Hampi – A fictional tragedy!

 

Hampi – A fictional tragedy!

NOTE: NO PHOTOS IN THIS BLOG; ALL PICTURES ARE ADVERTISEMENTS.

Genre - Fiction

Sub-genre - Road-trip

Length of blog - 2300 words

Iossif was a travel writer, and as per his tradition, he had got a hold of his travel buddy and as per plan they were on their way to Hampi. Misha had just bought a new car around a month back and was excited about the 1600 km round trip road journey. Iossif on the contrary was flaccid, he considered himself an impassive person in the navigator seat, the name of the seat just a keepsake now that the driver was ever resourceful with google maps et al. The last leg of the road, a 300km freeway to Bangalore was straight and sturdy. Misha, was all praise for 6-lane road.

“What’s there in Hampi?” was one of the conversations that started and ended quite abruptly; both the travellers not wanting to break the suspense.

“Take the left and you have reached your destination”, the female voice on the app said. The landscape had turned hilly. The type of hills they had both seen for the first time. There were rocks of various sizes but cube-shaped. And the cuboids were placed one on top of the other, as if on purpose. Iossif and Misha had started to notice the terrain changes quite a few miles back. They found a state department owned tourism center and decided that this was their resting place for the day. Through the trees from their room they could see a nearby ruin partially. Ruins is what Hampi is famous for.

 “Look”, Iossif said as he pointed towards the ruins, “They used the same rocks to build them”

“Here’s what Google says,” Misha read, “Hampi was a temple town and is recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site with ruins from 1343 to 1565 AD. Hampi was the rich capital of the Vijayanagara Empire when it was at its peak during 14th century “

“Haha, I smell treasure” Iossif said.

They had a few hours of daylight with them and they decided to scout the area. Back into the car they headed for the main temple area. In today’s day, Hampi continues to be famous for its temples. Lots of ruins passed them, an entrance with remains of a wall, a stone bull, etc., all with neatly marked signboards in various languages along the winding road. They had reached the main entrance, the car parked they entered the main temple with stone walls; pilgrims were in various stages of prayer in the huge campus. A stone altar with wheels the size of a fully-grown man stood in front of the temple entrance. This altar-cum-chariot being as tall as a single storey building would have to be pulled by thousands of pilgrims if it had to go anywhere.

“It could’ve easily been used as a tank”, Iossif sail aloud.

They noticed the entire block of temples, inclusive of the tourist bazaar was a vegetarian area, in respect of the holy grounds. They had traversed the entire settlement and reached the banks of the Tungabadhra river. The river ebbed, its flow controlled by a dam a couple of kilometers upstream. A motorized coracle lazily crossed the river.

“How do they know which side is port and which side is starboard”, Misha said staring at the round boat.

“It would not be able to carry more than a handful of people”, Iossif contnued, “And oh, yet look at it ferrying bikes too!”

 The opposite bank led to mini-Hampi.

“We’ll go there the last two days,” Iossif heard Misha say.

He nodded back, his friend captured a few pictures in the sunset on his cellphone.

“The smell from the gutter will not be caught in the photos, you know”, Iossif said.

Misha smiled back. They retreated knowing not to get on each other’s nerves. Back at the hotel they had dinner over a couple of beers and decided their next day’s itinerary.

“A funny thing happened, when you were freshening up before dinner and I had gone to the store nearby”, Iossif said.

“Hmmmm”, his friend responded as he sipped on his drink.

“I started a conversation about treasure with the store keeper”, Iossif said.

“I can imagine you, with the all kinds of signs being made by you to overcome the language barrier,” Misha laughed.

“I asked him if any treasure can be found around”, Iossif continued, “The man pointed at the full moon and said that it was a good time and we may come across a few local ruffians doing the same too.”

They headed for their room and immediately noticed their entire lobby was full of people. A posse of family members were to be their noisy neighbours. And thanks to them they were up early to continue their trip. The first half of the day they visited the ruins they had passed last evening. A mixture of temples, army quarters, the main palace, a queen’s bath of which now the foundation remained, elephant stables, granary ruins, an octagonal bath, watch towers, etc. All made from the same cuboid rocks.

“Ram had used these rocks to construct the bridge to Sri Lanka”, Misha was referring to the mythological story of Ramayana.

 “So the rocks were there before Ram or did he use his powers to convert entire hills into pyramids of cubes”, Iossif said.

They had earlier visited the temples with details of monkey men - the monkey-men who had helped Ram construct the bridge to enter Sri Lanka to save his wife Sita from Ravana. One temple had carvings where each monkey-man had a different kind of armour, readying for war. The temples in solid stone were proof of a religion set in this Indian subcontinent. Iossif felt himself doubting his own beliefs.

Their next stop, the official museum gave them more of an idea of the life during the Devarayas. Krishnadevaraya, the most popular amongst the dynasty awoke before dawn, rode his horses hard, exercised with weapons and conducted his daily managerial tasks all before lunch.

