mother tongue his beady eyes lit up. Still a slow walker, in better spirits though.

“I had just gone to the shop. While coming back I forgot.”

I nodded.

“When I moved here I too got lost many times”, I told him. Honestly, I probably did. My sense of direction is terrible.

“Really?”

“Yes yes.”

“When I go back to my village and tell my friends I got lost in my daughter’s house they will have a hearty laugh”, he said.

I had a hearty laugh right there. The cat was growing impatient.

We were walking towards the next lift when he suddenly stopped and almost whispered in my ear (which was about how tall he was anyway)

“If my daughter asks where you met me, just say in the compound somewhere. Actually I went to the shop without telling them. I wanted some gutkha. They don’t let me have it, some doctor said something and they will believe anything. Please haa ok? I will tell I was simply walking.”

I nodded my head. We all have our addictions. Cat was going ballistic by now. I don’t know what Whiskas puts in their can of fish, but that shit is cat cocaine.

I walked with him to his doorstep. Exchanged pleasantries with his middle aged daughter and left.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I burnt my scrambled eggs.

Because I’m not that bad a cook actually.

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Aakrosh-e-Mughalai

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on March 10, 2011 in Opinion. 5 Comments

Indians are passionate about a lot of things. Like articles that begin with a sweeping generalization about their countrymen.

As you might have correctly deduced, this one is about food. We love our food. Our food is like our underwear, we like it exactly the way it was when we grew up. There are a few changes if one is in a far flung college and must switch from VIP to Tantex or from pure vegetarian to little bit of chicken from respectable, brahmin coop. But for the other nidicolous or stay-at-home wusses, it stays true.

Ever since the first Dravidian scaled the Vindhyas and proceeded to copulate with the locals in that area (leading to the population of modern-day Bihar), north and south have ferociously exchanged and mutilated recipes. So much so, that southern India has their version of north Indian food and vice-versa.

And having spent 13 of the last 15 years down south, I get the fantastic opportunity of tasting the worst of both worlds.

But today’s outrage is dedicated to the infinite little (and large) North Indian restaurants that have mushroomed all over Bangalore. Like Malinga’s bowling arm, this fungus has gone from one end to another before you can say “What’s that on your head, Lasith?”. You might be squirming if you’re a native, but fact remains that most of these places are run by people from the East or the North. I have been betrayed by ‘my people’.

You see where I come from, dishes taste of their main ingredients. They are not about the spices and the colour. A baingan ka bharta doesn’t taste of fried onions. Sure they put the right tadka in large hearted proportions of oil. But the soft baby bottom goodness of the baingan is missing. Palak Paneer tastes of spinach. Not garam masala. In fact paneer has a taste of it’s own, tender and cheesy with a hint of lemon. But things are so bad that a Gujju friend who once forced to take a bite from chicken leg said “This tastes exactly like paneer!”.

And while the Bangalorean food scene grows leaps and bounds on the international cuisine front, I find cooking North Indian food (the way I know it) is turning into a dying art. A concert is never about the opening bands. The same holds true for food. Give the main ingredient the place it deserves on the palate if you want your dish to live up to whatever gourmet name you give it.

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The Boy Who Narrates: Episode VIII

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on March 5, 2011 in Story. 10 Comments

Anita and Sameer sat on the couch as Uncle V spoke to them like a general briefing his troops. Anita refused to look at him, her face twisted into vehement indignation but her lowered eyes betrayed the shame inside. Sameer looked up at Uncle like a loyal soldier. The rift was obvious, the only thing holding them together was a common goal.

S: So what now?

Uncle V: I’ve called the police. We’re going to form a search team and comb the entire district down. He’s a kid. How far could he have gone? How much money do you think he has?

S: He has a weekly allowance, though I never asked him what he does with it. We gave him 100 rupees a week.

Uncle V: And since when?

S: I don’t remember! At least a year.

Uncle V’s phone rang.

