Nearly murdered in Goa

Nearly murdered in Goa

“Enjoy Goa, best vacation destination in India.” I was leafing through the classifieds, and the travel section was full of such ads offering various package tours and hotel stays in Goa. As I read through them, I grinned at the memory of our last trip to Goa. We had got a free hotel stay at Goa through a credit card agent. He had first come to me and offered a credit card. “Only six hundred rupees saar.” “Get lost. I have four credit cards” “OK…I will give it to you for free saar.” “Get lost. What will I do with another card ?” “I will give gold card free saar.” “No.” “I will give free stay in Goa saar.” “Eh?” And that was it, he got me. He offered a free stay in Goa for three nights and four days at the Resorte De Goa, which seemed to be nice place with swimming pool, lawns, tennis courts etc. So the next weekend me, Vinod and Saurabh scooted off to Goa, with plans to bunk office for a couple of days. It was the first time I had driven down to Goa, and we had a great time on the Bombay- Goa highway – surely one of India’s most beautiful roads. The stay in Goa was great, the hotel was nice (only the tennis court was a hash, with grass growing in the cement court) but we never did get to have a swim as Saurabh was determined to see all of Goa’s sights, whether he could actually see them or not. It was nine in the night, and the road was dark as pitch, and Saurabh was determined to see the next beach. “You stupid bugger! Its dark as hell, what will you do at the beach?” “come on yaar…its just close by…” He seemed to be carrying a list of beaches and was ticking them off one by one. Visited Anjuna –tick…visited Baga – tick…visited Dona paula – tick… ‘What will you do there – goddamit?” “Come on yaar…please please…” And there was no help for it, we had to go and the only thing we saw was a vast expanse of black with the sound of waves coming from it. Old Goa, Panjim, Miramar, Mangeshi temple – we went through all of them in an orgy of driving. Saurabh didn’t know how to drive, so it was Vinod or me who used to end up totally exhausted at the end of the day. And one day, we were at Fort Aguada. We went up and down, admired the beach, sweet talked the lighthouse guy into letting us see the lighthouse, and then went back to the car to call it a day. “Come on guys – lets go to Chapora fort, its just close by.” The list-man was at it again. “What’s Chapora?” “Arre its another fort – quite close by.” It was still early in the day, and so off we went. It was a lovely drive to the fort, and soon we could see the ramparts of the tiny seaside fort. There was a nice black top road, and it seemed to lead straight into a pair of gates. There was no sign on the gates, so we assumed – after some hesitation – that this might lead to the parking area of the gates and drove right in. That was a mistake. As we entered, we saw a flame burning, and a group of men huddled around it. Like fools who rush in where angels fear to tread, we drove further in. As we came closer, we saw that the flame was in fact – a body being burnt! Shit! A body was being burnt and a group of ruffians was seated around it, ensuring that no trace remained. They looked terribly dangerous, with skins burnt black by the sun, and corded tough muscles moving like snakes underneath their skins. They were dressed in lungis and none-too-clean t shirts, and their mouths were stained red with paan (or blood?). they all had a mean and deadly look, and – more scary was that most were armed with koyta’s or short knives. Oh no! We seemed to have stumbled on a murder, and the gang disposing of their victim! One guy approached us, he seemed to be less drunk and less mean than the others. “What do you want?” “I…er…um…Ch..Chapora ff-fort?” Vinod quavered. “Chapora fort not here. Get out! Now!” he barked at us. But suddenly I seemed to be affected with rigor mortis. I just couldn’t move. The gang came at us. “You bloody $#$% $%#$ son of a $#%$%…” one of them growled at us. “What are you doing here you #$@#?” and without waiting for a reply he backhanded Vinod across the face. The shock of the slap splashed over me like a bucket of cold water. I finally got out of my stupor and revved the engine, but I had trouble engaging reverse gear. The sound of the engine revving seemed to enrage them further, and they rushed at us screaming abuses. Two or three guys tried to slap Vinod again, and he was desperately trying to fend them off. Saurabh had quickly decided that discretion was his policy, and it was the work of a second for him to take off his glasses and dive on to the floor of the backseat, well out of the way of any physical violence. They were all around us now, and one guy pounded on the bonnet of my car. I was lucky enough to escape the physical part, but the blow on my car was like a scar on my heart. “Start the car you fool, get us out of here.” Vinod screamed, and I finally put into reverse and screamed out of the gate. They followed us out, still banging on my car and shouting the filthiest of abuses and epithets after us. I nearly put the car into a ditch, and had to stop the car, and for a second I thought it was all over. Visions of being murdered, drawn and quartered, boiled in oil, burnt alive flashed before my eyes. But luckily they did not come after us, they went back inside and closed the gates after them. I somehow reversed the car and zoomed out of the vicinity. Chapora can go #$#@ itself, our lives were at stake here! We stopped the car at the next beach, and had a soft drink to fortify ourselves and calm out jangling nerves. Vinod wanted to complain to the police, but Saurabh was completely against it. “Arre yaar…you don’t know the political contacts of these gangsters, they will finish us off. If you register a complaint, they will come and kill us. They have our car number, it would be so simple to find us in Bombay. I tell you, lets just be happy over being alive.” But Vinod was still reliving the indignity of those slaps, and wanted revenge. “No! We must do our civic duty and inform the police! And anyway, it is Ketan’s car, so they will know only his address, not ours.” I was staring sadly at the dents those criminals had caused, but these words made me jump. “Er…no no…let it be…why get involved…my address…” Finally we managed to convince Vinod to give up his police complaint plans, but we couldn’t resist going to the police and asking him what was there beyond those gates. If it was an abode of criminals, then maybe we could take the matter further. “Sir, what is there behind those gates near Chapora fort?” “There? Arre baba, that’s a funeral ground. Don’t go there, OK. There was a death yesterday and they will be burning the body now. It would hurt their feelings if you interrupt them in their moment of grief. And these fisher folk can be so touchy…” “Goa – the most exciting holiday…” I saw the ad again and grinned. Oh yes, exciting is the word. My car still has those dents. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The second sense (Short story)