“Let’s have lunch after this”, Misha said.

They stared at painting by Domingo Paes, a Portuguese traveller who had captured the Hampi marketplace in its heyday.

“Look at those sacks filled with precious stones”, Iossif said.

He pointed to one corner of the overcrowded painting. A setting with merchants on mammoths, horses along with their masters having negotiations with pointed capped foreigners. The grandeur of the ancient city’s past glory not left to imagination.

“I have never seen so many people in a single painting”, Iossif continued over the lunch table, “It could’ve been passed off as a recent photo of any railway station in Mumbai.”

They had settled for the first eatery that they could find and gobbled down the simple meal. The next stop was to be the place they had just seen in the painting. They drove eastwards to the next cluster of ruins which farther along would meet the Tungabadhra again. Car parked they readied themselves to enter the painting. Battery operated elongated versions of golf carts plied tourists along the entire bazaar of which only ruins remained today. The bazaar itself as long as a football field, ended in a temple. Adjacent were a few more temples.

An arch nearby known as “King’s balance”, where they weighed heavy stuff from the bazaar. A two-storeyed building was a part of this area, which too was made from the same cube-shaped blocks of rocks.

“So the temples were built in honour of Ram who had used Hampi’s rocks”, Iossif continued, “I wonder why they didn’t construct any toilets though, I wonder where they pooed”

“It was bushier 500 years ago”, Misha said.

A visit of the satellite ruins got them to a sunset by the riverside. Here another coracle ferried tourists to a fourth set of ruins. They sat along the bank to enjoy the sunset. Iossif made a few mental notes for his write-up. An unfinished bridge lay across the river. It seemed to have been lost in translation, a couple of dumper trucks without tyres, an almost complete uphill slope on the other side, which suggested the work held up from a couple of years at least.

 Misha pointed to the tallest hill across the bank and said, “We’ll catch the sunset from there tomorrow.”

They left for their hotel where they were greeted by the throng of their neighbour’s family. Iossif hovered around the lobby, the children played, women chattered, it was as if the entire family tree was on tour. A middle aged man came up to him.

“Yep, we all come here every year, a good outing for everyone”, he said with a heavy southern Indian accent.

“Oh, Hampi is beautifu…”, Iossif was cut short.

“badagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoog, karnataka… badagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoog, Hampi” the man said in the local language.

Iossif guessed the language was Kannada, though he couldn’t tell the difference. Thankfully the man translated what he had just spoken into English.

“If you have eyes you can see Karnataka, but if you have legs you can see Hampi”, the man continued, “Old Karnataka state saying.”

“These are your children?” Iossif said.

“Yes those two over there and those are my elder brother’s kids…” the man’s voice drifted away as Iossif got lost into his own train of thoughts.

 Iossif knew he would use “ye old Karnataka state saying” in his story. He was prone to these random inputs from random people. He didn’t know why - probably he had a very approachable face - he had come to terms with such experiences, where he would be shown how to bring about the twist in his story writing by total strangers. He liked it. And it was probably why people said, “You journey to find yourself.”

He made a couple of entries in his notebook before bed. The next day, they headed out to the fourth set of ruins. The coracle ride was slow and Iossif watched the water as it threatened to enter the wok-shaped vessel.

“God knows why they can’t complete this bridge”, Iossif said over the noise of the motor.

Misha who was in conversation with another fellow passenger, turned and responded, “This guy is a local and he says the bridge was almost near completion when the Tungabhadra overflowed and destroyed the bridge.”

The rest of the boat ride was completed in silence. Iossif wondered if everyone understood what they had spoken in English and were respecting the wrath of the nature or was it just coincidence.

The fourth set of ruins were connected to mini-Hampi by a handful of kilometers of road. But alas their car was on the other side and Misha did not want to leave his new car unattended overnight. So they completed their tour of Gagan Mahal, a residence to one of the ancient lords and his kin as soon as they could and journeyed back over the river.

A few inquiries with lots of actions in the coracle got them the confirmation of the land route they needed. They would have to traverse through Annegundi, a city 10 kms downstream, where there was a bridge to get to the other side by car. They did it by 5 pm. It had been a bumpy and slow three-hour journey. And yet the car ride was worth it, Mini-Hampi had a Goa vibe. There were gulleys with memorabilia sold all along it. Foreigners strolled with knapsacks, non-vegetarian cuisine along with alcoholic beverages were hoarded across the area. A cool breeze flew over the lush green paddy fields, coconut palms completed the montage. And of course, there were also bikes on hire. Iossif and Misha bargained themselves a bike and headed for the tall hill to witness the sunset.

