Future perfect - short story

Future perfect

“One year off! Wow!” I met Rajesh in a small hotel in Gangtok, when I had gone there for a short holiday. I had managed to wangle a couple of weeks holiday from the office and rushed off for a backpacking trip. I was modestly proud of my travel achievements in that trip - last minute flight to Calcutta, staying in seedy backpacker accommodation in Calcutta, a sudden trip to Shantiniketan, Train to New Jalpaigudi, a stay in Gangtok, Sikkim…but this young man had knocked my trip into nothingness. Indian backpackers are quite rare, one finds mostly firangs traipsing all over India. Solitary Indian backpackers are even rarer…individual travel is not really an Indian thing. But Solitary Indian backpackers who have taken a complete break from work is the rarest thing, this was the first specimen I had come across. We got chatting over a drink in the evening, and took to each other from the first. He had been working in the same city as me, and that created a bond between us. One fine day, he had decided that enough is enough, and chucked his job and set out to see the world. I had also traveled a bit in India, but I was not in his class. Since his sabbatical had started, he had been to Corbett national pack, Auli skiing course, Hampi, Kedartal and Valley of Flowers. The best part of his trip was that it was not a hurried, cramped holiday; but a relaxed introspective floating trip, with all the time in the world. He had been able to truly enjoy and caress the beautiful sights and sounds in his mind. After that he had decided to check out surrounding countries, so he set out to explore Nepal, Bhutan, Thailand, Vietnam and Laos. He had spent half a year floating around these places, and had an amazing time. Costs were low, sights were plenty and people were nice. With a lonely planet in one hand and a few dollars in the other, its amazing how much one can enjoy a place. He had finally entered India through Calcutta airport, and immediately hot footed it to Sikkim, and had ended up drinking beer with me at hotel Tibet in Gangtok. We had been chatting for a long time, and the dead soldiers of the beer bottles littered the terrace of that hotel. We had taken pity on the tired waiters and sent them off, and were helping ourselves directly from the freezer. It was a fine night, cool and crisp, and the full moon was bathing Gangtok in a relaxing white light. It was absolutely silent, even the dogs had stopped howling, the only sound was the birds rustling occasionally in the nearby tree. Rajesh had just finished describing the feeling of floating down the Meking in full moon, and both of us were still in that spell. On the spur of the moment, I said “Rajesh, your horoscope must be fascinating! I would love to study it.” Rajesh raised his eyebrows at me, and smiled. “Do you read horoscopes then?” “Yes. I am not a master at it, but I find it quite an interesting study. One can find out some interesting things about a person.” “Yes…even I had a very interesting experience with an astrologer once.” “Where? During the course of your travels?” “Actually, no. It was before I went on my sabbatical. Have you heard of Nadi Jyotishya?” “Only a little…but please carry on. Tell me about it.” Rajesh leaned back in his chair, and stretched out his legs. “Well it was about a year and a half ago…” It was a totally random happenstance; I had no idea that I would be going to Bangalore that month. But there was a business exigency, and my boss shipped me off to Bangalore to deal with it. I was planning to stay in a hotel, but at the last moment I decided to stay in the company guest house. There I met another person, a Mr. Kumar. Kumar was an auditor, and he had come down to check our branch accounts there. He was from the Madras branch of our auditors, so we had never met before. I came home slightly early in the evening, and was sitting there wondering what to do. The TV was not working, and I had nothing to read, and I was not in the mood to go wandering around alone. That was when Kumar and me started chatting. Somehow the conversation shifted to Astrology, and Kumar asked me if I had ever heard of a branch of astrology called “Nadi Jyotishya” “Nadi…sounds familiar, but no…I don’t really know anything much about it.” “Oh, its really something…it can get scary sometimes.” I had a fairly open mind about astrology. Though all the scientific community mocks it, I have seen astrologers and palmists come out with pretty surprising things over the years. Since then, I had maintained that “if don’t know, don’t scoff” attitude. However, I didn’t know too much about this “Nadi Jyotish” stuff. Kumar took a sip of tea and continued telling me about it. “Well, the legend of Nadi Jyotish is like this. All of humanity are the progeny of the Lord Shankar and Parvati. One day Parvati asked Shankar, tell me – how will my children do in life? What does the future hold for them? Shankar said – listen then – and started telling her the future of all generations of humanity. Sometime during the recital, Parvati was swamped and she fell asleep, so Shankar stopped at some point. The whole thing was overheard by a pair of doves, and they went and told it to the Saptarishis, who wrote it down. Thus, the theory is that the future of every man and woman on the planet is written down somewhere. The palm leaves on which this was written are preserved in some temple in the South, and now there are some copies with select people. We, the lay people, can access them from there.” I was fascinated by the concept. “Really, and how does this work? How do you find your leaf?” “The person doing the reading takes an imprint of your thumb print – right thumb for males and left for females, and then he goes and matches it with his database inside. Then he brings out a selection of documents and selects your manuscript from there.” “How?” “Er…by asking questions…possibly I am not the best explainer. Would you like to try it for yourself?” “Really? Is it possible?” “Yes. There is a person in Bangalore. In fact I went to meet him the other day. I can take you there if you wish; I am free tonight.” Kumar went off to phone, and I could hear snatches of their conversation. He came back and said, “Come, if want to come – we have to leave now. He was cribbing that he wants to wind up by 8PM. Its already 7.15, and I promised him that we will be there by 7.30.” We left immediately, and went by auto through labyrinthine gullies, and stopped at an entirely nondescript house in a nondescript locality. During our journey, we didn’t exchange a word – both us were engrossed in our own thoughts. As we dismounted from the auto, Kumar took me by the arm. “Rajesh saab – remember one thing. Be sure that you really want to know the future, before getting into this house.” “Arre, don’t worry. Come on.” We were greeted at the door by a small, dark man – the astrologer’s companion- and we took off our shoes before entering the house. It was a small, bare and dusty room- Old fashioned concrete flooring, high ceiling, yellow light from the bulbs on the walls. The fan old, and with a long rod – the kind you see in old government offices – and was emitting breeze and creaky sounds in equal measure. There was a temple alcove in the corner, with a variety of idols and pictures of gods and goddesses. It shone from the evening puja, with light of the lamps, the smoldering agarbattis and the fresh flowers at the deities feet. There was a small money box there, like a donation box in a temple. There were no tables or chairs, the sitting arrangements were a cloth on the ground for