The second sense

Krishnan Iyer was intensely uncomfortable. He was the vice president purchase of Bowden and Baker, the internationally famous fragrance suppliers. His whole career had been spent in the company of exotic and beautiful smells, perfecting one, twiddling the other, until he came out a particular smell he could sell to various companies, for making soaps, perfumes, oils, deodorants and such olfactory treats. However, over the past few days, he had been troubled by finding terrible smells wherever he went. He shouted at his wife because there was a terrible smell of decomposing flesh in the house, he shouted at his driver because there was a disgusting stink of sweat, tobacco and hair oil in his car and he shouted at his secretary because there was a pong of burnt milk and uncleared kitchen waste in his office. What really aggravated him was that no one was in the least sympathetic to his plight. They claimed that they couldn’t smell anything, and that the whole thing was a figment of his imagination. His wife finally got irritated and told him to hold a handkerchief to his ridiculously sensitive nose, his driver passionately defended himself saying that he neither smoked, nor applied hair oil and had taken a bath in the morning. His secretary just looked at him and walked out silently with her nose in the air. The funny part was that nobody else in his house or office could smell anything. He got a lot of suggestions to solve his problem, ranging from the practical “hold a scented hanky over your nose”, to the sarcastic “breathe through your mouth” and ending at the ridiculous “start smoking to reduce the sensitivity of your nose.” Out of desperation, he jumped at the opportunity of a business trip. “At least, with the change in atmosphere, the smells will go away” he thought. He was to go to Nepal to speak with a fragrance supplier there. He had traveled all over the world, but had never gone to this neighboring country. It was not like international travel at all, he thought. No passport, no visa, no foreign currency…the whole thing was most unusual. Even the plane timing was unlike the usual unearthly hours of an international flight, as it was at two in the afternoon. His driver dropped Krishnan to the airport, and as they reached Sahar airport, the strangeness of the trip struck him again. He had never seen the international airport in the day, and at that hour it was totally empty. Earlier, he had always associated the airport with nighttime and huge crowds of travelers, well wishers and irritating taxi cabs all over the place. Now it was basking the warm sunshine, and looked calm, peaceful and deserted. After getting down from the car and giving him instructions for the next few days, he walked into the airport. As he walked to the Royal Nepal airlines counter, he was again struck by a terrible smell. Oh god, not here too, he thought. At least here the smell was identifiable. An employee was walking around with a smoke pump that was spewing out a fumigating chemical to kill mosquitoes and other pests. What a smell - kerosene, DDT and poison. Due his fragrance training, Krishnan habitually remembered scents through associations – Warm sun, fruits, citrus, cedar wood, eucalyptus, rose, cologne, romance…- but the only association he could achieve here was… “Death” “Excuse me?” said a startled  man next to him, and Krishnan realized that he had said it aloud. “No...No…nothing…sorry, my mistake” stammered the embarrassed Krishnan and walked away, with the man staring after him. Krishnan got his bag X-rayed and watched, bemused, as they ruined the shape of his expensive leather bag by tying it with an ugly nylon strip. Then he went to the Royal Nepal counter, where a slightly decayed looking Nepali took his ticket. After carefully checking the ticket against his list, the Nepali officer looked at him. “Sir, you will have to wait.” “Why?” “3.30 sir.” “Eh?” Krishnan was confused. “I mean that the flight has been delayed till 3.30 sir.” “Only one and a half hour, eh? That’s not too bad. Just like our domestic flights. Heh heh.” Krishnan laughed. “Heh heh.” The Nepali laughed along with him. “3.30 in the morning sir. Tomorrow.” “What! Fourteen hours delay!” “Yes sir. But don’t worry sir; we will put you up in a hotel.” As his driver had already left, Krishnan felt that it would be a good idea to take up the offer and spend the day in the hotel. At least he wouldn’t have to tolerate the stink of the pesticide spray in the airport, he thought. The airline officials herded all the travelers into a battered minibus, which took them to their hotel. The hotel was OK, but as soon as he entered, Krishnan was assailed by a terrible smell of cheap phenyl and naphthalene balls. He reeled, but recovered and completed the check in process. Again, he noticed that no one seemed to notice the smell except him. “Wonder what’s happening to me?” he wondered. “I have heard that people develop extra ordinarily sharp sense of smell when they quit smoking, but I haven’t quit…I don’t even smoke…” Still lost in his thoughts, he went up to his room. He had been given a single room on the third floor, while going up he noticed that the rest of the passengers got off at the second floor. As he got out of the lift, there was a new smell – old stale carpets and rat droppings. He made an effort and ignored it. After a bath and dousing himself with perfume, he came down for lunch in the coffee shop. As he entered the coffee shop, he reeled and almost fell down as the extremely offensive smell of rancid fat and rotting vegetables hit him, almost like a physical blow. The whole atmosphere was redolent of disagreeable food smells- frying fish, acrid pork, musty boiled cauliflower and many others. He wondered how anyone could eat in this atmosphere. But being a diabetic, he was under strict medical orders to eat regularly, so chose plain bread and butter as the safest choice. But even the bread smelt stale and the butter rancid. He quickly gobbled down the food and bolted out of the coffee shop, as he couldn’t bear the sights and sounds of people eating in that stench. He went up to his room and tried to relax with a novel he had brought along. But he found that he couldn’t concentrate on the story. The room seemed to be permeated with a smell that was growing all the time. He couldn’t precisely identify it, but it seemed to be something like wet carpets, rat excrement and mildew mixed into one. Krishnan called up the housekeeping and demanded they do something about it. But when the housekeeping boy came up, he coudn't smell anything. “How surprising!” sneered Krishnan sarcastically. “No doubt you can’t smell the musty old carpet smell in the corridor either.” The boy was totally taken aback. “Old carpet smell sir?” “And not that disgusting phenyl smell either, I suppose?” Krishnan roared, his temper rising. The boy fled, and came back with the duty manager and an aerosol of room freshener. He sprayed while the manger tried to mollify Krishnan. By that time, Krishnan was tired of the whole thing, so paid no attention while the manager said something about new carpets and no usage of phenyl in the hotel. He just mumbled something and herded them out of his room, and then crashed on to his bed, and tried to sleep. But sleep eluded him, he had a terrible afternoon, as the smell around him grew and grew, until he felt he was going out of his mind. As evening approached, he left his room and tried to go for a walk. As he went down to the lobby, he bumped into a fellow traveler. “Hi Mr. Krishnan, how are you? You are looking rather ill.” Krishnan was rather taken aback by this solicitous inquiry from such a casual acquaintance, but was grateful too. He was feeling quite miserable by now. “I…er…yes. I am a bit under the weather…the air…er…” “Oh, how sad. I understand. It feels bad to feel ill on the verge of a long journey. Come, have a drink with me.” Again Krishnan was taken aback, but then he reflected, why not? He agreed and they turned towards the bar. “My name is Chaudhary, by the way.” They settled into their seats and ordered drinks. Krishnan carefully sniffed the air, and was extremely relieved to find no disagreeable smells. The relief was so great that he started drinking with enthusiasm. But after a few pegs, he realised with dismay that he was again getting a bad smell. This time the smell was amazingly bad, and entirely indescribable. It seemed to be a mix of rotten eggs, urea, hydrogen peroxide and overflowing gutters. Mr. Chaudhary was telling him an anecdote about work, when suddenly the smell over- powered Krishnan, and he vomited all over the table, and almost collapsed on the floor. Chaudhary was shocked, and the waiters came running to help. As they cleaned the table, Krishnan recovered slightly, and started moaning. “I… I am so sorry…” “Nonsense, don’t worry at all. It happens, just relax and don’t say a word.” Said Chaudhary, as he wiped Krishnan’s face and clothes free of vomit with a damp towel. “But I…” “No, no please, Mr. Krishnan, don’t say a word. There is no problem. You need to rest. Please allow me to help you to your room.” Krishnan was feeling too weak and miserable to protest, as Chaudhary supported, almost carried him to the elevator. The whole lobby seemed to be watching him. The waiters and the manager came to help, but Chaudhary waved them off. The next thing that Krishnan knew, he was on his bed in his room. He opened his eyes and looked around, and saw Chaudhary sitting on a chair nearby. “Wh…what happened?” “You blacked out for some time.” “How did I get here?” “I brought you.” There didn’t seem to be anything more to say, so Krishnan just lay there collecting his thoughts. As he looked at Chaudhary, he started to wonder whether he had seen him somewhere before. Chaudhary just looked at him impassively, his green eyes shining like a cat’s. Suddenly Chaudhary started speaking “You are in the business of smell, aren’t you, sir? Have you ever realised the power of smell?” “Eh?” “All living creatures have 5 senses – Touch, smell, sight, taste and hearing. I frequently wonder which sense is the most primary. Some experts say touch, and I tend to agree with them. Especially mammals are most tuned towards touch as they spend 9 months inside the mother’s body, and the entire consciousness of the foetus is gained through touch.” All his talk seemed to just flow a notch above Krishnan's consciousness, as he still wondered where he had seen this man before. Chaudhary continued his monologue. “However, mammals are a small part of existence. For the rest of all sentient beings, the most pre-eminent sense is smell. Smell is hard wired into the consciousness, don’t you agree? Plants attract insects by smell; insects attract mates by releasing smells. Mosquitoes find you by your smell, butterflies find flowers by smell. Many lower order insects have no seeing apparatus, but only a sense of smell. Predators find and hunt their prey by smell. Smells can take you to great heights. Haven’t you ever gone into a temple and instantly been transported to a spiritual plane by the smell of incense, sandalwood and flowers? Haven’t you ever gone past a kitchen, and suddenly become hungry by the smell of food cooking in there? Haven’t you gone outside in a thunder storm, and been refreshed by the smell of ozone?” Krishnan was staring at him. Finally he blurted out, “Who are you?” Chaudhary leaned forward in his chair and looked at him. His green eyes seemed to be on fire, and gleamed unnaturally in the dark. “Haven’t you gone near a woman and got attracted to her by her smell? The scent of a woman? Haven’t you been turned on by the smell of her sweat, the smell of jasmine in her hair, the hint of perfume on her arms, the seductive smell of her being?” Krishnan stared at him with horror. “You are Pranab Chaudhary? Sarita’s husband?” “What was the smell that attracted you to my wife, Krishnan? Was it her perfume, or the smell of her underarms? Was it her aroused smell that got your hormones flowing? The henna in her hair? The smell of the perfume that I bought for her? What?” “It wasn’t me…I swear…she came on to me…I didn’t make the first move…” “You preferred the second move did you? That’s OK, because the last move will be mine. Because smell can be used either for good or for evil. A good fragrance can take you near to heaven they say, but a stench can take you near to hell. But, haven’t you experienced it already, my friend?” “Wh…what do you mean?” Krishnan croaked. Chaudhary leant even further towards him, his eyes boring into Krishnan's very soul. “It has been 2 weeks now that you have been suffering the torment of smell isn’t it? It is ironic that a man who deals in smell should be killed by smell. Or should I say stench?” “Killed by smell?” “Oh yes. I have developed a machine, which acts on the exact centre of the brain that recognizes scent, and I can control it by radiation. Want to see?” Chaudhary reached into his pocket and took out a small machine, the size of a mobile phone. He showed it to Krishnan and twiddled a knob. Immediately Krishnan recoiled, as he was swamped by a terrible stench of old sweaty unwashed socks. His whole being recoiled, he couldn’t think, and started sweating profusely. Chaudhary pressed another button and Krishnan shrieked and vomited his guts out as another stench of rotting meat hit him. His eyes were watering, his head started bursting with pain and he started vomiting again and again, all over himself, as he was unable to move. “Ingenious, isn’t it? It can be targeted on to a specific person, and can be effective from upto a kilometer. It acts through walls and other barriers and leaves absolutely no evidence. I actually developed it as a murder tool for a government agency. I have tried it on various lab animals, but you are my first human trial. I must say that I am quite gratified by its success. Don’t you agree?” Krishan made a desperate lunge towards him, but Chaudhary just moved away and increased the intensity on his machine. Krishnan stopped in mid lunge and screamed, his hands tearing at his nose and mouth. He vomited again, and then looked at him with fear and desperation. “Y…you won’t get away with this”, he screamed. Chaudhary smiled. “Oh, but I will. Every body saw you acting strange during the day, and then drinking like a fish in the evening. Then you got disgustingly drunk and vomited in the bar itself. Later some one will find dead, choked in your own vomit, and they will say – oh that old sot. He got dead drunk and choked in his own puke.” Chaudhary got up and walked towards the door. At the door he paused and looked back as he twiddled his machine again. “You know, the only thing the police might say, when they hear about your odd behaviour over the past few days? They will say that…” Krishnan tried to take a step and fell forward on his face and vomited again. “…That some thing smells funny about this case.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This story appears as part of my short story collection Bombay Mixture on the Kindle store on www.amazon.com

Villager bathing his tired feet in an alga covered pond

Drilled! (Fiction)

Drilled !