Atop the hill was a temple; not a ruin but famous anyways. 1500 steps were laid out to the top for ease of access to crowds of tourists, by now all of whom had gotten used to the ‘cubes’ of rocks. The sun highlighted each set of ruins as it withdrew westwards into the horizon. They had a bird’s eye view of the entire surrounding area. A few 4-pillared ruins could be seen on the short adjacent hilltops which had probably been used as lookout posts.

Iossif tried to follow their route from the main temple to where they were right now. Opposite the main temple across the river closest to them was mini-Hampi. Mini-Hampi an island formed by the river splitting and meeting back again around it. Further downstream were ruins number three and four. The pillars of the ancient bridge could be seen. And then it struck Iossif, he knew how he would end his story. The ancient people were a tough lot, they had a ruler who promoted fair trade and got them all to live in a civilized society; yet fell short. They built palaces, markets, outposts, granaries and gardens, yet they did not build toilets. The outposts and barrack settlements were few compared to the wealth they had accumulated. They may have flourished for another century if they had concentrated more on fortifications rather building temples. The ancient bridge and the newly perished bridge a testimony to the tragic end to the capital city of an empire by over flooding of a river.

 

===THE END===

The Cause of her return

The Cause of Her Return

 NOTE: NO PHOTOS IN THIS BLOG; ALL PICTURES ARE ADVERTISEMENTS.

Genre - Fiction

Sub-genre - Comedy

Length of blog - 1600 words

“What should I put the leave down as?” Rahida said.

"While in Mussoorie, I am not going to bond with Ruskin. With James maybe but not with Ruskin", Sudha said.

“You need to make a quick decision. Prolonging it hurts more”, Rahida continued into her handphone, "I am putting your reason for leave as 'Men Problems'."

Both laughed. The line got cut off. The gist of the call was that Sudha was not reporting to work for another five days. The assumptions of Rahida and Sudha about Sudha’s ‘Men Problems’ would differ like the north and south pole. Rahida assumed Sudha was not able to get a man and was in Mussoorie to get away from it all.  While in reality, Sudha was running away from one man into the hands of another. The next Rahida would get to hear about her colleague would be after a week; next working Monday. And what Sudha transpires through is a story that would amuse Rahida as well as the reader. This was the stuff - the office water-cooler gossip - Rahida loved.

Rahida entered the office next Monday morning Sudha was supposed to re-join work. She knew a story was in store for her today. She was in time to see Sudha enter her cabin.

“Where’s Frankie?” Sudha continued, “I need to tell you guys something.”

Frankie was Sudhas’s bum chum, both being from the same chemical engineering college. They were into all the rascal parts together since graduation –at least in parts -if not majority - of their journey of being at one of the upcoming polymer companies.

“Smoking- zone”, Rahida messaged Frankie.

Rahida and Sudha left for the smoking zone. Frankie greeted them in a few minutes. They all ordered a glass of tea from the chai-wallah.

“Sameer held out a board, ‘Sudha’, upside down”, Sudha said.

“Why are you back?” Frankie said, she seemed to know Sudha’s story.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you”, Sudha said.

Rahida felt left out. She was happy to be part of the three musketeer’s clan they had become. But sometimes Frankie and Sudha were Laurel-and-Hardy-esque.

“I wanted to run into his arms over the feeble trellis in between us”, Sudha said.

Rahida awed at the Hyperbole.

“He bade me towards the exit where he received me in his van. I loaded my luggage onto the back seat of the vehicle, and we drove off”. Sudha said.

“How was the weather?” Rahida said to assure them of her presence.

“So you decided that Nitin is the right guy?” Frankie said.

“Yes, do you want to hear me out?” Sudha said a little bit annoyed.

Rahida felt she was on another planet. Firstly, because she was in a topic where bum chums tell their hangover stories, as it were, also Sudha from having no guys in her life to now having two of them.

“Oh yes the view! Chilled breeze blew over me through the open window. He offered me a jacket from the back. His gloved hand on the gear-stick was to die for. He slowed the van onto the side of the road. I tell you the warmth of the jacket couldn’t numb my mind”, Sudha said addressing the remaining two.

“I’m after all supposed to be married to Nitin”, Sudha said addressing Rahida.

Rahida was over the world for the new information, it meant she was accepted and her thoughts of them being the three musketeers was coming true.

“I was frustrated by the routine married life in Delhi. I was  happy – but I wanted more. Maybe I was being greedy. But it’s good to be selfish”, Sudha said and nodded her head.

Rahida wondered about Sudha’s libido. She was married, yet had recently gone on a tryst with a guy in taxi. Sudha had met the guy on Tinder, and then they had picked up quarts of whisky mixed it in a plastic water bottle and had drunk the concoction riding all night in different taxies.

“But did it end in sex?” Rahida could hear Victoria ask. 

Victoria was Rahida’s best mate out of work. Rahida often laid all of the office gossip onto Victoria.

“Only then would it be called cheating”, Victoria had said, “Drinking all night with a male friend is not a sin.”