Uncle V: Vinayak here. Yes good you’re here. No no, no need to come up, we’ll just be wasting time. I’m coming downstairs. How many cars did you get? Good good, I’ll come downstairs and tell you the plan. We’re leaving right now.

Listen Anita, I know you’re very angry and I know you probably don’t want to talk to anyone right now. But you should know that Sameer did a very brave thing. We WILL find your son and when we do, I think Sameer deserves a word of appreciation.

Uncle V was running out of patience and he made it clear.  He grabbed his pipe and hurried out of the house.

___________________________________________________________

“But they never found you?” asked Carolyn.

Unlike her big, blue eyes, my throat was as dry as a desert. I emptied my glass of Scotch and looked at her, ready to face a barrage of questions.

“No they did not ma’am” I clarified.

“Oh. Where did you go? How did you hide? And where does this orphanage come into the picture?”

This was just the beginning.

“I had read about this orphanage many times. Pratyush’s parents donated a lot of money to it. It helped children in distress, who had been physically and sexually abused. I took a bus to Beregai, a small village near Bangalore, and went up to the orphanage. I had brought a change of clothes, I was in my school uniform after all. I even had my books and identity card. I couldn’t pretend to be someone else. I really didn’t know what to do. I was so sure that whoever ran the orphanage would hand me over to the police and I’d have to go back to my wretched life. But I was wrong.”

A waiter interrupted me asking for our last orders. Carolyn mumbled something, far too absorbed in the story of my life and brushed him aside.

“Yes Akshay, go on go on”

“The orphanage was run by Bhushan Sir. Tall grey haired man with both a genial smile and an air of discipline around him. First, he didn’t ask me any questions. He just smiled and took me in. Gave me some dinner, a bed to sleep on, tucked me in and said, sleep today, we’ll talk tomorrow, it’s late already. He woke me early, gave me a toothbrush and we had breakfast together in his room. That’s when I told him everything.”

“Everything? What do you mean?”

“Everything I told you. About Anita’s abortion. About Sameer’s habits. About Buddy, the dog I almost had. About Haritha, Asha’s sister who was fired because she was ugly. He listened patiently and then I heard the words I was dreading. My story was most unusual, he said, but running away from home was not the solution. There were worried relatives and an entire police force looking for me.  I would have to go back immediately.”

Another sip of my newly arrived drink and a glance at my watch. An hour for the place to close.

“I asked him, if parents can leave infants in dumpsters, if they sell them to pimps and camel racers and begging rackets, why can’t children run away from their parents? He grew quite agitated, he told me I knew nothing about those children and how they felt. I distinctly remember how my ears grew warm and how I fought my tears off. We spoke for more than an hour and came to an agreement. If the police knocked on his door, he’d hand me over. Otherwise, I was welcome.  I was more than happy.”

“And the police never came?”

“I don’t know. People say Bhushan Sir lied to them. I don’t think so, he was a strict man.”

“But if you ran away, how did you find out about everything that went on at home?”

I had recited my story to so many charities that no question ever caught me off guard now.

“5 or 6 years ago, I read in the papers that Uncle Vinayak had been diagnosed with lung cancer. I met him in the hospital. I loved and respected him far too much to let him go. He was surprised to see me, but insisted I tell him my part of the story. I did, and I wished he would tell me his too.  But he was an old, sick man who could barely speak. He passed away 7 months after I met him. He left a large sum of money for the orphanage and, importantly,  his journal. I still have it in fact.”

I always kept Uncle V’s journal with me. People loved to see it and read it and touch it. It was majestic, his handwriting was royal. It made me proud.

“Why didn’t your Uncle tell your parents you were alive?”

“They had relocated to the US. They had moved on. Sameer and Anita were happier together. I didn’t want to…”

“I see” Carolyn interrupted, waving off my explanation “So let’s get to business, about the orphanage…”.

As professional as she tried to sound, her voice was still cracked and her hands still cold and nervous. My story did this to people.