“Open wide” That was exactly what I said to his wife yesterday. I had been banging this dentist dude’s wife for the past few months now. I had met her on the Internet, and after a lot of chatting and cyber sex, had met her in person and screwed her. Man, she was hot! Ever since she told me that her old man was a dentist, it gave me a major kick in life to come here and get drilled by him, before going and drilling his wife in his own home. A few drinks, a compliment, a trinket or two – that’s all it takes to get her down and dirty. I specialize in getting complicated jobs done, and have a good rapport with all the guys who matter in town. Police officers, Customs and excise guys, politicians, bureaucrats, goons and mafia guys…I know them all. Some regular bribes, some gifts and presents, some blackmail…and its amazing how much work you can get done. The ‘whirr’ of the drill brought me out of my reverie as I saw the dentist bending over me. I closed my eyes and let him do as he wished. This modern dentistry is an amazing thing – I had closed my eyes and curled my toes as I waited for the pain – but there was no pain at all! I could feel the vibrations of the drill in my teeth, and the jet of water spraying in my mouth…and voila! He was done. He showed me the hole he had made in my molars - nice big ones - and told me that he was going to fill them with some modern cement type filling. I shrugged and let him do his thing. Anyway, I can’t bear to see those shining implements, and had my eyes tightly shut as he poked around in my mouth. Soon he was done, and I thanked him and paid him generously. He tried to say that this was too much, but I pressed it on him, saying that this was removing the fear of dentists from my mind. Ha ha. Fuckin’ pussy. Time fairly flies, I must say. Nearly a couple of months had passed since I finished that dentist visit, and they were among the most fruitful ones of my life. I was putting together the deal of deals. Four Tons of Cocaine! The mind boggles at what that must be worth in the US market. The stuff was supposed to come from Burma, the heart of the golden triangle. From there, it would come to Calcutta through Bangladesh, and then come to Bombay by train, disguised as cement sacks. That lot would come into my go-down, and be taken out the back door and loaded on a Panamian ship going to Mexico. There the US partner would take it through the porous US- Mexico border and sell it. The operation was huge, and involved tremendous coordination. So many people in so many countries to be bought off. Burma, Bangladesh, India, Mexico. Customs guys, Border Security Force, Train guys, Police, local mafia’s all across the route, Port authorities…and god knows who else. I was working like mad for the past two months, exerting my entire influence and authority. But the rewards were worth it. Once this shipment goes through, I would be a multi billionaire. I would be set up for life. Apart from authority and influence, my money was also being spent like water – bribing people all over the country and beyond. To relax myself, I used to bang that dentist’s wife regularly. She was getting better and better, and more and more dependent on me for money and sex. She thinks I love her. Hah! What a laugh! Well, this is it! The stuff is through. What an operation, went through as smooth as butter. The stock came smoothly over 3 borders – Burma, Bangladesh and India, with almost no complications. A Few guys got killed when they stepped on a landmine in the no mans land, but the shipment got through OK. Then it was filled in cement sacks, and loaded on in broad daylight at Calcutta railway station, and came quietly and without any hassle to Bombay. I had paid off all the mafias from East to West, so the stuff came through unmolested. Now it was sitting in my go-down in the docks, and it was giving me the shivers. Just imagine, 4 tons of Cocaine lying in a godown! The dollar value would be probably as much as the turnover of many third world nations. But it wouldn’t lie there for long. It would be quietly taken out the back door and put on the Panamian freighter heading for New Mexico. And the go-down would be filled again with cement sacks, which I had bought from the black market some time back. Then I would sell the cement openly, and as far as the authorities were concerned, all I had done would be a simple cement transaction. Aahh! What a feeling. I had just leaned back into my chair, and lit an expensive Cuban cigar to celebrate, when it all went to hell. Suddenly, there was a crash, and the door burst open and a bunch of policemen burst into my room. It gave me such a shock I fell over in my chair, and damn near swallowed my cigar! Before I could say, “What the fuck…” ten or more policemen were pointing loaded guns at me. I decided to keep my mouth shut, and not move a muscle. They were looking very unfriendly indeed! Just then the door opened, and a police inspector walked in, looking offensively cheerful. “Hi dear. You are under arrest.” Well, I had guessed that. But I tried to brazen it out. “Why? I haven’t done anything.” “No? Then who was banging the dentist’s wife, eh?” It was like being hit in the middle of the eyebrows with a hammer. I could only look at him, I was so disoriented. “Eh?” The inspector went and crashed into my expensive chair, enjoying the stupefied expression on my face. “Yes sir. You ran the biggest drug smuggling operation I have ever seen, you have been doing shady stuff in the city for years now, you lied, you stole, you cheated…but..” he stopped swinging the chair and looked me in the eye. “…But…your biggest mistake was to hump that dentist’s wife.” He leaned back further, and put his feet on my beautiful teak wood desk. I started to object, but immediately subsided. He paid no attention, and continued with his monologue. “You see, we have had our eye on you for a long time, but were never able to put our finger on you. You were too clever, and knew too many people, and were always one step ahead of us. But one day, you got too smart for your own good. We saw you hump the wife, and then rub it in by going to that same dentist to see to your teeth. At that moment I knew that you had become too big for your boots, and your arrogance would be your downfall. We took pictures of you frolicking in bed with that woman, and paid a visit to the dentist. He was a bit upset at first, and wanted to get violent. But we cooled him down and told him a better way to get even. In your next sitting he made a huge hole in your molars, remember? Didn’t you wonder at the time why he is making holes in two teeth, when only one tooth was paining? Well, I will tell you. We have got some new toys nowadays, thanks to the interaction with the US Drug Enforcement Agency. One is a miniature GPS locator, which keeps a track on where a person is; and the other is a miniature radio transmitter. Both of these things were implanted in your teeth. Obviously, they wouldn’t work through silver, so he had to put cement filling over them. Luckily, you didn’t question why cement, why not silver.” I shuddered, as the implication of what he just said flashed through my mind. “You mean…” “Yes. We know exactly where you have been, to the last centimeter, over the last two months. And we had a bug right inside your mouth, so we have a recording of every word, which you have spoken over the last two months. So we waited until the whole plot came to a boil, and now we have swooped down and arrested every single person attached to this massive drug deal you have been arranging. Every one of your contacts has been arrested – from the Border patrol commander to the Customs guys in Bengal, the railway agents, the corrupt police officers, the mafia…. even the captain of that Panamian ship of yours is behind bars. Across the Atlantic, The US DEA has cleaned up the little operation of your nasty little friends, and they are damn happy about it. Amazingly smooth operation. ‘Well Drilled’ if I may use the phrase…ha ha…all of you guys are going to be behind bars for a very long time…” My knees turned to jelly, and I slumped to the floor. I couldn’t see…I couldn’t breathe…my head was pounding. I dimly felt the inspector come over to me and whisper in my ear. “By the way, your dentist friend asked me to tell you…your teeth are gonna pain terribly in a few days. Ha ha ha. You gotta be real stupid to screw with a guy who’s got a drill in your mouth…” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This story is part of my short story collection Bombay mixture  on Amazon.com

A flight of pigeons (Short story)