Victoria and Rahida debated on their respective office gossips.

“Sudha needs to be yearned for, and Nitin is stuck in-between his sick mother and her”, Frankie said to get the story going.

Anyone of them would get a call on their ‘office’ cell phones and this would end abruptly.

“It was difficult to be alone with him – Nitin being the sole earning member of the family”, Sudha continued, “No time for me.”

Rahida nodded.

“I made my decision after mulling on it for over a month. Only Frankie knew. And then I called you to inform I was not coming to work last Monday”, Sudha continued, “And you gave some valuable advice to make a quick decision”

Rahida pondered on her advice but recollected that she had given it to her thinking that Sudha was lonely and not having two hotties and married to one. Rahida had started imagining Nitin and Sameer; Nitin with a slender model look, while Sameer on the bulky yet fairer like the snow clad Mussoorie mountains.

Sudha hugged Rahida for the advice.

“On the day I left. I decided that I would go to Mussoorie and make a decision fast”, Sudha said.

Rahida wondered whether this was what Sudha meant about the James and Ruskin metaphor.

“Two weeks is fast enough”, Frankie said. “Did you tell Sameer you had left all of Nitin in Delhi.”

“No, before I could, his lips were on mine. In the chilled weather I couldn’t feel much through my numb lips, or maybe I was distracted”, Sudha continued , “He lived out of a let-out on a slope facing the east. During sunset the sky would be aglow with the orange reflection of the ocean cast on the snow clad peaks. His place felt bare – a woman’s touch was required to liven up the space. I spent the days tidying up the room and noticed Sameer roam about in a singlet in the chill temperature. He was used to it.”

“Lady fast-forward”, Frankie said.

“At night, Sameer kissed me and when things became a little heated, I told him I was on my periods. Five nights later, Sameer had asked me to bed early. I knew tonight was the night and I was not in the mood. The decision in my head not yet being made”, Sudha continued, “I wanted to know him better and begin a courtship rather than to have a Ruskin Bond book in my face. I wanted a James Bond who would be in my face"

“I had come to this hill station to sort my thoughts out”, Sudha continued, “I got the time to think. And I understood that I was looking to bear fruit”

And then when we were doing it, I sat on his penis in an awkward position and it broke!” Sudha said.

“Ahhhh”, Frankie said.

“I broke it”, Sudha said.

“What crap”, Rahida said.

Rahida’s novel which lay at the base of her handbag did not have such drama.

“Little did I know that this would alter my decision and help me make my mind up. The altercation was simple”, Sudha said.

“And what did happen of poor Sameer?” Rahida asked.

“His flaccid penis oozing blood out the one-eye that it has. We applied ice all night until the bleeding stopped. Sameer did not get sleep. We visited the doctor the next day. I had to drive the poor fellow to the hospital but did not enter the premises. I stayed in the car”

“The doctor told him that there was a rupture in the urethra. It would heal in its own time. So, I entered the train back to Delhi after a week of handling Sameer’s daily affairs”, Sudha said

As soon as she could be alone in her air-conditioned cabin - Rahida was on the phone with Victoria sharing the dick-breaking story.

“So the third musketeers has lived to tell another tale”, Victoria continued, “And Sudha decided that a life without sex was what she did not want.”

“Whether Sameer would be fit as a fiddle for her to twiddle it around her middle was not the answer to her predicament”, Rahida continued, “But the fact that, she was not paying attention during sex and sat on Sameer’s penis in that awkward manner had made her realize that, her heart was back in Delhi” Rahida said.

“So Nitin has accepted her back?” Victoria said.

“He did not know she had left him. Her father-in-law came to pick her up after her ‘vacation’”, Rahida said.

“Oh yeah so that’s cool from Sudha’s point of view. Why do such episodes not happen to us?”. Victoria continued, “Wow, what a story, it even has a sex scene, and the scene cannot be deleted as the action sequence on a penis needs to be present in the story."

“There are a lot of sex-scenes between our Laurel and Hardy pair”, Rahida continued.

“Yeah I remember the one where Frankie and her first boyfriend used to do it in a room in front of his fish tank and later found the water murky. They surmised the fish were getting excited and ejaculating too”, Victoria continued, “When are we going to lose our virginity?”

Rahida laughed. They cut the call.

--- THE END ---

A Place called Bumtore

 

A Place called Bumtore

 NOTE: NO PHOTOS IN THIS BLOG; ALL PICTURES ARE ADVERTISEMENTS.

Genre - Fiction

Sub-genre - Comedy

Length of blog - 1800 words

                “There is a place called Bumtore in your Excel sheet?” Selim continued, "I checked on Google, no error in spelling, maybe the pronunciation is bimtorey, or bumtire or boomtaur”

                “It’s pronounced - 'bum-tore'”, Thawatchai continued, “I know coz it’s my hometown.”

