kill gandhi

Fck, i'm back to square one.

I wanted to join one of the maoist outfits: to change the world and, more importantly, to kill some assholes and their kids. it is actually fun when you have a reason to do that. but something happened in the middle, when i mellowed down to a kitten - no violence and no no to killing. i even started switching off the fan in my office lift. beat that.

it all started about a week back. friends, booze and weed can cause destruction, at least to your mind. we were drinking and smoking and music became the subject. i sent a message to my formerly broken but now pretty rich brother to buy me an i pod to which he readily agreed.

when i thought about the `material' things i want in my life, i found out i need an i pod, a laptop, a digital camera and a cruiser bike (not in the true sense of the term, but a good old bullet would do). the last one did me in. i wanted the bike to go for long rides. i love long rides, going from point A to wherever as long as i dont have a time limit as to when to reach and when to come back. all i need is booze or weed or both.

in my delirious trip, i started to think of the rides i can take, the places i should be visiting and the work i should be doing. it was a wonderful trip till realisation hit me that i am not doing any of these things. i realised that i cant even dream about these things in the present scenario. i realised that i dont have the money or time to do that. i realised what all i have to do the next day.

i started to hate that. then i started to hate everything that i have been doing all these while: my job, my routine and my inability to do things i want to do. fck.

now i think i dont fckin care about those who rot to death in poverty. neither do i care about ``the social injustice meted out to the downtrodden section of the society.'' because i cant go to Amazon or cambodia or the northeastern states, not even coorg. shit.

these thoughts started to haunt me. i mean seriously haunt me so much that i started to smoke daily again. i will trip on the day that i go to the outer space. then i get up in the morning and be aware that i'm lying in a pool of sweat because i'm still in this shit pool.

i dont wana/cannot work now. i hate everything about work. all i do is to come here, do the very basic thing that i'm supposed to be doing and get home early and smoke and drink.

i want to move out of here, make some money so that i can get the damn bike. i hope it will solve my problems. because, it all started with that stupid bike..

The Ransom

There are lot of small mistake we make in our life for which a big ransom has to be paid. Sometimes, the ransom is very unfair.

When i was studying in a college back in my hometown, we were a gang of guys who could be termed as hooligans. We drink whenever we can and pick up fights (if the guy is a smaller fry than us!). And our friendships with all crazy guys made sure that no one with sense would pick a fight with us.

In our colleges, security guards are pretty amicable. they almost never sneak on you or bitch about what you are up to the principal or anyone who could screw your happiness. Thus, for us, security guards are someone you wouldn't mind sharing a drink or passing your cigs.

There was this security (X) guy who was in his mid 50s. (He is X not because i dont want to put his name here, but because i forgot his name.) as usual, he was pretty friendly and took care never to be overly so. he drinks with us, leaves when his quota was over.

Once, during a function at our college, we decided to stay back at college to do the basic arrangements. as usual, we pooled in money and started drinking. X joined us, had his two or three drinks and left for his small cabin inside the college premises.

Once we got drunk, we just started to take a walk around the campus. now, dont think it is some sprawling campus; it is just some land filled with concrete structures and we hated it for not having any greenery. anyway, we started to walk around the campus. made one camp fire in the basketball court and started dancing around it. yes, we were piss drunk.

One of my friend chucked a stone at one of the buildings, which happened to be the chemistry lab. it went through a window, breaking some of the pipetts or some other glass stuff inside. the sound of glass breaking takes you through a different trip. so all of us started to throw stones into it and celebrated each of the wonderful sounds.

From there, we moved on to each classrooms and departments. one guy who hated physics department broke a window and pissed on to the table and chair used by one of the most-hated profs. we had lost it. we broke every single window and window panes without exaggeration. then we broke the notice boards. then the water cooler. then even the nameplates. we completely lost it. by the time we came down from our high, there was nothing left.