A flight of pigeons

“I hate these bloody pigeons.” I screamed. “What is wrong with you? Leave those poor birds alone.” My wife answered. “Leave them alone? I would love to leave them alone! But they don’t leave us alone. They are all over the place, flapping away and making that monotonous noise – gutar goo, gutar goo…tchah. They don’t have brains worth a damn, and are always humping away…” “Shh! Mind your tongue! The children…” Laxmi (my wife) hissed at me. “Sorry…but these birds are a pain. Constantly building nests, hump…er…laying eggs, stink of pigeon everywhere. And they are so stupid – they are suicidal. Banging into glass panes, getting electrocuted in wires, getting cut up by kite strings…and just smell that stink! Some stupid pigeon must have died somewhere, and is rotting! Ugh!” “Yes (sniff) it does smell a bit bad, no?” she put her nose up, and sniffed like a dog. “But its not there all the time…comes and goes. Wonder where it is coming from? Definitely something dead and decomposing. Anyway, tea is ready.” She said, passing me a cup. The tea was good, and it calmed my mind, as I went over the want ads in the papers. I had been downsized a few months back, and was still looking for a new job. I had managed to lay my hands on some money, so the situation was not desperate, but I needed a job. While I was studying the ads and circling the ones which I found interesting, Laxmi came and tapped me on my shoulder. She looked suddenly worried and thoughtful. “Aaho, that smell…it’s of rotting flesh, isn’t it?”                   “Yes, how disgusting. Must be those mussalmans downstairs – probably not cleared out their dustbin.”                   “Don’t be silly dear. Why should anyone keep rotting meat in their house? I was just thinking…”                   “What?”                   “Er…never mind.” And she suddenly walked away. I stared after her, puzzled. After a minute I got back to my paper. But before I could get engrossed in it, there was another whiff of that disgusting smell. That’s it. I put down my paper, and went and put on my shirt. “Where are you going?” Laxmi asked. “Enough is enough! I am going down to give that mussalman, Syed Ali, a piece of my mind. Let him eat meat if he wishes, but the least he can do is to clean up his home and prevent it from stinking. Bloody rascal.”                   “Aaho, what are you doing?” Laxmi caught hold of my hand. “Ever since you lost your job, you have been so violently angry. How can you go and accuse them? Every body in the building eats non veg – why blame Syed Ali alone?” She was pleading with me. “Oh all right.” I extricated my hand from her grasp. “I will not attack them, don’t worry. I will just go up and down and see from where the smell is coming. Let me go, Laxmi, don’t worry.” I left the house and started quietly down the stairs. We stay on the top floor, and so I generally take the lift down. Thus, people were quite surprised to see me on the stairs. As luck would have it, the first person I met was Syed Ali himself; fat and cleanshaven – dressed in Sunday uniform of vest and lungi. “Arre, Kulkarni sahib. How nice to see you. We are meeting after so many days…” “Salaam aley kum, Syedbhai.” I replied. “Wale kum as salaams…come in, come in.” He caught me by my arm, and steered me into his house. Everyone seems to think of my arm as public property. But before I could react, I was in his house. “Kulkarni sahib, I wanted to talk to you. You are the chairman of the society and a strict vegetarian, so I thought you are the best person to talk to.” “About what?” I was foxed. “Arre sahib…actually there seems to be some unhygienic person in our building. Every now and then, there is a whiff of rotting flesh. I felt a bit hesitant to talk to people…who knows how people can react. But you obviously could not be a source of this, as you are a vegetarian. Also, as you are the Chairman, you have the right to ask people to clean up.” I looked at him in surprise, then blessed Laxmi for preventing me from going and blasting this guy – he would have been so hurt. “You are right, Syedbhai. Even I have been getting a whiff of this smell. I tell you what, let’s go up and down the stairs and see from where the smell is coming. Then we will discreetly tell them to clean up their act.” Syedbhai agreed, and we went down the stairs, sniffing away. It must have looked very funny to any observers – two portly, middle aged men going around sniffing away like prize bloodhounds on a scent. But try as we might, we couldn’t get a whiff from any house. Disappointed and puzzled, we back home. “Well?” Laxmi raised an eyebrow at me as I returned. “Nyet! I and Syedbhai went all over, but we didn’t get a sniff. Maybe it is after all a dead dog or something…shit” but even as I spoke, a whiff of rotting flesh passed by, revolting both of us. But even as I sniffed, it was gone again. “Aaho…did you…did you check at Bagrecha’s house?” I started. “Ba…Bagrecha? Er…no. Why did you think about him?” “Nothing…it may be silly of me, but there was an article in the paper the other day. A senior citizen was found dead in his house. Apparently he had been dead for months, but no one ever knew. His body rotted and stank, but the neighbors thought it was a smell from the fishermen village nearby. After all, who would think that a neighbor had died and is rotting in his home? So I thought….” “Nonsense!” “Why nonsense?” Laxmi was like all women, drawing strength from opposition. “Why is it nonsense? It is possible. Old man Bagrecha is a widower and lives alone. He mixes with no one, and is practically a hermit. Sometimes, he doesn’t come out of his house for days on end. He has children who live god knows where, and anyway he has had no one visiting him for years, the watchman told me.” “Laxmi…” “I don’t want to hear anything. Let us go right now and see if he is alright.” Laxmi switched off the gas, wound her sari pallu firmly and looked me in the eye. When she gets into this mood, she is absolutely unreasonable. I capitulated with bad grace. “Oh all right. Let’s go and see if he is at home.” We put on our chappals and went down three floors to Bagrecha’s house. As we walked, with every step, Laxmi became more uncomfortable. After all, we hardly knew the fellow…nobody did. He was an unpleasant old man whom no one liked to mix with. But still, under the circumstances… We reached his door, and looked at each other. She nodded at me, and I rang the bell. No response. After some time, I rang it again; longer. Still no response. Finally, I leant on the bell for nearly a couple of minutes, and the sound was loud enough to irritate the fellow in the neighboring house. He opened the door and peered out. “Arre, Kulkarni saaheb!” he was surprised to see me. “What are you doing?” I was a bit embarrassed. It was difficult to explain to him that we were suspecting his neighbor of having died and disturbing the society with the smell of his rotting flesh. I tried to tread the middle path. “Well…er …actually, we were just seeing whether Mr. Bagrecha is at home…just wanted to see that he is …ok.” “Oh? I think he is not at home. Not seen him for days…even the paper boy has stopped leaving the newspaper at his house since some time now. Maybe he has gone out. He does that sometimes, just vanishes for days.” “I see, I see. Then…I think we will take your leave then.” I and Laxmi beat a quick retreat. Several days passed, and no job in sight. It is not easy for a middle aged clerk to get a new job these days, especially when he was been downsized. If not for that unexpected cash inflow, it would have been difficult indeed. Laxmi was calm and composed about it; she had perfect faith in me as a good provider. What she was not calm about, was that damned smell. The smell continued to haunt us every now and then, and she still had that bee in her bonnet about a dead neighbor. She wouldn’t raise the topic with me, but discussed with her friends in her kitty party group. Soon they decided to do some detective work on their own. These middle aged ‘kaku’s can be a formidable information gathering tool, I must say. If I were a criminal, I would rather have the CID and RAW on my trail, rather than these women. They got info on all the families in our society, all the empty flats, and all the flats where elderly people were living alone. As ours was quite a large building, this was not that simple a task. But soon, they had identified 3 empty flats and one elusive senior citizen. Soon, she came and proudly came and presented her list to me. The empty flats belonged to a couple of NRIs, and one to a local person. The elusive senior citizen was again, Bagrecha. “What do I do with this?” “Check the flats, of course. You are the chairman of the society aren’t you?” “Yes I am…but darling, be reasonable…this notion you have is turning into an obsession.” Laxmi grasped me by the hand and sat next to me. Her eyes were very serious. “Narayan...” It was always something serious when she called me by name. Usually she used the honorific ‘aaho’ when addressing me. “Narayan, I can’t explain it, but there is something going on. I feel it. I feel…death. Death is near. I can’t tell where, but you must humour me in this, or I will do something drastic – I will call the police, and then it will be a big hullabaloo, and either way we will get disgraced…” “Here, here – relax. Calm down.” Laxmi really scares me sometimes. “OK, if you feel so seriously about it, we will open the empty flats. I have the keys. Non resident flat owners have to keep a set of keys with us, incase there is any emergency repairs or something to be done.” I had to call a meeting of the executive committee first, and explain the situation to them. They agreed, and we went and formally opened the empty flats, one by one. As expected, they were empty and entirely innocent of corpses, or any other sinister items. Laxmi grasped my arm tightly, and looked so serious, that I decided not to release the various jokes I was going to crack at her expense. And the smell continued, haunting us like a will’o the wisp. One day I came home from an interview, whistling happily as I climbed the stairs. The interview had gone well, and the manager had hinted that I was in the final running for the job. It was excellent news, as my finds were running low, and even that unexpected money I had received was getting over. Oh, what a feeling, I am dancing on the …. I stopped. There was a big crowd at Bagrecha’s door. I felt a cold shiver going across me. “Here, what’s going on here?” I asked, and several people in the crowd turned around. There were a couple of watchmen and some members of the building management committee. “Arre, Kulkarni saaheb is here. Good.” It was Chiplunkar, the secretary. He is the guy who really does the work of the society; I am just the chairman – a decorative post. “Arre saaheb, I was going over the minutes of that meeting we had last time, where we decided to check the flats for the origin of the smell. I realized that while we checked the unoccupied flats, we did not check Mr. Bagrecha’s flat.” “But…” “Now then, we said that we will check all unoccupied flats. If Mr. Bagrecha is not here, then the flat is unoccupied. Therefore we are going to check it.” “But…you can’t generally barge into someone’s house…it is infringement of privacy. Anyway, we don’t have his keys…and we can’t just break down the door, can we?” I tried to grin. Chiplunkar just shrugged his shoulders. “What privacy and all…Kulkarni saaheb, we are not in the US. Anyway, we are not breaking down his door; I have called Maganlal, the lock maker to pick the lock. Arre, Maganlalbhai, how much longer will it take?” “Bas, its done sir.” The locksmith was sweating with concentration, suddenly he smiled and relaxed, and threw the door open. Immediately a strong smell of decomposing flesh filled the air. I wilted against the wall. “Hey Ram!” shouted the startled secretary and rushed in. The smell had me rooted to the spot. “What a mess! Kulkarni saaheb! Come and look at this!” I walked in, trying to compose myself. A grisly sight met my eyes, though not the one I had expected. “Pigeons!” Laxmi exclaimed. “What a sight it was. A whole colony of pigeons had made their nest in the windows, and had hatched eggs, so there were a lot of young birds also there. And a cat or something must have attacked them; there were dead pigeons all over the place. In the nests, the young pigeons had starved to death, I suppose. Then the rains must have come, and rotted the dead bodies. What a sight it was…dead pigeons and blood all over the place, ants and lizards eating the corpses, and the stink….” “Tchee tchee. Stop already.” Laxmi shuddered. “How terrible.” She walked away into the kitchen. Just before entering, she turned around and looked at me. “So I was right wasn’t I? I told you I sensed death in the building.” I smiled at her. “How right you are, Laxmi.” Some days later I was feeding the pigeons, when I heard my wife remark to her friend. “How Kulkarni saaheb has changed, no? Earlier, he used to simply hate the pigeons. He used to curse them at every opportunity he got, and throw things at them. But now, he has started liking them. Feeds them everyday with his own hands, and has established two bird baths and bird houses on the terrace.” “So sweet.” I could feel the warm glow of the loving gaze being given to me by Laxmi’s friend. I smiled, and continued feeding the pigeons. Downstairs, I could still hear the sound of Bagrecha’s son arguing with Chiplunkar. He had come down from Surat because he had wanted to borrow some money from his father. He was not pleased to find his father missing and even more displeased to find that we had broken into his father’s flat in his absence. “Arre, so what if you are the secretary, eh? How can you break into a private house, tell me that?” “Mind your tone, Mr. Bagrecha.” “Arre, what mind your tone? Where is the money which my father kept in the house? He used to have minimum Rs Two lakhs in cash in the house, and now there is nothing. Where is that, eh?” “Listen friend, we opened the flat in the presence of five committee members, got the flat cleaned in our presence and immediately sealed it again in our presence. I have no idea whether there was money or not in the flat, but I assure you that nothing was disturbed when we opened the flat. And furthermore, instead of shouting at me, you can thank me for having cleaned the house. Who will bear that expense, eh? And what about the pending society payments for the past four months, who will pay that…” The argument continued downstairs, and I smiled and tossed some more grain to the pigeons, as they flapped around. Thank god for the pigeons. If they had investigated further for the source of the smell and found that old mans body in the cupboard…anyway, old men who live alone shouldn’t keep that much money in the house…the world is not safe nowadays… -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This story appears as part of my Short story collection - Bombay Mixture - on Amazon.com