“Yes ma’am of course, I grew very close to Bhushan Sir and helped him manage the place. I continued studying at the local school too. I teach there nowadays. Sir passed away in 2005, he was 66. It was huge loss to the orphanage. The entire place grew morose and I couldn’t bear to see it that way. I was 23 then, and decided to step up and run the place. The trust was indifferent. As long as we didn’t bug them for more funds, they had no problems with us. But the money coming through was meagre. We were falling short of space and food and clothes and toothbrushes. It was then I decided to go out and look for funds all alone. It was during this time when I wrote to your father, I’ve read a lot about him in the papers and the money he has invested in rural India. He runs a honest business and…”

“That should be quite enough Akshay…”

I was taken aback. What did she mean?

“… I think I’ve heard enough. You deserve all the help you can get. You’ve fought for yourself and your friends.”

She slipped a hand into mine.

“We’re here to help and you don’t need to worry. I will arrange a meeting, and tell them your story in advance. I don’t think you want to see the board of such a big company cry like a bunch of little girls.”

She giggled through her tears.

“Can we meet again?” she asked me, “over something more… more… you know… a dinner, say?”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink, ma’am”

“I think you need to shut up Akshay.”

I chuckled.

“Alright alright, but I have flight tomorrow morning. At 10 AM, and I’ll be gone for 2 weeks.”

“Then tonight is all we have.” she said, pulling me off my barstool and towards the lobby of the hotel.

Yes Carolyn, you’re right. Tonight is all we have.  Because tomorrow morning I’ll be in another city. Tomorrow morning I’ll have another name. Tomorrow morning I’ll be with another woman. In another hotel. Talking about a different orphanage. In a different village.

But reciting the same story. And running the same scam.

____________________________________________________________________________

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The Boy Who Narrates: Episode VII

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on March 4, 2011 in Story. 2 Comments

Later that night, after downing a few glasses of scotch and making sure Anita was asleep, Sameer  dialled Uncle Vinayak’s number.

S: Uncle Vinayak? Sameer here. Yes listen sorry to call you so late at night, but I need to tell you something…

Uncle V: Sameer are you alright? You sound like you’ve had too much to drink. Listen, I know we’re going through a tough time but you can’t drown yourself in alcohol and ciga…

S: Ssshhhhh, please Uncle. Let me speak. Let me get this off my chest. Anita did not have a miscarriage. She decided to have abortion.

Uncle V: Oh dear  lord. Why? And how could you support her?

S: I tried to convince her, but she wouldn’t listen. There’s not much a man can do when the mother refuses her own unborn child the right to live. After one of our ultrasound sessions, the doctor told us that the child could be born with Down’s Syndrome. He stressed on the fact that false positives are very common and told us to wait till he got the screens verified. But Anita was destroyed. A week later the doctor confirmed the diagnosis and I couldn’t stop her.

Uncle  V: This is shocking Sameer. But we have no time for all this, tell me, what effect did this have on Akshay?

S: He was very unhappy. Initially he bought the miscarriage cover up, but you know how curious kids are. I’m afraid he might have figured it out.

Uncle V: No wonder Anita was so shocked with that figurine she got in the mail. But that had a girl and a dog. Was Akshay told he was going to have a sister? And what about this dog? I’m quite convinced that Akshay has run away.

Sameer: Yes Akshay wanted a sister. We had adopted a lab a few months ago. Anita reasoned that with another child Akshay might feel ignored. And he seemed to love dogs. So we get this golden Labrador for him. What we didn’t know is that he was born with an eye problem. Anita and I took him back to the man we bought him from, but he claimed that it was probably our negligence that caused it. Akshay cried a lot that night. He told us that dogs weren’t things you buy from a general store that can be returned or exchanged because they’re defective. Anita refused to hear a word. She said we couldn’t afford his healthcare and dropped him off at a dog shelter.

The relief of getting these secrets off his chest, and the loneliness that they might result in, engulfed Sameer. He began to sob.