                Selim looked at his friend from the navigator seat of the car.

                “And why am I hearing about this now”, Selim said.

                 "It is just an ancestral home used once in year by a handful of my relatives, that is if they care to visit", Thawatchai said.

                They were off for a weeklong coastal road trip. They had hired a car and would be stopping at the various pre-scheduled spots.

                “I got to hand it to you”, Selim continued, “Using Microsoft Excel to formulate the plan.”

                “We use excel at our offices to help us work better, why not use it to better our personal lives as well”, Thawatchai said.

                 On Thawatchai’s coaxing, Selim had taken half day leave and readied himself, picked his bags and reached the car rental place before 4 p.m.

                “We beat the weekend traffic out of the city. That’s a good start to our vacay”, Thawatchai continued, “I thought you would be late, and a miniscule part thought that you would cancel.”

                “Nah! I am too lazy a person to give up on a holiday”, Selim said.

                They headed westwards into the sunset and began to recce for a hotel. They setup their alarms for daybreak and left southwards. They decided to take all the roads that would be hugging the coastline. However, they had to move inland to crossover an upcoming creek.

                “That is the only bridge that takes us far from the west coast”, Selim said.

                "Yes, the next three creeks we would be crossing via ferries”, Thawatchai said.

                “I did not know that this was a trip to your native place”, Selim said.

                “No. Bumtore is not our destination, but we would be spending a night there”, Thawatchai said.

                Selim was on the phone checking the excel sheet.

                By afternoon they had reached their second destination. A lazy white-sand beach greeted them. A fishing village accompanied with a marina. Here they played it by ear and got lunch at one of the fishermen’s houses. The village was trying to attract tourists without trying to be too commercial about it. And they found themselves being guided towards a home-stay. A huge hall with many bunkbeds in it constituted their stay. They were lucky that it was only the two of them in it, that too on a weekend. They were informed that the place had just been vacated by a gang of bikers. The townsfolk showed them a plethora of things that could be done in their village which included, boar hunting at night, shell collecting, volleyball with the local boys in the evening, help with fishing lines out in the ocean on one of the trawlers, etc.

                A hearty breakfast the next day and they were off.  

                “Seemed like we could have stayed out our entire seven days there”, Selim said.

                “Yeah, a wonderful little nook”, Thawatchai said.

                The sea view on their right was breath-taking. They stopped whenever they felt they wanted to give justice to the view. Lunch was at another beach – this time the beach had dark sand. Tea at another beach. Their journey to their night stay was atop a hill.

                “Can’t wait to see the view in the morning”, Selim said.

                They had reached the place after sundown. The enquiries at the hotels near the bottom of the hill had eaten into the daylight. The view of the waves being formed in the middle of the sea, the next morning was as awesome as they had imagined the previous night. The view to V-shaped beach below was obstructed by the coconut tree tops and the red-tiled roofs. But they could see all the way from the horizon to the waves forming way out in the middle of nowhere and rolling towards land.

                “Next stop, our first ferry”, Thawatchai said.

                There were not more than a handful of cars plying to the other side in the ferry. Mostly commercial vehicles. It was Monday morning after all. They passed many fishing villages, some small, some set away from the main road, all gaudily coloured. They went through one - the narrow roads of a fishing village not meant for cars - when Selim read the map wrong. A couple of dead ends too. Their oath of sticking to the coast, always their motivator.

                By lunch they had reached the next ferry crossing. A quick snack and the journey continued. A few more beaches and they were settled in another home-stay. This time it was the local priest’s son’s house. That was realised by the singing that went late into the night.

                “Yes, he looks very noble, but he was accompanied by the chicks of the village, dude”, Selim said.

                “Too bad we are not religious”, Thawatchai said.

                Both laughed as they finished their breakfast and carried onwards.

                “This is my favourite spot”, Thawatchai said. They had stopped passed a small stream. And Thawatchai had led Selim off the road into a thicket. The vegetation covered a cove formed where the sea water met the fresh water. Shells rolled In the sand.

                “On it’s like a secret mini-beach”, Selim said.

                A couple of beers later, they ate lunch at the next spot they could.

                “We will stay at a place one hour from here, but we won't stop there. For no, we will continue south to the thrid ferry and check out the earliest boat we can take, as it would save us time tomorrow” Thawatchai said.

A dubious factory loomed in front of them. It was on the other side of the river. They had passed the inn where they would spend the night and were headed into the industrious looking town which included the jetty from where they would catch their ferry. They understood the first one next morning was at 6 a.m.

                “Let’s check and see if we get a good place here, it would save us a couple of hours of travel time tomorrow morning”, Selim said.

                A couple of stops and they summarised that this was not their kind of place.

                “Were those hotels or make-out places?”, Thawatchai said.

                “Hardworking salted men need those services”, Selim said.

