Not all is well.

I think I have become a strange creature. How else can one explain my state of mind? I stand before you suffering from a hatred for good people. I am scared of them in pretty much the same way one is scared of the unknown, the untold or the unfamiliar. I get uneasy at gestures of goodness. I flinch whenever goodness is on display. I always doubt the ulterior motive. The proverbial smell of the proverbial rat is perpetual. I can’t help picturing a good guy as the wolf neatly clad in a sheep’s skin. Even helping hands have crooked, long fingernails on them. I don’t; see smiles anymore. I just see disguised grimaces. Every word of praise sounds like a word of consolation to me. Whenever someone says “Don’t mention it dude”, I hear “You owe me one asshole”. I think chivalry these days is just a step in seduction. Women, as Morrison sang, seem wicked to me. And as he continued, it could be because I am unwanted. Politeness to me, as someone said, is just the most accepted form of hypocrisy. I don’t believe in unconditional love, and this and that and this and that.

It is not that life and its ruthless ways have turned me into a cynic. In the tiny, deep corner of my heart, I am still a romantic. I badly want me to change my perception and my perspective. But the scarcity and hence the rarity of something instinctive, spontaneous and pure is so scary, it makes me wonder. It makes me wonder - Is something jolly wrong with me or is there something sadly right about me?

2012

The curtains made way as a gentle breeze sneaked into the dimly lit room. It slowly dragged itself, hugging the grey walls and the darker corners. A few pages of an open book fluttered as the breeze continued its journey across the room. Using its last burst of energy, it swept across Vivek’s sleepy face causing him to open his hesitant eyes. It was his first visitor in the last 6 hours.

His family was out for a get together at the colony’s amphitheater. He was invited to join, though not persistently, by his mother. He had declined in a politely indifferent way, an art he had mastered from his childhood; an art known only to him. He avoided gatherings like vampires avoided garlic. His mother knew it; his father too; and so did everyone who ever had the pleasure or displeasure of meeting him. Asking him was a mere formality that his mother followed. The answer had never changed over the last decade and a half - one of the reasons why he had few friends, claimed his mother. And even fewer enemies, was his occasional retort.

A live talk show chattered vehemently on a tiny television set in his room, fighting the overwhelming silence. He stopped staring at his toes and turned his attention to the blabber. The topic was, unsurprisingly, the prospective end of the world theory. The year was 2012. And more importantly, it was that fateful December night. In an hour or so from now, if the most intelligent civilization to ever live on Earth were good with their math and science, and the current, right with their interpretation, the world would end.

A few men young and old were engaged in a chaotic exchange of unpleasantries. A middle-aged woman was all over the debaters as she pretended to put some method into the madness. Doomsday was the hot dish on every discussion table these days. From news channels to restaurants, from kitchens to boardrooms, from bars to confession rooms, there was only one topic. The common man doubted it, the religious accepted it, and the escapist waited eagerly.

He fell into the latter category. The world had never been kind to him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A thick dilapidated paperback flapped back a few chapters in his mind. It was full of black and white snaps, all Polaroid shots. He stopped at the one with his parents. It was the one where he was being adopted. He was five back then. Then there was Tina, his first love. She’d left him for his best friend; best friends rather. Bitch, he swore to himself through gritted teeth. Then there was Rahul, the childhood bully. He gently rubbed his nose as that image flashed past. Uncle Ram, the bastard who wouldn’t stop pinching his bum. The snaps kept coming, flurrying faster than his mind could process them.

He woke up as if from a nightmare, sweat beads rolling down in tiny little streams down the sides of his face. He jumped out of bed, as if with a purpose. He looked at the window and angrily stomped towards it. He looked out. The streets were buzzing. The purpose on his face faded a little. He pulled the window shut. There was calm again. He traced his steps backwards and stopped in front of the mirror on the wall. He turned to face his reflection. He stared and stared as the minutes ticked away and blurred images from his nightmare came tumbling back. A look of disgust flashed across his face.

He’d always been the silent types. A volcano waiting to erupt is what he called his state. But in truth, he was a coward and sadly, he knew it. He never raised his voice, not even once, at the million atrocities life threw at him. He just shared his frustrations with his best friend Prashanth, his only friend. But over time, even he had lost faith in all those hollow threats and pledges. Maybe, just maybe, even he lost a bit.