the astrologer and the customers. Sitting there, expecting us, was the astrologer – Mr. Ramulu. I had gone expecting an ascetic looking person with a long white beard, and vibhuti on his forehead – but this was a small, dark tamilian in a white shirt and mundu, looking like any normal person on the street. We exchanged greetings, and chatted for a minute. His Hindi and English weren’t too good, and the person who had greeted us at the door acted as the interpreter. Ramulu explained that he was not an astrologer, but merely a reader - a filing clerk, if you will. His job was simply to zero down on your scroll and nothing more – he could offer no explanations. The charges were quite modest, and one paid only if his scroll was found. If the scroll was not found, there would be no charge. I agreed, and we started the procedure. He took my thumb print and went into an inner room. After ten-fifteen minutes he returned with an armful of scrolls and sat in front of me. “Saar, I will ask you various questions. You must answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no’. This is the process to zero down on your prediction.” “You are from the North” “Yes” “You are the eldest son” I was startled. “Yes.” “You are the eldest son, but you had an elder sister who was stillborn.” There could be no answer to this. I couldn’t answer without consulting my mother, but if I calculate the date of my parents’ marriage and my date of birth, it was unlikely. “No.” “OK.” He put away the scroll. “You are of the ‘Shwan’ gotra.” “Yes” “Your father is a teacher.” “Er…” I hesitated. My father had retired some time back, and was now teaching part-time in some schools. Well, he is a teacher now, isn’t he?  “Yes” “His name is of three syllables.” “Yes.” “He is one of three brothers.” “Yes” this was absolutely fantastic. “He is the eldest brother.” “No.” I was relieved. This was too close for comfort. “Ok.” He put away the scroll, and picked up another one. “His name has three syllables. The first syllable is “Ra”, the second is “Dha”. The third is the same as the first or the second.” I was speechless. I had told neither Kumar nor Ramulu, and this guy had got within an ace of my dads name - Randhir. “Yes.” I whispered. My lips were feeling dry. “Your mother is a vaid – a doctor.” “Yes” “She is the youngest daughter.” “Yes” “Her name has four syllables.” Here, I was flummoxed. Moms name before marriage was Madhavi, but after marriage, it had been changed to Snehlata – which was four syllables. I decided to go with the latter. “Yes.” “The first syllable starts with ‘sa’, the second is ‘ha’, the third is ‘la’ and the last is ‘ta’.” “Yes.” I whispered. I was beginning to sweat, and the hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to stand erect. “Your mother’s brother has been in prison on a false charge, and hence was released.” “!” This was something no one could ever know. It was faintly possible that Kumar knew my parents names, and had communicated to Ramulu for some dark purpose of his own – but this! My families’ inner most secrets! “Y-yes.” “You have had an operation of the stomach three years ago.” My fingers went of their own volition to the appendectomy scar on my abdomen. This was before I joined this company. “Yes.” “You are unmarried.” “Yes.” “But you have had sexual experiences, and picked up a venereal disease.” “!!”  I was aghast. This was something no one – NO ONE, except me and the doctor – knew. “Y-yes” “You have landed property.” “Yes.” I had purchased a flat a couple of years before. “This is your horoscope.” Ramulu showed me a diagram which was written on the old Tamil manuscript. And seeing it, there was no doubt left. It was accurate to the last detail. He was through with his questioning, and he stood up, gathering his documents. “Sir, please go and have your food, and come back after half an hour. It will take that much time to find your scroll.” I hurried outside and lit a cigarette, and found that my hands were trembling. My muscles were all tense, and the back of my shirt was soaked with sweat. I took a deep drag, and smiled nervously at Kumar. He must have been through the same feeling in his earlier visit, and he smiled back at me. “Scares the shit out of you, doesn’t he?” “I tell you. And the worst part is that he does it in his calm, sing song voice, as if he was reciting his shopping list.” At this point, Rajesh broke off and burped a long and satisfying beer burp. I suddenly realized that I had been sitting there, holding an empty bottle for god knows how long. I got up and got us both fresh beers from the freezer. The owner was going to be really happy tomorrow, I thought, we have nearly cleaned out the fridge. “Well? What happened next? Did he tell you your future accurately?” Rajesh started laughing. “That’s a good one. How can I know whether the prediction is right or no? He made some statements, but it can be proved only in the future. But you got to admit, that the build up was impressive.” “But, what did he predict?” Rajesh was silent. “Did he predict that you will be taking this major sabbatical and roam all over the place?” “No…not really.” “No? I thought he would give a detailed day be day prediction till the day you die. What major prediction did he make? He had scared you properly in his build up, didn’t he?” “Oh, he scared me a lot more after that.” “Oh? What did he say?” “He said that I would die within a year.” “What?!!!” There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that. I looked at him, and he looked at his beer bottle. The bright moonlight was casting weird shadows on the terrace. A cool breeze blew, and made us shiver. That broke the tension building up, and we smiled at each other. “Did you believe him?” “As I said earlier, who can say? All I can say is that his build up was impressive.” “Then what did you do?” “Yaar, I decided that if he was right, then there was no point in grinding away at that sickening job of mine. If life is worth living, it is worth living well. I liquidated all my investments, and decided to spend the next year roaming around the world. If he was right, then I don’t want to spend my life doing something I don’t want to do. I want to live life to the full. If he was wrong, then so what? I took a sabbatical which I would not have the guts to take otherwise, and I will definitely get a job when I decide to get back to corporate life. So I decided to do all the things I had always wanted to do – but did not dare. I went bungee jumping, white water rafting, para sailing, cave exploration… I tried out various kinds of kinky stuff – wild parties, group sex, soft drugs… activities I would not have ordinarily tried, but I didn’t want to die regretting that I did not try something out. Of course, one thing I was careful of is that I should be healthy and hale until the day I do die, so I did take care of my health.” “Hmm.” “One good thing about future reading though…it helps you to plan well.” “Eh? Plan for what?” “Death, of course. I don’t want my family to be left helpless in the event of my death, but I don’t want to restrict myself to saving and hoarding money when I have so little time left. So I worked out the optimal solution. I liquidated all my investments to give me liquid cash to enjoy my holiday. And to take care of the family in case of death, I took a huge life insurance cover. So now I am freaking out in life in the here and now, yet am totally relaxed, knowing that my family will be comfortably off in event of my death.” He leaned over to grab a beer and relaxed back into his chair, totally relaxed. “Ahhh! That’s what I call future perfect.”