Uncle V: Easy son. Now is not the time to give up. I know Anita will be very cross with you. But you did what was required. I’m too old to drive down at this hour. But I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Till then, I think you should know that you did the right thing for your family.

Sameer continued sobbing as he put the receiver down. He was going to drink till he passed out.

Uncle V drove down the next day. He walked into the balcony as soon as he got home.

Uncle V: Good morning Shanthi.

Grandma: Hello Vinayak. How are you? And how is Anita?

Uncle V: Well, we’re surviving. I need to talk to you about something. Sameer told me everything last night.

Grandma: Is it so? I knew he would. He’s my son, he couldn’t change so much.

Uncle V: Did you know everything all along?

Grandma: This is my bubble, Vinayak. The only thing that would get through was Akshay. I know what he knew, I saw what he saw and I understood what he made me understand.

Uncle V: So do you think he ran away?

Grandma: I don’t know Vinayak. I just don’t know. But I know he is safe, wherever he is.

In his entire career as a keeper of the law, Uncle V had debunked such faith. But today he found it impossible to shake off.

Click here to read the final episode, VIII

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The Boy Who Narrates: Episode VI

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on February 24, 2011 in Story. 6 Comments

First off, sorry for the delay! Things happen, plots are found and interest has to be rekindled. Also, it isn’t easy when one of the contributors is far away in the forest and completing the story is the last thing you’re worried about.
I must say, I was very surprised by the number of people who asked me if we plan to continue the story. Thank you folks.

If you haven’t read the others:

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

I had planned to do a condensed recap, but honestly we’ve weighed each word before posting it and it wouldn’t do justice. The parts aren’t very long, and will make for quick, easy reading.
On to Episode VI then.
___________________________________________________________________

Four days had passed, and two more couriers had arrived. The contents were the same as in the first one.

Sandman: Akshay loved Kali, loves in fact. I shouldn’t refer to him in the past tense now, should I? Sorry, that’s terribly cruel of me.

Sandman had creeped up behind Uncle Vinayak,

Uncle V: Pratyush, I have a feeling you know something about all this, which you seem to be hiding. Come on, out with it. It is absolutely ridiculous to be keeping things to yourself when you know how worried everyone is.

Sandman: Uncle, I have no idea where Akshay is. I swear. But I wouldn’t be surprised if his grandmother knew something. He was very close to her. IS. I mean is. In fact, one day Akshay mentioned to me that the only person he trusted was his grandma. Frankly, she creeps me out a little, especially that song of hers. Akshay had also started singing it, and it was so irritating.

Uncle V: Do you remember the lyrics? I have only heard parts of it.

Sandman: No no. I wouldn’t want to remember such gibberish. But Akshay had once written it down in a piece of paper in school out of boredom and I had doodled on it. I generally keep a collection of my doodles, so I might just have it.

The paper Sandman got had a neatly written set of the following lines

Two young children, the best of friends,
Love what is beautiful, hate what is not,
But hate what only the other one has,
And love what the other one has not got.

I see the sound, I hear what I see,
The children play, and the children laugh,
But they also ended one soul they say,
For it was a slightly deformed calf.

I warned the children, I warned them well
To look before leaping away,
Their greatest enemy in life would be
The adults they would become one day.

The adults grew, the child flew,
The nest got parasitized by a beautiful bird
Beauty it fed on, beauty it drank,
And drowned all those who saw it or heard.

Uncle Vinayak stood still for a minute, trying to find some meaning. With the paper in his hand, he went up to Sameer.

Uncle V: Sameer, why does Anita stay so depressed? I know Akshay is missing. But when I think about it, I have not seen Anita happy in a really long time. Did something happen between the two of you? Did Akshay have any reason to run away from home?

Sameer: Run away from home! Why in the world would he do that? He is such a content little kid. As for Anita, well.. she did not want anybody else to know. She miscarried our second child few months ago. Please do not even mention this to her. She has been really upset about it. And …

Uncle V: And what?