This time around however, it was going to be different. The world was about to end. It was a Mayan prediction. They weren’t like Nostradamus or any of those prognosticators who took shots in the dark. Those guys were smart. His science professor, the great Mr. Abraham Thomas swore by them. He looked at the television screen again. Fools, he muttered angrily. He turned to face his reflection again. The disgust was replaced by determination and even a tinge of anger. This was it, he thought. His time to get back at those imbeciles. For all the things they had forced upon him. For all the pain he had silently endured. This was his day. This was his final chance.


He sat in front of his monitor, his eyes firmly locked with those of the ageless Marilyn Monroe. With a little difficulty, he broke away from the captivity of those bewitching eyes and switched his modem on. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 11.30. Half an hour before it was all over. He opened his new mail window, his stiff fingers caressing the keyboard. He closed his eyes and re-opened his mental album of memories. One by one, he typed in the addresses. He had quite a few of them in his address book. The rest of them would spread the word, he whispered under his breath. He carefully flicked through the pages. No one should be missed, he thought.

He meticulously typed down the names of the ones who had wronged him. Now that was quite a few. His unsuspecting parents perched comfortably atop the list. Then came his so-called friends – the ones who knew him and the ones who didn’t. And then came Tina. The bitch. And those two friends. Bastards. The school bully. And his uncle, that bloody pervert. And his math teacher. His Karate trainer. The scroll bar became smaller and smaller as his busy fingers worked hard and the pages of his album flipped. By the time he shut the old fat book, the scroll bar was as good as invisible.

He slowly dragged the cursor to the top and placed it against the names of his parents. He took a deep breath and began. “You were the worst parents in the history of the universe. If you really wanted to have a pet, why couldn’t you assholes get a dog. And listen you bastard of a dad, your wife is not as saintly as she appears. Check with the neighbours if you don’t believe me.” He hit the enter key with so much force that it almost came off. His fingers raced around the keyboard furiously. He was typing with a vengeance now. One by one, the hate figures felt his wrath. It was raining fire and sulphur. He was god. Nobody escaped his fury. It was apocalypse time.

It was 11.55 by the time he finished the last of the entries. He placed the cursor on top of the send button, took a deep a breath and let go. Click. It was done. He had done it. He got up, throwing the chair back in the process and ran to the window. He threw it open with such ferocity that the glass almost shattered. A fresh gush of air like never before stormed into his room, and it seemed, into his life. “TAKE THAT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS,” he screamed into the dark and indifferent night. He screamed and screamed till his throat ached. He came back, satiated, and fell like a log onto his bed, the largest grin of his life separating his ears. Casually, he looked at the clock. It was five past twelve.

The big fat loan.

It all began on a late Friday afternoon. I’d just finished the regular quarter of Old Monk and was indifferently forcing my playlist on my sober colleagues. The phone rang.

Woman: “Hello!”

Me: “Yes?” (In a nonchalant tone, a device I use to camouflage my interest in things feminine.)

Woman: “Sir, I am calling from Kiti Financials. Would you be interested in a personal loan?”

Me: “Well, not really dear. Bye.” I really was not in a mood for information overload after 3 shots of old monk and Andhra Chilly Chicken.

Woman (persistently): “But we offer the lowest interest rates sir. I am sure you will be interested.”

Me (to myself): “Well, congratulations! Now fuck off!”

Me (losing my patience by now): “What if I am in need of a large amount of money?”

Woman: “How much do you want sir?”

Me (cooking up an impossible amount): “Say, ten lakhs.”

An uncustomary silence at the other end was the response. The silence continued for a good 10 seconds more.

Woman: “Sir, can you please provide me with your employment details.”

Me (a wicked grin on my face): “I work as a consultant for a firm called Mandrake.” (chuckles)

Woman: “Hand brake?”

Me (Almost ROTFL): “Mandrake. M for well, Mandrake. As in, the magician?”

Woman: “Okay sir. And how much is your monthly income sir?”

Me (controlling my chuckles with great difficulty): “Depends.”

Woman (sounds confused): “As in?”

Me: “Well, I am a magician. And my salary depends entirely on the amount of shows I manage during a month. During the season, I make a lot. During off-season, I am pretty much broke.”

Woman: “Magician, as in.”

Me (to myself): “Don’t you know what magicians do? They cut hair for a living. And at times, they dig for crude oil and treasure chests.”