Dipy the Detective and The vampire in the blood bank

This is the first story I wrote about Dipy Singh - Private detective. You can check out some background on this on this earlier post I wrote  here  on Indian detective characters

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Dipy and the vampire in the bloodbank

I had made Dipy’s acquaintance at a party, and we had got chummy after that. “Dipy” was Deepinder Singh Gehlot, and he was a private detective. I had always thought of private detectives as a pictured Sherlock Holmes – tall, thin, piercing eyes, etc, but Dipy was not like that at all. He was a most normal looking person – a clean shaven Sikh of medium height and built, clean shaven, a slightly receding hairline, reasonably fit…nothing extra ordinary.



I was between jobs at the time, and in no hurry to join another job due to a generous settlement. Dipy was anyway self employed, and his profession worked unorthodox timings as it is. Thus, we used to have ample opportunity to meet up and chat over beer and tandoori chicken.



We had met in a bar, and were generally chatting, when the discussion turned to his line of work. He described various cases he had worked on earlier – fraud, deceit, theft, matrimonial, industrial espionage, etc. It was at this point that I asked him, what was the weirdest case he had ever worked on.

“I really don’t know whether I should tell you, Joshi saaheb.” He said. “It is dangerous to talk to writers; confidential stuff can end up splashed all over the media. No one will believe my story anyway, and I will be branded as a crank.”

“Nonsense.” I said. “Writers are the safest people to talk to. We are discreet, and are sure to change names and places. Anyway, I am a very small writer, and of fiction at that. The more fantastic the better.”

Dipy smiled crookedly, and took another gulp at his beer.

“Well, if it comes to that. I suppose, I can change names and places too. And you are right; no one will believe the story anyway.”

“What is this completely incredible story anyway?”

Dipy settled him self more comfortably into his armchair, refilled his glass and said “OK, listen…”





The incident had happened about a year back, when he had received a visit from a friend of his. They had had not been in touch for a few years, but one day they had chanced to meet in the market. When the friend came to know his line of work, he had been very excited, and taken an appointment to meet him.



“Hi Amit, come in. What’s up man?”

“Arre Dipy, are you really a private detective? You are not pulling my leg?”

“Of course not. I have been in this racket for some time now.”

“Oh that’s wonderful. I wanted to speak to someone desperately about my problem, but I dare not go to the police. They will lock me up in a padded cell. But Dipy we have known each other very well for years. You will believe me wont you?”

“Hey hey…easy up…what’s the problem?”