By the first break of dawn, we were back to our senses and realised the seriousness of whatever we had done. but too late to do anything. we decided to leave before anyone sees us. i went home and by the time i returned to attend the function, the place was swarmed with police. as the institution is run by big shots, the biggest police man to the innumerable constables were there trying to find some clue as to who and why of the case. the media and a minister who was close to the management ensured that cops were on their toes.

Naturally, they summoned X and asked him who was at the college after the regular class hours. Since our college is frequented by almost everybody to play basketball, cricket, football or just to put a smoke and chat with friends, he said there were lots, but all of them, as usual, left by 8 p.m.

That reply didn't work as he is the watchman and it is his job to take care of the place. they told him so. they also told him they are not paying him for charity but for the service in which he failed now. they served him a memo and gave him two days to reply.

He came to us. told us he hasn't ditched us. not yet. you guys shouldn't have done that, he said and went away.

The first day passed and we were pretty tensed. on the second day evening, we realised that it was terrible on our part to do all that - not because of the destruction as such but because of the trouble we landed him in. we also realised that even if he names us, it was because he had to keep the job to feed his family. we were ready to face the music.

The day when he was supposed to reply to the memo, X didn't turn up. they went in search of him to his cabin in the campus. the door was locked.

The entire episode was so taxing on him and so painful that a blood vessel in his brain ruptured and he died of stroke that night.

Like i said, sometimes the ransom is very unfair..

Few great men

I think i've been writing a lot of sob stories these days. now i'l tell you some stories about some of the interesting guys.

There is this guy (we will call him NG), whom i think is still alive, who started to write his memoirs in one of the magazines after his retirement. the language was good, and the anecdotes were very interesting. i sent him a letter through the magazine and got a reply so promptly as if he made the postman wait and wrote the letter and sent it off.

he is a retired employee of class A of the central government. when, after long periods of interaction through letters, we met, and he was hellua guy. imagine a guy in his 70s, but still very active, with big diamond studs on both his ears! and he was pretty impressed that i too had pierced both ears unlike most idiots who have only 1! but the most striking element in him was not his studs. he got his mustache styled after the painter dali, twirled up straight just like him using wax that he orders from hollywood. in fact, his resemblence with dali is so much that once when he was in paris, dali's servant mistook NG for his master.

when i thought that NG was one of the most interesting personalities i'e met, he told me this story:

he lived in an 8 storied building while working in calcutta. the building housed mainly government guys - railways, army etc - all big shots. once, when he and his wife were going out, they met a frail, old mangolian looking man (TN) at the ground floor. TN asked him where brg. kak was staying. NG replied 8th floor. old boy started to climb up the stairs, though both the lifts were at his disposal.

though kak stayed in the 8th floor, when you count it from the ground floor, you have to climb up 9, and NG told the old man so. he turned back, gave the couple a warm, reassuring smile and continued climbing up the never ending steps.

for some reason, TN stayed in NG's mind the entire day. he admitted that he was worried that he would even see the dead body of the man at his doorsteps.

by the evening, NG got really worried. once he was back home, he called up kak and told him about TN. kak said don't worry, he is safe and invited the couple for a special dinner meeting at his place.

though he was relived after what kak said, he was completely convinced only after meeting the old man, with the same smile fixed on face. kak ushered the couple in and said TN was the guest of honour. while walking towards the old man, NG said how he was worried about such an old man climbing up all the stairs, how irritated he got because TN didn't take one of the lifts, to which kak just smiled as reply.

they got near the old man. kak first introduced NG and said to the couple, ``meet tenzin norgay, the first man to conquer mount everest..''

attaining dreams

there are a lot of guys whom i like from my childhood: both real and protagonists from books that i love. they have affected the way i see the world and the way i actually am. in short, in one way or the other, they moulded me.

i read this book, the title of which could be loosely translated as `the black sheeps'. in it, the protagonist is not a `hero', but an average guy who spends his usually miserable life with his father and sister. he goes to cut his hair on a rainy day to a saloon which is crowded. like me, he also loves rain and started walking through it and once he is done with the walking part, its was time for the saloon to close. he forgets to cut his hair for the next some days. then his uncle, a well off guy, calls him home and gives him some money to cut his hair. our man feels offended, decides not to do so. his misery starts there.