Classified (Fiction)

Classified.

Rajan reached VT station after a long day at work and looked at the electronic signboard announcing the departure of the local train that would take him home. “Panvel train after 7 minutes. Hmm. Enough to get a cup of coffee and a newspaper” Lost in his thoughts, he went mechanically to his usual newspaper vendor, who gave him a “Mid Day” without being asked. Rajan fished out some coins from his pocket, gave it to the vendor, and walked on. He was disturbed in his train of thoughts by the vendor shouting after him, “Saar saar – fifty paisa more saar” “Kya re? When I give you 3 rupees, you say 2.50 and now I am giving you 2,50, you want 3 rupees” “Saar, 3 rupees on Wednesday Saar, baaki other days 2.50.” “Why? What’s so special about today?” “Extra section of classifieds saar” the vendor took his 50 paisa and ran off. Rajan finished his coffee and sat in the local train and took out the paper. He desultorily ran over the headlines – “Gujarat carnage”, “India lose disgracefully”, “Terror reaches Pakistan” – oh well! – He flipped though the papers, ran over the comics section, solved the absurdly simple crossword, tried the cryptic crossword and gave up.                   Usually at this time, he folded the paper and went to sleep, but today he was not able to. His mind was jangling. He opened the paper again and went through it, hoping to find some interesting section which he might have overlooked. Usually while flipping through the paper, he just turned over the classified sections, but today there seemed to be twice as many ads as usual. Then he remembered - fifty paisa more of ads. He smiled to himself. May as well get the full value, he thought, and started going through the classifieds. Thousands of housing development ads, how many houses people seemed to be buying! Gaurav Sankalp in Kandivli, Navre nagar in Ambarnath, RNA park in Mira road and what not. Every one seemed to have umpteen benefits – jogging, temple, school, piped gas, phone connection etc. etc. When he and Malathi were thinking of buying a house, the prospect seemed to be so grand! Property owners in Bombay! Wow! It was when he had just got married after a long relationship. How thrilling every step of life was then! He smiled and turned the page, and came to a section screaming about hotels. Goa, Manali, Mahabasleshwar, Lonavla - every place in India seemed to have hotels eager for his business. Offering everything from free beer, use of swimming pool to free accommodation for spouse and children, they seemed to be as tempting as possible. One particular ad caught his eye – Hotel Ravikiran near Goa. Why! That was the very place they had spent their honeymoon.                   Rajan smiled and his face softened at the memory. What fun they had then! They had packed two suitcases and loaded them in the car and driven aimlessly down the Bombay Goa highway. The world seemed to be especially alive and magical. The wonderful smooth, winding picturesque road - the dry grass on both sides which made it look as though they were driving through a field of gold, the wind rushing in through the window, the soothing sounds of Kishore Kumar love songs from the car stereo and Malathi's head on his shoulder. The world seemed to have nothing more to offer.                   Hunger had brought their minds off romance, and they had stopped at a small hotel near Alibaug. The food was so nice, and the location so peaceful that they decided to spend their honeymoon there itself. It was right next to the beach, so after a long lunch, made giggly by some beers they had gone and lazed on the beach. It being a weekday, the place was completely deserted. They roamed around on the beach for hours, and finally, drunk with the sunset and newfound bliss, they made love on the beach, with the sound of the waves for company. How embarrassed Malathi was in later days, when he referred to that incident.                   Rajan laughed aloud, but quickly subsided when he saw the quizzical looks of his fellow passengers. Like an ostrich burying his head in the sand, he hid self in his Mid Day and resumed his study of the classifieds. Turning the pages, he was suddenly confronted with an array of Automobile ads. Hero Hondas and Fiat Palios, Honda Activas and Toyota Qualis`s, every make of car in Independent India seemed to be crying out for his patronage. Here a Zen was offering “amazingly easy installments”, there a Dhuri motors was offering “2 installments off – only ID proof needed”. Apart from the Indian makes there were imported cars – “BMW for 16,50,000” or “Toyota Crown for 750,000”. There were even lines of ads for second hand cars, for those with big wants but small pockets. But, instead of getting happy with the cornucopia of transportation options available, Rajan was irritated. His brow wrinkled, and his mood darkened. “This was the first cause” he thought. “That woman wants, wants and wants. It’s not keeping up with the Jones. She wants to be the Jones’ to Jones’. Arey! She should understand, no? I am a middle class fixed income person. But she wanted a house, I bought that. Then a car. Then a 29 inch TV. Then a food processor. Then a microwave. What all can a person pay for? I am so much in Debt, but she doesn’t seem to care.” Tchah! To get the offending vehicles out of his sight, he flipped the page, only to be greeted with the medical section. What a section. “Having sexual weakness (Erection, early discharge, Impotency…)” He flipped the page, his ostrich reaction taking effect. He came to the entertainment section. This was an interesting one. He had noticed this section some time before, but his attention was grabbed by some strange ads. “Fun!! Enjoy!! Get together, parties, picnics, outing etc. Single, couples, Group of people, widen your social circle. 6707868 – 6161060” Hmm.Interesting. Hey! Here’s another one. This one was in Full caps, literally screaming for attention. “DON’T WORRY? ENJOY LIFE GET RID OF YOUR BOREDOM WE ORGANIZE SOCIAL CIRCLE PARTIES FOR LADIES AND GENTLEMEN PLEASE CONTACT - 9820175617, 6050466”. Whew, that was really loud, like somebody screaming in your year. The next ad was more brusque and business like. “Organizer of picnic plus gathering for ladies and gentlemen. Please contact:-9869088681.” Rajan smiled at the thought of what these parties would be. Maybe he should tell Malathi about them, she was always complaining about how bored she was. Well! What could he do? She was the one who had wanted all the items, and now he had to work doubly hard to pay off the crushing monthly installments.                   It’s all very well for Malathi to complain that he worked late and she had to stay alone all day, but what was he to do about it? Perhaps, if they had a baby, it would occupy her, but Malathi had flatly refused, saying that she was far too young to be a mother. Basically, she did not want to take the responsibility. His station was coming. Rajan stood and stretched himself. God! He was so tired! As he walked home from the station, he tried to put himself in a more positive mood. At least Malathi would not crib at him. She had stopped complaining about being alone and bored for a couple of months now. Such a nice change. She had developed some new friends. Or maybe she had read Norman Vincent Peale, on how to be a better person! The image of his wife reading Peale was so humorous to him that he laughed out loud, and was again embarrassed as the passerby’s looked at him. Rajan reached his building, and took the lift to his floor. He rang the bell a couple of times, and was surprised to find no one at home. Strange! Where was Malathi? He let himself inside with his key. After taking a bath and a change of clothes, Rajan decided to make a cup of tea for himself. Just as the water was boiling, his mobile phone rang. But when he opened his bag, he saw that his phone was switched off. Puzzled, he looked around and then saw that it was Malathi’s. She had apparently forgotten it while going out. He picked up the phone. “Hello, Rajan here” “Hi Rajan” It was Malathi's friend, Tina. “Hi Tina, Malathi seems to have gone out, and left her phone at home.” “Oh! Sorry to disturb you” “No Problem” “Actually I wanted a friend’s number…I’ll call later…” “Can I help you?” ‘…If you don’t mind…” “Not at all.”                   “It might be in her received call list in her phone as she had received a call from her…” Rajan checked and gave her the number of a mutual friend, and Tina hung up after the requisite thanks and good wishes. Casually, Rajan started going through the list of called numbers.                   Suddenly the milk boiled over. “Damn” Rajan went to switch of the gas and wipe up the mess. Later, while sipping his tea, something clicked in his mind. He picked up Malathi’s phone again. Late that night, Malathi awoke and saw that Rajan was not in bed. Puzzled, she went out to the hall and saw him studying the paper and writing in his planner. On seeing her, he smiled and shut the planner. “Rajan, what are doing so late at night?” she asked sleepily. “Come to bed.”                   “Just coming dear,” said Rajan. “Some work I have to do.”                   “Is it so important?” Rajan looked down at his planner, and the address he was copying out from his Mid-day. “Ace detectives specialist in Pre-post matrimonial Divorce cases. Undercover jobs, video and still photography, secret and confidential reports. Contact 6761049” “Well…” Rajan looked up “It’s… classified.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------This story was published as part of a Short story collection - The Revenge ink anthology of real indian writing