Amit sidled close to Dipy and whispered.

“Dipy, I have a major problem, and I have no idea how to deal with it.” Amit looked around carefully and continued. “I am being troubled by a Vampire.”



“Vampire?!!”



Dipy looked at him thoughtfully. Amit looked normal enough, but you never know – could be a mental case. Amit interpreted his gaze correctly and moaned, burying his face in his hands.

“You don’t believe me either, do you?”



Dipy shifted in his seat uncomfortably, maybe there was a simple explanation to this after all.

“I tell you what, Amit. Why don’t you tell me just the facts of the case? We will leave the diagnosis of the situation till later. Just tell me what is troubling you, and what is the sequence of events that led to this.”



“Ok, that sounds fair.” Amit looked very relieved. “You know, after college I did a diploma in Pathology and later opened a blood bank. You might have heard of it – Anviksha blood bank. It did, and in fact is still doing quite well. The location is good, centrally located and close to a few hospitals, and we give good service.”



“Blood fetish…” thought Dipy.



“Blood bank is an interesting business – the raw material costs nothing, the main expense is on testing and storing the blood. We get the blood mainly through voluntary blood donations, and we charge a fee to give out blood. Nobody argues about the cost – the doctor couldn’t care less, and the patient is always in a life or death emergency. So we can charge a reasonably high rate and get away with it. Of course, there is huge investment and running costs for the storage equipment and testing. There are some cheaper blood banks, but a lot of people came to me, because we provide blood which is 100% free from HIV, venereal diseases or other nasty pathogens.”



“Good business. What’s the catch?”



“The catch is simply that blood is a matter of reputation, and legalities. If there is the slightest bit of scandal about the blood or the service, we will be shunned. Also, the government is very strict about the rules, so we can lose our license. So we are always on a knife edge.”



“That’s Ok I suppose…so where does your problem start?”



“Some time back I hired a new person as lab assistant. He didn’t have any technical qualifications, but I hired him anyway.”



“Eh? Why?”



“Well, I …I don’t know…I just thought that he could do the administration and clerical jobs and other odd jobs…but…” Amit seemed to be lost in thought for a minute and then he continued. “It seems incredible now, but I never thought about this.”



“Well…never mind. Go on.” Dipy spoke calmly, but he was puzzled about this.



“Every thing seemed to be fine for some time, but soon I started noticing some strange things. Every few days, a packet or two of blood seemed to be vanishing. Normally, there is some loss because a packet breaks, or goes bad or there is suspected infection. But this was a bit too much. There was not much financial loss, but it is a big break of security and discipline. I started questioning people, but no one owned up.”



“Maybe someone is stealing your stock and selling it to another hospital or patient.” Dipy offered.



“No yaar. It is not practical. Other blood banks do not need blood. I told you it is free, only testing and storage has to be done. And before giving blood to patients, cross matching of the patient’s blood sample has to be done with the blood we have. This involves a lot of people –the front desk, the lab technician; the storage technician…the peon…all of them cannot be involved to steal a few pints of blood.”



“Ok, go on.”



“After I started asking questions about this, for some time the problem stopped. But over the next few days, I noticed everyone seemed to be getting cuts or nicks in strange places. One boy had a band aid on his wrist, another had one behind his ear…once I saw our technician girl bend over to pick up something – her skirt rode up – and there was a band aid behind her knee. And when I asked them about it, they looked surprised; as if they were noticing it for the first time. There was a bandage, for god’s sake, so it couldn’t be an unnoticed nick, but they claimed no knowledge about it.

And one day…” Amit faltered and fell silent.



Dipy had been listening intently and with growing interest. “Yes, one day what?”



“This is where it starts getting incredible.”



“Don’t worry about that; tell the story as you saw it.”



“Late one night, I had finished my dinner at home, and suddenly remembered some book I had left behind at the office. I wanted to finish it off, and anyway I was not sleepy, so I went to the office to pick it up. I reached the place, and imagine my surprise, when I found the chowkidar asleep, and the door open. This is too bad – I thought, and tried to rouse the chowkidar, but he was insensible. Wondering who could be inside – the chowkidar could not let anyone inside whom he did not know – I decided to go in very quietly and surprise the person. It did flash in my mind, that this might be connected with the vanishing blood, so wanted to catch the person red handed.”

Amit paused for a minute, gulped, and carried on.

“I went in quietly, and saw that there was no in the reception area, but the door to the storage room was open. When I peeked in, I couldn’t believe my eyes!”



“Why? What was going on?”



“It was that fellow…he had a bag of blood in his hands and he had put a straw in it, and was happily drinking the stuff, as if was a pack of Frooti!”



“Eh!” There couldn’t be much to say to this, and Dipy was struck dumb.



“Swigging the blood down like a… a bloody cold drink, I tell you. I couldn’t control myself, I shouted – Bhalla – (that’s his name, R K Bhalla) Bhalla, what the hell are you doing. I would have expected him to be startled or something, but he turned around as cool as cucumber and said, hello Amitji, how are you? Nice evening.”



Dipy couldn’t help himself, he started laughing. Amit gave him a nasty look.