Sameer: And I got rid of our driver Prakash around that time. One day, Anita was on her way back from the hospital.  Prakash must have overheard some of our conversations about the miscarriage, and he went ahead and said something about how she must be able to satisfy her man in order to conceive. I am sure he was drunk that day, or he would not have dared to say such a thing. I sacked him immediately. Prakash was very angry with me. He had been with us for a couple of years. I just hope that he did not have anything to do with Akshay’s kidnapping. But even if he did, he would demand something right?!

Uncle V: I think you have to report this to the police. Anita may not like it, but some dark secrets need to be let out, Akshay’s well being is far too important.

The anger in his face turned to deep regret and shame as Uncle V walked towards the phone.

Click here to read episode VII

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Conversations in the Bus

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on February 17, 2011 in C'est la vie. 2 Comments

“Your daughter is adorable. How old is she?”

“Haha, thank you. Say thank you to uncle beta”

“Thank you uncle.”

“She’s 8.”

“And so beautiful! She reminds me of my younger sister.”

“Really? So sweet. How old is she?’

“She would’ve turned 32 last month.”

________________________________________________

Recommended listening (Grooveshark link):

Death Cab for a Cutie’s I Will Follow You Into The Dark. From their album Plans

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The Boy Who Narrates: Episode V

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on January 11, 2011 in Story. 6 Comments

Uncle V: Shanthi, enjoying the sun, are you?

Grandma: Yes, I am. I have very little left in life to enjoy now.

Uncle V: Why are you always so cynical and sad? Sameer has been a good son to you. He takes such good care of you. And Anita has not been any less, I’m sure.

Grandma: Vinayak, I thought I raised my son well. He’s my only child and I have always wanted nothing but the best for him, like I have wanted for my only grandson Akshay.

Grandma closed her eyes, and broke to one of her playful songs again.

I warned the children, I warned them well

To look before leaping away,

Their greatest enemy in life would be

The adults they would become one day.

Uncle Vinayak was about to ask grandma some more questions, when Asha came running to him.

Asha: Aunty is calling you. Police have come. They want to see you.

Uncle Vinayak finished smoking his pipe, before he went to see the police.

Police: Good morning sir. We hope you will be able to answer our questions after we have told you some of our findings. The bus driver confessed after a lot of questioning, that he wasn’t paying attention to the children in the bus. He had an altercation with a cab driver and got down from the bus for an exchange of swear words. Only Nirmit and Akshay were in the bus then. He says he did not reveal this because of the fear that he would be penalized for being irresponsible with the kids.

There was an uncomfortable silence after that. Probably the presence of my mother was keeping the police from revealing everything they had unearthed.

Uncle V: Let us go to the balcony and talk. We’ll leave Anitha alone for a bit.

After shifting base to the balcony, the police looked uneasily at grandma.

Uncle V: Don’t worry. She will not interfere.

Police: Alright. Secondly, neighbours tell us that Akshay sometimes turned a deaf ear to his mother. He would simply not react. His mother also seems cold towards him. Also, we questioned the auto drivers near his school. One said that he had seen Akshay look for something outside the school compounds right during school hours.

Uncle V: Hmm. So what questions do you want me to answer?

Police: We feel that Mrs. Patil is hiding something from us. She does not answer all our questions and when she does, it’s mostly monosyllables. You have been a judge, perhaps you would be able to something out of her.

Grandma: Monosyllables, you say? You will not get anything out of her. The one who is commits a crime does not reveal, does he? If answers are what you want, look beyond normal reasoning.

Grandma went back to her knitting with her eyes closed. No amount of questioning or coaxing could make her speak again.

Click here to read episode VI

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The Boy Who Narrates: Episode IV

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on January 6, 2011 in Story. 3 Comments

My uncle spent the rest of the day at my school. He went around the school ground, touched the walls, looked over them, and came back home quite exhausted. After a cup of tea and some Marie biscuits, he went over to the kitchen, where Asha sat cutting vegetables for dinner.