                They both gladly did the back and forth away from the brothel-like inns. The next day, after their ferry ride, they faced the factory that seemed to have made this area into what it was. They left the gloom behind onto the last stretch to Bumtore.

                “Did you notice, that this could be any country having a coastline. Rivers running into the ocean at periodic intervals, the beaches close to the rivers have black soil, while the ones away from the silt, having white-sand. Hills with roads that seem to exit into the ocean, except to wind away into a fishing village”, Selim said.

                They reached Bumtore around lunch and booked themselves into a hotel close to the only entrance to the long beach.

                “No. I do not have any relatives still living here. Hence, we are staying in the hotel”, Thawatchai continued, “My ancestral house is way south on the outskirts of Bumtore. I will show it to you when we are passing it tomorrow”

                They were in their beach clothes, heading for the beach for an evening swim.

                “The south end of the beach is a gated community while the north is encased by Hilton Hotel group of Hotels. So, this is the only entrance”, Thawatchai said.

                On the beach they headed northwards, away from the throng of locals at the south end. The beach was flat except for a few car sized rocks at intermittent intervals.

                “Don’t you find the name peculiar – Bumtore”, Selim said.

                “The joke grows on you”, Thawatchai continued, “I’ll tell you what I have found peculiar- these rocks are peculiar. I have come to this beach many a time, during low tides too, these rocks seem to be placed here without any correlation to the surrounding terrain”

                After a few more paces, they entered the water where it seemed like a good secluded spot. They saw two bikini clad women jump over the short Hilton fence onto the beach and head their way. Soon both the groups were ogling each other up.

                “Go and speak to the tall one”, Selim continued, “I have dibs on the short dark one.”

                The weather had turned breezy and dark clouds seemed to gather on top of them. Neither the girls nor the boys in their flirtations noticed the gathering of storm clouds coming in from the sea. Until there was loud clap and it began to pour. Both the groups looked at each other.

                “Count the seconds after you see the lightning” Selim said.

                “Dude look the clouds on top of us seemed to have formed a circle”, Thawatchai said.

                Two more thunder claps without any difference in time between the lightning strikes and the thunder, made Selim and Thawatchai get out of the water. They saw the girls follow suit. In the distance, the crowded south end of the beach was empty. They walked fast not wanting to run like sheep in front of the two girls.

                “Lets head for the Hilton hotel”, Thawatchai said.

                “Trees dude, lightning strikes the trees first”, Selim said.

                The rain was relentless. They crossed the first set of rocks. Another two more to go before they could exit the beach. They walked faster. The storm clouds had curled overhead and were rumbling on. As if waiting to let out another lash of lightning.

                “Badagboodoog”, said the clouds with a flash of lightning.

                Selim saw Thawatchai looking down at the sand. Selim looked around to see where the flash was. No luck! Everything was hazy and the light seemed to come from all around. The girls behind them too, had avoided the woods and were following them to the exit.

                “Do you know how glass is made?” Selim said.

                Thawatchai did not look up from the sand.

              “Sand when heated forms glass”, Selim continued, “And when lightning strikes people standing on sand, these rocks are formed. You found these rocks peculiar, right? Now you know why?”

                Thawatchai walked away from Selim towards the woods, while Selim laughed his anxiety into the rain. Selim tried to get close to Thawatchai

                “Blood has made the glass brown in colour”, Selim continued his laugh, “Tomorrow people would simply see a new set of rocks.”

 Thawatchai zigzagged away from Selim, as if the silly rock-becoming joke would come true. Or perhaps He did not want any part in Selim’s mockery of mother nature at her wildest.

                At long last, they reached the beach exit and the boys went straight to their hotel room.

                “Now I know the reason why this place is called Bumtore”, Selim said.

 

--- THE END ---

For the Loss of a Match

 

For the Loss of a Match

 

NOTE: NO PHOTOS IN THIS BLOG; ALL PICTURES ARE ADVERTISEMENTS.

Genre - Fiction

Sub-genre - Comedy

Length of blog - 1100 words

                Nicky met Lizam in the years after passing out of college through a common friend. He came to know Lizam as one of the best story tellers in his friend's circle. A wonderful orator who could captivate his audience with his descriptives.

                “I entered the room to see my brother sitting and watching the TV”, Lizam continued, “He was without a shirt”

                Lizam started to tell a story. He raised his hands over his head and folded them behind his head and rested his head on the folded hands.

                “He was sitting like this”, Lizam continued,” As if he was relaxing, then I noticed his underarm was red. Only one underarm was red.”

                “What had happened was that the girl he is going around with had tried to wax his armpit hair”, Lizam said.

                All of us laughed.

                “And what about the other underarm?” Nicky said.

                “He wasn’t that madly in love with her to let her do the other one”, Lizam continued,” Those were Shabnam’s exact words.”

                Shabnam was Lizam’s younger brother by one year.