“Its no laughing matter, I tell you. He was totally calm as he stood there, with a bag of blood with a straw in it in his hands, and traces of blood on his lip. I couldn’t say anything – I stammered and yammered, and I fainted. When I woke up, he was gone – the place was empty.”



Dipy looked at him seriously. “You woke up and the place was empty? What about the bag of blood?”



“It was gone. Vanished.”



“Look Amit…listen to me very carefully, and don’t get upset. Are you sure that you didn’t dream the whole thing? No, no …relax” He said hastily, as Amit shot up from his chair. “I mean, what proof do you have that the whole thing happened at all?”



“Proof!” Amit shouted. “I’ll show you proof. Look at this!” he rolled up his sleeve to show a bandage on his hand, in the crook of his elbow. “That bloody thing took a taste of me as well.”





Later that day, Dipy went to the blood bank, posing as a casual friend of Amit’s and was shown the place around. He was introduced to the staff – 3 female and 2 male technicians, 1 peon, 1 cleaner and – most importantly – to Mr. R K Bhalla.



Bhalla was as non vampirish a persona as one could ever be. He was medium to short height, wheatish complexion, had a small paunch, and sported glasses with thick black frames and oiled hair. He was so ordinary looking, that he was almost invisible. In spite of his detective training, Dipy found his gaze slipping off him. Looking at him, Dipy was reminded of his morning’s conversation with Amit.

“If you are so convinced that he is a vampire, why don’t you sack him?”

“Arre, how can I? On what grounds? If he goes to the courts or to the press, the local corporator…or anybody at all, I will be permanently disgraced as a complete nutcase. And if the case of the missing blood comes out, I could lose my license – it could even be a criminal case. If I had been told a story of a guy who drinks blood out of straw, I would think that the story teller is crazy.”



Dipy stayed in the blood bank only long enough to familiarize himself with the layout of the place and establish the faces of the people in his memory. Then he went out, and briefed his assistant by phone to find out what he could uncover about Bhalla’s past history and record. Then he went and sat in his car, and waited for the staff to get off work for the day.



When Bhalla left the premises and walked out, Dipy got out of the car and started to unobtrusively follow him. But, at the first turning in the road, Bhalla had vanished! Dipy looked high and low for him, but he had lost him completely. He was wroth with himself – a detective of so many years standing, and the person he was following managed to lose him so fast!



There was no help for it, so he shrugged his shoulders and went home.



The next was equally frustrating. His assistant could not come up with any background about the fellow at all. He might have sprung up from the air, for all the dossier he had. No one seemed to have any record about him, and no one seemed to remember him. Dipy groaned and cursed the poor data basing of the country. If this had been in the US or any developed country, he would have just fed in his social security number and got all the info he could possibly want.



In the evening, he again tried to shadow him, this time maintaining a closer distance to him. But again, the first corner Bhalla turned, he disappeared! Dipy cursed loud and long, and vowed to have more people the next day.



The next day, he put two more people on the job, one waiting at the corner at which he usually disappeared, and one at the next turning. But to no avail. Some where between the two, Bhalla gave them the slip again.



Tired and dispirited, Dipy dropped in a neighboring bar for a drink and went home late in the night. He let himself in with his key, and turned on the light – and he got the shock of his life!



There, sitting calmly on his favorite arm chair, and looking very comfortable indeed, was R K Bhalla.





One thing Dipy prided himself on was his sang froid. So he did not start or stammer or faint like Amit, but merely nodded to him.

“Ah, Mr. Bhalla. Nice evening.”

Bhalla replied with equal aplomb.

“Nice evening. Bit humid though.”

“That’s right. Would you have a drink?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think I have your favorite drink though.” Dipy replied with a flash of wickedness.

Bhalla laughed.

“Really? I would have thought that you are full of it. Anyway, a small whisky and soda will do for me, if that’s no bother.”



Dipy got them both a drink, and sat down in a chair facing him. He studied his visitor closely, and was again struck by how un-vampire like and normal he looked, apart from a strange glitter in his eye…

“So Mr. Bhalla, what fair wind blows you here?”

“Oh, I have been observing for some time now that you are anxious to talk to me, but have not been able to…catch me…so I thought I would drop in and save you the trouble.”



A cool customer, thought Dipy, and decided to cut to the chase.



“So, from your remarks, I gather you have guessed why I was curious about you?”



“Oh yes. I have been expecting something like this ever since Amitji caught me in the office.”



Dipy started a bit, in spite of himself. Though he had wanted to cut to the chase, he had not expected Bhalla to be quite so blunt about it.

“So you admit that you were there that night, and were …ah…drinking…er…”

“Blood? Of course I was. Amitji saw me didn’t he? Do you doubt your friend’s word?”

“Pardon me Mr. Bhalla, but are you a…vampire..?”



Bhalla threw back his head and laughed. The laugh was not soft and chilling, but very normal. But for all that, it threw a shiver up Dipy’s spine.



“Of course I am. You were expecting something out of Bram Stoker? Count Dracula, wearing black evening dress, a pale complexion and blood stained fangs? Come come, Mr. Gehlot, for a seasoned detective, you have been basing your opinions too much on the imaginations of film writers and authors.

