The day he could not take it anymore - 2

He could roll three at a time now. He considered it quite an evolution from the confused little boy from a couple of years back. He even took one to the toilet. He had to rather. He was fully stocked throughout the year. There was never a low day with him around, joked his buddies. His circle of friends was now much wider than the tiny speck from the past.

Three pairs of bloodshot eyes looked on as he expertly worked his way through the joints. Three emptied cigarettes, neatly tucked between his fingers. With smooth swift movements, resembling that of a giant mechanical crane, he filled them up. He held them up after filling them to the brim, sprinkled the ‘magic dust’ as they called it, and extended his arms. Eager hands grabbed them from him. His eyes sparkled to match the flame as it moved from one hand to the other. A tired smile escaped his lips.

A sharp pain below his ribs awoke him after… Well, timekeeping was definitely not among the luxuries of a tripper. He leaned against the wall, and pushed himself forward. His feet were rooted to the ground. He was like one of those wax toys, with only his upper body oscillating. He had a vague idea of where the bathroom was. He staggered towards it.

He was next to the bathroom door when he woke up the second time. He remembered slipping on something. Somebody’s vomit, he thought. “Fuckin’ amateurs; just can’t handle good stuff,” he muttered to himself. He switched the lights on.

The scene that awaited him froze him beyond mere horror. Three headless bodies lay motionless on the floor. Fresh blood flowed out of their open necks. Three heads, each with excruciating agony in their lifeless eyes, looked back at him from the three corners of the room. In front of him, sprawled in red, was his worst nightmare.

(to be continue...)

The day he could not take it anymore - 1

He looked at the saliva dampened roll of paper in his hand once again. Apprehension. Curiosity. Temptation. He eyes moved hesitantly around the dimly lit room. Several pairs of expectant and dazed eyes stared back at him. The smell of the smoke that emanated from the cigarette made him uneasy. Well, all things good came with an in-built put off clause, didn’t they? He recalled his first glass of rum, Old Port. A tired smile escaped his lips. Shedding his inhibitions, he put the joint to his lips, and as advised, took a deep drag. Lightning did not strike him dead. Tigers did not rip off his head. Silence. Peace. Period. The vicious circle.

Five hours had passed by the time he opened his eyes. He was alone. He felt blissfully happy. Joy echoed from the loneliness that engulfed him. He slowly got up. There was something strange about the room. He looked around. There were five of them. Them walls. Four black and a grey one. The room was pentagonal in shape. The ceiling was painted white. There were no light bulbs or candles. Nor were there windows or doors. But the room was still well lit.

His eyes moved from wall to wall. Again, and again, and again. Wait a minute, he said to himself. There was something different about the grey wall. He walked up to the wall. He lifted his hand, almost involuntarily. The grey wall was not solid, unlike the black ones. It was like touching a plasma wall, complete with the ripples, but with a small difference. As he pushed gently, his hand disappeared into the grey wall.

A chill ran down his spine. The part of his hand inside the wall felt cold. He groped around, as if in the dark. Nothing. He pushed his hand further inside. There was something inside. He could feel it. But couldn’t tell for sure what it was. This is probably what ‘nothing’ feels like, he thought. His fingers reached the edge of the smooth surface. He ran his fingers down, and tugged gently. The object moved. He smiled a confused smile. “Take it,” said a little voice from the other side. He slowly lifted the object that was beyond the wall and pulled it out in one swift move.

It was a pencil box, the one with a million little compartments. One for the eraser, one for the sharpener, and one for… He remembered it distinctly. It was Firhad’s pencil box. He had shown it off with great pride the first day he got it to school. All the children in the class gathered around him. One of the many pairs of eyes that looked at him and his box with jealousy on that day was his. He went home that evening and asked his dad for one. “Rs. 60! Are you mad?” was his dad’s response. He cried the whole night. He even prayed.

The same box was now in his hands. He opened each compartment. The lids closed with the help of a tiny magnet. He flipped it open and then shut spilling everything inside. He ran around the room and his box was now any aero plane. He ran in circles. He ran and ran and ran. He ran till his legs could take it no more. He ran till he fell. And slipped into blissful sleep.