Me (to her): “I do magic tricks. Haven’t you seen Professor Sarkar perform tricks on the stage? I pull out rabbits and pigeons from my hat.”

Woman: “Ok sir. But without a fixed monthly income, how can you pay back the loan sir.”

Me: “During the season, I make up to 2 laksh a month. But now it is off-season, so I don’t have any money!”

Woman (impressed by my income during peak season): “Okay sir. Can I put you on hold while I check with my manager.”

Me: “Sure.”

I groped around for my speakers and continued my torture. A feeble voice interrupted my Black Sabbath.

Woman: “Thank you for holding the line sir.

Me: “Not a problem…” (This was surely more fun than the irritating-my-colleagues routine.)

Woman: “Sir, I discussed with my manager. And we can’t give you ten lakhs. We can give you seven.”

Me (groan of disappointment): “Oh no! In seven, I will only be able to buy a baby elephant. I need a tusker.”

Woman: “What sir?”

Me (in a serious and believable (my ass!) tone: “See. I wanted the money to buy an elephant.”

Woman (in a slightly puzzled tone): “Okkkk…”

Me (fighting hard to maintain composure): “It is the latest thing you know. Most of the popular magicians have one. Professor Sarkar has 3. Even Professor Muthukad, from my hometown, has one. It is for the “Vanishing Elephant” trick. So if I buy one, I will get more bookings and I will pay your loan back ASAP.”

Woman (so innocent was the tone that it made me want to end it): “Ok sir. Let me discuss it with my manager sir. What would be a convenient time to call you tomorrow sir?”

Me (suppressing my scruples): “Around the same time. But please do try. I really want that elephant.”

Now most of us, me included, would have thought that was the end of it. But it was not to be. The next day, approximately at the same time and after the same amount of rum, plus or minus 3 minutes, the phone rang.

Man (baritone and a strong South Indian accent): “Hello. I am calling from Kiti Financials. Am I speaking to Mr. Mandrake?”

Me (totally unimpressed by the absence of that sweet voice from the day before): “I am not Mandrake. I…”

That was all I could say before the line got disconnected. It rang again in 15 seconds flat. Recognising the number, I decided to take the initiative this time around.

Me: “I work for the company called Mandrake. My name is not Mandrake. The name is Nikhil. Professor Nikhil.”

Man (in a polite tone that is confined to customer relations): “I am sorry Nikhil sir. I suppose you spoke with a colleague of mine, Miss Soumya, yesterday.?”

Me (So that’s her name. Smile. Back to serious self): “Yes I did.”

Man: “So you want to buy an elephant, Nikhil sir?”

Me (tone unchanged): “Yes.”

Man: “Sir. I don’t think we can offer you such a big loan amount sir. Specially, after considering the fact that there is no steady income.”

Me (faking frustration): “How can you say that? You were the ones who called me. And moreover, I did explain to your colleague (I knew it was Soumya) how much this elephant meant to me.”

Man: “Sir, sorry. But we don’t have the provision for sanctioning such a large amount for the purchase of an elephant.”

Me: “Well, people are tired of seeing rabbits, pigeons and mice disappear. And that is why I need the money. Nothing else. If you can’t, please don’t call me again. It is a personal loan after all. Why do you care what I do with it? I think I will talk to some other banks. Maybe I will talk to someone from I Don’t C I Don’t C I.”

Man (stutters and stammers): “Sir, sir, sir. (pause, a really uncustomary one this time). Can you give me some time?”

Me: “How much?”

Man: “I will speak to my manager and call you tomorrow. When would be…”

Me (cutting him off in between): “Manager? I thought you were the manager. That is what that girl (I still remembered Soumya perfectly) told me.”

Man: “Yes sir. I am her manager.”

Me (anger, very fake this time): “Then why am I wasting my time talking to you. Why did you not make me speak to him directly?”

Man: “But we have a procedure here sir. And we…”

Me (cutting him off again): “But I don’t. Now your manager will call me and later I will have to talk to his manager and then his manager. How many managers do you have?”

Man: “She is the final one sir. She is the branch manager.”

The term ‘she’ sealed it. The call was on. And during the afternoon the next day, a Sunday, the phone rang again.

She (in a husky voice): Hello, this is Anjana calling from Kiti Financials. Am I speaking to Mr. Nikhil?”