I am a modern vampire; I do not need to go around frightening the populace. All I want is a regular supply of blood to keep me pink or rosy. I don’t want to kill anyone, or steal their souls.”



“So you are nothing but a bigger version of a mosquito or a tick, eh?” Dipy sneered, trying to provoke him into telling more. But Bhalla was unmoved.

“You can think of me like that if you wish. You are fundamentally correct; I live off the blood of others, so that I don’t need to find that much food on my own. However, I would advise you to be a bit more polite, if you meet any other relative of mine…all of them are not as calm tempered as I am.”



“What! There are more of you?” Dipy was thunderstruck.



“Well, why not? Why should you assume that you have met the only living vampire?”



“But…what are you doing in my friend’s blood bank?”



“Ah, here I am a pioneer. I have taken a lesson from you humans. It like what you people do to honeybees. The bees go from flower to flower, collecting nectar and converting it to honey, and then the bee farmer calmly goes and takes that honey, to save himself the trouble of collecting it himself. In the same way, instead of hanging around in dark alleyways and waylaying solitary travelers, I calmly take what is required from the blood bank. Saves me no amount of bother, and you friend Amit is not hurt in any way. Good idea, isn’t it?” Bhalla looked indecently pleased with himself.



“But this can’t go on. You must get out of Amit’s life.” Dipy blustered.



“Oh? And who will stop me? And how?”



This simple question threw Dipy, he started flailing mentally, going through whatever he knew about vampires and how to repel them.

“Well…er…we will attack you. Show you the image of the cross; shower you with garlic and holy water…drive a wooden stake through your heart…shoot you with a silver bullet…” Dipy stopped, because Bhalla was lying back in his chair and laughing his guts out. HA HA HA…

Finally, he stopped, and wiped his eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Gehlot…can I call you Dipy? Thanks. If only you could hear yourself, how ridiculous you are sounding. You have been watching silly TV serials. You, an agnostic Sikh, are going to scare me by primitive Christian myths of crosses, holy water and garlic? Ha Ha. Anyway, I am an Indian vampire, so a cultural Hindu; If not a practicing one; so these idiotic ideas will not affect me. Regarding that wooden stake bit, it is infinitely impractical. You or even a group of your people will never be able to do it, because I am stronger than you can imagine. Even If you succeed, you will be arrested and hanged for murder – try convincing the Mumbai police and high court that you killed a blood bank attendant because you thought that he was a vampire. As for the silver bullet – just think of the difficulties involved. Getting a silver bullet made, you would require a really understanding jeweler and gun smith for that, not to mention gun licenses and all that.”



Dipy was totally baffled. Bhalla had him at every turn.

“Even if what you say is right, this can’t go on. You have to leave Amit in peace.”

“Ah, but you are wrong. I don’t HAVE to do anything, except what I please. I am very comfortable here, and don’t want to leave just yet. Anyway, what is your problem? I am not hurting your friend or his staff, and am on a diet anyway, so I don’t drink too much blood.”



“Diet?”



“Oh yes. I was putting on a bit of weight. Even I am affected by this slimming fad which is going around these days. I tried drinking only plasma – you know, blood with the red corpuscles removed – for a few days, but found it too bland. So I have shifted back to blood, but am controlling my intake. Its like being in a buffet, when you see so much food in front of you, you lose your appetite.

Anyway, as I was saying, I am not harming your friend in any way, so I recommend to both of you that you should leave me alone.”



Dipy’s head was spinning, but he tried one last tactic.

“What do mean, not hurting anybody? What about your drinking blood of all the people there? Wont that hurt them?”



Bhalla was embarrassed, and looked down, twiddling his toes. He looked shamefacedly at Dipy and said, “Well, you have got me there. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. One gets bored of frozen food now and then, so the opportunity of hot fresh blood was irresistible. But you certainly have a point. I won’t sample Amit or his staff anymore.”



Dipy was relived; this fellow had some reasonable points. He relaxed and became friendlier.

“Just for my curiosity, why did you bite them in such weird places? I thought vampires bit people on the neck.”

“Tchah! Again you are being influenced by popular fiction. We bite people on the neck only if we want to kill them. Other than that, we just choose a point where blood is close to the surface, and take it from there. Your original analogy of a tick or mosquito was the correct one. Of course, some of us prefer arterial blood, so they go only for the arterial points, but most of us don’t mind venal blood…it’s got a particular taste I like.”



Dipy had another question, which was worrying him a bit.

“Tell me; is it true that if a vampire bites someone, that person also becomes a vampire?”

Bhalla smiled back at him.

“Sometimes…that’s for me to know, and you to guess. Anyway, it was nice talking to you; I will make a move now. Remember what I said – leave me in peace, and I will not trouble anyone…bye. See you at the blood bank if you drop in.”



And before Dipy’s popping eyes, he turned into a bat and flapped away.





At this point, Dipy went quiet and asked for a drink. I came back to my senses, so engrossed had I been in his story. I got up and refilled his glass.

“So, what did you do about the guy then?”