Uncle V: Hello Asha. How is the work here? Are these people nice to you?

Asha looked a little taken aback at being addressed. She was mostly invisible to the house members, and that was how she preferred it to be.

Asha: Yes, they are nice to me.

Uncle V: Why do you work here? Don’t you go to school?

Asha: My parents died when I was six. My sister used to work here, but they didn’t like her. She tried to get the job back so many times, but Aunty said, I will take only Asha. You are not fit to work here, and so, last year I started working here.

Uncle V: Oh, but why did she not want to let your sister work?

My mother had walked into the kitchen. She stared at Asha for a second, and then suddenly gave her a very angelic smile, a smile I had been subjected to from time to time.

A: You are a naughty girl. With all this talk, when will you work? Uncle, don’t distract her. She is a restless little girl and if you talk to her, she won’t work well. These people should not be given more attention than they deserve. Spoils them.

Uncle V: But she’s just a child Anita. Why don’t you send her to school?

A: Oh, she doesn’t want to study. I tried to teach her myself, but the brat refused to learn a word. But she’s good with her household work and so I have no complaints.

The door bell rang and my mother rushed out of the kitchen to open the door. A tall delivery man stood there with a small parcel in one hand and a receipt sheet in the other.

Delivery Man: Mrs Anita Patil?

A: Yes, that is me.

DM: You have a courier. Please sign here.

Uncle Vinayak had in the meantime walked over to my mother. He watched her as she struggled to open the packaging to reveal a small show-piece. It was a small girl with golden locks and a tiny little dog in her arms.

My mother became pale, almost as though her ghost had taken over her body.

Uncle V: What is it Anita? Who is the sender?

My mother gave no response to uncle’s questions. She seemed drawn into a different world altogether. Uncle Vinayak gently took the parcel away from her and looked all over the package to see if there was a note anywhere. There was none.

Uncle V: Does this mean anything to you Anita?

A: I..I don’t know what to think. Akshay made a sketch a few months ago, of this same little girl with a dog in her arms.

Uncle V: Oh, do you have the sketch with you?

A: I do have it. I was about to get it framed, but then put it away in my cupboard. I’ll get it for you.

My mother came back with a charcoal drawn sketch of the show piece, and with it was a photograph of a sand painting of the same.

Uncle looked closely at the photograph and the sketch. His face had a frown, as his eyes went over every corner of them.

Uncle V: Did Pratyush make the sand painting?

A: Yes, I think so. Akshay did not give it to me though. He was showing it to his grandmother one day and I happened to see it accidently. When I asked him to show it to me, he said he would get me an actual sand painting later, and that grandma should keep the photograph.

My mother’s voice had started to quiver. She suddenly felt nauseous, and sat down on the sofa. And then she broke down again. Her gentle sobs filled the silence of the room. Uncle decided to leave her alone for a while and walked into the balcony where grandma was not knitting, for a change, and had her eyes closed.

______________________________________________________________________________

We’re on a small break after this episode, out in the wilderness helping organizers at the Bangalore Adventure Race set some trails up for the mountain biking section. See you next week!

Click here to read episode V

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The Boy Who Narrates: Episode III

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on January 5, 2011 in Story. 4 Comments

Sandman: She’s not senile, you know.

Pratyush, or Sandman, had crept in behind my uncle. He was my neighbour, batch mate and a brilliant chap as many said, with a fixation for sand. He always carried a small black pouch with him, filled with sand and some marbles which he’d use in his random sand paintings.

Uncle V: Is that so, young man?

Sandman: Yes, yes. She’s got keen eyes too. She spotted a marble that rolled out of my balcony. I don’t know too many 80 year olds who can do that. But everyone calls her mad. Sometimes my classmates call me mad too, you know. So I’ve learnt not to judge people so quickly.

Uncle V: Very true, son. So, was Akshay in your class? When did you last see him?

Sandman: I last saw him climb over the school wall to fetch a ball.

Uncle V: Didn’t you see him climb back into the school?