Travelogue - Ganga Calling

This was the first travelogue I ever wrote, and it remains the craziest spur-of-the-moment trip I ever did. It was written way back in 2001, at the time of the Mahakumbhmela in Allahabad. Truly, this trip changed my life in ways I couldnt imagine at the time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ganga Calling

I wanted to go to the Kumbh Mela. The Kumbh Mela was on same day as the Mahakumbh which happens only once in 144 years and the whole world seemed to be converging to it -- umpteen crore Indians, hordes of foreigners and an innumerable number of reporters. I had been watching the developments on the TV and press curiously. But when I tried researching it on the Net, I was really hooked. The best sites on the Kumbh Mela were by firangs, and the BBSs (Bulletin Board Service) were all about how so-and-so was planning to come to the Kumbh, and where they could stay, and some so-and-so saying that he had reached the Kumbh, and how he was totally overawed... I was getting more and more cheesed off… how come all kinds of firangs were able to go to the Kumbh, and I, as an Indian, couldn't. Bah! At that time, however, suddenly a lot of things fell into place. My great grand boss went on a long vacation, and my immediate boss was new. At the same time, I got an interview call from Nestle in Delhi, and so they were willing to reimburse the airfare. At that point the plan started crystallizing in my mind that Kumbh really seemed to be calling. I decided that Kumbh would happen. I tried to catch my old backpacking mate Chinmay, but he thought I was crazy. Then I tied up with another dude, but he ditched at the last moment.  To hell with it, I said. I'll go alone. On Friday, I took the morning Delhi flight, with some 2K in my pocket, a backpack and my trusty Lonely Planet. No reservations, no hotel bookings, no clear plans, nothing. Oh well! That's what real adventure is all about anyway. Landed in Delhi at about 12 noon. Called up the regional manager from the airport to ask about the Allahabad ticket, but got only cribs. No tickets, no room, all trains booked, huge crowds, no rooms in Allahabad, lawlessness, his own sales people had left Allahabad and were avoiding it as much as possible... and so on. Okay, Okay I said, forget it. I'll handle it myself. I got to Gudgaon by bus (an experience by itself) and got off at the required stop. A 2-minute walk, and there I was at the Nestle building. A huge place, positively awe-inspiring, new structure, new age architecture, very hep indeed. The lobby was totally pseud, marble and chrome, and a video wall continuously showed Nestle ads, various meeting rooms etc., very hep indeed. When I entered, I discovered a few things about Nestle: a) It's a very old, fuddy-duddy, hierarchy-conscious company. b) Full of formally dressed old guys in suits and tie. Hajaar firangs roaming about. c) Seemed to be a very formal stiff old organization. And me? I was dressed in a formal blue shirt and a formal black pair of pants. No tie. But, as I did not want to wear black leather shoes to the Kumbh, I was wearing a dirty old pair of sneakers. And I was carrying a bright red backpack. When the HR guy came down, he looked at me for a couple of minutes, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Then he came to me hesitantly and asked, "Ketan?" "Yes!" I answered enthusiastically, thoroughly enjoying myself. Words failed him for a minute, then he manfully mastered himself, and invited me to a conference room. As I was early I would have to wait. "No problem," I said and brightened up when he asked for my ticket. That was the reason why I was there anyway. Then he treated me to a hot chocolate from a really neat vending machine and left. I whiled away the time drinking hot chocolate, making phone calls, reading the Lonely Planet... In the meantime, the guy brought the money in lovely cold cash... ahhh, solved my solvency problems. After the interview (another story by itself), I left for Delhi station. The Great Train Journey The bus dropped me at the New Delhi railway station, and now being an experienced person, I went immediately to the ticket counter and bought an open second class unreserved ticket to Allahabad (Rs 142). Armed with the ticket I barged into the first platform. There was a train already standing there. "What train is this?" "Delhi-Patna express." "Allahabad jaati hai?” "Jaroor jaati hai." Very good, I thought, and went to the unreserved compartment. On seeing it, I recoiled... it was packed like a Bombay local in peak time, like a can of sardines. And it was full of weird characters -- normal guys, sadhus with tridents, some seriously warped looking characters -- no way I was going to travel like that for 12 hours, all night. Then I went up and down the train, generally checking it out -- it was quite full. Then I went to phase 2, the TC pleading phase... went and caught the TC -- saa'b jagah chaahiye -- berth, No.… seat, No... Attendant’s seat, No... anything at all -- No. Arre, what to do now? Then I went and spoke to the stallwalas out there. "Boss, I want to go to Allahabad, no reservation -- what to do?" The first person suggested waiting for the next train, so that I could get a seat in the unreserved compartment (ugh), but it was the next guy who really gave the jackpot suggestion. "Arre saa'b, just pile on to the reserved 2nd class compartment...TC thoda fine marega, wo bhar do." Yes! That is a good idea. The train was due to leave at 8 p.m. Two minutes before departure, I jumped into the train in the reserved compartment. Stood like a good boy until we were well out of Delhi, and then sat down. Ab main nahin uthne wala. There were many others like me, piling on to the reserved compartment, and willing to pay the fine, I suppose, if the need arose. But they weren't intending to pay anything. Soon enough a TC came along after a couple of hours, and asked to see my ticket. I showed it to him, and he stared at it owlishly. "Aap ko Rs. 132 fine dena padega." "Okay," I said, but I didn't make any move towards my wallet. He looked at me for a minute and walked away. Later the Bihari next to me asked, "What was he asking money for?" Some fine, I replied. "Tchah! No need." Arre wah! Sure enough, the TC came and went plenty of times, but he didn't ask for anything, and I didn't make any move to pay him either. Later I got screwed though; it was bloody crowded, couldn't even stretch out my legs -- first squatted, then sat cross-legged, then tried vajrasana -- was changing my position every 2 hours, as I got fresh cramps. I had to get up a couple of times, as we stopped at Aligarh, and some other place, and there I lost my newspaper on which I was sitting. Later though, some space was created as people got off, or went to other compartments. And it was getting colder and colder, and I was chilled to the bone. Luckily, I had worn my sweatshirt over my shirt, then I dug out my sweater and put it on, then I found a scarf and put it on, then I had nothing else, so I shivered through the night. A real tapascharya for a shore-dwelling softie like me. I finally reached Allahabad at six in the morning, and was really glad to get out of the train -- being half frozen and half dead. However, I had great entertainment watching various people get off, all of whom seemed to be people in various shades of ochre, with or without tridents, all bound for the Kumbh. Then I walked out of the station. It was cold and dark, and the city had not woken up as yet. Some pilgrims were sitting around a small bonfire under a shelter. As I was leaving the station, fumbling with my Lonely Planet, a cyclerickshawala approached me. "Saa'b, hotel chahiye?" I looked at him. Yes, I do want a hotel, but you will take me only to the place where you get your commission. "Nahin saa'b. I will show you as many hotels as you like. Only after you are satisfied, you pay me 5 rupees." And the very first hotel he brought me to was perfectly fine, though we had to wake up the proprietor. He just gave me a reassuring (though sleep bleared) smile, shouted for the flunky to show me the room, and went right back to sleep. The flunk showed me the room, and it was perfectly fine -- clean room, with clean white bed sheets, and an attached bath. Rate? Rs. 300. Inwardly I gave a big smile -- the net was talking about 1000 -1500 rates… but I frowned and said, "It's expensive." "Yes," he agreed, "don't want it?" "No, no -- I do want it. Definitely." So with no problem whatsoever, I got a nice cheap room -- others reported hunting high and low for a room, or paying huge rates. The Mela The first thing I did after checking in was slip under the two blankets on the double bed and get some sleep. I was totally zonked after that terrible freezing night journey. After an uneasy nap of a couple of hours, I woke up and left at about 10 o' clock. Went out and immediately went to a chaiwala to put some hot tea into my still frozen body. There I asked a passerby how to get to the Kumbh... "Catch an auto -- go to (some) place, catch a cycle rickshaw from there, go to (some) place, and then walk..." "Haan theek hai -- but how far is it from here?" "Oh -- about 8 km." Well, I was still cold, so I thought -- let's walk. I walked and walked and walked, and as I came nearer and nearer to the Mela, the crowd went on increasing. Soon it consumed the entire road and there was a mother-of-all-traffic-jams. Huge number of devotees, trucks, cars, tempos, buses and hajaar cycle rickshaws who were doing their best to screw up the traffic as much as possible. I went on walking; the bloody township was huge. Tents and people everywhere, lots of dust, janta around. The janta was basically of 4 types: a) Pure devotees: These actually impressed me the most. Tons and tons of these guys -- total dehatis, no possessions apart from the clothes on their back and a bundle of oddments on their head -- they had come from all over the country to take part in the Kumbh. Janta from Nepal, Himachal, Maharashtra, assorted south and large numbers from UP and Bihar. They had come out of pure