“Do? Nothing. What could we do, Joshi saaheb? He had proven that we could do nothing to him – his demonstration of turning into a bat itself was a warning to us. And anyway, as he said – he was not harming anyone.”



“So, you mean he is still there, working in that Blood bank?”



“Ah. No. He died soon after.”



“Died? How?”



“AIDS. The poor fellow must have gotten greedy, and had some blood which was not tested. Probably the temptation of hot food must have been too much for him.”

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You can check out the book here Dipy Singh - private detective

The wishing well - A Wodehouse tribute story

I just love P G Wodehouse. The Drones club is my spiritual home, and I would love to spend a holiday at Blandings castle.Many's the time that I have identified deeply with Bertie Wooster, and wished for a Jeeves to sort out my troubles. His
novels are amazing enough, but his short stories are also real masterpieces - especially the Mulliner series and the Golf stories.

I wanted to share with you the Wodehouse tribute stories I wrote to honour his memory. I wrote 2 stories, and this is the first one - Wodehouse style with a Desi twist, and some autobiographical angst too :)


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The wishing well



“There are more things in this heaven and earth…ho –hic – Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philo-hic-sophy.”


I turned and gave a sour look to my companion. Venugopal Rao was a normal person most times, but under the influence of Kingfisher he could become irritatingly pompous. And given to quoting – mostly misquoting – trite sayings to illustrate his point.


“Bah!” I replied.

“What do you mean sir?” Venu was aggravated. “What do you mean by that uncouth utterance?”

“I mean ‘Bah’. Or if you prefer the vernacular –‘Crap’, ‘Balls’ or ‘Eff off’. I don’t believe a word about magic or supernatural or your latest craze – Wishing wells, and anyway, you have misquoted Hamlet.”

“I haven’t!” Venu swelled up like an offended balloon. “I’ll have you know my good man, that I am an Arts major, and have studied literature for three years, and know Shakespeare from soup to nuts.”

“Why do people use that phrase, I wonder…I am sure that you have never had a formal dinner that began with soup and ended with nuts…and…oh never mind…” I said hastily before he could respond “Never mind about dinners or Shakespeare, the point I am making is that all your talk about Wishing wells is absurd.”

“Absurd, is it?”

“Yep. That’s what it is. Absurd.”

“Have you heard about Raju Golani’s experience ?”

“Who’s Raju Golani?”

“Ah. You have not heard then. Be of good cheer. I am about to tell you.” Venu broke off for a moment to tell the waiter to get him another beer, and make bloody sure that it was cold and not piss-warm like this one, or he would break his bloody neck, and turned back to me. “Well, its like this….there was a chap called Raju Golani…”

“…who lived long ago in a kingdom far far away.” I suggested, feeling that this is the ususal opening line of a fairy tale.

“Don’t interrupt, Blast you! Always yak-yak-yakking! No, he didn’t live long ago in any ruddy far away kingdom. He is very much alive and still lives in Bombay.


“There aren’t any wishing wells in Bombay.” I objected. “Hardly any normal wells either, nowadays. Only bore wells. And you cant drop coins into them, they will clog up the pump and then it will cost a packet to repair them…OK, OK…I am sorry…” I said, quickly changing gears when I saw Venu’s hand close tightly on the neck of the empty Kingfisher bottle. “Please carry on.”



Raju Golani (continued Venu) was a most prosaic character. By prosaic, I don’t mean that he was a dull dog, but was a writer of prose. This was remarkable because he was surrounded on all sides by wannabe poets of every description, all quick with a mordant verse, or a sad sonnet or even a naughty limerick. But his ambition was to become a writer of prose – write a book, strike it big like Rowling or Roy, show the middle finger to his boss and then retire to live the good life, instead of slogging away as a wage slave as he was currently doing.



So, if you count, you can see three ambitions

1. Strike it big as an author, make the lots of moolah

2. Show the middle finger to his boss.

3. Retire and live the ‘Good life’



And of course, if you have the keen, analytical and highly trained mind, like I do, you can see that all three hinged on one thing – him making it big as a writer. All other things would flow from it – Moolah, Middle finger and Mood life. (Well, ‘Good’ life actually, but it sounds so cool to have the words start from a single alphabet)


This was pretty apparent to Raju as well, so he tried hard to succeed – he wrote whimsical essays, amusing short stories, reams of satire, modern novels – in short, anything for which he felt that there could be a market; and sent reams and reams of paper to all the various newspapers and publishing houses like a snowstorm. But unfortunately – like the fellow who sowed the rain and reaped the whirlwind (did I get the saying right?) – he sowed the snowstorm of submissions and reaped a blizzard of rejection letters. All the papers and publishers he sent his stuff to, promptly returned them, with the speed of a tennis player returning a quick serve with a smashing crosscourt forehand.


After spending all his evenings in writing, and donating most of his savings to the A4 paper vendors and the courier companies, our friend Mr Golani was at his wits end. He had tried writing all the various types of stuff which he thought might have a market, he had tried meeting editors, other authors, journalists or anybody in the profession, he had tried submitting under false names, he had tried pretending to be a foreign author traveling in Mumbai, he had pretended to be Shobha De’s grand-nephew…he had even tried walking bare-chested and bare foot to the Shani temple for a month of ‘Shaniwars’.