                “Mind you, Shabnam was smiling before I entered the room and looking at that smile that did not fade throughout our conversation, I can write and give it to you that he will marry her and only her”, Lizam said.

                Nicky held out a napkin from the bar table and Lizam penned down something. Soon Nicky heard the  news of Shabnam’s wedding. One day prior to the wedding, Nicky reached the wedding house soon after breakfast to lend a helping hand in the wedding preparations. Nicky was all too familiar with the great Indian weddings. How the family relatives, friends, near and dear ones would start the celebrations one or two days prior to the wedding.

The names all over the country would differ – Haldi, Mehendi, Roce, Saivar, Sangeet, Umbrache pani, almajevon, etc. – but the premise the same; to party. Haldi, Mehendi, Sangeet were terms used by non-Catholics of the country for the rehearsal dinner which may or may not include the engagement ceremony. Haldi in Hindi translated to turmeric – turmeric powder mixed in water applied to the bride and groom’s skin in separate private parties in their respective homes. Southern Indian weddings would add sandalwood powder - sandalwood being a native tree - to the Haldi mixture. The Haldi ceremony followed by a Mehendi ceremony which could transpire to the second and third day too. Mehendi ceremony constitutes for the bride and her posse being tattooed with henna. The already yellow from the Haldi bride’s hands and feet are stained orange by the crushed leaves of the henna plant. The groom’s side can have a Sangeet ceremony – Sangeet translating to Music – so a musical dance night ensues.

Likewise the Indian west-coast Catholics apply coconut milk to the bride and grooms in separate private parties. Whereas, the East Indian Catholics call it Saivar where the wedding parties – in their separate localities – have a procession to all the wells in their area and collect water from the wells and leaves from the mango tree. The latter giving the name Umbrache pani –Umbra translating to Mango tree and pani translating to water. The bride and grooms then bathe in this water. The groom has a shave too. The East Indian weddings were the most fun. Nicky loved the trumpeters who accompanied the wedding parties all around the village.

Nicky referred to the live band as trumpets of joy – because the dance included raising one hand above the head and shaking the hips in merriment. Today Nicky knew there would be no trumpets of joy, but, would include the common factor to all the above dinner parties – alcohol.

The beers were flowing since the time he had reached the groom’s apartment building. Nicky opted to lay out the decorations on the terrace where all would gather and then helped in decorating the wedding car. After which he headed home for a late lunch before readying himself to go back for the Roce. Nicky was tired of the alcohol. He was feeling hollow at the lack of a partner – that special someone who would understand him. But alas! He was without a match. He cursed his luck for whenever he landed up dating girls, thier frequency never matched.

“And then there is the day after the wedding where the bride goes back to her maternal home to visit her parents”, Nicky continued, ”Again the names differ – portoney, paspatni, mooh-dikhai, portapan, khallijevon etc. – more alcohol”

Nicky was making conversation with the guy standing next to him at the wedding house. He was trying to find solace in the routine of the various marriage ceremonies, but found none. Instead he found an egg enter his hand. Nicky did not like this part – where after all the relatives applied coconut milk to Shabnam and seated next to him, Lizam and one of Shabnam’s close friends – the rest would apply raw eggs, beer, ketchup, whatsoever viscous liquids they could get their hands upon. The three of them would have to endure this barrage of uneasiness.

Nicky felt it was a waste of a sanctimonious ritual, plus God forbid, what if some skin allergy be formed. Tomorrow the groom had to get married for Chris sakes! Nicky applied the coconut milk as soon as the relatives were done and before the mischief started, he headed for the terrace. He handed over the egg to another friend. On the way up, he remembered his birthday – how cake was applied maliciously to his face -so much so that he had to visit a specialist to remove the fungus growing in his ear; from the two-week old birthday cake in his ear.

Nicky shuddered at the thought as he entered onto the decorated terrace and reached for the cigarette packet in his pocket. He would have a  smoke and would wait for the crowd to pour in after their lowly endeavours downstairs. He searched his pockets and realised he did not have a match. He looked around and found himself to be the only person on the terrace. He trudged back two floors down the stairs to the grooms flat. As he entered the flat, the wall of people in front of him seemed to part. There was a cheer as Shabnam and Lizam in all their dirtiness had had enough from the onslaught of the various viscous fluids and were running towards the crowd. Nicky who was unaware of the rushing brothers got himself caught in a slimy embrace.

                They had pre-decided that they would do that; catch the miscreants and teach them a lesson by rubbing their gooey bodies on their clean clothes. And Nicky for the loss of a match got stuck in the crossfire.

 

--- THE END ---

 

Tambakuman Kills a Cop

 

 Tambaku in Hindi means tobacco.

 Tobacco usage is injurious to health. The writer does not support use of any tobacco products as they lead to cancer, heart attacks, lung disorders and other deadly disease. And asks everyone to refrain from tobacco usage.