faith -- no other aim than to take a Ganga snaan and wash away their sins. Normally quite a cynical person, I was quite humbled by their faith -- no jokes. b) Sadhus: These were the most eye-catching. All kinds of them -- many real weirdos. Some were the standard ochre clad, trishul wielding, some were mendicant / beggar kind, some were proper tantrics, some Naga kinds with ash smeared and matted locks, some posh-looking fair-skinned silk adorned ones, kapalis holding skulls and so on. c) Indian tourists: Semi-devotional types, rich / semi-rich pot-bellied Punjabis en famille -- generally came in Sumos, made a lot of noise, took a bath and went off with huge 5-liter canisters of 'gangajal'. Also many poorer ones with smaller cars or none at all, making less noise, less irritating and carried smaller canisters of 'gangajal'. d) Firangs: Either the budget backpacker types, which can be further classified into 'devotional / discover myself types' and 'see the freakshow' types or the expensive 'package tour with European tent' types or of course the media guys with expensive camera equipment and with an eye out for the most 'happening' shots. Of course, there were the original Kumbh people -- the kapalwasis who stay by the riverside for the entire month, and bathe three times a day and spend the time engrossed in prayer, but to be honest, I didn't see them. And of course there were all those people who were making a living out of the Kumbh -- stallwalas, boatwalas, curio sellers etc., honest and dishonest in equal measure. I walked around in a daze... well... not quite in a daze, to be honest, but taking in the whole atmosphere and trying to absorb as much as possible. While I had read a lot about the Kumbh on the Net and in the papers, being part of it was quite an experience, which I cannot really recount. The collection of people around, though huge, was not really overpowering. For one thing, for Bombayites, crowds are not such a big deal, as we seem to be in one at any given time of the day. And secondly the area of the Kumbh was so huge (40 square kilometers) that the crowd was spread out. It was the composition of the crowd, which was really interesting. All kinds of people, as I said earlier -- all coming together, for a common cause, without any problem whatsoever. In a 10-minute walk you would encounter large numbers of dehatis / small towners, weird sadhus, who may or may not accost you for money ( generally not, to be quite honest), a couple of bemused looking firang backpackers, lots of stallwalas, and lots and lots of cops. That's one thing, which was quite impressive -- the government preparations. I really can't describe them all at once, but it was really impressive. Numerous tents, ropeways all across the river bank, information booths, lost-and-found booth, first aid tents, roads, sand banks, lighting, public conveniences everywhere, lots and lots of licensed stalls selling food and drink, PCOs... and a huge police presence. Thus there was no mara mari, no lawlessness, no wholesale ripping off of tourists, no harassment. Good show, hats off to the government. Well, anyway, getting back to the Sangam... I was generally roaming around finding my way to the actual Sangam... stopped at a phone booth (yes, there were STD booths aplenty right in the Kumbh area -- I told you the arrangements were good) to call Dad at home and reassure him that I was alive and well. He got damn excited when I told him that I was at the Sangam: "Took a dip, eh?" "Well no," I replied a little apologetically, "I am not actually at the Sangam, but in the vicinity." Finally (whew!) I came in sight of the actual confluence. Quite a sight -- the deep blue, cleaner, faster flowing Yamuna meeting the sluggish, muddy Ganga. Yamuna flows straight, with better formed banks, while the Ganga takes a huge loop around -- which makes it difficult to make out. The colour change is quite dramatic, the deep blue Yamuna combines with the muddy Ganga and you can clearly see the different colours and the third colour of the Ganga after the confluence. On the Yamuna, just before the Sangam, there is a huge fort that was built by Akbar, which dominates the surroundings -- even now it looks very solid and in excellent condition, very beautiful and scenic right on the banks of the river, the trees on the fort bending over the river and gently swaying... very nice indeed! It took quite some time to absorb all this (and to be perfectly honest, I didn't -- the whole thing sunk into me over the whole day as I was pottering around in the area). I had hardly walked five minutes when a boatwala spotted me as easy prey -- "Saa'b, boat ride?" Sure, why not. He took me to his boat, and in fact had some trouble locating it, there were so many boats on that blessed river! Thousands and thousands! Well... hundreds anyway. All dilapidated looking wrecks, but floated fairly well. We went over three boats until we came to his boat and headed out. Like all the people I met, he was mystified by the fact that I had come alone to Kumbh, all the way from Bombay and had no interest in bathing! We finally got into the river, and luckily I was the only one on the boat, so I was very comfortable and had a 360-degree view. (Not so lucky perhaps, as I had to pay for the whole boat by myself.) We floated down to the Sangam point, and what I earlier thought was a rocky promontory, jutting out into the water -- turned out actually to be a long, long line of boats anchored at the Sangam point, with hajaar janta stripped down and taking their holy dips. Everyone was busily scrubbing away with soap -- why soap? I wondered. The water is too dirty for the soap to make any difference -- you would probably come out dirtier than when you went in first, and whatever positioning statements we marketers make, nobody has appropriated the 'good for soul' segment yet. I wanted to take photos of that line of well-scrubbed holiness, but my boatman cautioned me, "No saa'b. Very strict rules against taking photos of people while bathing saa'b." Probably, the furore of our moral guardians after the press guys went wild taking photos of some firang babe bathing in the nude. I looked around desperately for that babe, but she seemed to be as invisible as the Saraswati river. Out there again my boatman asked me, "Saa'b, Sangam nahaaenge nahin?" He was quite foxed as to why one should take the trouble to come all the way, and finally not take the obligatory dip. But seeing the general condition of the river, I politely refused, though I did fill some Sangam water in a plastic bottle. Finally the boatman was satisfied -- something as per tradition finally. Then, to assuage his feelings rather than mine, I cupped up some water in my palm and poured it on my head as a token bath. (Some thing which was to become famous later as the 'Sonia' bath.) After the Sangam, I told him to take a general chakkar of the river and take a long route back. An amusing thing I saw on the river was a floating post office -- a boat painted red and actually a fully functional post office -- I was impressed. After the boat ride, I did the usual tourist thing and visited the fort. There's a 1000-year-old 'akshay vat' in a temple full of rapacious priests demanding money at every step (not getting much though) and a Hanuman temple, which had a two-kilometer line in front of it -- so I did not enter it. I spent the rest of the day roaming about the Kumbh area -- paid a long visit to the Sangam shoreline, watching people take holy dips. As today was not a particularly auspicious day, people were able to take dips without any hassle. One sight that I remember very vividly was seeing two huge police dogs frolicking about like puppies -- a very cute sight. On the ghat, I had a chat with a policeman, asking him about his experiences with the Kumbh, and congratulated him on the excellent arrangements. In turn, he was impressed that I had come alone, all the way from Bombay to the Kumbh. Later I went across to see the famous 'Naga' sadhus -- they were in a separate enclave the other side of the Ganga -- a very reasonable walk. How much I walked out there, must have walked 25-30 km everyday. I did see a few of them -- naked, smeared with ashes and smoking pot, and doing some sundry yagnas, but very frankly, didn't see it worth pursuing much. I saw some, got bored after some time, and then left. Taking photos is actually not allowed, but I did sneak a photo. Spent time till nightfall, then walked back. Blessed with a sense of direction, which, if it was present in birds, would help them migrate to a different place every year, I naturally walked confidently in the wrong direction, got lost and had to double back and walk nearly twice the distance required. Was dog-tired when I reached the hotel and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The next day, I went to Anand Bhavan -- the ancestral house of the Nehrus. Being on my macho walking kick, I eschewed autos and walked all the 8 km there and back. Anand Bhavan was OK, quite a well-maintained house, with beautiful lawns. The interior has been maintained as it was in Jawaharlal Nehru's time, and looks like the dwelling place of very serious-minded people -- all dark mahogany furniture and loads of serious books. I came back to the hotel, and then walked back to the Kumbh. There was nothing much new there, except that I got lost yet again and was totally fagged out when I reached the Sangam, having had to walk double the distance. Listened to the evening pooja and walked back, being careful to ask directions this time. Kashi Benares When I came back, I had enough of the Kumbh, and decided to go to Benares (Kashi / Varanasi) the next day. I checked out the next morning, and got a bus to Kashi. Bus was cheap, but bloody crowded, and left us quite some distance away from the city. Again, being on my walking kick, I walked all the way to the river side -- the Dasashwamedha Ghat. This time, it was not quite so enjoyable, as I had a heavy backpack on me. Anyway, I finally reached the ghat and took my bearings from the map in the Lonely