But nothing seemed to work. When I bumped into him, he was tearing his hair out. All his poet friends and relatives were mocking him, his boss was still biting pieces out of his leg every now and then, and the moolah and the good life were nowhere in sight. All he had to show for his labours was a filing cabinet full of his work, an impressive scrap book of rejection letters and calloused finger-tips.


I felt sorry for him and decided to help him out and so I told him about this Wishing well which I just told you about. He was also a bit skeptical at first, but then he was so desperate that he was open to any idea at all.


“Wishing well, eh?” he said, biting his moustache.

“Yep.”

“The normal kind of well? I mean you just drop a coin into it, and make a wish and it comes true? You don’t have to drop a human sacrifice or anything?”

“No, no, no my dear chap! What an idea! No sacrifice nothing…just drop a rupee into it, close your eyes and make a wish.”

“Hmm…Where is this place?”


I told him the location, its tucked somewhere in the sahyadri hills, and not too many people know about it, or the crowds would be unmanageable. I just happen to know it because I caught the temple pujari in an guarded moment once, when we shared a pipe of Marijuana and he told me about it. But after he sobered up, he begged me not to tell anyone, and I promised that I would tell only someone whom I felt was in dire need of divine help. I put the same stipulation to Raju and he agreed.


He immediately set off to the place and was back in a couple of days.

“So, all well?” I asked when I saw him “Found the place? Dropped the rupee? Made the wish?”

“Yes, yes, yes and yes.” He replied to all my questions linearly. “But Venu, you weren’t pulling my leg? This thing actually works?”

“Why, of course it does. I dropped a rupee in it myself and my wish came true. Yours will too.”

“Well, it better. If I find out that you have just been pulling my leg and been laughing up your sleeve at my gullibility and desperation, I will break your neck!”

“My dear fellow!” I said with dignity. “I wouldn’t stoop to a thing like that. And anyway, I am wearing a sleeveless shirt, so I couldn’t laugh up my sleeve even if I wanted to. I would put a crick in my neck and choke in my armpit hair.”

He had no reply to my simple dignity and devastating comeback, so he just grunted and left. I reminded him to send out his manuscript to publishers, so that we could see the effect of the well at work.


I met him again after a few days.

“Well?” I asked

“Well.” He reassured me.

“Well well.” I said in relief. I hadn’t forgotten his threat to break my neck.

“Well, well, well…” he said in admiration of the well.

“Well then?” I enquired.

“Welling, its welling.” He replied with an upwelling of hope. “I sent it to Dodo India publishers and they said that they are interested. They are planning to start a new imprint – Buzzard India Books – and mine could be first book in that.”

“Swell”

“Alls well that ends well” he reminded me, “But it’s not ended yet.”

“That’s true. Let’s see what wells up.”


And on that note we left. I heard later that Buzzard India had accepted his book and signed a contract.

The months passed, and no news from Raju Golani. I must say that I was a bit hurt. I mean, success is good, but it shouldn’t make you forget old friends – especially ones who helped you succeed.

Then one day I bumped into him.

“Yaar, Raju. What is this? You have become a famous author and not even told us?”

He laughed bitterly. “Who’s become a famous author? Show him to me.”

I was taken aback.

“Who? You, of course. Haven’t you been published by Buzzard?”

“I am an author, yes – but not a famous one. My book did get published, but the Bustards didn’t market it well…”

“Patience, lad” I remonstrated. “They might not have done a good job, but there is no need to get into vulgar abuse.”

“Theres no abuse, you idiot. Bustard marketing is the sales arm of Dodo and Buzzard publishing.”

“Oh, sorry…continue”

“As I was saying, the Bustards took my novel, which I had spent so much time and effort on – and published it in a cheap and unattractive format, and didn’t market it at all, and so the book sank without a trace. Bah!”

“Oh dear.”

“Dear dear dear.”

“Well Well well.”

He started, and came to life and started walking towards me menacingly.

“And it’s all your fault!”

“Why my fault?” I paled and started backing off. Raju Golani was looking like one of those mass murderers who go around slaying six.

“You led me on with your ridiculous story about Wishing Wells!”

“But it worked, didn’t it?” I asked plaintively. “You wished to be an author, and you are one now.”

“I wished to be a successful author, goddamit!” he screamed and made a lunge for me, and it was only due to my sprinting for my life and jumping into a passing BEST bus that I survived that day.


Venu finished his story, took a long pull at his beer and looked at me proudly. I looked doubtfully at him.

“That’s it? That’s the story?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Then it’s a rotten bloody story! Your stupid wishing well didn’t work, did it?”

“Ah! That’s what I thought too – so I went to that place in the Sahyadris and cribbed to the pujari there. He was also quite surprised, and so he instituted enquiries.
And what do you think he found?”

“What?”

“In spite of my careful directions, the silly fool had dropped a fifty paise coin into the well, instead of a rupee as I had said!”

“What? So you mean…” slowly I began to understand

“So of course…” Venu took a long pull at his beer “Only half his wish came true!”


End