for all in the society, he is a misfit; a hippie (it was written in the 70s). He gets really, really fucked in life for the simple reason that he got long hair. it was written in the prologue: ``once it was a crime to grow hair. this book is written at that time.'' the year was 1975, when the whole of the country's thinking youth could be divided into romantic naxals and dreaming hippies.

that caught on to me. i started to grow my hair. though the opposition was not as much as the protagonist faced, it was still bad. imagine a class C town/village where everyone points at you saying ``drug addict'' even before you have actually seen even marijuana. now i cannot picture myself with neatly cut hair and beard. its a political statement for me now.

but the tragedy is that other than looking like a badly pirated form of a hippie, i dont have any good things like ideas and dreams that they had.

the title of the first book that i read could be translated as `to the lap of himalayas', a travelogue. in it the author, a distant relative of mine (i make it a point to say it) goes up to the himalayas on foot. on the way, a tripper he is (and a real hippie), he smokes pot with every smoker he meets - sadhus, coolies and foreigners who are there to attain nirvana. i read the book when i was pretty young to understand what is weed. but once i realised what it actually is, i tried hard to get a a little stuff. when i got it and smoked for the first time, i knew that i'm gona be an addict. smoked for 6 years or so. now stands quit.

there are lots of them among my friends and relatives who are drunkards. i loved the way they trip on it, though i could never get the taste for liquor. and on top of that, i believed that weed and booze are mutually exclusive given the difference in the trip that they take you.

but i badly wanted to be an alcoholic for some reason.

now, after taking this as-long-as-possible break from weed, i drink brandy every night - mornings too if possible. i love the trip. unlike how i was earlier, i'm not violent after drinking. all i need to do to relax after a long day is to pour a drink into my coffee mug, mix some water and light a fag.

i love my dreams. they are so attainable..

the one behind the curtains

There are a lot of people whom you meet, whom you were close, but whom you never miss. But when I look back as to what they meant to me once, i dont think i'l ever meet someone like them.

There was this lady at dad's house whom we shall call A. She was a distant relative who came to our house long years ago when my dad's aunt was pregnant with her second child. The first one was still young and needed attention; the uncle guy was a doctor, and had to leave home early; aunt was too weak to clean the house and wash the cloths. It was here that A came into the picture. She took care of the first child and the pregnant mom, cooked food, washed cloths, cleaned house and did everything single-handedly.

In short, despite being our relative, she was more of a maid for all.

As the aunt was also working, A's work became a permanent arrangement at the house. When me and my brother came to the picture, she was about 50 years old, with a son, a moron and an alcoholic, and a daughter, a part-time prostitute. She liked me a lot. Whenever I go to my dad's native, she takes me around and tells everyone ``look at my grandson''. she was very proud of us who, in her terms, were the smart boys whom others should look up to.

But her life at the house was pretty bad. Familiarity breeds familiarity at least, if not contempt. she was never allowed to come to the main part of the house. her existence for many was only as a cook and a servant.

whenever i go there, after the customary hi to other relatives, i go to the back, to the kitchen or cattle shed, which are the only two places one can find her. she will receive me with a hug and tears. tears of joy and also pride that i meet her even before i meet my grandmother.

slowly, as i came out of the place to this metropolis, old memories gave way to the hustle of the city. but once when i went home, i went to my dad's place and met her. her face was contorted. i knew there was something wrong but then she had a lot of problem with her alcoholic son, who does no work other than beating up his wife, and her prostitute daughter which brought her disgrace. I naturally thought it was one of those reasons why she looked in a bad shape.

about two days later, i got a call from my mother, saying the good old lady died a painful death due to cancer. mom said A badly wanted to see me before dying, but all others told her i have to travel a lot. heard she wept because she couldn't see me..