Planet. Located some cheap hotels nearby (as nearby as possible, I was close to collapse). The first one was full (I asked him whether he had any problem with Indian tourists), but the second had room. It was more expensive than my Allahabad room, but was a good deal nicer, being directly on the river side, so you had a beautiful view of the Ganga from the gallery. And being a LP recommended hotel, it was mainly firangs all the way. And indeed the owner had put in all the possible things that a firang crowd could want -- rooms, river side café with Indian and continental food, cyber café, STD/ISD booth, travel agent and money changer, some reading material for sale, and even a music class, teaching Indian classical music. The only thing missing was a yoga class. In fact, later I got chummy with the owner and asked him why there was no yoga class. He replied that the owner of the nearest yoga class was a friend of his, and so he did not want to hurt his business! The owner himself was an interesting character -- hardcore UP-ite, but very smart-looking. He had converted his ancestral house into his hotel. In fact, it was hilarious when he started pointing out rooms to me… "See that room -- our cow used to live there -- now I rent it out for 500 rupees per day. The cow's hay used to be stored in that room -- I rent it out for 400 rupees per day." He had certainly done a good job of building up his hotel's equity, and had a reasonably good review in the Lonely Planet as well. Also, he had somehow patoed a Spanish babe and married her, and now he had a shop in Spain, where he sold Indian curios at exorbitant prices. In fact he lived half the year in Spain, as he claimed he couldn't bear the heat in India. Enterprising fellow! Anyway, I spent the afternoon lazing around in the hotel, and went for a dusk river ride across the Ganges. A very beautiful experience indeed to float across the Ganga in the failing light. The boatman pointed out all the ghats on the river -- including Mankramanika Ghat, the funeral ghat where pyres burn 24 hours, and Harishchandra ghat where the king served as a servant to the king of the 'Doms' (funeral workers), and Dasashwamedha Ghat, supposed to be the oldest ghat in Kashi. This is really the heart of Kashi, and of Hinduism too, in a way. There were a huge number of devotees having their holy dips (and a lot of people like me -- spillovers from the Kumbh). For a single person like me, who was having pleasure cruises on the river, there were a hundred pilgrims for whom this trip on the river was the fulfilment of life itself and were singing hymns and doing aartis, or deep in prayer and meditation. The rationalist in me scoffs at such superstition, but the human in me salutes such faith and devotion. I myself desisted from bathing -- the water was filthy. As we came back, the light was failing and my boatman proudly showed me a really jhatak aarti on Dasashwamedha Ghat, with some 20-odd priests swinging their diyas in tandem and a fearful racket of cymbals and ghantas and other instruments. The devotees seemed to be in good spirits, and all the firangs were photographing and camcording away to glory, but I was not very impressed. After some more relaxation in the hotel, I set out for the Kashi Vishwanath temple. The Vishwanath temple was the focal point of Hinduism, and so to cow down the populace, the fanatic tyrant Aurangzeb had it razed to the ground, and a mosque raised on that spot, breaking the hearts of Hindus all over the nation. The current temple was one built by our fellow marathi, Rani Laxmibai, and the gold canopy on the top was provided by Ranjeetsingh of the Punjab. Lately the VHP has been making threatening noises about breaking down the mosque and rebuilding the temple (and after seeing the spot, I must say that I sympathize with them) -- so the police have cordoned off the place in a rather ham-handed way, and an easy entry into the temple has been made rather difficult. Anyway, I went to the temple and had a long and comfortable communion with the deity for nearly half an hour. After this, I had enough religion for a day, so I decided against going to the Gyaan Kupoor (the well where the original shiv linga is supposed to be hidden) and chose rather to wander through the amazing gullies of Benares. Small labyrinthine gullies with shops selling all kinds of stuff from paan, to bhaang to pickles -- lots of mithai outlets, religious artifacts etc. I spent nearly two hours generally roaming about -- absolutely fascinating. (If I was fascinated, I can just imagine how overwhelmed the firangs felt.) Going back to the hotel, I felt a bit lonely, but later started chatting with the owner till bedtime. The next day, I got up bright and early for a dawn river ride on the Ganga, equally enjoyable, but nothing very new, except the exhilaration of the dawn over the river. Then I went back to the hotel and decided to go to the Buddhist relics of Sarnath, where the Buddha preached his first sermon. The owner's cousin offered me a lift, and it nearly gave me a holy death in the holy city. Rushing about on a bike in those narrow gullies had me scared stiff -- and sure enough we slipped on a glob of cowdung on a steep turn and took a cropper. I was unhurt, but 6 inches further, I would've split my skull open on a stone step. Flustered by the fall, the guy drove a little more safely, but as soon as we emerged on the main road, there were a hundred two-wheelers as reckless as him, and we promptly banged into another lunatic coming from the opposite direction, breaking somebody's clutch lever (I saw the piece fly in the sky). Anyway, he dropped me at a point where I could get an auto, and in due course of time I landed up at Sarnath. Very beautiful place. The local temples are sponsored by Buddhist nations like Japan, Sri Lanka, Thailand etc., while the actual archeological site is maintained by the ASI, and indeed, is the first time I have seen any good work done by the organization. Very beautifully laid out site, with well marked excavations and lawns, and even a deer park with very tame deer. I was approached by a very good and knowledgeable young guide who showed me the birthplace of the Jain tirthankara as well as the Buddhist relics. He was an employee of the local Buddhist refugee organization, which teaches the locals to form cooperatives to make and sell Banarasi silks without getting jacked by middlemen. So I went and saw a real traditional silk handloom, and later bought a couple of silk sarees (very reasonable) for mom. When I came back in the evening, I had another interesting experience. In the evening I had again gone to roam about in the gullies, when I suddenly felt like having hot milk from the corner doodhwala. (After all, this is the USP of the region -- hot milk in winter.) I was standing there and chatting with the doodhwala, when an acharya also came along to chat with us. He told us the significance of the Mauni amavasya, and then told me about the Vichalaxmi mandir nearby. (I later found out that it was one of the major Devi temples in India.) Suddenly one jhund came our way. I was wondering what this crowd was all about, when suddenly I saw a familiar face. "Arre...Ravishankarji!" I blurted out, as he passed on, and somebody in the crowd said "Yes, yes" and hurried on. It was Sri Sri Ravishankar, the new famous Guruji of 'Art of Living' fame, teacher of my cousin Abhay (and Rhea Pillai). I finished off my doodh and the acharya offered to show me the Vichalaxmi mandir. Ok, I said and we went there, only to find that the entire jhund was there. This seems to be fated, I thought, and stood there. One beautiful aarti happened... not the sukhkarta dukhkarta type, but some beautiful devotional songs, sung extremely well... After 15-20 minutes they came out, and suddenly I came face to face with Guruji. "Pranam Ravishankarji," I said. He gave me a smile and hurried on. I thought of saying 'main Abhay Joshi ka bhai..." but desisted. Abhay was really impressed that I had the good fortune to meet the Guruji, even before doing the 'Art of Living' course. Meanwhile, the acharya had given me a solid dose on 'Mauni amavasya' which was the next day. He praised the holiness of the day to the skies, and gave me a detailed SOP on how to take the bath. (Wake up before dawn, keep silence (maun) until you take the bath, take achaman from a brahmin and give dakshina and I will get maximum moksha.) Well, I thought, why not -- I was in Kashi on such a holy day, and right on the river side. I went back to the hotel, and chatted with the owner's cousin (another very interesting character) till bed time. The next day, I duly awoke before dawn and took my holy bath, which I hope has blessed me and erased my former sins.  After coming back, I checked out of the hotel and asked the owner what I could see in the town until my flight later in the day. He gave me some directions. Given the adventurous nature of the trip, it was only fitting that it should also end in a thrilling fashion. I had just finished seeing the new Vishwanath temple on the Benares Hindu University campus, when I heard someone shout out for me. Turning to see who this could possibly be -- it was my host, the hotel owner. Apparently my flight had been advanced, and this guy had run after me, checking at all the places he had advised me to see. We had a rushed trip to the hotel to pick up my luggage, to the travel agent to pick up my ticket and then to the airport, where sure enough, the plane was delayed so there was no more tension. A smooth ride back and I was at home-sweet-home, with another backpacking vacation concluded. Mom met me at the door and touched my feet, as befits the first of the Joshi clan to do a pilgrimage of the Mahakumbh and Kashi. PS: Something interesting -- my aunt checked out the sample of the Kumbh water, and found it to have 2500 times the acceptable level of bacterial and faecal count. Only real faith would prevent you from contracting some disease or the other. The very fact of the low level of epidemic and disease at the Mela shows the high level of faith!