Me (drooling. I have this thing for women with husky voices. In fact, I have a thing for women with all sorts of voices. To think of it, no voice at all would be perfect): “Call me Nikhil please.”

She (flirtatious chuckle): “Okay Nikhil. This is regarding your personal loan request for Rs. 10 lakhs for the purchase of an elephant.”

Me: “Yes. So are you going to sanction the loan?”

She (still charming): “Can I ask you a few questions before that?”

Me: “Sure.”

She: “I understand that you are a magician and need an elephant to perform a magic trick.”

Me: “Yes.”

She: “After processing your request, we did a small research sir. The thing is, you can buy an elephant for 5 lakhs in the state of Kerala. Are you planning to buy two elephants? Because your request only mentions one.”

Me: “Oh, I am so sorry. I forgot to mention something very important. I am not buying an elephant from India. I am buying a white elephant, the ones you find in Thailand. Indian elephants are a disobedient lot. They are hard to tame. By the time I prepare them for the trick, it will be off-season already. The ones from Thailand are nice. They will do anything once you train them. Well, almost. And the one I am getting, has worked with a magician before. So, it shouldn’t be difficult once it learns the language. Or maybe I can learn Thai. It is always nice to learn a learn a new language.”

She (confused and unconvinced): “Okay. I guess I can push it to 9 lakhs. But that’s about it Nikhil. I don’t think I can convince the management to part with more than that!”

Me: “Management? I thought you had the final say on this one…”

She: “Yes. But this involves a large amount of money. And moreover , we have never sanctioned a loan to buy an elephant. So… But I will try my level best. Give me a week’s time.

Me: Please do… In another three months, the season will end. So, please do it at the earliest.”

She: “I would need a few documents, preferably of your property. As a guarantee.”

Me (disappointedly): “But… but I do not have a house of my own. I live in a tent. Most of us magicians live in tents.”

She: “That might be a prob…”

Me (Interrupting): “But wait, let me speak to my dad and see.”

She: “Aah, that would be great. So Mr. Nikhil, I mean Nikhil. I shall talk to you in a week. Thank you for your time.”

Me: “Thanks a lot. Now I can perform my masterpiece.”

The next couple of weeks were packed with creative briefs (to be read as ‘print outs of client’s mails) and well, creative briefs. I had almost forgotten about the whole elephant deal when my phone rang. It was the now-familiar number.

Me: “Hello.”

She: “Hey Nikhil. Anjana here. Congrats. Your loan has been approved. Your elephant dream will now come true!”

Me (stunned): “But… Umm..” (thinking on my feet)

She: “So, when do you think I can send my man over to collect the documents. Hope they are ready.”

Me: “There is a small problem here Anjana!”

She: “You weren’t able to arrange the documents is it?”

Me: “Well, that’s not it. I waited for more than a week for your call. And when I did not hear from you, I suspected that maybe my loan wasn’t sanctioned. And the season was fast nearing the end. So I called up the people from I Don’t C I Don’t C I.”

She: “Ohh… And…?”

Me: “I got my elephant.

She: “Ohh… And…?”

Me: "But wait, don’t worry. I am going to Russia next month, freelancing for Jumbo Circus. I need an African Elephant for that. Putin likes African Elephants it seems. Do you think you will be able to fund that?”

The End

Life of mine...

Don't wash my first sin off without telling me where I'd gone wrong

Don't teach me my first rhyme because it could be my sorry song

Don't get me those fancy gifts until I learn the joys of choice

Don't pick me my best friend, ignoring my heart's little voice

Life of mine...

I was born as me, I'll live this life of mine

I trashed those numbers and counted the stars

I grew my hair long and cut the wisdom short

I walked out of sermons and found my own god

Life of mine...

I was born as me, I'll live this life of mine

Reminisce wisely!

The cut mud roads and the rare night train,

or the jungle trail and the mountain rain?

Travel sickness and the sun burnt hands,

or the roaring waves and the sprawling sands?

A bad hangover and a worse headache

or the midnight drive and the deep dark lake?

The moody rants and the petty tiffs,

or the one tight hug that erases all ifs?

Broken hearts and the sleepless eyes,

or the first blown kiss and the everyday highs?

Fading hairlines and the graying hair,

or the lovely long roads that got us there?

Fate is a miser hence the choices rare and few,

Memories are kinder and their king is only you.