(to be continued...)

Options

Options – a word hated and dreaded with equal passion by the creative department in any advertising agency. But why? Let us solve the mystery.

Here is a conversation between a client servicing executive and a copywriter. ‘C’ shall represent the copywriter and ‘S’ would stand for the servicing executing.

C: But why the fuck do you need more options? It is six in the evening and my friends are waiting.

S: The client said so.

C: So?

S: See, I forwarded the mail to you as it is. It is not my requirement. It is the client’s call.

C: Do you even know what this poster is supposed to do?

S: The communication strategy as discussed during the client meeting states it all. It is the result of a country-wide market research programme otherwise known as a dipstick. So the margin for error is almost nil.

C: I repeat, do you even know what this poster is supposed to do?

S: As I was saying, the client thinks the feasibility study done by the research firm justifies the need for the communication in order to increase the footfalls…

C: Whatever! Let me put it to you simply. This poster does precisely what it is supposed to do. Making a series out of it doesn’t make sense. It would dilute the communication.

S: I completely understand and I personally love the poster. But what can I do when the client is adamant?

C: Open your MBA mouth and talk.

S: See dude, you do not understand the business side of things. Do you realize how important this client is to us? This retainer pays most of our salaries.

C: Can you please cut the bullshit and come to the point?

S: (After a pause) The point is, I have no fucking clue as to what this job is all about. My boss had to go shopping and this was shoved down my throat. And I am sure she doesn’t know the job well either. Even otherwise, my job basically involves forwarding client mails to you and vice versa. I have been asked to create panic and make mountains out of molehills. I think advertising is a cool job and hence I am around. I also have a low self esteem and hence am immune to the abuses from your end and from the client’s end. I delay briefs purposely in order to stay back after 9 for free dinner and a cab ride back home. Over. Now what’s your story?

C: More options mean more work. Period.

I could go on and on. But you kinda get it, don’t you?

Cynicism - the good side - in fact the only side

Cynicism seems to be the order of the day, or rather the best among a multitude of ‘isms’ around begging to be followed. Unless you like cruel surprises of course. Ones like - Water is at times thicker than blood. Cheating is not confined to ‘Desperate Housewives’. Death is not for the body alone. The proverbial friend in need is just proverbial. Cigarettes cause hypertension on the long run. Even healthy food kills. Reality shows are scripted. NGOs exist only in concept. Size does matter. Man created God and not the other way around. Well, I am not claiming that Cynicism makes one immune from it all. It just helps to remain prepared.

License to kill?

I think it is way too easy to get hold of a driver’s license in India. I think the criteria should be more stringent. I guess it is the only way to keep a check on (as eradicating would be impossible) the madness on the roads. Here is a suggestion.

There should be a psychological test as part of the regular written (can crack them with both the eyes and the mind shut) and the drawing-patterns-on-the-ground tests. This test should be contrived in such a way that the following questions would be answered about a person’s character and ability after the results are processed.

a)Does the person have the ability to spot, identify and decipher a one-way signboard? Will he be able to understand that the vehicle coming head on in the opposite direction is not the latest model of a car with headlights at the back?

b)Are there chances that the man/woman is a prospective spree killer, a fan of Charles Starkweather knowingly or unknowingly? As in, whether he/she is likely to mow down people with his Tata Sumo at the same ease with which one cuts through soft idlis?

c)Will he dim his headlights hence not blinding drivers within one kilometer radius? Does he/she realize that lampposts emit light and not vision-impairing gases?

d)Will he come to terms with the concept that cabs have numbers on them not because they are on a run after a jailbreak and hence are not criminal by manufacture?

e)Will he/she be able to realize the fact that the guy on the road in camouflage trousers is a college kid who went shopping the day before and not an infiltrating enemy soldier, and hence refrain from running him over?

f)Does he have enough understanding of the Geography to understand that all roads in India are in fact in India? And on all roads, however American their names might sound, one has to keep to the left while driving?

g)…

Happy driving!