Sandman: Nope. That was when I last saw him. Ran to the wall, climbed it, tore the edge of his shirt I think, and jumped over. That’s it. I did not wait to see him climb back.

My uncle raised an eyebrow.

Uncle V: So how close were the two of you? Did Akshay talk to you about himself?

Sandman: Nope, not a lot. He is a quiet chap, and a very kind one too. You know, he gets down from his bus each day, buys three glucose packets from that bakery down the road, and goes about feeding all the stray dogs he meets. He has a special fondness for this crippled dog called Kali.

My uncle had started to walk up and down the room. His pace now had a slight impatience drawn into it.

Uncle V: Weren’t you in the bus with Akshay yesterday? Did you, like the others see him disappear too?

Sandman: Oh no uncle. I was working in the lab after school. But I wouldn’t be too surprised by his ‘disappearing’ act, you know. Akshay had once done a similar thing two years ago. He had come over to my house, and when his father came in to take him to some party of theirs, he just vanished. He was later found in the balcony with his grandmother. Nobody bothered to check with her, although they went insane searching everywhere else for those two hours. Hah, that was funny. But I still don’t understand how he managed to get to the balcony so fast.

His thoughts were interrupted by his mother’s voice, calling out for him. My guess is that she did not want him to get involved with police matters. But did the police matter at all? They had made no headway yet and it had been almost 36 hours since my disappearance. My mother had run out of her tears, and now sat in one corner of the drawing room staring at the wall. Everything was silent, except for the sound of our house maid, Asha, wiping furniture clean. She was just ten year old, and quite beautiful.

Click here to read episode IV

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Written by Abhishek Madan. Tags: , , , .

The Boy Who Narrates: Episode II

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on January 4, 2011 in Story. 1 Comment

As the night took its course, and the sun peeped out, the police was informed, ‘concerned’ relatives were avoided and neighbours were kept out. My mother had refused to sleep the entire night and my father had lost his temper over the roadside cigarette shop closing down. However, my grandma slept peacefully.

Uncle V: You be strong, my little Anita. I will deal with all the police formalities and get your son back. Don’t worry.

My uncle Vinayak, was an old retired judge. His eyes were the wisest pair I’d ever seen in my life and he had a way with words, you know those perfect calming words that manage to soothe the most restless of the minds. He had come down to our place after hearing the news. He spent the next few minutes taking in all the details he could, my crying mother, my tense father, and the uneasiness in the house. And then, he walked into the balcony where my grandma sat knitting.

Uncle V: How do you feel now Shanthi? Is your leg better now?

Grandma: I feel just fine physically. As long as my eyes can see, and I can knit, and my ears can shut out what’s unpleasant, I will live quite happily.

Uncle V: What is so unpleasant that you would like to shut out?

Grandma: There are things, and there are things and there are songs I like to sing.

Two young children, the best of friends,
Love what is beautiful, hate what is not,
But hate what only the other one has,
And love what the other one has not got.

I see the sound, I hear what I see,
The children play, and the children laugh,
But they also ended one soul they say,
For it was a slightly deformed calf.

My uncle stood listening to her. Her words made no sense, yet she sang these lines, the rhythm of her knitting matching the rhythm of her song.

Uncle V: Is knitting all you do the whole day? Don’t you get bored of it?

Grandma: When you’re in a coma Vinayak, time flies. It just flies.

S: Uncle, she is not keeping too well I’m afraid, talks a lot of rubbish these days. But as long as she’s calm and can take care of herself, we’re not too bothered. Although Anita thinks she hates her. Now why would my mother hate someone just for the heck of it? It’s not like she talks a whole lot to me either.

My uncle stayed silent the rest of the day, keeping his thoughts to himself, and revealing only what was asked of him by the police. But he knew things were strange: a disappearing act, an almost broken family, and a senile mother. There had to be a sore thumb sticking out amidst all the strangeness.

Click here to read Episode III

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Written by Abhishek Madan. Tags: , , , .