 The main character - TambakuMan, has been given the bad habit to expose the bodily harm done on prolonged usage of tobacco.

EPISODE 4: TAMBAKUMAN KILLS A COP

 NOTE: NO PHOTOS IN THIS BLOG; ALL PICTURES ARE ADVERTISEMENTS.

Genre - Fiction

Sub-genre - Noir

Length of blog - 900 words

                He saw from afar his foreman exit the construction site. He had given his orders and was leaving for another site survey or would just go someplace and relax. He was the boss, eh! Who was he to cross-question him? The break lights came on as he parked near the teashop on the sloping -bend that exited onto the main road.

                It happened oh so suddenly! The tempo carrying steel rods inside the site started to roll backwards, it hit the company van smack on one side of the company van. Both the vehicles reeled. The boss was not in the car. The runaway tempo had not stopped rolling downslope. After bouncing off the van, it rolled onto a parked bike – on which an unknowing soul was sitting – it banged the bike. After knocking over the bike and the stationary passenger the tempo began to careen towards the main road where a steady flow of vehicles ensued. There were sparks as the tempo hit a pole overhead. The tempo stopped. The electrical wires entangled had slowed the tempo to a stop.

                The boss helped the victim on the bike to a nearby hospital in a cab. The police arrived. A complaint was lodged against the construction company. The foreman arrived back after one hour and got the two damaged vehicles towed off. A mechanic found that the brake-cable of the tempo had given way.

                “Who was driving the tempo”, the cop asked.

                “Let is be sir”, the foreman continued, “The company will pay for the damages. Why take names and spoil the driver’s career. The broken brake-cable is proof enough that it was an accident and fault of no one in particular.”

                The foreman was a good man and whenever the driver’s name was asked for, gave his own name and pointed towards the grievances being dealt with by the construction company. The cops left.

                “Come with me to the cop station”, the foreman had asked him for help.

The injured biker required some compensation for the leaves he would have to take until his stitches heal. They entered the police station where the 10-12 people gheraoed the foreman. He went through each one of their faces with calm. The result of the discussion on the doorstep of the police station was that 100$ was to be handed over in cash.

                “Ask for 200$”, a voice said.

                All turned towards the voice. But the foreman had already started to handover the original amount. That voice was a shrill one. It tried to increase the settlement figure again. After the sometime the injured person and the foreman along with the shrill voiced man entered the police station.

                A half an hour later, he accompanied the foreman back to the site. The chatty-from-the-incident-manager told how the matter had been settled on the original amount. And they had all entered the police station on his insistence. The settlement was recorded as part of the complaint. The insurance company informed. On enquiry, the foreman revealed that the shrill voiced man was one of the plainclothes policemen.

                How could he intervene in a two-party settlement? If he was a policeman, why was he trying to be a mediator? And he was inclined towards the injured getting a larger settlement. That was him being a partial mediator. That evening he tailed the shrill-voiced cop. It was easier than he thought – the shrill voice was a perfect tag. The overconfident peacock attitude caught his eye as soon as he entered the police station. A stakeout of the police entrance and right on cue of the second-shift change the shrill-voiced cop was heading home.

                He parked and got into a medical store. On following him into the huge store, he purposefully came face-to-face with the shrill voiced cop.

                “I seen you handled the case earlier very well indeed”, tobacco had taken away his fluent speech. But he continued to stutter, “You seem to be well acquainted with the ground work. You are a 3-stripe, right?”

                “Nah! I’m one of the drivers of the police vans”, the shrill voice said.

                The words made him see red. He had to bite hard on his jaw to stop an involuntary stutter. The next few minutes were a blur of red. The acting-cop did not hear the crowbar until blood was gushing everywhere. The skull had cracked easily, all  too easily. It was like this bluff-of-a-cop had a cardboard instead of a skull. No one had seen the incident in the dark parking lot. He had felt a tinge of panic as he did not know what to do next. Then he saw the police van driver’s car. It was directly in front of where the body lay. He had seen the mechanic fish out the broken brake cable earlier that day. A simple search and the cut brake wire made the van roll onto the dead man’s skull.

                He was impressed how it was a perfect match, the blood splatter, the van’s position - the tire marks not disturbing the blood pattern. It looked as of the vehicle had collided head-on onto him leading to his death.

                The ride home was a happy one. The crowbar washed and wiped was under his seat. He knew the biased pretend-cop would not influence anyone else. A small step to uproot corruption from one of the government’s esteemed organisation, the police force.

 

--- THE END ---

Click ‘Next’ for older posts. This is a series, do read earlier episodes as well.

Episode 1: http://tambakuman.blogspot.in/2012/03/tambaku-man.html

Episode 2: http://tambakuman.blogspot.in/2012/03/tambaku-man-meets-his-match.html

Episode 3: https://tambakuman.blogspot.com/2014/11/tambaku-man-goes-to-convention.html